#Do the Unsullied even understand they are free

[asongofstarkandtargaryen]

The thing about those who want to prove that Dany is a ruthless queen is that they focus on some actions of hers isolated, without taking a look at the bigger picture.

" Oh, the horrors! Dany made a deal with Good Masters but she betrayed them and burned them instead of honouring the deal".

Well, even setting aside that while they were negotiating they said all kind of gross things about Dany herself (bc they thought she couldn't understand their language), they profited by the Unsullied ( soldier slaves) they trained and the way they treated them was inhumane.

And Dany didn't order the Unsullied to do anything. She set them free and they out of their own volution decided to join her against their former masters.

[gayleviticus]

i finished reading damascus by christos tsiolkias (his novel about the apostle paul and early christianity) and was very pleasantly surprised by how it manages to be such a nuanced and complex look at such a controversial figure without descending into the saccharine preachiness of Christian fiction (and in fact, being written by someone who is not a Christian and also filled with enough shits, fucks, cunts, and reference to arse-fucking to instantly kill the average Christian fiction writer)

he manages to balance contrasts very effectively; a cruel, profane world of crucifixion and rape with a genuinely subversive religion of love and solidarity; a Paul flowing with genuine kindness and faith but also struggles with streaks of pride and jealousy.

but what impresses me most of all is the way the novel holds both Paul's apocalyptic gospel of resurrection in a world to come and its radical rejection of the injustice of this world with Thomas' naturalistic gospel that the kingdom has come and is among us already in Jesus' teaching. especially the way Tsiolkias acknowledges that even as Paul's gospel sits awkwardly with our modern scepticism it has heirs in any revolutionary tradition that wishes to change the world; it is this gospel that stands in condemnation of the systems of the world as they stand, and that spread the teachings of Jesus to the entire world (notably Damascus takes the interpretation that none of the other apostles bar Paul would fellowship with Gentiles). it would have been very easy to tap into the zeitgeist of scepticism and write a novel where Paul is a charlatan or crazy fundamentalist, and the gospel of Thomas marginalised and ignored as heretical and Gnostic is rather the true faith buried by orthodoxy. Paul is a very acceptable scapegoat to bash; if we can blame all the uncomfortable bits of the Bible on him (or the bloodthirsty and primitive Old Testament) we can maintain an unsullied image of pure Christianity. [and i don't mean to say this is entirely unjustified, especially given the way evangelicalism in particular loves to deploy isolated verses rather than entire texts! When your primary mode of engagement with him is not actually reading his epistles as works of literature, but throwing Romans 1.27 at gay people to convince them to stop being gay 100 times, that is naturally going to deeply warp your perspective of how much of his corpus is actually problematic (which, imo, when we account for 1) cultural norms re homosexuality and pederasty 2) the fact about 3-6 'Pauline' epistles were probably not written by him and 3) some verses possibly being interpolations, is really not that much).] But such a novel purporting to expose Paul as a fundamentalist charlatan would be just as didactic and simplistic as pious Christian fiction where Paul can do no wrong and harbour no doubts and is a direct mouthpiece for 21st-century evangelical doctrine. And so I very much appreciate the thought and empathy Tsolkias puts into this novel to understand Paul, rather than taking a few soundbites as an excuse to dismiss the man entirely. His Paul is flawed - a man who falls victim to jealousy, who sometimes makes his heart stone to avoid doubt - but also a man who believes in friendship and love across barriers of male and female, slave and free, Jew and Greek, one who hopes that this world mired in empire and oppression and crucifixion need not be the only way. and also a man who has a homoerotic relationship with Timothy that also has v queer-coded parallels in him bringing home an uncircumcised Gentile to the apostles in Jerusalem who he fears will reject this pagan. which is cool imo

[coruscatingdust]

I really do not know how to engage with the world outside of myself. in the realm of my mind—the sacred world of ideas—i feel safe. i can explore my thoughts, organize them, critique them, question them, ask more questions and find more theories and get excited about this process of diving into a terrain of ideological possibilities, insights, and meaning.

the moment I step outside of my mind and interact with the world external to myself, I feel like a fish that has made the leap outside the sanctuary of her ocean. I’m completely out of my element and incapable of breathing. survival is not possible when the world does not have the oxygen that is suited for me. Every time I make a movement outside of myself, I transgress against myself by exposing my ideas to a world that sees them through their preconceived lenses.

Every encounter entails a risk: a risk of someone cutting the cords of my ideas, shooting rifles at the house I have built, by completely misunderstanding and twisting what I said. I think so much of what I say gets lost in translation—translating the contents of the intricacies of my mind the into the simplistic, monistic, and dualistic thought patterns prevailing in the world.

this is what I mean when I say the world does not have the oxygen suited for me. I can not survive in a world that demands me to choose sides, to conform, to stick to one narrative—a world that despises nuance and metaperspective. I am often attacked vehemently for sharing my ideas that try to see the underlying meaning and implications of things because my ideas do not fit into the preconceived notions of where our loyalties ought to lie (to a standard narrative). Many people, by employing the narratives given to them by the groups they identify with, easily see that what I am saying does not align with their narrative and therefore start to drill my ideas until my ideas are splattered all over the floor with ridicule.

and no, I would not call myself an “independent/free thinker” because that category and label too is used by a certain group of people endorsing a specific type of ideological movement and does not evade the problems of lacking in nuance. Besides, who truly is free in their thoughts, completely unsullied by the external world? By refusing to land on an ideological camp constructed by groups of people online, my ideas will never escape misunderstanding and derision.

But I will continue to ask myself: do I need to be understood? or do I need to understand? even those who cannot possibly understand what I am saying, so that rather than joining the war of defense and offense, I continue on in the journey of ideological exploration…of these two options I will gladly choose the latter.

[samieree]

Born in Flames || Game of Thrones

OC x ?😏

-> Chapter IX "Astapor"

Chapter X ''Be careful''

She had already spent several days in Astapor, during which she came across Roran - the "dancing snake" man - several times. Each time he was very nice to her, exchanged a few words with her, asked about various things, including her family, whether she was staying in Astapor for a long time, where he could find her.

Despite being raised "under the wings" of Tywin Lannister, she seemed to find nothing suspicious in these questions. It was as if the only thing that mattered was the freedom to talk to whoever she wanted.

"Don't you think this man is a little suspicious?" ser Arthur asked her as they returned from the market. He would say even very suspicious, although Visenya didn't seem to share his opinion.

"Why?" she turned her gaze to him. "He's an ordinary man trying to earn a living."

"Anyone who is too curious is suspicious." he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

Visenya didn't seem to care much about these words, she pushed them to the back of her head and left them for later thought.

Later that day, she met with Daenerys for a serious talk. Her aunt wanted to share with her her plan to obtain the Unsullied without giving the dragon.

Besides, it was just the time for that, because when Visenya first heard about this idea, she was ready to think that her aunt had either gone crazy or was ready to sacrifice everything to acquire an army.

"You didn't really think I was going to give them the dragon in exchange for the Unsullied, did you?" Dany asked as Vis gently stroked Maelia and Rhaegal, who laid down on her lap. There was a note of amusement in Dany's voice, which intensified when she saw Visenya's expression. "You thought so?"

"There were a lot of crazy ideas in this family, so this one would not surprise me." she replied, smiling gently back. "So... Kraznys will finally realize that we actually understand everything he says to us and what he calls us?"

Both women giggled just imagining Kraznys' expression.

In this situation, Vis found it hard to believe Roran's words about Daenerys - she was too proud to talk to ordinary people? Impossible, she absolutely had no such impression.

"And then?" Vis asked when they finally stopped laughing.

"If they decide to follow me as free men, we all will leave the city. We will go somewhere further, the closest is Yunkai." she explained, standing next to her niece and petting Rhaegal and Maelia, with an extremely gentle expression on her face. "And later I will take the Iron Throne." as she said this, she looked at her with a spark in her eyes, but there was no anger or threat in them, more... Determination.

She removed her hand and went somewhere to pour herself some wine, leaving Visenya alone.

You will take the Iron Throne? But on the other hand... Would Visenya like to be at war, make decisions? Watch its cruelty, give orders to people and sentence them to death?

But... If she doesn't do this, if she doesn't pull herself together and believe in herself, then Selaria's death will, in a sense, be in vain... Everything she taught her, when she taught her the history of her family in the evenings by candlelight, not only the downfalls but also the times of glory, how she kept telling her that she was the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, its heir...

Was she going to throw it all away now because her aunt said so? She hasn't even said a word to let her know that she intends to argue with her about who should sit on the throne, so maybe it's time to speak up? Before it's too late...

But what is he going to do? She will say she doesn't agree and what next? I'll command to kill her? No...

She couldn't afford to lose of her last family. Moreover, looking at her face, she almost found a reflection of her own in it.

She spent the whole day thinking about it until she went out to freshen up again. These walks were never helped by the sight of the Walk of Punishments. She didn't want to look at those tortured, bloody faces and bodies, but her eyes involuntarily clung to these horrors.

"What have they doone to end up here...?" she asked quietly, closing her eyes slightly as the setting sun began to dazzle her. "Or no, don't tell me." she added quickly, seeing that Ser Arthur was ready to answer her question. "I don't want to know..."

"Is something troubling you, Your Grace?" she didn't answer this question.

He sighed heavily, but quietly so that she wouldn't notice. She had a soft heart, he could see it, even when she looked at those punished slaves. He wasn't afraid that this soft heart would one day destroy her, he was more afraid of... That the world would destroy it, destroy her. The world, which is full of cruelties, can destroy this good-natured girl and no one will ever see her kind eyes and delicate smile again.

It was a bit surprising that she could be extremely sad and concerned, and at the same time have a generous attitude towards the people around her. She didn't seem to have any suspicions until she saw something with her own eyes that would erase the image of someone in her eyes for good.

At the same time, he admired her ability to perceive the world this way and considered it a flaw. Well, maybe he was the one doomed to think about the dangers in this relation?

Rhaegar was similar, except he had a tendency to be reckless...

It was easy to get lost in the crowd at the Slave Market, even at the hour when the city was slowly going to sleep. Find somebody? Ha, almost impossible. That's why she almost jumped when she heard the sound of the blade being slowly removed.

"I won't hurt her, I'm just playing the flute! What can I do, throw it at her?" her heart didn't calm down at all at the sound of the familiar voice, not when she saw that her knight recognized the man approaching from behind as a possible threat and kept his hand clenched on the hilt of his sword.

"Nothing happened." she assured, looking significantly at ser Arthur, who moved slightly aside, although he was still very distrustful of the Queen's "friend". "You better not sneak up on me like that. What are you doing here anyway, Roran?"

"I was looking for you, my Lady." he seemed frantic as he approached her. "If you want to stop the carnage, you must... We must act quickly." he said to her in a whisper, looking into her eyes. He looked very worried or stressed about some situation, but he wasn't afraid to get so close to her at all.

"What are you talking about? What carnage?" if it weren't for his attitude, she would probably have laughed at that moment. She didn't know yet what could have happened to cause him to be in such a state, but she was starting to get nervous.

"If you don't stop Daenerys, a lot of blood will flow down the sidewalks of Astapor." he leaned closer to her ear. "I will do it for you. The crown will be yours." he whispered.

~

-> Chapter XI "Why?" -> general masterlist -> Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon masterlist

[fedonciadale]

If unsullied were not treated cruelly by their masters and it was shown to Dany, do you think she would still buy the army the way she did in books? I think Dany was more appalled by slave treatment than slavery. She herself was sold to Drogo and while she is still traumatized by what happened to her, she still think marrying lamb women to Dothraki is solution for their rape.

Hi there!

this is an interesting question. The thing is that Dany had no money to buy the Unsullied in the first place and I think she never intended to part with one of her dragons.

She thinks she has to get an army if she wants to conquer Westeros and it never crosses her mind that the solution could be not to try to conquer Westeros.

In ASOS Daenerys II it is clear that while Dany is appalled at the treatment of the Unsullied the questions she wonders about is whether the Unsullied will serve her purpose. Barristan Selmy does not want her to buy them because he doesn't want to use slaves and he fears what it would do for her repuation. Jorah Mormont gives her the advice to use the Usullied though. He explicitly tells her that the moral high ground will gain her nothing:

“My queen,” the big man said slowly, “all you say is true. But Rhaegar lost on the Trident. He lost the battle, he lost the war, he lost the kingdom, and he lost his life. His blood swirled downriver with the rubies from his breastplate, and Robert the Usurper rode over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.”

In the next chapter Dany buys the Unsullied and it is interesting that her freeing that she throws away the symbol of her rule over them only after she gave the order to kill the slavers (and everyone who wears a tokar).

She takes Jorah's advice not to listen to her qualms but to fight "dirty" instead of valiant,y nobly, and honorably. She pretends to buy the Unsullied for a dragon (and Illyrio's goods that do not even belong to her) and then she does not pay but instigates the Unsullied to rebel or rather she commands them to slay their former masters. Thus she didn't pay, and she's yet in possession of the Unsullied.

I think that the only effect the gruesome training of the Unsullied has on her decisions is that she can feel as a freedom fighter.

"Unsullied!" Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. "Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see." She raised the harpy's fingers in the air . . . and then she flung the scourge aside. "Freedom!" she sang out. "Dracarys! Dracarys!"

She completely forgets what she has been told:

"The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh," Dany told the girl, "but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me . . ."

"They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that," the slaver answered. "Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all."

From that moment onward Dany's men are called freedmen, but if you look at it it is almost always her freedmen. It is interesting how GRRM does it. The contradiction is right there, in the text. They are freed and yet they are hers. Just look at how often the word freedmen is used in connection with a possessive pronoun!

So, yes, all in all, I think the treatment of the Unsullied made no difference as to the how Dany purchased them. She never intended to pay a price. Jorah Mormont gave her the advice to have no qualms about purchasing slaves and to fight dirty. And she did exactly that. She conned the Astapori and killed them and in the end she had money and slaves and the good feeling that she had given them their freedom.

I mean the whole chapter and how Kraznys treats Dany really is laid on rather thick if you think about it. The Astapori are certainly the worst, Kraznys is a sexist and classist asshole, a slaver directly copied from archetypes of villains. And this veils the fact that the Unsullied just change their master.

Thanks for the ask!

[aerltarg]

honestly fuck every “dany doesn't have any idea what courtesy means” or “dany just The Angry TeenagerTM” bullshit. these ppl literally have never read any of her chapters.

just look how many times kraznys mo nakloz insulted her, while she actually understood him, but did she lose her temper? did she throw a temper tantrum bc she wasn't getting any respect, let's alone the one fit for a queen she is? did she forget her purpose bc of any of that?

just tell me how many characters in this series would be able to keep a straight face hearing such insults directed at them.

but when did dany come close to losing it?

as one of the quotes above shows, when kraznys started to harm others, the unsullied in front of them, “it was hard to pretend not to understand”.

and even more so there:

some characters in these books can't master a single drop of sympathy when ppl are dying in front of them but dany gets so angry and sick after hearing all of this that she started to feel faint. long dead infants whom she never met, long dead dogs she never saw, and yet she almost dropped her play after just hearing abt them and carried these feelings towards the very end of the chapter, after many hours since she left kraznys.

it's the first chapter where we actually get to meet the slaver's bay and the real face of slavery. and grrm went out of his way to show us how ugly it is w every single detail. the main representative of slavers there is kraznys and the man managed to insult literally everyone around him almost w his every breath, revealed himself as not only incredibly cruel slaver but also a misogynistic piece of shit at that.

in these quotes i also highlighted some passages, like kraznys laughing at dany for showing kindness and compassion and openly despising her for this as well as talking without blinking abt men being sold “for less than the price of their swords”, abt many atrocities done to unsullied, abt forcing them to murder infants in front of their mothers, calling incitement of a bear on three little boys w non-existent intention to allow any of them survive “a nice folly”, etc.

and i dare anyone to look me in the eye and say that “slavery is complicated”, “it's a part of their culture” or “grrm doesn't write slavery as clearly evil and deserved to be destroyed practice”. i dare you to try and say that kraznys didn't deserve to die, that dany is wrong for killing him, that dany is mad for doing so, that we aren't supposed to cheer for her, that she isn't a hero for that and freeing unsullied and the whole anti slavery campaign.

i can't imagine how anyone can read these books and come to the conclusion that “slavers are innocent” LMFAO

btw, a child murder is portrayed as one of the biggest sins and the worst crimes possible (if not the biggest and the worse) by the narrative all the time. so grrm filling the very first chapter we spent in the slaver's bay w the great variety of violence, abuse and horrible deaths of children inflicted by slavers is NOT setting up slavery as “complex issue”.

it was pointed out again and again but i will repeat once more. grrm doesn't give the purely evil monsters any redeeming qualities in his books. not a drop of greyness. it should be obvious enough already. and yet fandom doesn't have problems for acknowledging this w gregor clegane or boltons. but when it comes to dany? suddenly it's “why wouldn't anyone think abt poor slavers” and “but what abt the economy” or “it's their cUlTuRe” lmao

i also would like to point out a really tiny but curious detail that probably isn't a thing put there w a purpose from grrm. though, maybe it is... but anyway, this chapter is Daenerys II, ASOS, that that comes after Arya IV, where we have gendry talking abt thoros of myr, how he used to bargain w a blacksmith over a price of his swords (“slave swordsmen can be had for less than the price of their swords”, remember?), and Bran II is the chapter that comes after Daenerys II where we have the line “Some people hurt others just because they can” in the context of winterfell being taken by ramsay and boltons' men w the great unnecessary violence, e.g. murdering all the ppl living in the castle.

tldr; you need to open just one (1) random chapter to see what a nonsense bullshit antis invent in their obsessive attempts to hate on dany. 1) dany is very smart, perfectly knows what courtesy and self-control is, but also is a very kind and compassionate person w a strong sense of justice who can let any insults against her personally slide but gets infuriated when meets injustice and violence against others, esp innocent and defenceless ones like children. 2) dany is the hero we are supposed to root for in her fight against slavery just like we are supposed to root for jon when he decided to march against boltons or even for oberyn when he fought gregor clegane demanding justice for elia. dany is quite different from these men, though, bc she fights not over any personal reason but for the greater good, for many ppl she doesn't even know. bc slavery IS evil and it's needed to disappear, full stop. the “slavery is complex”/“some slavers are innocent” narrative is nowhere to be seen.

[fireismine]

Daenerys Targaryen Appreciation Month

Day 19 → Learning, Intelligence and Skills

Throughout the ASOIAF series, Daenerys has displayed the skills of horse riding, understanding multiple languages, negotiating, military strategy, creating alliances and dragon riding. These will be discussed under the cut:

Horse Riding

Daenerys is an accomplished horserider who formed an instant connection with her horse, Silver:

The silver-grey filly moved with a smooth and silken gait, and the crowd parted for her, every eye upon them. Dany found herself moving faster than she had intended, yet somehow it was exciting rather than terrifying. The horse broke into a trot, and she smiled. Dothraki scrambled to clear a path. The slightest pressure with her legs, the lightest touch on the reins, and the filly responded. She sent it into a gallop, and now the Dothraki were hooting and laughing and shouting at her as they jumped out of her way. As she turned to ride back, a firepit loomed ahead, directly in her path. They were hemmed in on either side, with no room to stop. A daring she had never known filled Daenerys then, and she gave the filly her head. The silver horse leapt the flames as if she had wings. - Daenerys II, A Game of Thrones

Polyglot

In Astapor, Daenerys could discern the Ghiscari dialect of High Valyrian:

"Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes," the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. "I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely." Kraznys's High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said. - Daenerys II, A Storm of Swords

Negotiation

As Queen of Meereen, Daenerys offered to trade with Qarth:

"Shall we walk?" Dany slipped her arm through his. The air was heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. "You spoke of help. Trade with me, then. Meereen has salt to sell, and wine …" "Ghiscari wine?" Xaro made a sour face. "The sea provides all the salt that Qarth requires, but I would gladly take as many olives as you cared to sell me. Olive oil as well." - Daenerys III, A Dance with Dragons

Military Strategy

Daenerys was able to take Yunkai by complete suprise with her battle strategy:

"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. - Daenerys IV, A Storm of Swords

Creating Alliances

As Queen of Meereen, Daenerys sent the Stormcrows to free the Lhazarene slaves to open the trade routes so that grain could be brought to Meereen :/p>

Beyond the eastern hills was a range of rounded sandstone mountains, the Khyzai Pass, and Lhazar. If Daario could convince the Lhazarene to reopen the overland trade routes, grains could be brought down the river or over the hills at need … but the Lamb Men had no reason to love Meereen. "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." - Daenerys I, A Dance with Dragons

~

Yet somehow she found herself thinking of Daario Naharis. His messenger had come that morning. The Stormcrows were returning from Lhazar. Her captain was riding back to her, bringing her the friendship of the Lamb Men. Food and trade, she reminded herself. He did not fail me, nor will he. Daario will help me save my city. - Daenerys III, A Dance with Dragons

~

"Meereen has made alliance with Lhazar." That only made him chuckle. "The Dothraki horselords call the Lhazarene the Lamb Men. When you shear them, all they do is bleat. They are not a martial people." Even a sheepish friend is better than none. "The Wise Masters should follow their example. I spared Yunkai before, but I will not make that mistake again. If they should dare attack me, this time I shall raze their Yellow City to the ground." - Daenerys III, A Dance with Dragons

~

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." - Daenerys V, A Dance with Dragons

Dragon Riding

Daenerys was able to ride Drogon by using her intuition and previous knowledge of horse riding:

The dragonlords of old Valyria had controlled their mounts with binding spells and sorcerous horns. Daenerys made do with a word and a whip. Mounted on the dragon's back, she oft felt as if she were learning to ride all over again. When she whipped her silver mare on her right flank the mare went left, for a horse's first instinct is to flee from danger. When she laid the whip across Drogon's right side he veered right, for a dragon's first instinct is always to attack. Sometimes it did not seem to matter where she struck him, though; sometimes he went where he would and took her with him. Neither whip nor words could turn Drogon if he did not wish to be turned. The whip annoyed him more than it hurt him, she had come to see; his scales had grown harder than horn. - Daenerys X, A Dance with Dragons

[syneilesis]

[fic] i bruise my hands on the living cage

i bruise my hands on the living cage

Ikemen Sengoku | Kicho x Main Character/Reader | M | 9.5k words ao3 link

Ambition is greater than love.

A/N: I am simultaneously proud of and frustrated with this fic. Title is from Edith Tiempo's poem, Lament. Epigraph is from Maria Zoccola's poem, the selkie waits another night. The statement "illusion exists in love" (slightly modified to tailor fit Mitsuhide's lines) is from the film Hiroshima mon amour.

you’ve never asked me to stay. in the quiet i hear the future stealing inside the house through gaps in the boards, a low rolling groan like wolf-whales in their underseas dirge.

Let us begin at the end, when you feel that your skin and bones transmute into ashes, a slow-motion dissolution that starts at the bottom, working its way upwards, like a snake slithering around your torso, and when it reaches your ribs you lose your breath and you collapse into yourself, a starburst oblivion, remnants of a bygone future.

This is how it feels, to cease to exist: your heart carved out of your chest, leaving a hollow space where even air cannot enter.

You want to say goodbye. To your loved ones, the ones who became your family. And to the man you gave your heart to, the one who carved your heart out and left nothing in its place.

It’s funny, how you want him to be the last person you’ll see, but he’s not here. He’s out there, raising hell like an incandescent god starved for war. And war does he bring. 

They say that ambition is what makes a man. An ambition so great and grand it puts humanity on its knees.

But the power to realize that ambition? That is what makes a god.

And so Kicho, in the end, with his coat that spreads like a crane’s wings, magnificent and eternal, has become a god.

✤

For now, let us backtrack.

At the Seta-no-Karahashi bridge, two figures face each other, mere inches apart. A passer-by might take one look at them and infer that they’re lovers—or soon to be, because the taut silhouette of the girl implies an oncoming confession. The man, who watches the girl with steady eyes, cuts an elegant figure with his pristine skin and an equally pristine coat, the fabric sewn like tapered feathers as if he’s a crane made human.

Within that snapshot it is easy to conclude that this is a love that tears through social class – a love between a commoner girl and a nobleman. Anyone who sees them would feel a warm rush upon their hearts, the couple’s love a freeing possibility in which they place their hopes and dreams upon.

If only that were true.

✤

It is, and has always been, a love full of questions.

If you see life as invaluable, why wage an endless war where thousands die?

He is looking at you, eyes placid like winter sky. If you had this conversation in the early days when you were both still getting to know more of each other, he would have been dismissive and condescending with his reply. But now, after he has cracked open your heart and unearthed its dazzling treasure, he answers with the truth, because he has finally come to know how pure your heart is, how unsullied by dirty claws and dark smoke that surround you in this turbulent time. How you would listen to him, despite the contradiction between your philosophies.

There are people who do not see life the way you and I see it. And because of their greed, they will do anything to get what they want, and they will not stop. And countless lives will be sacrificed for that greed.

So you fight to purge the world of these greedy people?

These are by no means questions wracked with doubt; rather, they attempt to understand. To step inside his body and see what he sees, trace the lines of his worldview, from the how and the why of its conception to the where of its culmination. A complete immersion.

Oda Nobunaga may have brought the peace your home currently has, but how long will it last? You know that the peace in your world is fragile, and there are still people out there who would readily wage war for all the shallowest reasons. As long as there are people like that in the world, true peace can never be attained.

A pause. And then a gaze that is so gentle as it is jarring, because what follows is:

I fight because I value life. But I also understand the sacrifices I have to make. We do not deserve empty, superficial peace. If we have to suffer first to achieve what we deserve, then so be it.

✤

In the beginning, there are certain rules you have to know and follow, lest you go astray with your being none the wiser.

Time travel, for all its complex and complicated principles, is mostly a game of hide and seek. One hides from the events that could compromise the original timeline, and yet one cannot help but seek these very same events. Human curiosity, perhaps. Or just the unshakable desire to involve oneself in scandalous affairs.

Except in this alternate timeline, Oda Nobunaga upended the fate that history textbooks had articulated about, all thanks to your unwitting disruption. In an ideal time-travel-sanctioned world, you wouldn't have tampered with the Honnou-ji fires, but then again, you wouldn't have let yourself leave a person to die – whether it was Nobunaga or another.

And perhaps it is from that knowledge that you seek Sasuke while he's still in Azuchi.

I'm not certain, he says, bringing his fingers to his chin, giving your inquiry careful thought. I've been here for four years and nothing consequential has happened to me. Apart from, you know, continuous work hazards.

So there’s no time police or something like that, huh.  

None that I know of.

Does that mean … And the hesitation that wrangles your words hangs heavy in the air. Does that mean there’s no consequence to us staying here? No timeline correction or anything?

Sasuke turns his head to the side, the sunlight glancing off the lens of his glasses. He hums in thought. Maybe there will be. The next wormhole will appear in two months, after all. That’s probably a sign that it wants us back to our original timeline. 

To prevent us from further interfering with history?

Perhaps. We’ve already changed so much, though. I can think of only one drastic measure to contain … His eyes drift to you, and he startles a little. Ah … never mind.

No. You want to know what conclusion he’s come up with. What is it? you pressed.

His deliberation takes a while. You can practically see the gears moving in his head.

Then he nods to himself, and tells you flat out: It’s still possible that history would correct itself, and that means our erasure, because we’re anomalies in this reality.

In the end: order over chaos. There’s something to be said about all stories on time travel, and how history is an exercise on preservation. This is no different. Eventually, the ink that is used to write history will spill onto you and Sasuke, blotting out your existence, leaving no marks behind. The only thing left to do is bow your head and not stand out. Surviving the era until you get home is of the utmost priority. After all, what use is curiosity if it ultimately kills you?

✤

Looking back, you should have expected the unrelenting hand of fate tugging at the shadows behind you. No matter what you do, your very existence is a threat itself. It will not stop for anything, much less your love.

✤

And what is love without a genesis?

He glides into your awareness like a glissando at the beginning of a symphony, a glimpse of what is to come. His pristine coat undulating with his every move, radiating a wraithlike quality to his presence. He glances in your direction, recognizes you, stops. Pivots so seamlessly as though all his joints are oiled to preternatural smoothness.

So you’re the girl displaced in time. 

His first words to you, melodic but clinical.

His eyes are moonsheen bracketed by his nightsky bangs, and as he studies you, questions inundate your mind – how does he know who you are? Is he an enemy? Is he the mastermind behind the tenshu bombing? Do Nobunaga and the others know who he is? But eventually those questions are drowned by the immense fascination spilling onto you. A beautiful man with beautiful eyes, porcelain fragility at first glance.

How do you know me?

He blinks, expression a blank slate. They say that Oda Nobunaga has a princess he keeps by his side, and sometimes she speaks of things that bewilder many. Wild things, foreign things … bizarre, inconceivable things like – he quirks his lips – movies.

The word flows out of his mouth as if he has uttered it numerous times. A familiar word to him, apparently, which compels you to ask, You’re from the future too?

No, and he turns his head to watch the people that pass you by. But I have been in your time.

How – no, you were caught by the wormhole too, huh?

His limpid gaze returns to you.

In any case I merely wanted to see the famous Oda princess who has everybody wrapped around her finger. Quite disappointing, to be honest.

H-Hey, that’s rude!

Deliver a message to Nobunaga for me, will you. He angles his body away as if to leave, but his eyes remain locked onto yours. I’ll put a stop to his plans of unification, whatever it takes. Expect more from me.

Wait – He begins to walk away. Wait a second! Tell me your name!

He halts, considering your request. Around him, people flow in different directions, and he’s the only one who is stagnant, resistant to pressure. 

My name is Kicho, he finally answers. Crisp and biting. It doesn’t matter to me whether you remember it or not. You will not live long to see me again, anyway.

And just as how he entered the scene, he glides off the stage in a billow of radiance, his crane-tip coat fluttering along with his movements, a dramatic exit befitting an immaculate villain.

✤

Kicho is proven wrong when, exactly a week later, you and he meet across the battlefield after which you clumsily save him from a gunpowder explosion courtesy of one impatient Mouri Motonari.

✤

It starts in increments, inconsequential at first.

Loss of vision that’s similar to postural hypotension, which you experience every now and then. The dizziness comes a few days later, but they’re quick, short, and you turn out feeling okay right after, as if it didn’t happen at all.

It’s when you wake one late afternoon, your body leaden as if it’s stuffed with rocks, that you find Hideyoshi beside your bed, wearing a troubled smile.

You must have been exhausted from your work. I can’t believe you slept for almost a day!

And the wrongness that you feel then, as though the molecules of your body have been rearranged incorrectly, snatches your heart out of your ribcage. In that moment, you finally understand how Kicho’s plans have become an existential threat to you, the one who lived in the future, the one Kicho is trying to undo. You need to think about this deeply, so you plaster a weak smile for Hideyoshi, and say, with slight difficulty, I guess I was so inspired. I think I’ll rest some more.

You should, and Hideyoshi’s voice rings stern in your small room. He puts his hand on your forehead, feeling for any signs of fever, and, detecting none, smiles and ruffles your hair, relieved. I’ll go now and tell Lord Nobunaga that you’ve woken up. Don’t worry about uninterrupted rest – I’ll warn the others not to bother you for a while. Just rest some more. I’ll send a meal for you.

From your futon, you give him a grateful smile. Thanks, Hideyoshi. Sorry for worrying you and the others.

The smile Hideyoshi returns is brimming with brotherly warmth. You don’t have to apologize. Just take care of yourself, all right?

When he leaves the room, you get up, noting the sluggishness of your body, and heave a sigh.

Should you tell this to Kicho? Would it even change things? He is the sort of man who would refuse to stop for others in his quest. That, or use them instead. Everything is about his ambition, in the end. You hesitate to consider yourself special to him when he has even turned his back on Nobunaga.

For now, you will keep this a secret. Putting an end to Kicho’s plan is more important. Perhaps these spells occur only rarely, and later you will forget about it.

✤

Kicho trails butterfly kisses on your wrist, and he works his way up to your shoulder, then to the nape of your neck, then to the shell of your ear, where his hot breath lights up your skin, making you shudder. The heat of his body clings to your back as he secures your waist with his free hand. You moan when he presses his lips to your earlobe and then bites.

He makes love to you like how he wages his war: attentive, meticulous, rife with contingencies. He thrusts too hard which yanks a pained gasp out of you, and Kicho would slow down, adjust his angle, and lean in to place a soft kiss upon your brow. He would say, I'm sorry, was it too much? and then he would slide back in, taking note of your reaction, and then stay still inside until you squirm and beg for him to move.

Then after you have both spent yourselves on each other, Kicho envelops you from behind and kisses your shoulder. There's a peaceful quiet that slides in between exhaustion and sleep, and you savor that sliver of calm. In the Sengoku era, there is no chance for respite, so you take what you can get.

When morning comes, you wake with Kicho’s hand caressing your hair. His expression is tender and soft like a heaven’s down. The light from the window casts his face an ethereal glow, as though he’s an angel descended to watch over you.

Kicho smiles. Says, Good morning, my love.

✤

What do you think of Kicho, Nobunaga asks you one afternoon, days after your release from captivity. Following the attack on tenshu, he moved into one of the large, empty rooms in the castle. It doesn’t have the same view as the tenshu’s, but it provides plenty of sunlight, and the majesty of the tenshu was mostly carried by Nobunaga himself anyway.

Why the question?

You’ve been summoned to Nobunaga’s chamber with the assumption that your close encounter with Kicho will garner any useful information about him. He’s mysterious and detached, and nothing about him gives anything away. In that regard, he’s more slippery than Mitsuhide.

Perhaps you have something that can provide a new perspective on him and his motivations. Nobunaga cranes his head to stare at the Azuchi sky under the warm filter of summer light. The room hushes to a pensive silence.

A moment later, Nobunaga returns to you, appraising.

Did he say anything crucial to you, in those times you were able to converse with him?

The most important, I think, is that he traveled 500 years into the future.

Nobunaga’s brows rise. It’s the most surprised look you’ve ever seen him since your stay in the castle. That explains his disappearance three years ago.

Hideyoshi mentioned before that Kicho was a vassal of yours.

And now he no longer is. A thought occurs to him. I wonder if his experience in the future has made him come to the conclusion he has now.

Then, clarity surfaces from Nobunaga’s eyes, echoing throughout his face. He looks at you with the utmost expectation.

If we are to figure out Kicho, then … Tell me about your home, 500 years from now.

✤

This is not your first time participating in war, but all the same, it may well have been. The sight of men fighting and dying will always feel new and terrible to you, and you may as well die if you grow numb to the realities of it. War has never been the solution, but here in this era, it is the only answer.

The ringing of clashing steel reverberates through the air, almost distracting you from your work. Ieyasu is out there in the battlefield commanding his men, leaving you to take care of the wounded. At the vanguard Masamune leads the charge, and you can imagine the feral smile adorning his face as he slashes his way towards his enemies.

It’s when you’re too busy treating one seriously wounded soldier that you hear it: a thunderous sound, whistling into explosion, near your camp.

Fire arrows! Fire arrows!

The base devolves into frenzy, the available soldiers evacuating the injured, the others carrying the supplies.

Send word to Lord Nobunaga of the attack! Princess, you must go with them – you’ll be safe with our lord!

No, I’ll stay to help!

Compassion trumps fear of death. This has always been the case with you. It has intrigued Nobunaga, the capacity to muster courage in the midst of death and despair, an ember crackling into flames. 

When Kicho’s forces surround your camp, cutting off your escape routes, you face Kicho head on, meeting him outside the main tent, flanked by loyal Oda soldiers.

I see that you continue to participate in the war, Kicho comments. Which is funny, because the last time we encountered each other, you boldly declared that you detest it.

I contribute what I can. Just because I hate war doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care about the people risking their lives for it.

How admirable, and the mocking lilt in Kicho’s voice has the soldiers by your side shift their stances. There is no way to run, and, in all likelihood, all of you may die here, at Kicho’s merciless hands.

But that is no excuse to surrender to futility; you have to think of the soldiers who need treatment, and the soldiers who are ready to lay down their lives for you. You don’t deserve to be treated specially, just as they don’t deserve to die.

So you buy them time. The small unit that had gone to report to Nobunaga should be arriving at their destination, and then you’ll have your backup.

You muster all the confidence you don’t have, and open your mouth: Have you ever considered that, even if you killed Nobunaga, somebody else will take up the task of unifying Japan?

I can also say the opposite: even if Nobunaga unified Japan, there will always be someone who thirsts for war. However, it really doesn’t matter to me whether Nobunaga lives or dies; though I do take vicious satisfaction of seeing him fall.

You feel a knot forming between your brows. Try as you might, you can’t understand Kicho.

Why are you doing this?

Kicho sweeps a scrutinizing gaze across your tense form. He tilts his head a fraction. Blinks.

I see, he says, and, if you strain your ears enough, you can hear an undercurrent of marvel in his tone. You’re stalling. Expecting a backup, perhaps? I’m afraid to disappoint you, but I will not allow it.

He raises a hand, and his men lift their rifles at the ready.

And you can’t afford that. Wait, no – stop, please! Spare them; take me instead! Spare them, please!

Amidst the raucous protests of the Oda soldiers, Kicho raises a brow at your plea. There is no advantage to him taking you hostage, but it is the only thing you can offer to protect the others’ lives.

And what would I do with you? You have no use for me at all.

Anything. I’ll do anything. Just please spare them.

Kicho doesn’t even think about it, which stings a little. He sighs, as if inconvenienced about the whole thing. You truly have no sense of self-preservation, have you. I’m amazed that you have made it this far. He stares at you like he’s expecting something – an explanation, maybe.

Flustered, you blurt out, I-It’s part of my charm …

He’s not impressed, what with the way his gaze and the line of his lips flatten. But then a second later, he seems to be considering it.

Very well. He signals to his men to put the rifles down. Then he takes a step forward in your direction. I will spare everyone here, in exchange for you. He pulls out his gun, raises it, and declares: If anyone makes any kind of unwelcome move, I will shoot your precious chatelaine. Do I make myself clear?

You know that the soldiers are not happy with this arrangement, but this is no time for hesitation. You give them a reassuring smile and tell them it’s fine. The most important thing right now is that there are no casualties in this confrontation.

Kicho extends a hand to you, his moonsheen eyes glittering against the fires, and you step forward to take it. His grip is firm and almost painful, but to show any reaction is to falter, and this is a battle of convictions.

He smirks at your determination. Make it worth my while, princess.

✤

Motonari is lounging on Kicho's couch, loose but predatory, his back molding around the curve of the cushion, arms splayed over the edge. His alliance with Kicho is at best formidable, but because they do not trust each other, it is at worst tenuous, hanging on by a flimsy thread. Any time one of them may turn around and shoot the other on the back, and either way there would be no love lost between them.

There's a bladed edge that glints in Motonari's eyes as he watches you settle on a chair not far away from his, but he doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side, gaze never leaving you. You've learned to get used to Motonari's hostile curiosity, barbed with thorny comments on your usefulness – or lack of – and the occasional goading. Why are you here, he had said, stepping closer to you with a panther's smile; you're a spy from the Oda, aren't you. Kicho may’ve been fooled but ya ain't foolin' me.

Ya waitin' for that guy? he says now, teeth accompanying the grin. Gonna seduce him again? That what the Oda ordered ya? Strip him off his guard then strike him down?

You're wrong, Motonari-san.

If anything, Motonari's smirk widens. Oh? Then he twists his torso to face you, leaning forward, looming. You think to lean away, but Motonari will interpret that as his victory. Ya wanna explain that t’me, m’lady?

I’m not going to betray Kicho, you say, tone firm, and if you ask Motonari, he’d say it’s almost with contempt. If anything, I’m going to reason with and persuade him. We both want peace, but he’s going at it differently.

The disgust clear on his expression, Motonari sneers. M’lady, ya forgettin’ he’s a warlord. And what do warlords do? It’s in the title – they wage war.

It’s not like you do not know what they do, who they are. From the day you've stayed with Oda Nobunaga, you have learned to swallow your comparisons, arguments that pit the peaceful conditions that you grew up in against their roiling, boiling chaos. Instead you make sense of their context, and figure out how to make the best of what you have and what you can do without forsaking your convictions.

So for Kicho, a man who has lived the past and the future, your present, your understanding of his worldview serves as a crucial point in the matter.

I’ll just have to try my best, then.

And then what? Say you did get ‘im to your side, what d’ya think’ll happen next?

We’re … We’ll be one step closer to unification.

Ha! Ya really think that, huh, princess? Motonari leans closer, his voice an oppressive reverberation against your ears. Let’s not forget me, shall we? Even if you pulled that bastard to your side, it won’t stop me from tearing all of you to dust.

Motonari drops his accent, and it’s indicative of his seriousness; his diction becoming rounder, more solid-land than fluid sea, uttered in a lower register that crawls underneath your skin, and you fail to stop yourself from flinching.

He notices this, and he smirks triumphantly as you try to brush off your sudden fear of him.

His smugness transmogrifies into manic glee as the click of a gun echoes in the room. You look up to find Kicho aiming his pistol at Motonari's head.

Get away from her, Kicho warns, voice calm and even, but his eyes are cold and nothing like the usual apathy gleaned from his gaze.

Motonari leans back on the couch, resuming his previous pose, takes a glance at Kicho, and returns staring at you. Yer really somethin’, ya know. His panther smile reveals sharp, predatorial teeth. Then to Kicho, who hasn’t budged from his position: Fine, fine. M’here for ya anyway.

The gun doesn’t disappear. We’ll talk in another room.

Sure. I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Ya can put that away now. He raises both his hands and rises from his seat. When he passes by Kicho on his way out, Motonari throws a grin at him; Kicho doesn’t react, doesn’t look back, a glacial statue.

I’ll deal with Motonari first; stay here, Kicho says once Motonari has left the room. The icy edge hasn’t left Kicho’s gaze, and you hesitate to ask how much he has heard from the conversation between you and Motonari.

In the end, all you can reply is, All right. I’ll wait for you.

Kicho studies you for a moment, before his lips melt into a soft smile. I’ll be quick.

The sliding doors snap shut, and you are alone in the room. You close your eyes and expire a shuttered sigh, giving in to the silence.

✤

How far will you go for love?

Will you be like a protagonist, bared heart and soul, courage in its purest form? Or will you be like a villain, love taken to its most extreme, a love that becomes mirror-fractured, reflecting the baser, twisted version of it?

And as you wade through the moonlit corridors of the castle, sneaking your way out for a midnight rendezvous, you think of consequences and fate, and how, in the end, happy endings are for fairy tales and festive dreams.

My, my, where is the little mouse going at this hour, Mitsuhide says, revealing himself from the hallway shadows, and he almost fails in masking his glee at your frozen, deer-in-headlights expression.

I can explain, you begin, because what else can you say?

If anything, Mitsuhide’s smirk widens. Oh? Let’s hear it, then.

He doesn’t move from his sinister spot, and you’re aware that his silent waiting is designed to unnerve you. Mitsuhide has always seemed to delight upon your reactions, no matter the situation. It’s nothing malicious, but it’s annoying all the same, bearing the brunt of most of his trolling.

I’m meeting someone, and I’m pretty sure you know who it is.

Mitsuhide feigns surprise. Oh, my! Is it who I think it is? I didn’t know you had it in you, little mouse! Should I report this to Lord Nobunaga and have you imprisoned in the dungeon for your betrayal?

Oh, don’t be so dramatic! You and I both know that Nobunaga has allowed this. We already talked about it.

There’s a little pause before Mitsuhide drops the act. His fox smile remains.

I see little advantage of letting you dabble in this kind of scheme. It’s surprising, I find, that Lord Nobunaga has agreed to this.

Actually, he was the one who suggested it.

And how did you react to it?

Nobunaga knew of my relationship with Kicho, and truthfully I got terrified, but I think he acknowledged it? Because he wanted me to persuade Kicho to go back to us.

And your thoughts on this?

I’ll do it. If it means nobody has to die, then I’ll do it. I don’t want you guys and Kicho fighting.

Mitsuhide seems amused at that. Such courage, our little mouse. But then his smile disappears, serious all of a sudden. I hope you know what you’re doing.

I do know, but thanks for the vote of confidence.

My dear, and for once his voice reaches a level of honesty that alarms you, but you only wait for him to continue. Love may be a wondrous, transformative thing, but it is not an encompassing truth. Remember that illusion also exists in love.

And is that how it is with you and Kicho? A love cascaded in illusion? The frightening thing is that you are certain that Kicho genuinely loves you, but that love he harbors for you carries a particular kind of idealism that reality, most often than not, has a tendency to subvert. Like a villain’s love taken to its extreme, Kicho’s love manifests in service of his ambition, bold declarations of salvation, a hand extended, haloed against cracked, withering edges.

Pain, Kicho had once said, is but a temporary drawback; once I have fulfilled my goal, you will be released from this suffering. I will protect you; I will take care of you, I promise.

Except he cannot protect you from this fate; he is not a god, no matter the scale of the disruptions he orchestrates. His promise is always destined to be broken.

You swallow, to ease the constricting of your throat. To Mitsuhide, you say, I know that. Nevertheless, I will try. What else do I have?

And Mitsuhide seems to understand that. He expires a theatrical sigh, a mischievous fox once again. Well, if you insist. Either way, I am certain that if you failed and came back in tears, Hideyoshi and the others will readily console you of your heartbreak.

Hah! Don’t tell me you’ll be one of them.

Oh, little mouse. Mitsuhide smiles. Don’t hope too much.

✤

The first time you lay with Kicho, the sky is the color of bruise, and it's only been a few days since he has revealed his plans of eternal war to you.

Getting close to Kicho is only a matter of honesty and conviction – and a little bit of earnest wanting to understand the other side. When you both had realized that your ideals aligned, Kicho was more than willing to talk with you, if only to make you see the logic behind his actions.

You and I want peace – but what is peace to them, if only a respite of war? he had told you on a day when the leaves in Sakai were at its most verdant. Emptied coffers, the resources ran out – a time to replenish what has been consumed.

He had looked to the sea then, his hair fluttering against the winds. In those few quiet seconds when the only sounds were lapping waves, his face looked distant, as if in reminiscence.

The hungry will return to fill their sin. And the cycle begins again.

But you were not appeased by that reasoning, so you pushed back.

There are much more people who want peace than those who want war. What are the voices of a few to those of millions?

For a moment Kicho was caught off-center, his eyes a little wider than usual, but then his features tamed and softened, showing you a smile that could make you forget he's a warlord.

You really are a child of that time, he marveled. Behind him the sea waves went on rolling towards the pier, a soothing melody. Your beliefs are utterly remarkable.

And now, in the chambers of your captor, your beliefs are tested, examined with intense scrutiny, like a butterfly whose wings are trapped by long silver needles, gleaming under the light of an examination table.

Tell me, Kicho begins, how one can achieve my goal without bloodshed. If you can provide me an alternative, I am willing to reconsider.

But this is a futile battle, and Kicho is only being indulgent, his fingers tracing the outline of your face, moonglow in his eyes.

You burn so bright, you know, he continues, voice dreamy. You have all these ideals in you. So passionate, so entrancing.

His fingers carry their downward path to your kimono, and your heart starts to beat faster. Your gaze never strays from Kicho’s rapt expression. He notices it, lifting his head to smile at you, warm and besotted and so unlike the cold and calculating man you’ve come to know.

I want to parse them – every single one of them.

And he descends, angling his head to kiss you, lips soft against yours.

A voice at the back of your mind whispers that this is wrong, sleeping with the enemy wrong, but Kicho’s touch on your skin is a trail of heat branding your flesh, coaxing your blood to sing.

When you part for air, Kicho emerges with a playful grin. But its line is askew, the curve tinged with irony. Your beliefs, your convictions … I suppose they crumple in the face of worldly desire, no?

It’s a deliberate jab, one that aims to crush your spirit, but the thing with Kicho is that he’s a very self-aware individual, which sets him apart from the other warlords. He knows where he stands and he knows where he will go. There are no blind spots, no weaknesses to exploit. A perfectionist striving for perfection, a man desiring godhood. And the only way you can answer him is with this:

You say that … but I know that you also want this. You speak of beliefs and convictions – how steadfast you are with yours. And I just want to understand where you’re coming from. It’s you who’s drawn in, so don’t say that it’s me who’s losing.

He recoils, like something scorching has grazed his body. That reaction is a taste of victory, and Kicho agrees, if the slow, crescendoing laughter is an indication. 

He sighs then, satisfaction and amusement radiating all over him, residues of a smirk dancing on his lips.

You are a treasure. Let me keep you.

His eyes are narrowed in mirth, affection now glazing his every move. Every motion of the bed, every shift of fabric, signals of his approach, and when he levels his eyes with yours, when he breathes the same air as you, when his hand braces right beside your hip, his other hand ghosting the corner of your eye, your nose, your lips – it dawns on you, then, that this is something Kicho may not have foreseen but will gladly see through the end.

Bloom for me.

When he takes you that night, you welcome it.

✤

The secret doesn’t last, and the moment you regain consciousness, you know that something has gone very, very wrong.

You open your eyes to an unfamiliar room, decked with ornate red and gold linings on each wall. The design calls to memory a particular chamber, one that you’ve recently got yourself too familiar with.

You’re finally awake.

The flat voice draws your attention, and you turn your head to the source. Kicho, seated on a chair beside the bed you’re currently lying on, prim and proper, but a second look at his face reveals a tight strain, particularly around the eyes, where hints of sleeplessness peek through.

What he says next feels like a dunk in cold water.

You’ve been unconscious for three days. You don’t have a fever. You’re not ill. But you wouldn’t wake up.

The blackouts have begun to increase their frequency, the duration of being unconscious growing to an alarming length. You wouldn’t be surprised – though you dread it all the same – when one day you’d collapse and never wake up.

But the most curious thing right now is Kicho’s tremulous voice, little hitches in the middle of the sentences, powering through the syllables as if uttering your situation is an insurmountable challenge. 

Were you worried about me?

He frowns, and for a moment it seems as though he is surprised at your question.

If you want to see it as worry, then I will not contradict you. He extends a hand to settle it on your cheek, a feather-light touch, his gaze turbulent. You suddenly collapsed while Nobunaga and I were in a confrontation. It was the perfect opportunity to incapacitate him, but the moment you hit the ground, I found myself whisking you off to safety.

A storm passes through his face, darkening his expression.

That was the first and last time I’m allowing my plans to go awry. It will not happen again.

You stare at him. He braved Nobunaga and his men alone just to get you out of there? 

I think … you hesitate. I think my fainting spells are because of your plans.

His eyes widen for a fleeting second. Then he becomes pensive.

Then, it seems that what I’m doing is working. He presents you a reassuring smile. Don’t be afraid. This only strengthens my resolve.

But what about me? you want to say.

I am certain now that I’m on the right path. But it’s not without challenges, as your condition has shown us. Please endure it a little longer; it hurts now, but, in the end, it will all be worth it.

✤

In some ways, this is really where it all starts – the descent to oblivion. But of course, only those who will have survived are gifted with the privilege of hindsight. 

It goes like this:

Ambition is what makes a man, but for Nobunaga, it is his ironclad conviction that paves the way for his ambitions to become reality. This is what allows him to rise above his contemporaries. His is a fascinating case study: after saving him from the fires of Honnou-ji, Nobunaga emerges from the ashes like a risen phoenix, ploughing against his enemies as a recompense for their betrayal and their wickedness, the devil that thirsts for blood. He quickly grasps your value – the girl from the future, the girl who holds the answer to the question he’s been searching for in this war. With his level of intellect it was only a matter of time before you would confide in him your secret.

Of course, there are also other things he can deduce from you.

I am aware, Nobunaga begins, that you have been seeing Kicho for a while now.

The tea that he has poured for you nearly spills from your trembling hand. Are you?

Nobunaga watches you with an aquiline curiosity that you easily mistake for the intensity you usually associate with him. He doesn’t answer right away – only continues to sip his tea.

For all his declarations of owning you, Nobunaga has been magnanimous enough to let you do whatever you wish. Eventually you had figured out that ownership does not mean possession but rather protection in this case, except that Nobunaga is too obstinate to admit that difference.

But the matter with Kicho is a dangerous road to tread on. A vassal turned enemy, Kicho can use you against Nobunaga, and all of you are aware of that fact. 

I will not permit Kicho to steal my lucky charm.

I know he’s your enemy, but –

Which is why you will take him to our side.

You halt. And stare at Nobunaga.

He goes on, unperturbed by your blatant gaping: By now I know you well enough to have figured out that you saw something in him, for you to stay by his side. Use that to persuade him.

A-Aren’t you angry with him? He destroyed your tenshu – he almost killed you guys!

Nobunaga tilts his chin down, and the light hits his face in such a way that the shadows silhouette his expression, but in that moment his eyes seem aglow with a burning that is almost supernatural, like hellfire.

He is in the way of my unification. But if I can surmount this matter using the least amount of resources, I will. He pauses. Are you not angry with him for what he’s done to us?

That’s not it! And now the tea has spilled onto your hand, but it’s no longer hot against your skin. You ignore it. Of course I’m angry! But I’ve been talking to him, and … he just wants peace as you do.

Then you know what to do.

You swallow. How disbelieving it is, to meet two individuals who have chosen vastly diverging paths, yet aiming for the same destination. Both have ambitions worthy of being written in history, in a time when war tears everything asunder. With Nobunaga, you find hope to be a buoyant, reachable thing, one that you can touch and preserve. With Kicho, everything is a glass waiting to get shattered, the shards pricking your fingers to siphon the blood within.

And despite your love for Kicho, this is a battle of beliefs, of convictions. You are reminded of that night, under the bruise-colored sky, when you told Kicho that it is he who had lost.

Now, it is not so much as winning and losing as it is protecting everyone’s lives.

You close your eyes, gathering your resolve, so that when you look back at Nobunaga, he will know of your answer.

All right, I understand.

✤

At the Seta-no-Karahashi bridge, two figures face each other, mere inches apart.

You say: Let us pretend, for a moment, that you have succeeded in your eternal war, and that the future where I lived is destroyed. What then?

And Kicho says: Then I would have saved countless lives.

How? you want to ask, but Kicho’s hand floats over to your cheek, his fingers entwining with your hair. He brushes a stray lock behind your ear, slow and careful, his gaze intent.

You may not understand now, but you will, one day. After all – he smiles, tender – we want the same thing.

Under the bridge where you stand, the river flows steadily, uninterrupted.

✤

One by one they fall like marionettes cut at the strings, no longer of use to the puppeteer. Ieyasu is the first to go down, Masamune next. When it's Keiji's turn, he takes the Oda troops’ morale with him. Hideyoshi and Mitsunari put up a good fight, but they too are felled in the end. Kicho leaves Mitsuhide to Motonari – deception against deceit – watches in detached fascination. He allows Nobunaga to live for a while, relishes the ignominy accompanied by his survival.

And amidst this nightmare, you drift in and out of existence, memories scattered like puzzle pieces, unable to reconstruct the overarching image. It is only your love for Kicho and your desire to stop him that you endure.

And even then, you think that they are not enough. They will never be enough.

✤

There was once a boy who saw life as precious, that he’d value every living thing in this world.

He cared so much that, when he grew up, he would wage an eternal war for it.

But of course, it’s more complicated than that.

✤

I know that Nobunaga has ordered you to get me to abandon my goal and return to his side.

He says this from behind you as he slathers attention to your bare shoulder, tiny nips that sting lightly, but his breathing makes everything almost ticklish. You sigh and arch your back from the sensation, and Kicho presses his hand against your belly, pulling you towards him until your skin comes into contact with his.

The words are thrown so casually as if he’s merely talking about the weather. He doesn’t sound betrayed, and you would’ve felt guilty about it, but Kicho has continuously shown apathy towards your connection with the Oda. That despite your being Nobunaga’s ‘princess’, Kicho has not put you in harm’s way.

The hand on your belly trails lower, lower, lower, until a shot of pleasure spreads throughout your body, jolting you, a loud gasp escaping your lips. The sudden movement has you brushing Kicho, and you hear him exhale a shuddering breath.

He chuckles. That’s not nice.

He grips your hips to stop you from doing anything else, and then grinds, his lips latching onto your neck. You shut your eyes and just feel.

K-Kicho …

He releases you, and the absence of him on your skin draws you to lucidity. Before you turn your body to him and ask if anything’s wrong, Kicho flips you so that you are facing him, settling you on his lap. He goes back to sucking your neck, both his hands roaming your torso, ghostly caresses that have your hairs standing.

You shiver.

I know you’ll convince me that siding with Nobunaga is the right thing to do, he says in between his attention to your body. You’ll tell me that I should abandon my plans on stopping the unification and help him instead.

Are you – are you – you moan loudly when Kicho’s finger slips inside you – are you angry?

Kicho drags his tongue across your jaw, then tugs at your earlobe. His heavy breathing right beside your ear; you fail to suppress your shudder. Should I be?

B-But …

Another finger enters; your hips buck.

I’m not angry. He places a soft kiss on your temple. I’m not angry with you for agreeing to his order. I’m not even angry about your reasons. They’re sensible. Understandable.

You pause, staring at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Kicho realizes this, and he chuckles, giving you a warm smile after. He kisses you, long and wet and loud, and you relax in his arms.

Then he curls his fingers inside.

You jerk and groan aloud, his name on your lips a breathy mantra.

I just want you to remember – his fingers leave you, and your body unwittingly follows him. He kisses you again, guiding your hips, and you feel him press against you – that what Nobunaga plans will not yield any fruit.

And then he plunges inside.

It will not change how I feel for you, he pants to your cheek, breaths hot and thick, as he thrusts over and over. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, praying his name like it’s the only thing you know.

And when you tighten around him, he quickens his pace, his voice cracking when he says, Come for me, my love.

And you succumb to the overwhelming pleasure, white heat lighting every inch of your nerves, and you cry out his name one last time. Kicho watches you with half-mast eyes, clouded with desire, and waits until you settle down.

Then he resumes moving.

He’s close to the edge as well, his rhythm broken, and when he comes, he presses his lips against yours to muffle his moans.

Later, as you lay on top of his chest, breathing relaxed and even, his hand rubbing your back in soothing circles, Kicho murmurs, We are after the same thing, yet our means of obtaining it are so different from each other.

It’s not too late, Kicho.

He shifts so he can look at you. His moonsheen gaze is clear, and he brings his other hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

I admire your conviction, but in the long run, the unification you hold in greatest esteem will crumble into ashes. I aim for something more enduring, eternal. The path I take leads to true happiness, and I only wish you could have taken my hand.

✤

But what is true happiness?

In Kicho’s mind, it is the relief after abject despair, a world razed to the ground, starting anew. To understand the value of life, one must be on the brink of death, for what is reform without violent desperation?

Once, you had asked him about his life in the future, and he had brought his gaze to the side, and you could tell that he was recreating the Japan of your time in his memories.

Tokyo was large and bright – the first time I stepped into the city I was blinded by so much color.

People could travel to distant places in just under a few hours. It was unimaginable for me at the time.

The technology is so advanced – instant communication, knowledge at your fingertips, and all the medical breakthroughs … But then –

Shadows flickered and settled onto Kicho’s features, sharpening the animosity that arose from his recollection.

Even then, there are wars still fought. It may not be in Japan, but in other countries, they are devastating. And I realized that, no matter the era, wars will never cease.

So I made an oath to myself: when I return to my time, I will do everything I can to prevent that era from happening. Instead I will create a new timeline, one that will end all wars by making everyone learn the fragility of their own existence.

So it is a warless utopia that Kicho desires, a world where people can be happy and live in peace, where there is no place for greedy, selfish destruction. Make no mistake: he has the conviction to turn it into reality, the grand ambition sculpted into long-lasting perfection.

But in a way, isn’t that also frightening, to have that kind of ambition? Like shedding everything that ties Kicho to the world; he will ascend like a god who overlooks the earth from the heavens above, passing judgement like an adjudicator, governing people’s fates. How can Nobunaga’s unification compare with that?

You, Nobunaga, Kicho – you all want peace, but who has the right way of achieving it?

You have no answer to this question. Either way it is already too late.

✤

In the pockets of moments when you can slip in some quiet solitude, you wonder if you had crossed paths with Kicho during your past life. What were the chances of such a fateful encounter? In all the years of your rational non-belief, you would have never expected time travel and wormholes to be real, much less getting direct involvement with them. Would that be called fate?

In these solitary moments, you allow yourself the indulgence of fantasies: how easy it is to imagine that you had met Kicho in that future, your former home. Perhaps a brush of sleeves as you frantically rush at Shibuya Crossing, dodging people here and there, to prevent yourself from arriving late at a meeting. Or perhaps a near encounter at the train, only a few feet in distance, with you listening to music while him typing away at his phone, both your gazes never intersecting. Or perhaps it was at a bookstore, passing him by at the history section, his attention rapt in a book about the Sengoku era. 

But why stop there? Why not be more daring? 

The point of fantasy is to surrender to your innermost desire, buried under the layers of guilt and restraint. It’s unlikely to come true, but who wouldn’t dream of it leaping from the nebulous aether of the imagination and into the corporeality of the physical world?

Just imagine:

You at a bookstore, perusing the fashion section for inspiration to your portfolio. You have been planning to quit your job for a while now in order to pursue your dream of becoming a fashion designer, and for that you need to build a portfolio of your work.

When you turn to the corner of the history section, you collide into someone, and the book he’s reading falls from his hands. But he has good reflex – his hand shooting out to capture the book before it hits the ground. You snap out of your surprise and say sorry, and compliment his quick reaction.

It is nothing, he says, his lacustrine gaze sweeping over your alarmed form. He doesn’t seem angry; rather, he seems indifferent, and you would’ve gone on your way, bow lightly, apologizing once more, and move on, except a belated thought occurs to him and then he continues: You should keep an eye on where you are going, especially at a blind corner like this. You might bump into someone or something worse, and you could get hurt from it. Be careful next time.

Oh, how considerate of him! Despite his intimidating aura, he exudes in his words a touch of kindness, and it pulls a smile out of you, which he takes note of, if his arched eyebrow is an indication.

You will not introduce yourself in that moment, because it’s more thrilling to set chance encounters in the future: falling in the same line for coffee at a small, cozy café; entering the same train car during Tokyo rush hour; viewing the skyline at the Tokyo Tower; visiting historical sites during your days off.

And during these encounters you will get to know him better. And if you’re feeling sentimental, maybe you can even pinpoint the moment you fall in love with each other.

You will confess first, of course, because your heart is stronger than your doubts. Whereas he will hesitate, and he will deny you an answer because of his complicated origin. It will take several days before he will visit your apartment and confess to you his predicament, hands wrapped around the tea mug you have offered him, in a logical voice that belied the absurdity of his story.

But love is an unconditional, insurmountable force that can overcome any hurdle that obstructs its path. It doesn’t matter to you where he comes from – surreal as it is to believe that he came 500 years in the past – what matters is that you’re both in love, and what could be greater than a love that transcends time?

Except. Will this fantasy have its happy ending? Reality would have made Kicho return to his own time. Here, in your imagined reality, Kicho will remain by your side, happily ever after. He will turn his back on the war, on the fighting, on Oda Nobunaga and the rest of them all – no more. He will stay with you, in this modern world where peace endures and life is valued. It is his ideals, realized.

Except.

Except.

Except illusion exists in love. You know you will only hurt yourself if you continue with this fantasy. It is, after all, just that – a fantasy, something that will never come true, no matter how much you wish for it. And Kicho, despite how much he looks at you with tenderness in his eyes and how much he touches you like you’re the most important thing in the world – he would have made his choice.

Perhaps –

Perhaps he would have stayed. For you.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

Kicho is a man with so great an ambition not even the gods could have stopped him.

So.

It’s fate that he would return to his time and it’s fate that he would leave you.

His ambition is, after all, greater than his love.

✤

I love you, Kicho whispers into your skin as he shudders and empties himself inside you.

So here we are, back to the night before your dissolute end, mirror-cracks in your memories chipping off into the darkness, where the cold embrace of fate lies still, waiting for you. The future lurks not with bated breath, but with patient anticipation, for there is no escape from something that is not known.

It's a pity that Kicho has chosen this path of no return, despite all the things you've done to pull him back to the surface. He has plunged himself into the abyss with the purpose of conquering it – a mighty feat – and he is winning, like a god that he will be, in this world of blood and tears.

Tomorrow, my final plan will begin, and I will be there in the front lines, witnessing it. Kicho fits you to the line of his body, snug and warm, and if you only close your eyes you can imagine that both of you are somewhere very far away, in a more peaceful place, without war and death, happy. I want you to stay here where it's safe. Even if I wanted you to watch Nobunaga's downfall, I can't risk you getting hurt. I love you, you understand, right?

And what else can you say? That it's too late for him to keep you like a rare butterfly, only displayed but never free? Ever since the beginning Kicho has laid all the foundations of his ascension; it is already written, and you are but a chapter in his legacy.

You don’t say, I’m scared, Kicho.

You say, I love you too, I understand.

You don’t say, I’m dying, and you’ve made your choice.

You say, Good night, sweet dreams.

And he smiles at you, tender and full of love, and it’s the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking sight. You can't bear to look at it any longer, so you bury your face on the crook of his neck, lest he notices your despair.

Tomorrow, the end will begin, and the shadows have already started clinging to your feet, tugging at you, misty darkness entering your pores, rusting your bones. It will be painful to fade away, reduced into lingering ashes and memories, but perhaps this pain will metamorphose into eternal reprieve. A blissful oblivion.

Tomorrow, it will be the end, and you will never see everyone again. You will never see Kicho again. He has made his choice, and you have yours.

But for now, you close your eyes and wait for a dreamless sleep.

[dontbipanicjonsa]

Been thinking about Dark!D*ny and

I think for me, it comes down to two things:

The utter hypocrisy re: her supposed abolitionist ways

The escalation of her power and the destruction she wreaks

Because I can't really fault her for smothering Drogo. I can't really fault her for letting Viserys die. I can't really fault her for murdering the shit out of Kraznys. I can't fault her for freeing slaves (as if). I can't even fault her for wanting revenge.

Let me explain-

I think if we compare the capture of the Lhazareen and the capture of Meereen, it paints a very clear picture of where D*ny is headed.

The Lhazareen

Ok. First, the whole 'D*ny has no power' argument has to stop. She's the khaleesi. Her husband is the khal. Of course she has power.

I'm NOT saying Drogo isn't absolutely monstrous to her. I'm not saying she chose to marry him. I'm not commenting on their relationship at all.

In a patriarchy, (upper class) women gain property/power/control over others in exchange for sexual/reproductive service. So D*ny, simply by virtue of being the khal's wife, or simply because she's pregnant with his kid (neither of which were her choice) has power.

For comparison, Cersei, who is abused by her husband, the king, still derives power from her position as Queen and mother of the princes/princess. See what I mean?

?? Drogo decides they're gonna sail to Westeros and gives his rousing speech because D*ny was almost assassinated. The attack on the Lhazareen was done in service of D*ny's conquest of Westeros. Let's repeat.

The Lhazareen were attacked to further D*ny's interests.

The Lhazareen were attacked to further D*ny's interests.

No, it wasn't for Rhaego, he's a fucking foetus he doesn't HAVE interests. It's not for Drogo, he doesn't give two shits about Westeros. IT"S FOR D*NY. And that is her 'power' in action. Her power, that she derives through her husband, because PatRiarChy. But power.

And you know what? Sure. It's fine. She didn't know what a bloodbath it was going to be. That's not her fault. And yeah, she IS ready to accept the bloodshed as necessary collateral. That is...a bit more questionable. But she does try to help some women.

Does she only help them because she can see their suffering? Probably. There's plenty of suffering not in her direct line of sight that she allows. But ok. Sure. It's not her job to save everyone (nevermind that they're suffering to further her interests).

The whole 'save them by marrying them to their rapists' thing makes me more sad than enraged. It's tragic. It's D*ny, making women marry their rapists in the same book where she married her rapist...thinking she's ok, thinking they would be ok too. It's the cycle of abuse in motion, right before our eyes.

This is an explanation I accept. All that bullshit about how powerless D*ny is? Pls. Women and children are being enslaved right there on the same page, so D*ny can win the IT, and she's powerless ?? stfu

Ok. I get it. She's not powerless, but how far does her power extend? COULD she have gotten away with getting all the newly enslaved Lhazareen freed? We'll never know. Does that absolve her?

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

NO.

This- the capture and enslavement of the Lhazareen people- is a direct consequence of Viserys' ambitions, which is a torch that D*ny has now willingly taken up. THAT ^^^ is a price she's willing to pay, or rather- make others pay.

Buuuut it's fine. She's inexperienced, and her power is certainly limited, and hey she tried. Sure. Moving on.

Meereen

(TW: mentions of rape)

Fast forward four books and D*ny is approximately 100x times more powerful than she was in the Lhazareen scene. Let's see how she does now-

A boy came, younger than Dany, slight and scarred, dressed up in a frayed grey tokar trailing silver fringe. His voice broke when he told of how two of his father's household slaves had risen up the night the gate broke. One had slain his father, the other his elder brother. Both had raped his mother before killing her as well. The boy had escaped with no more than the scar upon his face, but one of the murderers was still living in his father's house, and the other had joined the queen's soldiers as one of the Mother's Men. He wanted them both hanged.

I am queen over a city built on dust and death. Dany had no choice but to deny him. She had declared a blanket pardon for all crimes committed during the sack. Nor would she punish slaves for rising up against their masters.

xxx

A former slave came, to accuse a certain noble of the Zhak. The man had recently taken to wife a freedwoman who had been the noble's bedwarmer before the city fell. The noble had taken her maidenhood, used her for his pleasure, and gotten her with child. Her new husband wanted the noble gelded for the crime of rape, and he wanted a purse of gold as well, to pay him for raising the noble's bastard as his own. Dany granted him the gold, but not the gelding. "When he lay with her, your wife was his property, to do with as he would. By law, there was no rape." Her decision did not please him, she could see, but if she gelded every man who ever forced a bedslave, she would soon rule a city of eunuchs.

SO anyway how is D*ny rating on the 'tried to prevent rape' scale?

She even went so far as to summon Irri, hoping her caresses might help ease her way to rest, but after a short while she pushed the Dothraki girl away. Irri was sweet and soft and willing, but she was not Daario.

Oh look she's in the negative :/

How's she doing on the slavery front? She's got all the power now...

"Your slave Missandei." Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

"My servant. I have no slaves." Dany did not understand. "Why does she weep?"

xxx

There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves.

...

D*enerys spends five books gaining power. How does this affect the condition of her people? Is the condition of the Meereenese better than the condition of the Lhazareen had been, all the way back in the first book? No. It's worse.

People have still been raped. People have still been enslaved/remained enslaved. People have starved. People have been brutally murdered. And at a much larger scale than book 1.

This is what it comes down to. D*ny is a villain because her climb to power is characterized by death and destruction, always. Isn't that the trademark of a villain?

D*ny is a girl who truly believes in her own PR, but when you look at her words and actions-

"The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh," Dany told the girl, "but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me . . ."

"They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that," the slaver answered. "Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all."

xxx

"No," she pleaded. "Save him, and I will free you, I swear it. You must know a way … some magic, some …"

...how much of her actions are truly altruistic? How much is performative?

Despite her anti-slavery rhetoric, D*ny consistently benefits from slavery- and slavery flourishes.

Despite her 'oh no I don't wanna bring death and destruction anywhere', her actions continue to bring exactly that- and it never stops her from doing it all over again the next time.

Not to dismiss her internal struggle. But really. Being upset at the thought that you might be a bad person doesn't make you a good person. For that matter, being worried if you're going mad or not...doesn't mean you're not (not that I'm saying she is). Seriously, where did that logic even come from? Ultimately, her internal struggle makes her a more compelling character, sure, but it doesn't actually make her a better person.

The point is, her story is absolutely rooted in hypocrisy. Her destructiveness only escalates with her power. Her so-called good intentions never pan out- because her own actions undermine them. And because she has the self-awareness of a pigeon, she never gets better.

She IS the villain who thinks she's a hero. She isn't just a villain because she's done bad things, but because she's utterly unaware (or deliberately obtuse) of the bad things she's done, and so she's incapable of learning, and so she's only getting worse.

Take a step outside her POV and it suddenly becomes clear.

Let's recap.

D*ny has-

Wayy more power in Meereen. Less in Lhazareen

D*ny did-

Less to prevent rape in Meereen. More in Lhazareen

D*ny benefitted from-

Slavery in Meereen. Slavery in Lhazareen

D*ny was-

A slaver in Meereen. A slaver in Lhazareen

D*ny wreaked-

Death and destruction in Meereen. Death and destruction in Lhazareen.

D*ny, riding high on her power-

Ordered the murder of children. And much more.

Power is NOT good for D*ny.

[lightdancer1]

Three part scene from the Ba Sing Se AU Part II:

As amusing as the caricature was, that wasn't what she was doing with it, or with the images and the stories. She'd set herself a different task, imagining an Azula alive and well (she did not think, not in truth, that exile could take her daughter even if she was deranged from stress and everything else that had happened. Zuko had entrusted her to Suki and the governor of Kyoshi Island and leader of the Kyoshi Warriors was an honorable woman by all she understood). An Azula free to be with a woman, with the kind of woman she'd want to be with.

Not all of the images were those of women's bodies, or women's bodies imagined by men whose grasp was alarmingly theoretical in their natural state. Some of them were clothed, like the tamer pinups people imagined soldiers might have at the front (she'd seen actual garrisons and soldiers and knew better). Those, the stories marked with little heart-smudges that showed her the reminder her little girl had still been a little girl when Ozai had sent her into the maelstrom of the war uncaringly.

This was one of the tasks she'd set herself. The other was to read one of the entries she hadn't dared to read yet and that might be a grim one, so it was more of a thing here to connect to the person beyond the war and what it had done to her. It intrigued her that where her daughter wrote in the most intimate things, the things that showed her truths that Zuko would never understand, that her tastes were not what she would have expected.

She did not dream of princesses or wealth and splendor (the newly appointed Corsair-Admiral of Karakorum's new fleet, the thing that had been the straw to break the ostrich-horse's back would have been disappointed, she was sure). She did not value traits that Ursa admitted she had with Ozai and Ikem. Instead she saw phrases written that were a guide to the woman Azula might have become (and since Ursa privately believed she was alive, hopefully had become).

"Pragmatic," she wrote. "Flexible." Ursa did not think that meant one meaning given the nature of the character but some of the stories Azula clearly enjoyed made her uncertain. "A beautiful smile." A small character that made Ursa smile just a bit with an upturned quirk of her lip.

"A kind heart."

Other words, some of which were small insights she would treasure and would mean the future's unanticipated course would leave her the least surprised woman in the Fire Nation.

She let herself lean back before going to that other letter, imagining the girl that Azula might see herself with. Perhaps she wore Water Tribe blue or Earth Kingdom green. She would be a girl of no particular height one way or the other but with long hair, in a topknot or Water Tribe loops. A girl with a warm smile and a big heart, and beneath that warmth and kindness, steel.

Her girl had taken an unconquerable city with three people in a feat that left Ursa awed to learn of it. Zuko had disinherited her but here was one line he had not crossed. Even in the wake of the ceremony that flaunted her weakness he had not tried to take that achievement, one that generations would study, away. She could have been like others with such feats and feared others who were strong, and dedicated and with a sense of will. A slight thinness to her lips led her to shake her head. Iroh's ex-wife, Lady Hino of Crescent Island, had been like that. In the end it had gone poorly.

Yet those were the things her daughter valued. She wanted so badly to take these writings and show them to the vain old man in the Jasmine Dragon. To tell him "You hated her because she was like you and you knew she might be better. Do you see?" Well, a great deal angrier and more profane than that, but still.

A girl in green, hair in twin pigtails with a kindly grin holding her daughter's hand, her daughter grown older with her hair long and beautiful and unsullied by what had been done to her. To it. Or perhaps, Ursa mused, it would be very short and close-cropped. If she had been through such a thing she would have made her hair hers and long again, but Azula was not her. She might well keep it short and she could not blame her.

Perhaps that was who Azula was now. Better than the worse possibilities that she saw glimpses of but refused to dwell on. She wrapped herself in a veil of happiness and then with a quiet trepidation turned to the second part of Azula's diary, the letter that was the first of them written in the time lapse between the Boiling Rock and all that had gone forth from it.

Her hand trembled slightly and she let herself take a deep breath and then picked it up to read. She read intensely and then took two steps. First she rolled the scroll up and put it in her sash and then lovingly and quietly rolled up the legacies of her daughter's true self, ensuring they were properly hidden.

Then she stepped out with a look of stone on her face. She would speak to her dear daughter in law and they would have words that were for their ears only. Who would watch the watchmen, after all?

[archetypal-archivist]

Grian- Boots for the Rain Gone Cold

Kind of a story idea for Ex-Watcher Grian, 3500+ words. This is what happens when you listen to the song Welly Boots on repeat for a couple hours. The premise is that Grian and the Hermits aren’t quite as nice as they seem, and when Grian has to flee Hermitcraft to keep his friends safe from the Watchers, his friends do some malicious compliance to take care of him while he is away.

------

A story in which the hermits take care of their own, even beyond borders they should not be able to cross.

Take a standard story about Watcher Grian. See him come to Hermitcraft, lost and alone and afraid. He has been through Evo, killed a dragon whilst alone and afraid, was taken against his will, watched his friends Pearlescent Moon and Taurtis die. He knows how to take care of himself, but nothing more than that.

Hermitcraft changes that, for him. Standing outside a portal that is unlike any he had ever seen, even during his time as a watcher, seeing a team of 20+ walk out is terrifying. But they had seen him, looked at each other, then rushed forward to claim him as their own. In the beginning he is left alone until he tentatively reaches out, saving Scar's stuff after he has died. An action unlike him, but he had appreciated their kindness in letting him stay, so he does his best to repay that.

Tit for tat is something he understands from the Watchers, even if this is a kinder variant.

Grian watches as people start to reach out to him, watching him with admiring eyes as he builds his first shops, offering items he's never needed or touched before now. (Conduits are so cool and he'll deny the shiver of excitement that crept up his spine when Xisuma first handed him one to his dying breath.) He watches as they smile and laugh at his antics, rather than come at him and his with sword and shield for his pranks.

He watches. He is good at that. He is significantly less good at returning their kindness, a trouble-maker to his core, intentionally or no. But he tries, and in the eyes of the Hermits, that is all that matters.

Iskall feeds him, sometimes, when he is sick and delirious, screaming at the shadows in the corners. They do not let him starve himself to death. (He learns to hide half stacks of golden carrots in their chests, just enough to replenish their supply, but not enough that they'd notice.)

Mumbo is patient with him when he comes crashing into his base like a wrecking ball, sometimes plowing into the taller hermit's redstone face first in the process. He just helps Grian up, smiling and laughing, helping him brush the red dust away. (Grian learns that Mumbo cannot sleep without noise, too used to the ticking of redstone clocks and firing pistons to sleep in quiet. He learns to fly in on late nights when Mumbo's base is still lit up and talk with his friend, chattering away until Mumbo can find it in himself to turn the lag machines off and fall asleep to the sound of Grian's voice.)

Xisuma watches the world with all the focus and patience that Grian once used when designing stars and bedrock towers. For Xisuma, Grian will watch the world too and ease its updates when he can- one less burden for his admin to carry, taken and handled with silent, secret grace.

Joe reads and reads and reads, spinning tales of his finds to all who stand still long enough for him to pin down for a bit. For Joe, Grian will bring out some of his old high school textbooks for him on the days when the man runs out of books to read.

Zedaph lives in a cave, warm and dry, but without color, the only life being the experiments rattling around in the background. For Zedaph, Grian will sneak in mushrooms and moss, encouraging them to grow in the shadows until the cavern blooms with them.

For the hermits, Grian is kind. For the hermits, Grian will learn.

Then one day it all comes crashing down, perhaps in the face of a bedrock tower springing from nowhere, perhaps in violent, screaming outburst of purple fire, perhaps in the face of a friend he once thought dead. The Watchers had tried their damnest to stamp out his heart and they nearly succeeded, but just as they could not stamp out his free will they also could not stamp out his humanity, and people- regardless of shape or size or color or race or species- are born to love and be loved.

Grian loves his Hermits. To protect them, he must leave. And so he does, quietly and in the dead of night, the faint echoes of screams ringing in his ears. If he has it his way, never again will he hear his hermit's pain, imagined or otherwise. It would be best to just forget.

Grian settles in a rainy little single player server that turns out to not be as single player as he would like. It seems instead to be an abandoned multiplayer server, lost dogs and empty houses abound in the distant corners, and every once in a while a new player stumbles in, running from something, settling in long enough to call the server home. Sometimes, these new players stay. Sometimes, whatever is chasing them catches up and they are forced to leave. Grian refuses to care for these fellow vagabonds, even as he watches from under the eaves of his perfectly constructed rustic house, rain dripping down and obscuring him from their wondering, pained eyes.

Grian has given up on having happy ending, and if the ending the narrative seems to want to give him is a tragedy, then he will seize it with both hands and rewrite it himself. What he does not take into account, however, is that the Hermits don't take kindly to being abandoned.

Grian was once a Watcher, and while watching and mimicking are perhaps some of his better skills, he was still new to the server and as such there is much about his Hermits he never had a chance to discover. Their pasts in large part remained a mystery to him, as he had learned to mimic kindness too well from them to ever pry. (They would have told him, if he had asked. Love was another thing he had learned from them, and if he had been seen and not just watched, he perhaps would have noticed how strongly they cared for him too.)

But yes. Though Grian was perhaps the only one of their number on the run from literal gods, he was not the only one with a tragic back story.

Xisuma, who watched the Hermitcraft server with all the vigilance of a soldier who had watched his fellow troops and their enemies weaponize glitches against each other, to the mass extinction of both. Evil X, who ran from it all, only to end up in a place where nothing violent simply became nothing.

Joe, who read and read and read, devouring knowledge the way he once devoured worlds, eyes flickering white on the nights when hunger panged in his stomach worse than usual. Cleo, who also knew the pain of consumption, from both sides of teeth like knives.

Zedaph, who popped into existence one day, whole and unsullied, with a vast, empty void where his past ought to be, who forgot sometimes that people are supposed to have likes and dislikes and colors and an instinctual obedience towards the laws of gravity. Tango and Impulse, who watched their friend and each other with eagle eyes to keep their trio from slipping back into old, self-destructive habits. (Overwork, overclocking, over-stimulation. All were equally killer.)

Grian, who's first and best skill, even before his building, was causing mischief and creating fun. A welcome distraction from old pains.

They loved him, the Hermits. In whatever flavor they chose, they loved him. They knew his darkness, though perhaps not the exact nature of it, and they knew that he loved them back. And then he left them.

The Hermits were powerful with love and sorrow and determination. Grian thought he could leave them so quickly, uproot himself from their hearts like a ghost in the night? Ha.

As. If.

It begins like this- Grian wakes in his little spruce house in the middle of a mostly abandoned town. The rain is pouring outside as it nearly always is and the rushing of wind through the trees puts him in the mind of his old ship-in-a-bottle base, warm and safe from the wet outside. He wakes up, stretches, thinks of eating. Steps outside and-

a brand new pair of bright red rain boots, almost glowing in the grey mist of early morning. They are in his colors, Grian just knows they would fit him perfectly. A welcome sort of gift, perfect for a world drenched in rain. Perfect for him, gifted with thought, with care. His stomach curdles and he just knows he won't be eating breakfast today either. A curl of a finger and the boots go up in purple flames, the scent of burnt rubber joining the petrichor of the air. He goes back inside. Goes back to sleep. Tries not to dream.

The boots are back the next day, shining red and a little closer to the door to better keep them out of the rain. He burns those too.

The boots keep appearing. Always bright red, always perfectly sized to fit him- squeaky new rubber, perfect for keeping out the rain. In the face of that, red boots like clockwork, is it any wonder that Grian gets tired? His front porch stinks of burnt rubber and there are new planks wherever he had to remove the scorched oak. Perhaps it's the burning that causes a new pair to appear- if there are no boots, a new pair comes to replace them, so perhaps a different method of disposal is in order.

He throws the next pair into the river. A new pair comes back to him the next day, alongside the old ones, dripping with sea grass and mud. Hmm.

(Cleo has friends in the rivers and oceans. It's easy enough to call in a favor or three to get the boots returned.)

Creepers next. A loud hiss and an even louder boom has him flinching back, phantom burns dancing across his fingers, but the boots are naught but ash. Three pairs of boots next time, one of them a dark swirling grey rather than the traditional red, as if mocking their scorched past.

(Doc's work. He's had enough experience with accidentally blowing up his own tools to know how to make a blast protection charm strong enough to keep his clothes and armor safe in the case of an unfortunate accident. The grey starbursts left over the material are just a neat bonus.)

Lava. Concentrated spider venom. Flattened by pistons. Dropped into the void. Left under a lightning rod. Thrown up into a tree. Fed to a guardian.

Each and every time, the boots come back, usually with some change in pattern, color, or marking that signals just what they have been through. All in perfectly usual condition, even the pair he cut in half with an axe.

(Stress had a field day piecing that pair back together, using molten honey and mending enchants to stick the halves together again. She always had loved a challenge.)

Eventually, Grian's front porch is covered in boots in all manner of designs, and fed up with the mess, he sets the whole mess on fire again with his signature purple flame, the only thing sure to reduce the number of boots permanently. He sets his house on fire in the process. Hmmmm.

There's an influx of new people into Grian's world all of a sudden. A pair of twins jump in, bloody, battered, and exhausted, and not a week later a roughed-up blond boy joins, snappish and hurting. All three lack shoes.

Now, Grian very firmly does not want to interact with any of them. He had found true friends among the Hermits and if he can't interact with them, then he certainly doesn't want to interact with a trio of traumatized children- however, he does have a pair of boots to give and dropping them on the children's doorstep requires no interaction at all. The female twin puts them on, marveling at how big the red boots are on her while the other kids stand watch suspiciously. Grian watches this from his front porch, hidden by the mist but eyes glinting purple in the gloom so he can see comfortably. The male twin seems to spot this, shouting and pointing, and Grian goes back inside to avoid the mess.

The next morning, the boots on his doorstep are rainbow-striped and several sizes smaller, perfect for a child's feet. Grian stares down at them, something hurting and tremulous in his heart, but his face remains blank. These boots are placed on the trio's doorstep as well. The male twin wears these, and the last child ends up with a pair of blue and black spotted ones.

(False had had fun with the patterns, feeling a little bit of relief that she could hunt down some rubber in a pattern other than plain red.)

Rumor spreads of a purple-eyed monster in the woods that gave people boots to keep them safe from the rain, although Grian very carefully avoids such stories. The children begin leaving trinkets for their monster in hopes to repay him, and Grian ignores these too until one day, the children somehow manage to get an old red dog collar to give him. Upon spotting this, Grian's heart gives a squeeze as it reminds him of Rendog, and he pockets it to put on his rather empty bookshelf. Other things also get picked up, all things that remind him of the friends he had to leave behind.

An allium, pressed into a book of galactic picked up from a stronghold. A jar of electric blue ink dried into a gelatinous cake. A tiny knight figurine, scuffed and missing an arm. A handful of spicy red jellybeans. Eventually, as time passes on and on and the rain bears down harder on Grian's tiny world, a trio of heartfelt, thankful cards appear on his kitchen table, all three drawn in crayon and filled with cheerful scribbles.

It rains harder, and the world shrinks down to just Grian and the three children who call out into the gloom every morning, grateful for the boots and the glimpses of purple eyes and feathered wings in the dark that tell them that they are not alone. The boots stop coming.

In their place, new things appear.

A toaster. Firewood. New sweaters and combs and soap. Little things designed to make life easier, many of them children-sized or painted in rainbow stripes or blue polka dots or a shade of red just off from Grian's favored color. These too go to the children, and the number of gifts Grian receives increases, many of them built from the material that he gives the trio of children.

(If the Hermits cannot gift things to Grian directly, then they will gift them to people who will transform them into something their wayward friend would accept. They do so with equal parts love and spite, angry to have been rebuffed but unwilling to let Grian feel himself forgotten. The trio of kids end up with a rather odd assortment of things. Tango, for example, is fond of the easy-bake oven he sent them that always burnt the food it made. Grian got nothing but his favorite chocolate chip cookies for a week, all of them scorched.)

In time, Grian does his best to drive the children off, building traps and leaving weapons on their doorstep to scare them. The stories of the monster in the woods increase in number and many more children join the server, encouraged by tales of purple-eyed, winged beast that taught its charges to be wary and gave them tools to defend themselves. Grian's cabin remains hidden in the mist, but many more wooden structures join it in the forest.

New boots appear on his doorstep. They aren't made to fit him.

(His heart aches, but his eyes remain dry. Morning dew condenses on Grian's cheeks.)

It comes to a head like this- no world, no matter how small or safe, is fully protected from the Watchers' gaze, and in the end, they find him. Only now, there are people here that cannot leave, that Grian cannot leave behind.

The children scream for their monster to save them. He rises from the mist, eyes heavy and wings heavier, dragging upon the ground and leaving trails in the brick red mud. They think they are saved. They are wrong.

Chains shoot out from the mist, forcing Grian to his knees as a huge female Watcher, Astrid, stares down at him, mouth turned down into a tiny frown and the rest of her figure still as stone even as she floats in the air, white robes fading into the surrounding fog. The purple emblem on her mask glows like a brand. Grian watches her with purple eyes glowing dim and dull, resigned to his fate but unwilling to flee if it means the deaths of those who do not deserve to serve his sentence in his stead.

He thinks, quietly, that he will die here. He wonders if this- any of this- is worth it. He thinks, yes. Yes it is.

He is wrong.

A figure coalesces before him, clad in yellow armor and arms crossed, the very picture of annoyed defiance. It tilts its head back, hard light construct featureless but practically radiating scorn, and from the mists a voice echoes.

"You are going to leave him alone. He's not for you." Astrid hisses behind her mask, galactic crackling and vile from between her lips, and the sound of wingbeats thrums like a heartbeat through the clearing, bass-heavy and loud in Grian's ears. He winces, closing his eyes as more chains shoot out from the ground to attach to Xisuma's- for what else could it be but his admin projected across time and space (that stupid, crazy, wonderful man)- construct. They coil around it, doing their level best to drag it to the ground, but the figure remains still and hovering before Grian, entirely unmoved.

"No. You will leave him alone." Xisuma's voice again, commanding and stern even from a figure that looks more like a glowing yellow armor stand. "I'll ask that you don't test me, it took a while to put this projection together and it will not dissipate until it fulfills its intended purpose." Astrid merely hisses again, this time with an underlay of static beneath it, and Grian's wings are suddenly pulled back tight and away from his shoulders- all three pairs of them, not merely those he prefers to wear.

The sound of flesh and feathers ripping through one plane and into the next has Grian feeling sick. Wrong, his mind repeats on loop, screaming. Wrong wrong wrong. Xisuma's figure freezes at his pained squeak before unfolding its arms and going carefully still. It tilts its head to the side, considering and cold.

"Is that your game? You do realize that that is death sentence, right? We would never let you survive it." Astrid nods. The chains rise up again, clinking softly as they loop once, twice, three times around Grian's outermost pair of wings, the ones most used to the physical plane and with the most nerve endings besides. The damp air is cold and aching in his lungs.

A rip. A scream. And then everything shrinks down to a flicker of brilliant yellow light, the shrilling of broken violins, and the long, drawn-out death wail of a Watcher unused to pain. A computer crash in slow motion complete with a harsh base note as Astrid's wings fall to join Grian's in the mud.

The world expands again, overwhelming. Agony. Silence.

Chains clink to the floor, broken, as Xisuma's hard light construct comes forward to stand before the Hermits' erstwhile server mate, slumped over in a pool of blood but conscious, something in his purple eyes bent, if not a little broken.

A voice, hoarse, achingly loud in the quiet of the glade. "You didn't stop her."

"No."

"...Is this my punishment then?" A moment of quiet and then the figure stoops down to gather Grian into its arms, its featureless gaze doing little to ease his fear.

Then, gently, ".....No."

Grian slumps, the last bit of tension seeping from his limbs as the pain in his back begins to register, sapping at his will and leeching into his voice.

"I'm sorry, you know. I- I'm sorry. I didn't want to go. It just- it hurts. Hels it hurts, so much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"I know. I know." Xisuma's figure stands up, hoisting Grian a little higher up against its chest so that hiss remaining wings don't drag on the ground quite as much, then turning to face the cowering children. Eventually, a little girl in bright red rain boots stands up to meet its gaze.

She blinks back tears, scrubbing at her face to hide them, but her expression is brave. "Where are you taking him?"

The figure clutches the children's monster close, looking just as fierce as any dragon in a fairytale. "Home. Will you stop me?"

The girl pauses, considering. "No. Don't think I could, really."

"Will you try?"

"To keep going? Yeah, of fucking course, sure as my name is Clementine. To stop you? Not bloody likely, I like my head right where it is." Xisuma's figure nods, satisfied, and with a blink, it and their monster are gone.

Notes:

[agentrouka-blog]

I know you are not the creator of the post, but i wanted to add that if D@ny cared about the unsullied she would'nt have use them for the conquest campaign, it is simply logical. If you cared about those traumatized-people-from childhood you would teach about freedom, integrate them into society, help them recover the sense of self and agency. I think is un-ethical letting someone die for you and your beliefs when they don't understand their freedom completely! You should insist about that they should form a life different form what they had, not welcome them with open arms (i know it sound bad but i dont find a better of put it in).

It was never about freeing them. It was about removing them from the ownership of the slavers at Astapor. Without paying for them. If it was about setting them free, yes, she would have wanted them to be free on their own terms. But as it turns out, for Dany freedom means serving Dany.

I mean, GRRM didn't write this for funsies (even if it's hilariously on the nose):

There were no slaves in the Iron Islands, only thralls. A thrall was bound to service, but he was not chattel. His children were born free, so long as they were given to the Drowned God. And thralls were never bought nor sold for gold. A man paid the iron price for thralls, or else had none. "They should be thralls, or salt wives," Victarion complained. (AFFC, The Reaver)

A slave by any other name... and she certainly paid a big iron price for them - conveniently by letting them pay it for her.

Afterward he put their crews to death as well, saving only the slaves chained to the oars. He broke their chains himself and told them they were now free men and would have the privilege of rowing for the Iron Fleet, an honor that every boy in the Iron Islands dreamed of growing up. "The dragon queen frees slaves and so do I," he proclaimed. (ADWD, Victarion I)

Free men rowing on. So free.

It's incredibly telling that the first look back at what she did after her massacre went underway is to command.

When she had commanded the Unsullied to choose officers from amongst themselves, Grey Worm had been their overwhelming choice for the highest rank. (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

Also:

One of the first things Dany had done after the fall of Astapor was abolish the custom of giving the Unsullied new slave names every day. Most of those born free had returned to their birth names; those who still remembered them, at least.

How do you abolish a custom unless you are somehow unquestionably in charge?

How many Unsullied remember what freedom even is? There is absolutely no mention of them choosing to follow Dany over something else. Not for the Unsullied, who are the ones she had wanted to buy .

Also, even more tellingly, she makes a clear and constant distinction between the Unsullied and "her freedmen", who are not useful in battle.

I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst.

ALL of them as considered her soldiers. Even the civilians. What choice were the Unsullied actually offered?

She bought them. She commanded them to kill. She dropped the whip. And she kept commanding.

She calls them free. They call themselves free. But they were never given a choice to do anything else, and they are not "freedmen" to her.

They are not, fact, free.

These provisions remain the law in Pentos to this day though certain observers have noted that many Pentoshi ships evade the prohibition against the slave trade by running Lysene or Myrish banners up their masts when challenged, whilst in the city itself there are tens of thousands of "free bond servants" who seem to be slaves in all but name, for they are collared and branded much like their counterparts in Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, and subject to similar savage disciplines. In law, these bond servants are free men and women, with the right to refuse service as they will...provided they are not in debt to their masters. (The World of Ice and Fire - The Free Cities: Pentos)

Which Dany herself should really be aware of unless she doesn't want to be:

They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister's many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves. (AGOT, Daenerys I)

How free are the Unsullied to refuse? Or does Dany consider them indebted to her?

Will we find out?

[hellsbellschime]

@arts-of-our-titans said: saying that the cities she came to were completely trashed is not a statement in support of slavery. but implying that the state of slavers bay before dany was in anyway “peaceful” or “green” is. you clearly do not understand the weight of what a slave state means, for you to make that comparison. as for dany owning slaves. stop talking out of your ass. dany does not have any slaves. you are creating scenarios in your head, literally.

please mention one instance where dany “makes” anyone fight for her. list one instance in the books where it seems her so called soldiers are there involuntarily. also mention one lord in westeros who pays his soldiers anything, but food and shelter. i’ll wait. how about you stop blaming the faults of the world george built on dany

also i would love to remind you that we are actually told that many unsullied pay whores to embrace them. if it such a common practice, why was there no question as to where these unsullied were getting the money?

and last but not least, everyone in essos knows the state of slavers bay. and yet other slaves are still hoping for dany… why? because suffering bc you fight to be free is better than suffering as someone’s property. and history has shown that. so yes, i do find your idea of slavers bay very disturbing

You know what, instead of arguing, I'mma just leave these book quotes right here. Also, not even kidding, there were so many book quotes to back up Dany's fake anti-slavery that I had to give up, these were just the ones that jumped out at me the most.

Here's some fun quotes where a fuckton of people around Dany seem to be under the impression that she has slaves, which is pretty weird if she's not treating her "servants" like slaves:

Dany stepped away from her. "No. Irri, you do not need to do that. What happened that night, when you woke . . . you're no bed slave, I freed you, remember? You . . ."

"I am handmaid to the Mother of Dragons," the girl said. "It is great honor to please my khaleesi." - Daenerys II, ASOS

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

"Freedmen," Dany corrected. "They are slaves no longer." - Daenerys V, ASOS

"Your slave Missandei." Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

"My servant. I have no slaves." Dany did not understand. "Why does she weep?" - Daenerys II, ADWD

"Not a hole. A ditch, to bring water from the river to the fields. We mean to plant beans. The beanfields must have water."

"How kind of my old friend to help with the digging. And how very unlike him. Is it possible he was given no choice in the matter? No, surely not. You have no slaves in Meereen."

Dany flushed. "Your friend is being paid with food and shelter. I cannot give him back his wealth. Meereen needs beans more than it needs rare spices, and beans require water." - Daenerys III, ADWD

"Can you?" the Green Grace asked. "A king is not a god, but there is still much that a strong man might do. When my people look at you, they see a conqueror from across the seas, come to murder us and make slaves of our children. A king could change that. A highborn king of pure Ghiscari blood could reconcile the city to your rule. Elsewise, I fear, your reign must end as it began, in blood and fire." - Daenerys IV, ADWD

Oh look, and here's some quotes implying that Daenerys pillaged these cities and left them an absolute fucking wreck:

I have given Astapor a butcher king. Dany felt ill, but she knew she must not let the envoy see it. "I will pray that King Cleon rules well and wisely. What would he have of me?" - Daenerys VI, ASOS

All my victories turn to dross in my hands, she thought. Whatever I do, all I make is death and horror. When word of what had befallen Astapor reached the streets, as it surely would, tens of thousands of newly freed Meereenese slaves would doubtless decide to follow her when she went west, for fear of what awaited them if they stayed . . . yet it might well be that worse would await them on the march. Even if she emptied every granary in the city and left Meereen to starve, how could she feed so many?" Daenerys VI, ASOS

That proved to be a forlorn hope. The master of the Indigo Star was Qartheen, so he wept copiously when asked about Astapor. "The city bleeds. Dead men rot unburied in the streets, each pyramid is an armed camp, and the markets have neither food nor slaves for sale. And the poor children! King Cleaver's thugs have seized every highborn boy in Astapor to make new Unsullied for the trade, though it will be years before they are trained." - Daenerys VI, ASOS

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." - Daenerys VI, ASOS

Her dragons had roared as one in that moment, filling the night with flame. The slaves are rising, she knew at once. My sewer rats have gnawed off their chains.

When the last resistance had been crushed by the Unsullied and the sack had run its course, Dany entered her city. The dead were heaped so high before the broken gate that it took her freedmen near an hour to make a path for her silver. Joso's Cock and the great wooden turtle that had protected it, covered with horsehides, lay abandoned within. She rode past burned buildings and broken windows, through brick streets where the gutters were choked with the stiff and swollen dead. Cheering slaves lifted bloodstained hands to her as she went by, and called her "Mother." - Daenerys VI, ASOS

Cleon the self-styled Great was no better, however. The Butcher King had restored slavery to Astapor, the only change being that the former slaves were now the masters and the former masters were now the slaves. - Daenerys I, ADWD

"I am only a young girl and know little of the ways of war," she told Lord Ghael, "but we have heard that Astapor is starving. Let King Cleon feed his people before he leads them out to battle." She made a gesture of dismissal. Ghael withdrew. - Daenerys I, ADWD

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

Xaro took no notice of the sally. "Daenerys, let me be honest with you, as befits a friend. You will not make Meereen rich and fat and peaceful. You will only bring it to destruction, as you did Astapor. - Daenerys III, ADWD

"None. I no longer lust for dragons. I saw their work at Astapor on my way here, when my Silken Cloud put in for water." - Daenerys III, ADWD

"I will not abandon Meereen to the fate of Astapor. It grieves me to say so, but Westeros must wait." - Daenerys III, ADWD

Frog would be glad to put Astapor behind him. The Red City was the closest thing to hell he ever hoped to know. The Yunkai'i had sealed the broken gates to keep the dead and dying inside the city, but the sights that he had seen riding down those red brick streets would haunt Quentyn Martell forever. A river choked with corpses. The priestess in her torn robes, impaled upon a stake and attended by a cloud of glistening green flies. Dying men staggering through the streets, bloody and befouled. Children fighting over half-cooked puppies. The last free king of Astapor, screaming naked in the pit as he was set on by a score of starving dogs. And fires, fires everywhere. He could close his eyes and see them still: flames whirling from brick pyramids larger than any castle he had ever seen, plumes of greasy smoke coiling upward like great black snakes.

When the wind blew from the south, the air smelled of smoke even here, three miles from the city. Behind its crumbling red brick walls, Astapor was still asmolder, though by now most of the great fires had burned out. Ashes floated lazy on the breeze like fat grey snowflakes. It would be good to go. - The Windblown ADWD

Dead Cleon's fall wrote an end to that. The new Unsullied threw down their spears and shields and ran, only to find the gates of Astapor shut behind them. Frog had done his part in the slaughter that followed, riding down the frightened eunuchs with the other Windblown. Hard by the big man's hip he rode, slashing right and left as their wedge went through the Unsullied like a spearpoint. When they burst through on the other side, the Tattered Prince had wheeled them round and led them through again. It was only coming back that Frog got a good look at the faces beneath the spiked bronze caps and realized that most were no older than he. Green boys screaming for their mothers, he'd thought, but he killed them all the same. By the time he'd left the field, his sword was running red with blood and his arm was so tired he could hardly lift it. - The Windblown, ADWD

It was the Tattered Prince himself who did the speaking. "Orders have come down from Yurkhaz," he said. "What Astapori still survive have come creeping from their hidey-holes, it seems. There's nothing left in Astapor but corpses, so they're pouring out into the countryside, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, all starved and sick. The Yunkai'i don't want them near their Yellow City. We've been commanded to hunt them down and turn them, drive them back to Astapor or north to Meereen. If the dragon queen wants to take them in, she's welcome to them. Half of them have the bloody flux, and even the healthy ones are mouths to feed." - The Windblown, ADWD

"Astapor, Your Radiance," said another of the Blue Graces. "He said it, once. He said 'Astapor is burning.' " - Daenerys V, ADWD

Brown Ben Plumm was puzzled. "Who is Eroeh?"

"A girl I thought I'd saved from rape and torment. All I did was make it worse for her in the end. And all I did in Astapor was make ten thousand Eroehs." - Daenerys V, ADWD

Beneath her veils, the Green Grace sighed. "The peace that we worked so hard to forge flutters like a leaf in an autumn wind. These are dire days. Death stalks our streets, riding the pale mare from thrice-cursed Astapor. Dragons haunt the skies, feasting on the flesh of children. Hundreds are taking ship, sailing for Yunkai, for Tolos, for Qarth, for any refuge that will have them. The pyramid of Hazkar has collapsed into a smoking ruin, and many of that ancient line lie dead beneath its blackened stones. The pyramids of Uhlez and Yherizan have become the lairs of monsters, their masters homeless beggars. My people have lost all hope and turned against the gods themselves, giving over their nights to drunkenness and fornication." - The Queen's Hand, ADWD

Also you asked how the Unsullied would pay for prostitutes if they were unpaid and if Daenerys is letting freed slaves take a handful of shit and leaving the rest of an entire city to plunder herself, I have a general idea of where they may have gotten the money:

"I have a gift for you as well." She slammed the chest shut. "Three days. On the morning of the third day, send out your slaves. All of them. Every man, woman, and child shall be given a weapon, and as much food, clothing, coin, and goods as he or she can carry. These they shall be allowed to choose freely from among their masters' possessions, as payment for their years of servitude. When all the slaves have departed, you will open your gates and allow my Unsullied to enter and search your city, to make certain none remain in bondage. If you do this, Yunkai will not be burned or plundered, and none of your people shall be molested. The Wise Masters will have the peace they desire, and will have proved themselves wise indeed. What say you?" - Daenerys IV, ASOS

And some quotes about people being enslaved in Dany's territory for good measure:

His new Unsullied are an obscene jape. "King Cleon would be wise to tend his own gardens and let the Yunkai'i tend theirs." It was not that Dany harbored any love for Yunkai. She was coming to regret leaving the Yellow City untaken after defeating its army in the field. The Wise Masters had returned to slaving as soon as she moved on, and were busy raising levies, hiring sellswords, and making alliances against her.

Cleon the self-styled Great was no better, however. The Butcher King had restored slavery to Astapor, the only change being that the former slaves were now the masters and the former masters were now the slaves.- Daenerys I, ADWD

"We fought the Unsullied at Astapor," the big man said.

"I said real Unsullied. Hacking off some boy's stones with a butcher's cleaver and handing him a pointy hat don't make him Unsullied. That dragon queen's got the real item, the kind that don't break and run when you fart in their general direction." - The Windblown, ADWD

Dany not caring who is a slaver or slave and doing whatever is more beneficial for her, doesn't seem like doing what's just matters more than getting what she needs:

"Very well," Dany said. "Sellsword or slave, spare all those who will pledge me their faith. If enough of the Second Sons will join us, keep the company intact." - Daenerys IV, ASOS

Reznak would have summoned another tokar next, but Dany insisted that he call upon a freedman. Thereafter she alternated between the former masters and the former slaves. - Daenerys I, ADWD

A former slave came, to accuse a certain noble of the Zhak. The man had recently taken to wife a freedwoman who had been the noble's bedwarmer before the city fell. The noble had taken her maidenhood, used her for his pleasure, and gotten her with child. Her new husband wanted the noble gelded for the crime of rape, and he wanted a purse of gold as well, to pay him for raising the noble's bastard as his own. Dany granted him the gold, but not the gelding. "When he lay with her, your wife was his property, to do with as he would. By law, there was no rape." Her decision did not please him, she could see, but if she gelded every man who ever forced a bedslave, she would soon rule a city of eunuchs. - Daenerys I, ADWD

And finally, some quotes of Daenerys directly permitting, attempting to take advantage of, if not outright benefiting off of slavery herself (or using her anti-slavery quest as a means of acquiring people to act as slaves for her in all but name):

There is wisdom in this, yes, Dany thought, but . . . "How am I to buy a thousand slave soldiers? All I have of value is the crown the Tourmaline Brotherhood gave me." - Daenerys I, ASOS

"They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that," the slaver answered. "Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all."

"It is soldiers I need," Dany admitted. - Daenerys II, ASOS

"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." - Daenerys II, ASOS

"Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk." Rakharo helped them in, and Dany drew the curtains shut against the dust and heat. "If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids," she said as they set off. "I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to."

"This one will stay," the girl said. "This one . . . I . . . there is no place for me to go. This . . . I will serve you, gladly." - Daenerys III, ASOS

"If battle is joined, let Grey Worm show wisdom as well as valor," Dany told him. "Spare any slave who runs or throws down his weapon. The fewer slain, the more remain to join us after." - Daenerys VI, ASOS

"My queen?" Daario stepped forward. "The riverside is full of Meereenese, begging leave to be allowed to sell themselves to this Qartheen. They are thicker than the flies."

Dany was shocked. "They want to be slaves?"

"The ones who come are well spoken and gently born, sweet queen. Such slaves are prized. In the Free Cities they will be tutors, scribes, bed slaves, even healers and priests. They will sleep in soft beds, eat rich foods, and dwell in manses. Here they have lost all, and live in fear and squalor."

"I see." Perhaps it was not so shocking, if these tales of Astapor were true. Dany thought a moment. "Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman." She raised a hand. "But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife."

"In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands," Missandei told her.

"We'll do the same," Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords. "A tenth part. In gold or silver coin, or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron, cloves, or zorse hides." - Daenerys VI, ASOS

They had freed their slaves, yes … only to hire them back as servants at wages so meagre that most could scarce afford to eat. Those too old or young to be of use had been cast into the streets, along with the infirm and the crippled. And still the Great Masters gathered atop their lofty pyramids to complain of how the dragon queen had filled their noble city with hordes of unwashed beggars, thieves, and whores. - Daenerys I, ADWD

"A poor city that once was rich. A hungry city that once was fat. A bloody city that once was peaceful."

His accusations stung. There was too much truth in them. "Meereen will be rich and fat and peaceful once again, and free as well. Go to the Dothraki if you must have slaves." - Daenerys III, ADWD

"The Yunkai'i will resume slaving, as before. Astapor will be rebuilt, as a slave city. You will not interfere."

"The Yunkai'i resumed their slaving before I was two leagues from their city. Did I turn back? King Cleon begged me to join with him against them, and I turned a deaf ear to his pleas. I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? What promises do they require?" - Daenerys VI, ADWD

Meereenese seldom rode within their city walls. They preferred palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs, borne upon the shoulders of their slaves. "Horses befoul the streets," one man of Zakh had told her, "slaves do not." Dany had freed the slaves, yet palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs still choked the streets as before, and none of them floated magically through the air. - Daenerys VII, ADWD

"They are permitting that, yes," she had replied, "but their warships remain. They can close their fingers around our throat again whenever they wish. They have opened a slave market within sight of my walls!"

"Outside our walls, sweet queen. That was a condition of the peace, that Yunkai would be free to trade in slaves as before, unmolested."

"In their own city. Not where I have to see it." The Wise Masters had established their slave pens and auction block just south of the Skahazadhan, where the wide brown river flowed into Slaver's Bay. "They are mocking me to my face, making a show of how powerless I am to stop them."

"Posing and posturing," said her noble husband. "A show, as you have said. Let them have their mummery. When they are gone, we will make a fruit market of what they leave behind."

"When they are gone," Dany repeated. "And when will they be gone? Riders have been seen beyond the Skahazadhan. Dothraki scouts, Rakharo says, with a khalasar behind them. They will have captives. Men, women, and children, gifts for the slavers." Dothraki did not buy or sell, but they gave gifts and received them. "That is why the Yunkai'i have thrown up this market. They will leave here with thousands of new slaves."

Hizdahr zo Loraq shrugged. "But they will leave. That is the important part, my love. Yunkai will trade in slaves, Meereen will not, this is what we have agreed. Endure this for a little while longer, and it shall pass." - Daenerys VIII, ADWD

All of the entertainers were slaves. That had been part of the peace, that slaveowners be allowed the right to bring their chattels into Meereen without fear of having them freed. In return the Yunkai'i had promised to respect the rights and liberties of the former slaves that Dany had freed. A fair bargain, Hizdahr said, but the taste it left in the queen's mouth was foul. She drank another cup of wine to wash it out. - Daenerys VIII, ADWD

[fandomficsnstuff]

Little Dragon - Part 4

Summary: You were a child slave of Meereen, when one day a silver haired woman sets you free. Though your master isn’t too keen on letting you go, and Daenerys took personal action to see you freed and taken care of.

Daenerys Targaryen x Child!Reader

(my friend is an angel and is letting me use her laptop for today, thank god, so I’ll post as much as possible today, like a lot of fics, so that you guy have a little knaw off of:3 love you all and stay safe!!)

(Warnings: Some time jumps, but other than that I don’t think so)

High Valyrian is in cursive

It was months after Jorah’s banishment, and a lot had happened, including your birthday. Since you couldn’t remember when your birthday was, the reason being that it was never celebrated, Daenerys had asked your former master in the cells, who, after much thought if getting eaten by a dragon was worth it, told her the day you were born, which he had learned the day he bought your mother and you as an infant. At just eleven now, Daenerys had you at court with her sometimes, you had learnt quite a lot of the common tongue and history of both Westeros and Essos, and Daenerys was proud of your progress. You were standing to her right in the throne room, if you were being honest, you never really paid attention to what happened in the room, more so trying to memorise the different houses of Westeros, one of the first things Daenerys had you learn. All the houses, their words, their symbols, where they were, what they were known for. You, however, had trouble with some of them, which is what you were doing right now, in your head you tried to remember what sigil belonged to which house. But you were brought out of it by Missandei who approached you “(Y/N), it’s best that you come with me” she whispered low, making you frown and look at Daenerys, who nodded. You let Missandei escort you to the exit of the throne room, and peeking behind her, you saw burnt bones, a man weeping over them, and your eyes widened at the sight as an Unsullied took you to your room.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been hours since you had been escorted out of the throne room. You couldn’t get the small burnt skeleton out of your head, who was it? What happened? It was so small, smaller than you, was it a kid? Your thoughts however were interrupted by Daenerys, who had clearly been crying, her eyes wet and cheeks flushed, she tried to hide it, but the tear stains clearly gave it away. You were sitting on your bed when she entered your room, kneeling in front of you as she took your hands in hers, she looked lost, like she didn’t know what to say “you’re sad again” you mumbled, making her look down before back up at you “yes, Little Dragon, I am” she admitted, getting up and sitting besides you on the bed, still holding your small hands “the man, from court today… something happened… I know you saw what he was carrying” she looked down into her lap before continuing “Drogon did something bad, very bad-”

“Like Ser Jorah?” she nodded at your question, making you think “do you have to send Drogon away too?” you finally asked after much thought, but she gently shook her head “no, no (Y/N)... Drogon did something bad but no one knows where he is. I can’t control my dragons as well as I thought” she admitted to you, still looking away from you “I had to-... I had to put Rhaegal and Viserion below the pyramid” she admitted, just now looking back up at you, seeing how you were confused. “Why? They didn’t do anything” you just got more and more confused the more you tried to understand “No, but they could, one day they might” Daenerys admitted, still watching for your reaction, and seeing how you were still confused she sighed, trying to think of a way to explain it better “sometimes, when someone does something bad, and you can’t punish them, you have to make sure it doesn’t happen again” you nodded carefully, thinking it over, and trying to understand.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a year now, since Rhaegal and Viserion had been locked away, and you had turned twelve now. Daenerys had tried to see her dragons, but to no avail. She was, however, unaware that you had visited them a few times in the past year, but not much. Your studies and lessons had gotten more and more heavy, focusing on much larger themes, instead of simply learning a language or some history. Though Daenerys tried to slow your lessons down by now, she said you needed to be a child, that you should have time to do what you want without all of these lessons weighing you down, so did Ser Barristan say, who often told you stories of Westeros, what it was like, since Daenerys was busy, and with the execution of a freed slave, she barely visited you now. Missandei tried to make you understand, but it was hard to understand when you were told nothing. You spend most of your time with Missandei or your teacher now, but sometimes Ser Barristan came and told you of Westeros, he told you tales that were told in Westeros, of heroes of old, of how Rhaegar, Daenerys’ brother, was. To say you were intrigued was an understatement, you loved hearing him tell of the different knights, and now that you had learnt the common tongue much more, you could understand him without having your teacher or Missandei translate for you, at least not all of the time.

Your teacher told you that you spent too much time with your head in Westeros, when you weren’t even in Westeros. You were in Essos, not in a land with a great big wall made out of pure ice. Ser Barristan told you of the wall, of the North, and of the South. He told you how the leaves change color when the seasons change, how the Reach looks in autumn, how the North has summer snow. You couldn’t imagine snow, and now there was such a thing as summer snow. 

Ser Barristan usually came in the middle of your lessons or after. It was always after Daenerys was done in the throne room, and he no longer had to be present. He told you how he asked so often if he could see you, that at this point Daenerys knew when he was about to ask. You listened as he told you of great knights, of lords and ladies, of the different animals, islands, and even as mundane as the weather. Everything your books never mentioned, and even parts that they did mention, but you wanted to know from someone who had been there, and not read about it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been hours since your lessons ended, and Ser Barristan hadn’t come to see you today, neither had Missandei, and your teacher acted weird, but wouldn’t say anything. You were picking at your food when the door opened, you looked up and saw a Daenerys with tear stained cheeks, and when she closed the door it was like she didn’t have to hold her head high anymore, her shoulders sank and she looked down as she approached you slowly.

You sat in your chair at your table as she knelt in front of you, looking up at you “where is Ser Barristan? He said he would come see me” you frowned as you saw new tears form in her eyes “(Y/N)... Little Dragon…” she held back a sob “Ser Barristan… was attacked by the Sons of the Harpy… I’m afraid he can’t visit you anymore” she did her best to keep her voice steady, but seeing the tears in your eyes, seeing how they slowly rolled down your cheeks as realization set in. You shook your head gently as you fell from your chair into her arms, hugging her as you sobbed into her dress. Daenerys held you tight, her hand gently patting your head as she comforted you, and seeing how broken you were, a rage filled her. A rage for those who had harmed her and you alike. You were called her daughter throughout Meereen, and she took it with pride, but with that title came dangers, and now more than ever, now that Gray Worm was hurt and Ser Barristan dead, she needed to keep you safe.

[transmutationisms]

no okay the other thing that’s so fascinating about roman’s particular eating habits. and i don’t think the show is really doing this on purpose but it’s still there so whatever. is that you do see him eating fruit, specifically, and like... fairly often, relative to the other characters. it always reminds me of those cases of ‘fasting girls’ in the middle ages and early modern period because so many of those cases will report that they only/specifically ate fruit (often berries iirc?) and they’d have all these reasons. like fruit wasn’t ‘sustenance’, so their bodies were still ‘unsullied’ by food; it was insubstantial in a way that other foods weren’t; its sweetness often recategorised it and made it not ‘count’. and then some of these girls also just had their own idiosyncratic logics about it as well

like i’m not saying roman is a medieval fasting girl, lmao, but i do think it’s an interesting window into how not-eating can be slotted into so many different cultural and social narratives, and different meanings can be made from it. fasting girls typically portrayed themselves as transcending the body (by destroying it... naturally) but also as, like, victims of their own lack of appetite. often that lack was construed as being a gift or curse from god, hence the phrase “anorexia mirabilis” (miraculous lack of appetite)

and then like, fasting girls weren’t quite the same as, eg, a catholic saint like augustine, who didn’t eat (or drink water, which some fasting girls did and others didn’t) specifically because he sought a higher spiritual pleasure than the simple bodily enjoyment of sating his hunger. he wasn’t seeking pain, per se, but he did feel that physical pleasure was at best a distraction from his worship, and at worst a self-indulgent perversion of his spiritual nature. and then augustine, in turn, wasn’t quite the same as the protestant self-denialist dietary reformers of, eg, 19th-21st century america, who often did/do seek suffering for its own sake in a very pointed way** 

and then there are others still: for example, hunger artists who starved themselves as a public art form. in kafka’s short story, the hunger artist does experience hunger and pain and misery, but also can’t find a food he likes. he’s ultimately replaced by a panther who “wants for nothing”—that is, the not-eating is relocated to a discourse of desiring. or, simone weil ‘feeding on light’ rather than food, which obviously draws from stuff like augustine but is configured with a distinct philosophical understanding of god. or even, like, chris kraus’s “aliens & anorexia” which draws from weil but is a very different attempt to speak and recreate the language of not-eating (& also ties it to sex and love and aliens... actually i think romangirls [gn] should read that book)

and then all of these are distinct from our current dsm reading of not-eating, which toggles between 1) it’s a Brain Sickness that needs a medical cure or 2) it’s an act of free will in pursuit of [control/beauty/love/etc]. and this can be traced to maudsley’s case studies, but also to the early 19th century psychiatrists (aliénistes) who laid a lot of the modern groundwork re: the stomach-brain connection, the use of force-feeding to treat various illnesses, etc

anyway like. no two people who don’t-eat are going to experience that the exact same way, but there are still these sorts of families of experiences. archetypal narratives i guess. and i do get a kick out of the thought that roman’s experience of not-eating is, at least cosmetically, a little medieval. though in his case, obviously he also has a lot of psychosexual baggage (“i eat you, you eat me”) and like a million other things going on lol

**max weber kind of sucks and this divide is more complicated and historically contingent than just catholic vs protestant but whatever

[kylandara]

After so long: Time to start resharing interesting Quora reads

Please pay attention to the tags! Please!

What are some of the most clear instances that show Daenerys is not meant to rule?

By Eduardo Sánchez

——-

I’ll just leave it at the fact she left Daario Naharis, a fucking sellsword… at the hands of Meereen and Dragon’s Bay or however she named it afterwards.

When I watched that scene the first time, I was cheering and pissing my trousers off thanks to the emotion I felt when watching her triumph.

Then, I said: “What the hell?”.

Her dragons literally escape their prison in the most convenient moment.

It made literally 0 sense whatsoever.

They escaped just when she was about to burn an entire fleet down.

How did they hear her? Why hadn’t they escaped before?

She makes a whole mess and then leaves the people to suffer the consequences.

Daario is going to be horrible at ruling, since he’s nowhere near fitted to manage his own love life or loyalties, least of all an entire city-state.

She literally conquered the entire place because she wanted to.

She acted like an utter brat.

What’s different between her and Cersei or Joffrey?

Sure, she wanted to make their lives better, but that’s the thing, she utterly failed at it and then escaped because she had a bigger destiny awaiting for her.

She just caused an entire upheaval and power shift, to then leave the city because she wanted to bring the same onto Westeros.

What the fuck?

She’s no different than Cersei.

She’s entitled, cruel, kind of sadistic and hypocritical.

She, much like the mother of madness, has no agenda nor any sort of plan of what she’ll do once she gets the throne.

She wants power, but doesn’t know what to do with it once she’s gained it.

She wants to break the wheel, sure. But how? How will she do that?

What will she do with the children she leaves orphaned?

What will she do with the castles that are left emptied by her hand? Would she give them to her own men? That’s not breaking the wheel, that’s promising the people she’ll change things only to keep perpetuating the cycle.

Also, if she truly wanted to break the wheel, she wouldn’t even be pursuing the throne in the first place, since that’s literally the highest place on said system and the thing everybody wants.

She’s a downright liar, she says she wants to end feudalism while keeping the monarchy in place…

Same thing with her Unsullied.

They’re used to following people, they were conditioned and tortured into it.

They have forgotten what freedom was.

She sort of tells them they’re free to leave and none of them do because the story requires it that way.

It would have been utterly interesting to see three quarters of them storm off and see if she keeps her word after all, once her army abandons her and she has nothing else to win her the power she craves as a way to fulfill her emotional void.

——-

I’d say the one that always strikes me the most is expecting conditioned people to be able to understand freedom when it was beaten out of them...

Anywqys hope you enjoyed!