#Gerry has no thoughts in their head at any given moment

[t3a-gh0st]

Here have some Gerry doodles

[scarletttries]

Roman Roy x Age-Gap! Reader Headcanons:

Pairing: Roman Roy (Succession) x Reader

Word Count: 2k (warning: mention of Logany child abuse)

Author’s Note: Oh Roman Roy, you're really making me fall in love with your sad little face and your slightly softening heart this season. Thank you for this request, please enjoy these thoughts about Roman Roy with a younger, but still very much legal adult, reader. Also please fill my inbox with Kendall and Roman requests because I am thinking about little else! 😊

Update! Part two here 😀

- Roman Roy has always felt simultaneously like he's never really grown up, and that he was never allowed to be a child. Growing up as the youngest son of Logan Roy he wasn't allowed the chance to make the silly mistakes of childhood folly. Logan had been through that before and frankly he needed Roman to be a serious adult from the moment he could comprehend his father's disapproving glare. Naturally this was an impossible ask of a small, sensitive boy, and led to blows to back of the head when tears threatened to stain the silk shirt he'd been so uncomfortably forced into for another endless press event where he stood like a prop, just desperate not to get in any more trouble or let his dad down worse than he already had.

- As Roman entered adulthood he began to be left out of all the rooms where serious people met and talked about things he could never quite get right; he's wasn't self-interested enough, he didn't have those killer instincts, he couldn't rid his head of the thoughts of how many people would be affected by the company's every move. As Logan and Kendall started to tire of his quippy comments, relegating him to waiting outside for busy work, he could feel himself struggling to meet the thresholds of adulthood that Ken seemed to have carried with him for as long as Roman could remember. This dichotomy of boy and man left Roman feeling like he was never quite comfortable with his age, unsure what lense to see that number through. And then he met you.

- Getting a job at Waystar may have left you feeling a little morally uncomfortable, but you reminded yourself that ten years experience there and you'd be able to get any job in any industry you like, while also being able to pay for your own place. So you pushed that feeling down each day as you entered that office full of rich old white men. Given you'd actually had to earn your place there, rather than just knowing someone, it wasn't long until your work ethic, intelligence and ingenuity had you climbing the corporate ladder in your department and getting you noticed by some of the much higher-ups. Naturally they tried to just take credit for your work, but when the day came that Logan actually asked for an explanation of a report you'd produced, Frank had no choice but to put you in a room with the big boss face-to-face.

- You'd heard nothing but bad things about Logan Roy and as he stared at you in pure contempt while you answered his questions, wondering why his time was being wasted with this young thing from the bullpen, it took all your resolve to hold your nerve, giving short answers and trying not to give him anything to hold over you. Every so often you'd let your eyes flick over his shoulder to the man standing behind him, ten years older than you but pulling at the sleeves of his shirt like a little kid as he watched you face the interrogation, outwardly seeming far more nervous about the situation than you did. After fifteen minutes of watching you hold your head high and speak so confidently about your work, Roman was staring at you unashamedly in a mix of awe, intrigue and disbelief. Despite the age gap you seemed to have all the facets of a self-assured adult that he felt he'd never quite unlocked, while exuding the joyful exuberance of youth he'd never been allowed. He needed to know more about you, so when Logan shouted at Gerri to 'throw you in a dress and bring to this week's investor mixers' he could feel his heart pounding in his chest at the sheer hope and possibility of the answers you might hold.

- You weren't thrilled to spend your evenings surrounded by colleagues, stood to attention in case anyone needed a question answering, but you didn't hate the full railing of designer evening wear that had been sent to your apartment for the occasion. You found yourself trying to blend into the shadows of a corner, unsure of your place in this room and this crowd, wondering if any of the food on display was actually for eating, or if that would be seen as a massive faux pas. Luckily Roman had been keeping an interested eye on you all evening; who you'd spoken to, what you'd been dressed in, the frankly adorable face you'd pulled when Frank handed you a Whiskey twice your age and you took a very unwilling sip, feigning appreciation before slinking away to stick your tongue out at the burning taste. And finally he built up the nerve to approach you now that you were alone, trying to approach casually by picking up a grape from the ornate platter beside you, only to take a bite, realise it was plastic and having to hand it mortified to a waiter that had watched the whole thing from your side. He could feel the blood burning in his cheeks as he watched you try and stifle a laugh, both mortified that you already knew he was a fool and pleased that he'd been able to bring a smile to your face this evening.

"Yeah yeah fuck you." He laughed as he stopped just in front of you, all the words he'd planned to share failing him now that he was close enough to see the beauty in your sincere smile as you shook your head,

"Really I should thank you, now I'm one step closer to figuring out what's actually edible here." You replied with a warmth that almost made Roman recoil, so used to the icy chill he usually received from those around him.

"Well certainly not that whiskey." He nodded to the short crystal glass you'd been trying to put down since Frank handed it to you, tone sarcastic but without the cutting edge he was usually one to deliver. "Why is that the one thing these old fucks actually like to be their own age?" As you laughed again Roman felt a little victorious, he had set himself a pretty low bar but he was confident he was going to be the highlight of your evening.

- As you spent the next week being dragged to different events, you'd always find Roman slinking to your side before the night was through, as if you'd always been old friends, just counting down the hours of everyone else's company. You'd counter his one-liners and then ask him where he'd rather be on a Friday night and make him realise he didn't really know any other kind of night. So when you'd list off your weekend plans, and hobbies and interests, and tell him stories about your friends that had his hyena laugh echoing across the otherwise solemn room, he'd start to realise just how much he was missing out on, and how much he wanted to explore that with you as his guide.

- It stopped being enough, just finding you on odd evenings. Roman would start finding your desk at Waystar, pretending to just be wandering through a junior office coincidentally. He'd glance at his wrist, ignoring the fact he'd forgotten to put on a watch this morning, and comment that as 'technically kind of your boss' he needed to make sure his best employees were actually taking a lunch break, and also were you hungry? Sometimes during the day he'd just melt onto the floor beside your desk, chatting about nothing as you tried your best to type and pay him the attention he so desperately craved. He'd start having all of his meetings in the rooms on your floor so he could wave at you as he walked past the huge glass windows keeping your team contained, an apt metaphor for the walls up inside him he was worried you'd never cross.

- Poor insecure Roman, he'd really try and force himself to ask you out, but ultimately he'd be so afraid of the potential backlash of rejection, that it would be up to you to finally ask if he wanted to grab a drink after work, one Friday when he'd been particularly clingy. You'd take him to a fun, casual bar and watch his eye's light up at people playing darts or ordering fried food and generally the nice, relaxed atmosphere where he didn't feel he had to be the smartest person in the room. Occasionally a friend of yours would walk in a wave and ask how you were doing, and you'd introduce Roman as your friend with no shame or regret and he'd say something funny and get the same rush of pride at making you laugh that he did the first time, and he'd feel like maybe the more time he spent getting to know you, the better he could see himself, still young at heart but not the kid he once was. His lost childhood and misspent youth given a second chance as you offered to see him again next weekend.

- Once you open the affectionate floodgates Roman would be the clingiest koala you can imagine. He'd rarely be as direct as holding your hand, especially not in public, conscious of looking just like his father with a younger woman on his arm. But in the privacy of your little apartment, the one Roman fell in love with the moment he saw it, he'd take a slightly threadbare throw and toss it over the both of you as he all but crumbled into your lap when he wanted to talk about something he thought would make you run. Opening up about his father's wrath and his warped view of himself, glancing up periodically to check you hadn't ran away and left him behind, finding softness in your eyes instead of disappointment and sinking even more deeply into you.

- Roman would think you are an absolute fucking genius for everything you've done for yourself. Worked hard to be the best at your job? Genius. Manage your own bills and do your own laundry? Genius. Carry a water bottle around and make him drink some when he has a headache and somehow he feels better than he has in years? Genius.

- Roman would follow you to hell and back, but you'll have to forcibly remove him from your apartment when you want to go outside. He's never been somewhere that actually felt like home, every soft furnishing and mismatched bowl making him want to haunt your halls forever. If you ever make him a home cooked meal, he'll act like it's not a big deal, but honestly he's crying inside that anyone would go through the effort for him, and that he was the person they chose to be around. Cut to him going thrifting with you to buy five new dishes for you to cook in next time, plus anything else you like.

- Occasionally you'll successfully get him outside for a hike, or a walk, or even a day at a museum or arcade; and Roman will go full toddler on you. Pointing at everything excitedly, running around and shrieking, making sure he was your undivided attention and dragging you by the hand to look at everything. By the time you're home you're ready to collapse, only to notice Roman surreptitiously placing a little souvenir somewhere on your shelf, sneakily bought from a gift shop while you were in the bathroom, before pretending he has no idea how it got there.

- Roman is so enraptured by the incredible, rounded human-being that you are, that eventually some of your self-belief would start to rub off on him, making him feel more sure of himself than he ever has before. Thinking less about the approval of others (except you, he still desperately wants that), feeling confident in his ideas, and no longer feeling like he's stuck in Peter Pan mode - despite falling for someone ten years his junior, Roman would finally feel like he was becoming the man he was always supposed to be, thanks to you.

Let me know if you want a part two of this!

[brookheimer]

i honestly can’t believe (i sorta can but also don’t?) that gerri is leaving waystar royco. like she fought so so hard and kinda enjoyed being interim-CEO? was roman truly the last straw or are we missing something? i know this is her divorce revenge dress era but i believe gerri could survive so much more

no i feel you honestly — i mean, gerri was waystar royco and vice versa. it’s hard to imagine waystar without her or her without waystar. but i think that’s kinda the point in some ways. i mean, i’m not sure how permanent the decision to leave is going to be given this is the They’re Doing The Thing They Said They Weren’t Going To Do?! show but i wouldn’t be surprised or upset if it is final. i actually kind of like it, maybe. you are completely right that gerri could survive so much more, and honestly, i think that has been her mindset for years — i can survive this, i can survive far worse than this. that’s a big part of why she’s stayed even during these horrific past few months, i think: she knows she can deal, she knows she can weather it, she knows she can survive it. but… just because you can survive something doesn’t mean you have to.

i think that’s what roman’s firing shifted for gerri — it wasn’t that this particular action of his was beyond the pale and she just couldn’t deal with it any longer, but that gerri was suddenly faced with a waystar-less future for the first time in decades and she realized…. holy fuck, why AM i still here? why DO i put up with this? am i staying just to prove that i’m capable of staying, and if so, how does that benefit me at all? is it a sunk cost fallacy thing, and if so, isn’t it called a fallacy for a reason? what am i actually getting out of this? how does this serve my interests?

at least that’s my read — it’s not just that the firing was the straw that broke the camel’s back, but also served as a lightbulb moment that made gerri realize that just because she CAN weather it doesn’t mean she SHOULD. it was a reality check on a multitude of fronts — if after all this time she still held out some hope for a business partnership with roman, for the potential she knows was there to unearth itself once more, then the firing functioned as a rude awakening, making her realize what logan did long ago: these are not serious people. and even more importantly, it forced her to think about a life outside of waystar, something i assume she genuinely has not thought about in… i don’t even know, 30 years? waystar was an immovable aspect of her identity until suddenly it wasn’t, and being forced to look out into a waystar-less future made her realize “wait, why the fuck AM i putting up with this?” logan is gone. the company is spiraling downwards. it’s crisis after crisis. no one respects or listens to her. waystar is headed towards fascism and ruin and humiliation. meanwhile…. she could make millions upon millions, do whatever the fuck she wanted (if she wanted to keep working, she could get hired quite literally anywhere with her record), control her own narrative and go out with a bang, and on top of all that, not be tied to a sinking ship steered by a captain who psychosexually loves/hates/misses/avoids her and makes her life hell. she realized roman would never be the person she wanted him to be, but even more than that, why did it matter to her in the first place? everything that kept her at waystar is going going gone. she does not need waystar. waystar needs her.

so the question isn’t really “couldn’t she survive this?” in my opinion — it’s “why would she?” how does it serve her interests? and…. well, it doesn’t. staying at waystar after realizing that would be breaking the number one rule of being gerri kellman: only do what serves your interests. and now that waystar and her interests no longer align, what would she stay for, sentimentality? no. fuck that. she’s going to buy an island and become ceo of some other news conglomerate and drink her martinis in fucking peace because gerri does what’s best for her and god knows that isn’t waystar anymore — and, frankly, it hasn’t been for a long time. she was just so busy surviving, so GOOD at surviving, that maybe she forgot she didn’t need to.

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

succession finale thoughts!

romangerri:

i don’t know if any tv show has ever given me as much of a stomachache as this episode, oooooooooof!!! the STRESS. (but honestly, the stomachache was 100% just suspense over whether gerri and roman would ever interact again. everything else, i was very zen about.)

gerri in the video radiantly reciting a dirty limerick like a roman daydream come true and roman watching her fondly!!!!! ugh!!!!! that was so schmoopy, especially for this show!!! he still loves her (not that that’s news)!!!!! and him panicking and losing it at the very sight of her and really feeling the crushing weight of his potential that she so believed in because she could have got him there!!!!!!!!!!! she also gave him a couple little not-hateful looks that might have even been sort of nice or concerned or at least ... okay, and i will cling to those for the rest of my life. but i’m so, so sad we never got to see them talk to each other again. OOF.

i have the most hope for roman just because he wound up self-aware enough to see the reality of the situation. jesse armstrong might think you’ll be a sad guy in a bar forever, but to me, there is nowhere for you to go but up, bb. and into the arms of your woman.

i hate the idea of gerri sticking with the company with tom as the ceo just because her disdain for tom was so strong; putting up with logan was one thing, putting up with roman was another even, but TOM????? tom, getting his melancholy everywhere?? however, i think it’s probably too idealistic of me to suggest that she’d turn it down for that reason. but also, maybe she would? isn’t she tired of idiot men yet??? doesn’t she want to go to the g.d. south of france already???? like, the contrast of the old camaraderie in the video of the party with logan with, like, the stupid dudebro tech culture of mattson ... ugh, i just don’t want gerri to be up in that mess! i want her to reject tom! and stand in solidarity with karl & frank! GIRL, IT’S TIME TO RETIRE!!!!!!! in any case: gerri being un-fireable remains hilarious.

gerri not really having any lines in the actual events of the ep = thumbs down forever. NOPE!

however.

roman martini-pining for gerri as his very last act onscreen.

dear GOD.

AAAAAAAH.

though i’m sure the intention of canon is for their relationship to be over forever, it was so wobbly in its over-ness that i’m pretty pleased. i do think it’s in a place where it can be very patched up in fanfic in a way that’s still canon-compliant. hell, she might roll up to that very bar and order another martini and keep him company and be like, “uh, babe, why is that cut on your forehead burst open???”! anything goes! forever! whoohoo, ao3!

i’m so relieved this is over!!!!!!!!!!

THEIR SCENE AT THE FUNERAL WAS INDEED THEIR LAST EVER SCENE AND IT GOT CUT, CLEARLY FOR MAXIMUM PAIN AND ESTRANGEMENT REASONS, AND I’M JUST GONNA HAVE TO LIVE WITH THAT FOREVERMORE. jesus. will some rebellious intern just edit it back into the episode for me?

in my head they will make up tho. 💗 let the era of fix-it fics begin!

other stuff:

the sibling moments!!!!!! the rollercoaster!!!!! it’s funny how when they were getting along, i believed as much as they did that they HAD IT! and then watching them fall back into the old patterns ... it was that thing this show does best, condensed into one episode of agony. amazing acting, amazing chemistry!

ken starting to get physically abusive toward roman with the crushing hug and then smooshing his face!!!!! when before he stuck up for roman against their father’s abuse. jesus christ. :(

the contrast between the scene in the kitchen and the scene in the conference room ............... OOF!

tom and greg having their little bitchy slap fight in the bathroom, lol. tom putting his little sticker on greg’s forehead, lol.

tom really did marry up! jeez.

conwilla: the not-long-distance era, because democracy shall prevail

even beyond the flawless beauty of limerick gerri (obviously the highlight forever <3), that whole video and the kids watching it?? the emotions!!!!!!

KENDALL IS THE OLDEST BOY!!!!!!!

this episode made me feel So Bad.

roman and gerri need a spinoff where they are just cute and silly. someone please get this happening for me.

[murdererofthumbs]

So today’s episode was a wild emotional rollercoaster for Roman girlies. I honestly think that in order for me to comprehend every episode I need to watch it twice, because first watch is always an over-anxious mess, when I just want to find out what happens, and then I can actually start thinking properly when stress levels are down to normal.

But I do have some thoughts based on both the episode and what people have been saying so far:

1) First, I knew since previous episode that although Kendall was full of shit when he said he will include Shiv in everything, Roman was absolutely serious about that. And he proved it! Literally tried to run every decision by her (and that makes me so happy, because he just wants his siblings to be together and work together and be a fucking family). But on the other hand… We are all aware that Shiv will not take that under consideration, right? As far as she is aware, her brothers fucked her over with their CEO-COO positions and that is enough for her to get vindictive and look for blood. So even though I’m happy that Roman remained true to his word, I also think that Shiv will stab him in the back anyway. Because she IS the most similar to Logan (don’t come at me, I love Shiv, but these are just the facts - if push comes to shove she will leak the whole Gerri-Roman dick incident and bury her brother if it means asserting her position).

2) I think it’s becoming more and more clear that Roman is heading towards some pretty dark place (I don’t think he will be able to hold his delusions for much longer, he is falling apart at the seams and there doesn’t seem to be anything that could fill out the gaping holes inside of him). The fact that each episode of Succession is supposed to be, what, one-two days (it has to be two days in this episode at least), means that since Logan’s death none of them had any breather from the grief and pain that this loss has caused them. But unlike Kendall and Shiv who both in their own ways acknowledged Logan’s passing and made semi (and I mean very semi)-peace with it, Roman is not even near that stage. He is still very much glorifying his dad (that trauma bond is holding very strong in there), and I feel like he might also not be sleeping. You know, sleep? The time when your subconscious mind roams free and brings all your possibly repressed thoughts on the forefront of your mind? Yeah, my bet is on pretty strong sleep deprivation here. Add some extremely palpable anxiety and trying to keep everything together and you have a nice ticking bomb ready to implode at any given moment (and he kinda did implode there with Matsson but it was still very much coated in delusions and projections of his own guilt).

Also - the pills. I know some girlies last week were like “oh guys chill, it’s just advil”, but having them flashed two episodes in the row? Nah, Succession writers don’t seem like the type to provide insignificant shots, and in combination with his nervous exterior, Roman taking some sort of pills makes perfect sense. I don’t know where this will lead to, but I’m trying not to be overwhelmed by negative thoughts (you guys really need to stop with Roman-suicide predictions, just…don’t).

3) Last thing is that as far as we are aware, Roman still doesn’t know that Kendall was the one behind leaking negative stuff about Logan to the media. I feel like they didn’t even get to the good (bad) stuff yet. And can you imagine what will happen then, considering how fucking unstable Roman was in this episode (without all that bullshit adding to his mental state)? Yeah, I don’t wang to imagine, but it will be really fucking bad. My prediction and that might be a stretch, but for some reason I feel like it will all culminate during Logan’s funeral (which I assume will be one of the episodes, considering Connor’s phone call and him sending Roman pics of their dead dad (!!!)). Both the shit about Logan and Roman’s downfall will probably come crushing down at the most difficult moment, where he will actually have to acknowledge that Logan is not only dead, but also very much a piece of shit and abuser.

Anywho, this show is a slaughterhouse and I both love it (derogatory) and hate it (affectionate).

[norahastuff]

So I guess the overarching message from finale is that you really can’t make a Tomlette without breaking any Gregs? Oh and Stewy kisses boys when he’s on molly. Quality content! Every moment of that episode was so damn good. Shiv, after all her efforts, ending up in a broken marriage playing second fiddle to a man she has always seen as beneath her. And Kendall, oh, Kendall. It was always going to end for him at a board meeting, wasn’t it?

And then there’s Roman. I’m so fascinated by his ending. He started the show walking into a conference room, calling the company a cage and proclaiming that it was all bullshit. And yet, he craved Logan’s love and approval so badly, he walked straight into the cage, even though he knew it would never be enough. Logan would never choose him. No matter how badly Logan hurt him, he’d never stop wanting his love. He’d take whatever pain Logan heaped on him and still come back for more. And Kendall knew that too. God, remember how angry Kendall got when Logan hit Roman and knocked his tooth out? Kendall was basically a zombie doing his father’s bidding at that point in season 2, but the second Logan raised a hand to Roman, he leapt up and started yelling at Logan to not fucking touch him. It was so fast you knew it was instinct, something he’d experienced a million times before.

Then in the finale when Kendall sees Roman fall to pieces at the idea of seeing Gerri, he knows exactly how to get him to fall in line. He hugs him, he uses the embrace to force Roman head into his shoulder to tear his stitches out. Abuse and pain, it’s all tangled up for Roman and Kendall knows that. Jesus, that fucking scene. Kendall had never raised a hand to Roman, always been furious about his father’s abuse, but he’s channeling Logan here, and what would Logan do? He would make Roman bleed.

And it works, of course it does. Roman can’t help it. He’d spent his whole life prostrating himself at the feet of his father, and now he’s given himself over to his successor. He’s stuck in the cage forever. But then Shiv tears it down. Kendall’s not Logan. None of them will ever be Logan. They’re bullshit, Roman realises. All of this is bullshit. They’re not serious people.

The final shots of Shiv and Kendall are so goddamn tragic, but not Roman. He sits at a bar, and he smiles. There’s no more cage. He’s freer than he’s ever been. I’d be inclined to believe he’s forgetting everything he’s tried to do over the past few seasons, and go back to being the same guy he was in the pilot if it wasn’t for one thing: he orders a martini.

Roman may say he’s bullshit, that his father, his siblings never saw him as anything more than a worthless idiot, but you know who did? You know who was the one person who genuinely believed in him, who took him seriously, and thought he was good enough to win the whole damn thing?

Gerri was always there for him. She was all in as his partner and was willing to be there with him till the end. And then he fucked it. God he fucked it so badly, but even at the end she still tells him “I could have gotten you there.” She still saw something real in him. 

So, his father, his God is dead. Waystar’s dead. Roman’s officially done. Who knows where the fuck he goes from here, but something he’s taking with him is Gerri, and all they went through. This time he goes forward knowing that there is someone out there who saw him, saw all of him, knew exactly who he was, and still thought he was worth something anyway. So he goes to a bar, orders Gerri’s favourite drink and smiles. Rockstar and mole woman. He’ll always have that.

Fuck, I love this show. I already miss it so much.

[transmutationisms]

i am interested to hear your thoughts on whether roman can piss in front of other men if we’re not taking into consideration piss motif

YEAH so as much as i'm tickled by the concept of roman simply refusing to use a urinal if someone else is in the bathroom, i don't think this is actually true. i think on a literal level he is capable of pissing in front of other men. he may very well prefer not to, but i think physiologically he Can do it.

however. i also think that when he told matsson that he couldn't, he was saying something true---in the sense that, in that particular situation, he simply could not piss. obviously in that sequence, roman proposes pissing on the phone as a show of domination, and matsson takes up the idea happily. but roman is like kendall in that dominance isn't his natural language. so i think he's in a situation where 1) if he did piss on the phone, he'd only be 'owning' himself, and 2) he's actually incapable of releasing urine at that moment because doing so really wouldn't be Just Taking A Piss, it would be speaking logan's language Via Piss.

in my head this is actually closely related to "it's just a tooth, i'll get another one." i think what's being conveyed in both of these lines is the way roman thinks of his body as a tool. he can't accept comfort after logan slaps his tooth out, and his only response is that it's replaceable. similarly, pissing with matsson wouldn't just be pissing, and this is what makes roman unable to do it. he's incapable of seeing these actions through any eyes other than logan's. so accepting kendall's and shiv's concern at argestes would mean admitting weakness, and so would joining in on matsson's piss party. it's not the actions in themselves that he has issues with---it's the fact that whenever his body or bodily fluids are involved, the actions take on layers of meaning for roman's ongoing efforts to negotiate power and masculinity in ways that logan will approve of.

it did occur to me to wonder whether the thing with matsson was specifically about roman being self-conscious about his cock. but given that i read gerri as a father figure, i don't think this is the case. i'm not saying roman will just whip his cock out anywhere, but like.... i don't think he has any problem displaying it if it's strategic and he can gain some sort of advantage (or simple gratification) from doing so.

so yeah, the matsson line is fascinating to me. i don't think it's true in its most strictly literal reading, but i do buy the idea that roman is unable to piss with matsson because he's unable to Be logan in the way that pissing would imply in that moment. he's backed himself into a corner, and his body is already something he often perceives as threatening his personhood. it's the site of so much of his weakness, because it's through the body that weakness is often articulated for roman (losing a tooth, bedwetting, etc). so i think it's true that he actually can't piss with matsson, but in true roman fashion he gives an explanation that demands a close-read: in this case, what exactly is meant by "can't" and "men."

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 25/40

Part 24

CW for -Thoughts of mortality (the End domain) -Verbal abuse and guilt tripping of one Timothy Stoker

"Wait. The house?" She asks, and Jon blinks back at her a little owlishly.

"Our- well, not ours I suppose, it's Daisy's. But I don't think she's in any state to ask for it, and Gerry's garden is-"

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Why does Martin live with you and your boyfriend?"

"Uhm-" Jon's skin is dark enough that it's always a bit hard to tell when he's blushing, but Sasha knows him, and her suspicions are only confirmed when Helen chuckles behind him.

"I think that story will need a few more stops to tell, but it's pretty amusing if you ask me."

XXV

The Eye is not dissatisfied.

How could it be, with the world remade in its image, able to witness the terror of every sentient being trapped in a taylor-made nightmare, fed a steady influx of the victim's horrified thoughts through the Pupil's gaze, and even more substantious recollections of fear through its beloved Archive.

No, the Watcher is not dissatisfied. It is far too large for such menial emotion.

It does not at all resent how the Web has such a strong thrall on its Archive, or the fact that it can't risk burning it away even with all its power, because it's currently the only thing spurring the Archive towards its rightful place.

It does not, of course, resent the figments of Stranger and Spiral that drag stubbornly after its Archive, halting its process, delaying the assimilation, or how its Archive seems to relish these interruptions in its pilgrimage.

It is certainly puzzling, the Archive's reluctance. What else could it want, if it's so close to achieving its full potential?

Truly, out of all the Servatoris that the Eye has had over the course of millenia, the Archive that used to be Jonathan Sims is by far the most vexing one. For all that it's given in to its true nature, absorbing knowledge everywhere it goes with no purpose other than to know , it still clings to its humanity with a zealous fervour that not even Gertrude Robinson, so desperate to not become a monster, possessed.

And for the first time in centuries, ever since a young avatar started toying with the idea of a ritual to join all rituals under his patron's inevitable gaze, the Watcher feels the inklings of the familiar, dangerous impulse that birthed it in the hearts of all creatures millions of years ago.

Curiosity.

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

It's weird being like this, Sasha thinks as she looks down at her reflection on a foul smelling oil puddle.

This time she's a bit shorter, with wavy reddish hair and light brown skin dotted with freckles here and there, and bright hazel eyes that look back inquisitively.

Is this how she looked before? Was this her face?

"Did you meet me? Before I changed, I mean," she asks out loud. There's no one in sight at the moment, but it's not like Jon will think she's ridiculous for talking to herself, not when he's doing the zombie tour back to his creepy tower.

"It wouldn't really matter, would it?" Helen's voice comes through the bright yellow door of a broken down barn. "Do you remember me?"

"Not really. But I don't- there's a lot of things that are blurry. I don't know which memory comes from which life." Sasha sighs. "I'm so stupid."

Helen tilts- no, she rotates her head to the side. Sasha shrugs.

"It's not like I didn't know the sort of things that were in Artifact Storage, you know? Part of- I always knew these things were real, at least a little. But I still went in there."

"I feel like I can't give you too much flack about going into places where you shouldn't." Helen shrugs.

"I don't know that I can blame you either, Michael was very convincing," Sasha chuckles to herself. "Should we give him a break?  Maybe if we try sitting with him she'll have a harder time breaking us apart from him?"

Helen's smile is the mischievous, malevolent gesture she remembers from her predecessor. "If it'll bother the spider."

Jon comes to slowly, when Sasha wraps her arms around his torso. He slows down first, his eyes still bright green and focused on the tower, before Helen layers a large hand on his head, and he turns his face to look at her.

"Who- oh. Sasha?" He asks.

"That's me. Wanna sit down?" She smiles fondly at his relieved expression. It's- whoever she is, she's someone who brings comfort, who brings safety.

"Yes, that- thank you, both of you. That would be good," he says, blinking hard as they pull him down to the ground. He folds like a piece of paper, wrapping his arms around his knees; Sasha sits sideways on his feet, and hooks an arm behind his calf before grabbing her own wrist with her other hand. This should work at keeping them linked for a bit.

"That was faster than before," Helen comments. Her knees bend at three or four places as she sits down next to them, and it makes Sasha feel a little dizzy, so she looks away.

"I could sort of hear your conversation." Jon's voice is thick and raspy, like he's nursing a hangover. He blinks once more, before aiming a serious look at her with determination burning in his dark eyes. "What happened wasn't your fault, Sasha."

She doesn't really answer that. Maybe one day she'll forgive herself for falling first, for not being there -would she have made any difference?-, but the hurt is still a bit too fresh. Instead, she leans on her side to rest her cheek on Jon's knees.

"Talk to me." She can feel her arm trying to snake away from under him, and she clamps down even more stubbornly on her wrist. They'll have this, goddammit, they deserve it.

"What do you want to know?" He asks quietly.

"Everything," Sasha responds. Off to their side, Helen chuckles. "What?"

"Very on-brand," says the Distortion. Like Michael before her, it feels like Helen is reacting to the punchline of a joke that hasn't even been set-up yet, and Sasha finds it very frustrating.

"Fine, then." She rolls her eyes. "You've told me about the fourteen. About Elias and Gertrude," she lists off, like she doesn't know exactly what she wants to ask about. "About Leitner. We haven't talked about the elephant in the room, but I figure explaining how you came to be the apocalyptic MVP would take far longer than we-"

"Sasha," Jon interjects quietly and almost politely, and Sasha deflates like a balloon.

"Well? Will you tell me?" She asks, moving to sit on Jon's feet again as she's almost slid completely off.

Jon's hand comes to wrap around her wrist and gives it a sympathetic squeeze.

"We- it was mostly my fault," he begins. It's a starter he uses often, Sasha has noticed. "When you- I was- I pushed him away. Him and Martin, but I think it hurt him the most, you know? Martin was probably used to it by then," he adds bitterly.

Sasha nods, the scratch of the rough denim of Jon's jeans a welcome distraction from the thoughts beginning to swirl in her head. Of course it hurt him; he always did put too much faith in the people he loved.

"It was too late by the time I realised the truth. We- did he tell you about-"

"Danny?" She whispers. "Not all of it. Just that he... went missing. That he was looking for him."

Above her, Jon nods slowly.

"It was him," Jon says. His voice is almost defiant as he declares it, almost proud. "The Watcher likes to think it was me who stopped the Unknowing, that it was the reason the Stranger didn't succeed. But it was all Tim."

Something inside her rears up its ugly head at his declaration, angry and spiteful and filling her mind with thoughts of fire and pain and melted wax.

"You... blew it up. The whole place," she says. The memory feels as foreign as remembering her mother's voice, and it comes with the empty sadness of knowing nothing is truly hers anymore.

Jon nods again. "We both- we died there. Or we should have but we both..."

"Chose to come back," Helen says pointedly, and Jon merely sighs as she brings her hand up to wrap it around his shoulders again.

"Why did you?" Sasha asks. It's a bit morbid maybe, but...

"I was afraid of dying," Jon responds in a voice almost too low to be heard. "I couldn't- I didn't want to die without-"

"I don't think you have to apologise for wanting to survive," Sasha says in what she hopes is a soothing voice.

"Sasha, I knew what I would become. I knew, and I still chose-"

"Jon, you're human," is all Sasha says, but it's pretty effective at stopping Jon on his tracks.

He snorts, and he only sounds the slightest bit hysterical. "No I'm not. We're not, I don't think."

"Why do you think Tim chose to come back?"

"To...kill me, probably?" Jon smiles fondly. "He would have, if Gerry hadn't been there I think."

Sasha blinks. "Who's this Gerry person? You've been mentioning them, but I don't think I ever knew them. Any of me," she adds, combing through all of her memories for the name.

"I- uh. You didn't- or you did, but not- not in person." Jon starts squirming away from her, but moves back a moment after realising the pull. "He's Gerard Keay, remember the statements he was in?"

"...The guy with the bad dye job? Casually shells out five thousand quid for a book? Shows up burned to a crisp at a hospital to tell the nurse cryptic shit?"

Jon snorts, and Sasha smiles. It's always been hard to make him outright laugh, so especially with the current circumstances it's a bit of a victory.

"Give him a break, he was trying his best," Jon says fondly after he sobers up. His smile turns a bit sad then, after his words. "He always is."

Sasha arches an eyebrow. There's a lot to unpack in that look, but first things first.

"So he came back?" She asks. "I remember he was supposed to be dead, did he fake it, or is he like us?"

"Like you and me, dear," Helen answers before Jon can.

"...What's the difference?"

"Helen is not exactly an avatar," Jon sighs. "She- the Distortion is a creature of the Spiral. Like- like the Not Them were to the Stranger. It was never meant to have a physical form, it was only by Gertrude's doing that it became tied to Michael, and later Helen. She didn't choose to become an avatar, she was just... made by the entity. Like you, or Gerry."

"So I'm even more monster-y than you, got it." Sasha gives him a dry stare that Jon responds with a small sheepish grin, and she huffs. "So which one remade him?"

"Beholding," Jon says, and his eyes flash green briefly as if in recognition.

Sasha gives him a long, searching look. His face is... his whole expression is a bittersweet tableau, his lips curled in the same sad smile from a bit ago.

She nudges his knee with her cheek. "What's the story there?"

Jon sighs, deflating like a balloon under the sun.

"It's- Gerry's kind. Good," he starts, giving her a firm' look like he's daring her to disagree. "I- I didn't ask for him to be- if I'd been given the choice, I would've chosen to let him have his rest, because he deserves it."

"But?" Sasha asks, because this all sounds like Jon is trying to convince himself rather than her.

He gives her a look then, a little bit lost, a little bit guilty. "But I don't regret that he was brought back, Sasha. I don't regret him, or anything that has happened since then. I know the kind of person that makes me, but-"

"Hey," Sasha interrupts him, looking up at him from the uncomfortable, well-loved cradle of his bony knees. "What happened to you, Jon?"

The sad, sheepish smile comes back with a vengeance, making Sasha's chest ache for him.

"Fell in love. Ended the world."

"Well, that escalated quickly. Anyways, I can't wait for you to introduce me to your cryptic mall goth boyfriend." She smiles back at Jon's little snort. "Okay. So... so Tim came back from the dead. You came back from the dead. You brought someone else back from the dead-"

"Technically it was the Beholding-"

"Yes yes yes," Sasha waves the correction away. "What about Martin? Is he alright?"

"As alright as he can be," Jon sighs. "he was... Pretty angry at me when I left them, I think."

"Them?" Sasha arches an eyebrow.

"Him and Gerry. I- they were still at the house. I don't know if-"

"Wait. The house?" She asks, and Jon blinks back at her a little owlishly.

"Our- well, not ours I suppose, it's Daisy's. But I don't think she's in any state to ask for it, and Gerry's garden is-"

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Why does Martin live with you and your boyfriend?"

"Uhm-" Jon's skin is dark enough that it's always a bit hard to tell when he's blushing, but Sasha knows him, and her suspicions are only confirmed when Helen chuckles behind him.

"I think that story will need a few more stops to tell, but it's pretty amusing if you ask me."

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

"This is- what is this?" Martin asks. Nestled down innocently at the bottom of an unassuming valley, the construction spins and spins, and faint pipe music echoes around, eerie and alluring in equal measure.

"Don't try to make sense of it." Gerry shrugs, giving his hand a squeeze.

"On the nose, is what it is," Tim grumbles on Martin's other side, and Martin snorts.

"Is it really? Technically, carousels are more of a carnival thing, not necessarily circus-y, are they?"

"Wow," Tim deadpans, "I didn't know Jon was contagious."

Martin feels his lips curl into a sad smile. Jon is a sensitive topic with Tim at the best of times, and this is far from it. Of all the territories they could've come across this is definitely the worst one, and Martin knows too much by now to even consider the thought that it's a coincidence.

"We don't have to get close to it," Gerry is saying now, pulling Martin out of his reverie. "We'll just cross, move on to the next, right Martin?"

Tim remains quiet, his wax skin rippling like water about to boil, his bright orange gaze fixed on the carousel where faceless figures chase after one another with no rhyme or reason as to who's prey or predator anymore.

This feeling isn't new, comes the sad realisation. Time and time again, the Stranger has torn Tim's life apart right when he's managed to piece it together again. This is what's worst about the entities, isn't it? It was the Desolation that claimed Tim's humanity, but the unknown will never stop haunting him.

Gerry's hand squeezes his again, a bit more insistently this time. Martin blinks, and looks sideways to find Gerry's seafoam gaze focused on him.

"Martin?"

"I- yep. Just walk right past it, I never did like carousels anyways. Never got what the fun was in just spinning around with all the folks staring at you."

That startles a laugh out of Tim at least, rips his eyes away from the spinning behemoth for an instant.

"You don't like rollercoasters, you don't like carousels... you'd be a pretty lousy carnival date, huh?" Tim's attempt at a joke is weak, but it's there; it's a lot better than the haunted look from a moment ago.

"The ferris wheel at sunset sounds pretty nice," Martin shrugs, before adding pointedly, "you know, in case anyone wants to keep it in mind."

It has the desired effect of making both men snort, and Gerry squeezes his hand a third time, slowly and fondly like he doesn't even care Martin's skin is only barely tangible.

"Subtle."

And Martin, with the Lonely condensed in his stomach like an empty void, would love nothing more than to shake himself free and disappear, when faced with the brunt of these emotions aimed at him. Instead, he squeezes back a bit tighter, because some things are worth the hurt.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he grins. "Let's go then."

The walk down the valley is a lot shorter than it looked; distances are not really a thing anymore, always just the right length to be frustrating.

True to their word, they try to stay as far from the carousel as the domain will allow them, which is to say, not far enough.  The figures -he victims , Martin reminds himself- reach out to them with begging hands, never longer than an instant before the slow spin of the gargantuan machine takes them away.

"Do you remember that time-" Martin starts, before letting his voice fade. What would he even bring up? Not the little tidbits Tim mentioned about Danny, their childhood games, the excursions that would lead to his loss. Not the memories of the four of them during the early archives days, before Sasha was taken and Jon was sent down a road he could neither see nor escape. Not the days at his flat during the past year, after Tim's mockery of a resuscitation, when his hatred and sorrow forced his tired heart to beat again. He doesn't know anything about Tim that wouldn't cause him much more pain, he realises with a start. Just enough familiarity to hurt, never to heal.

It's infuriating, to think he's all that Tim has anymore.

"You kept my flat after I left, didn't you?" Martin asks instead. "Be careful; I had a couple break-ins when I was living there," he adds. The attempt at humour tastes somewhat bitter on his tongue, but Tim's mouth twitches a little at the remark.

"That happened to a friend once," Tim says after a moment, trying to drown the sound of the victims. "Sod always had terrible taste, ended up moving in with the intruder."

"Well, who knows? Maybe the intruder was surprisingly charismatic," Martin says. Gerry nudges his shoulder with his own.

"I can guarantee he isn't," Tim snorts this time, and Martin smiles.

"I don't know Tim, I think you may be biassed." The carousel extends for many yards still, but it's- it's fine. They don't have to walk around it, their path is just a tangent to this circle of lies, and they'll leave it behind soon enough. "I find that he makes really good conversation."

"I don't think I've ever been on one of these, you know?" Gerry takes the cue flawlessly, albeit... weirdly.

"Never?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "They're fairly common."

"My mom wasn't really the fun carnival day type," Gerry shrugs, "maybe my dad took me on one, but I would've been too young to remember."

"And you never wanted to take a day trip on your own?" Martin asks, and Gerry snorts.

"Bit too old for that then, I think dear."

"Your boyfriend was riding carousels at twenty three, I doubt anyone would've judged you," Tim cuts in dryly, and both of them turn to look at him in surprise.

"Jon?" Martin asks, at the same time Gerry asks "He was?"

"Once, after he and Georgie broke up." Tim's shoulders jump in a sharp shrug; he looks uncomfortable rather than angry though, and it doesn't escape Martin that this is the first time Tim's brought up Jon on his own. "He told me back in research, before- before Sasha transferred."

Oh.

The next few steps go by in silence, and Martin reflects on that statement, and all the things contained in it.

A time where these two trusted each other, when the biggest problem between them was a misplaced folder, and both of them were healing. Hoping to heal. None of them with the slightest inkling of the storm brewing over their heads from the moment they signed their name on the dotted line of the contract.

"...I wonder what animal he rode. Did he tell you?" Gerry's voice breaks the silence, and Martin snorts.

It's... it's very Gerry, to focus on the little details of the people he loves, instead of the  past gone by.  It makes a lot of sense considering the life he's lived.

"I- don't think he did?" Tim blinks. "I'd bet on the-"

"Cat," Martin says along with him, smiling. "If you ask me, that sounds like the healthiest coping mechanism he's tried."

"I don't know," Gerry leans over, hooking his chin on Martin's shoulder. "There was this really good period when he was moping about you ignoring him, I made him coffee and he read me definitions off the dictionary."

Martin laughs. It catches on his chest a bit; he's- he's laughed so little, since the world changed. It burns the Lonely inside him, but it's worth the effort to turn his head and lay a soft kiss on Gerry's cheekbone. "Very romantic."

"Jon doesn't even like coffee," Tim groans from his other side. "You know? I think this might be my personal tor-"

"Nice of you to visit, big bro," says a voice to their left, and Tim freeze s.

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

The man that now traverses the Corpse Routes does it with a single, firm certainty.

He will die.

Like everyone else that came before him, and everyone else that will come after, he's not exempt from mortality, and he doesn't shy away from the fact, though that doesn't mean he isn't terrified by it.

He wouldn't be here otherwise.

He fears not the inevitability of the deed itself, but the thick veil of the unknown draped over it like a shroud.

The man was implacable before the change, month after month he visited a new specialist, tolerating the pinching and the pricking and the judging in an attempt to find what would it be. What would take him? Would it be his lungs, his heart, his brain? Or would it come from the outside, he'd think as he clicked on yet another news website to see just what tragedy had taken many like it would surely one day take him.

This quest was never guided by the burning determination of those who desire to live, but rather the desperation of those who wish to be rid of uncertainty, those for whom the wait is a lot more painful than the blow.

In a similar vein, the man poured years of his life into trying to resolve the question that has plagued humanity since the first time a loved one was checked with worry, and found stiff and cold to the touch.

What is it that comes after the End?

He's been to endless places of worship, listened to wise words from all paths of life, swallowed truth after truth after truth, despairing a little more every time that believing didn't bring forth an Answer. Needless to say, the man never really grasped the true meaning of faith, but then again it was never spiritual peace that he was after, was it? The man sought the answer not in order to avoid a grim fate, or to score himself a few extra points before that unknown assailant inevitably drags him away from everything he knows.

He fought sleep off every night, trying to remain alert until his tired eyes gave up and fell closed, and his last thought was without fail dedicated to whether or not he'd ever open them again. Whether or not he'd ever discover what lays beyond in time to prepared, or if his mind, his life, his very being would just blink out like a lightbulb, never to experience a single thought again, no more idea of what happened to him than he does now.

The route this man follows is a long one, longer than anyone who marches by his side. Terminus feeds on each and every one of the fearful theories the man spins even in this scenario in which When, How and Why are especially useless.

The Coroner watches him -and others- from his post overlooking the domain, though he does not know either how or when the man's route will end. The End hasn't decided yet, and the uncertainty of the man in the face of inevitability is the most delicious feast.

The Archive watches as well, and he- it quietly contemplates the blurred distinctions between the entities that now rule the world in deference to its patron. The man's desperate search for knowledge, for truth, didn't do anything to endear him to the Beholding. His fear of the unknown didn't bring the Stranger or the Spiral running to sink their claws into him. Instead, the man's fixation with his own end, was what dragged him here, to the one path in this new reality that may in time grant him relief from his torment.

Terminus has always been far gentler than its peers...

The Archive- n- no. Not- not the Archive, is it? Is he?

He- he has a name, sometimes. Thoughts of his own, like just now. Questions that go unanswered, or that did, before all this.

It- he has them more often, lately. Murky, unfocused things that barely scratch the surface and can never leave his lips, until the Distortion and the Them place their hands on him.

Or their entire mass, like the- like Sasha's doing right now, clearly taking advantage of the larger body she has today, with a round face and short black hair, pretty much covering Jon as she lays on top of him.

"Was this really necessary?" Jon asks. Then, when he recognizes the throbbing pain at his knee, "did you trip me to the ground?"

"Technically, Helen did." Sasha shrugs, "I want to test how long it takes like this. I think I have to notice if she makes me move my entire body."

"I hardly tripped you too, it was bound to happen when you're going around reciting your little statements as you walk," Helen grins, resting the tip of a sharp finger on his forehead to clear the last remnants of the Web's pull away. "This one feels different, doesn't it?"

"It... does." Jon feels his brow furrow. "There's- I can feel the edges of this domain."

"And?" Sasha asks, squirming to slip an arm under hers and Jon's bodies for extra safety.

"And there's-" the realisation hits him so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it's all he can do to turn his wide eyes towards Sasha. "Sa- there's- there's less people by the end of the domain, than there is by the beginning."

Sasha blinks and gives him a flat stare, and Jon kind of remembers that expression; it's nice to know that was real, even if the Not Them stole it. "That's not as telling as you think it is, Jon."

Jon smiles sheepishly as the dryness in her tone. "Sorry. It's just- Sasha, people are not supposed to die anymore. They're supposed to suffer forever, this is how this works-"

"Lovely."

"-but if there's less humans once this domain ends... that means they're-"

"Dying," interrupts a voice that is most definitely not any of Sasha's. A voice that, perhaps very tellingly, Jon remembers in a dreamy, confused haze. "And that is exactly what I wished to talk to you about, Jon. If I can still call you that, I mean."

Sasha's gone stiff over him, and Jon stretches his neck to look over her shoulder. "Oliver Banks," he says in lieu of greeting as he crosses glances with the other avatar.

Oliver arches a thick eyebrow, pointedly looking down at Jon's current situation. "I- should I ask?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Jon huffs, "but if you're still in Anabelle Cane's good graces, I'd appreciate you telling her I can walk on my own."

The man snorts at that. "I find that she very rarely is satisfied with the pace one chooses to move at. Will- can you get up, or will we have to talk with them holding you down all the time? I don't think I've ever seen you on your feet."

"Please don't say it like tha-"

Sasha shifts and twists on top of Jon, pulling him this way and that until she's sat  behind him, her arms criss-crossed over Jon's chest as she holds him in front of her like a barrier, and Jon sees Oliver's frame stiffen as Sasha looks up at him in the body that once belonged to Graham Folger.

"I know you."

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

The hunter snarls softly in irritation as it drops its latest kill, a small woman that tastes of running at full speed across an open field.

It's not the first of her kind the hunter has killed, though the last one was a long time ago. Back when it hid its claws and fangs, and it had a name and a pack.

The thought -the hunter is not too used to those anymore- leaves behind a sharp pang of hurt in its stomach, and it shakes its head trying to rid it again of the scent of coconut, the muted buttery yellow of a soft headscarf. She who hunts them isn't pack, or she would stand by the hunter's side and soothe the deep-seated rage that smolders inside its stomach.

There's smoke in the hunter's nostrils, and it huffs and puffs to clear it away too. The mere thought of fire makes it angrier, and it can't pin the reason why.

It remembers it feels personal, an injury close to its heart. A burn-smooth hand clinging to it in the depths of the pit, and the bitter understanding of its own stupidity, its own hypocrisy.

They weren't pack back when it happened, but the hunter should've made it right when it had the chance.

If the one that hunts them isn't pack because she does not stand by them, what does that make of the hunter, that let her own get hurt and then didn't avenge their pain?

Smoke and suffering prickles and burns in her nose, and the hunter's snarl deepens.

The great Eye in the sky follows the hunter's movements, as she changes directions abruptly to finally follow the scent of fire.

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

The man that stands before them is wrong .

His dark hair reflects the light like a cheap plastic wig, his skin is just the slightest bit too tight, his full lips pulled into a sneer like someone who's heard what a smile is supposed to look like, but didn't understand it well enough.

Coupled with the fact that he looks like an off version of Tim, it's not hard for Gerry to figure out his identity- or rather who he's supposed to be.

"I don't- you're- you're not him," Tim says.

"Oh?" says the skin of Danny Stoker, stretched thin over its plastic frame. "And whose fault is that, big brother?"

"Don't listen to it Tim," Martin cuts in firmly when Tim flinches. "You know what this is. What it want-"

"All I wanted was for you to come with me that night, Tim. But you were... what was it? Too tired? Too worried about getting caught?"

The mannequin takes a step towards them, and Gerry moves to stand on Tim's other side, feeling the Eye bristle and come to life under his skin. The Ceaseless Watcher holds no love for the Stranger, and they once fought over Tim.

"Fuck off," Tim snarls. His shoulders are stiff, a muscle on his jaw twitching with stress. "Get back to the carousel, or I'll-"

"You'll kill me?" Danny smiles again, even more unsettling than last time. "A bit too involved for you, isn't it? I'm honoured, at least this time I wouldn't die alone."

Tim's skin is starting to bubble at his temples and the edges of his mouth, and every deep breath he takes in seems to make the air around them hotter.

"What are you even doing here?" He tries. "I thought- I thought Grimaldi ate you just like that."

"It's easier to believe that, isn't it?" the puppet grins. Like the smile before, it's meant to be unsettling and it delivers on that front. "Just  a quick flash of pain, and sweet little Danny's gone forever... Did that help you sleep at night?"

"Can you do something?" Martin leans forward to look at him, and Gerry grimaces.

He... could.

The Eye has made it no secret that it's pleased with him for serving his purpos e, and that in this new world Gerry's firmly under its protection and patronage. He could do something, he thinks as he looks at the puppet passing for Danny. The Beholding thinks it's some sort of poetic justice, that Gerry suffered so much in life, and now he gets to not only See his victim's past pain, but force them to relive it too, to feel it all over again until it destroys them.

Gerry mostly thinks it's a bit patronising, and entirely useless in a situation where he doesn't want Tim to watch his brother's lookalike bending under the weight of all the regrets and wrongs Daniel Stoker ever had or made in life.

"It- not here. It wouldn't work."

"What do you me-"

"Oh, we fed on him for days , you know?" The thing keeps saying. "Stripped him of everything bit by bit, skin and memories and secrets, and you know what the best part is?" Danny grins. "He didn't ask for you at all.'

"Stop."

"He knew how you were, poor dear Danny, his big brother too much of a selfish coward for him to have any hope of you saving him even as he lay dying, as we ate him-"

"It's not the thing that took your brother, Tim," Gerry says as calmly as he can, taking a short step away from the searing heat Tim's emitting as the Eye provides the information. "It just looks like it. It's how this works; it's showing you the ones the Stranger took from you, it's trying to get a rise out of-"

"Well, it's working !" Tim snaps, whipping around to face him.

It's objectively a good thing, because at least that means he's not paying attention to the puppet, but it also serves to confirm just how out of it Tim is, his eyes glowing like burning coals, his skin bubbling and melting off his frame at the corners of eyes and mouth.

Gerry's abruptly reminded that he doesn't know Tim nearly well enough to help calm him down, and he Knows with the certainty given to him by his status, that if Tim loses control now they're never getting him back; he just can't let that happen, can't let him lose himself to his patron now that they're en-route to fix this whole mess.

Gerry grits his teeth. "Hey, try to think of-"

"I'm actually surprised it was so effective," the puppet smirks.

"On me," he tries again, reaching out to yank on Tim's shoulder when he makes to turn back, and regretting it pretty much immediately as the boiling wax sticks to his skin, and fuck , he'd forgotten how much it hurt. "It's not worth-!"

"I would've gone for Sasha, but then I remembered you don't even know what she looked-"

And then his voice is gone, just like that.

The only thing breaking the silence left behind is thEir heavy breathing, and the eerie music of the carousel and the strange, fading echo of what might've been a scream.

The two of them whip around to face the empty space where the puppet used to be, only to find a swirling of mist and a mostly transparent-

"Mar- what did you do?!"

"Don't," Gerry grunts out through the pain when Tim makes to move again. "Breathe."

"Let go of me," Tim grumbles. He sounds- hurt. Agitated. Through his connection with the Eye, Gerry can sense just how much of it is humiliation at once again having the Stranger drag out what he thinks are his biggest failures. Wrong as it may be, he can't bring himself to care too much, not now that he's not in immediate danger. Tim has those who can comfort him, and he's not one of them.

"I can't. Maybe once you cool down a little."

Tim bristles, his eyes glowing just the slightest bit brighter and a new wave of pain flares through his hand. "Was that a fucking jo-"

"It really wasn't," Gerry has the presence of mind to notice how even when he's in excruciating pain, he mostly sounds tired. He should talk to someone about that. "In fact, I don't think I'll be doing anything with this hand in a bit, let alone letting you go."

"I- what- oh, fuck !" Tim flinches, when he looks down to see his arm mostly melted around Gerry's throbbing, bright-red hand. "Shit, I-"

"It's fine. I'm already losing feeling on it. Just calm down." Gerry shrugs. Now to deal with more pressing matters. "Martin? Are you with us?"

It takes a while, but Martin's faint voice thankfully reaches them, though his silhouette is still hard to see amongst the mist.

"Turns out the Lonely's still a thing. Or at least something I can do, it seems like," he says, quiet and far-off like a whisper over water. "I'm sorry, Tim. It was the only thing I could think of."

"Worked like a charm," Gerry responds after it becomes evident that Tim won't. His hand lost all feeling minutes ago, but the heat emanating from the man's body is starting to subside, so with some luck they may be able to unstick soon. "You held up good, considering everything," he turns to Tim.

"I... I know it was lying. I want it to be a lie." Tim's voice is hoarse with emotion, and Gerry aches for him a little.

"The Stranger lies," he says simply, and that is all he will say on the matter. The true extent of Danny Stoker's suffering is a secret he'll keep to himself, as is the fact that he did, in fact, call for his brother with his dying breath.

Some knowledge must be kept secret, despite his patron's convictions.

"It will not hurt you again," Martin's echoing voice reaches them again. Gerry doesn't know if he means the specific puppet Martin sent into the Lonely or the Stranger as a whole, but he doesn't doubt the declaration anyways. Martin's eyes are visible through the mist, and they're cold .

"Don't leave?" Gerry asks; the slight pleading in his voice may be somewhat underhanded, but he'll do whatever it takes.

"...I'm not planning to," Martin responds after another long moment. "Will your hand be okay?"

"I suppose it'll heal? I may not be Jon, but I'm still a monster of the Eye, I'm bound to have some special privileges."

"Don't say that," Martin huffs, and his form becomes a bit clearer. "You're not a monster of anything."

Gerry feels his lips curl softly into a smile. With the remaining nerves in his hand, he feels Tim pull away slowly until his skin peels off of Gerry's melted palm.

"Sorry," he mutters, his gaze glued to the ground.

"At least you only did the one hand. Molina went for a full hug." Gerry looks down at his burned hand curiously. The skin is already trying to regenerate, and he hopes it will finish healing before the nerves grow back. He also hopes the nerves will grow back, of course. "We should keep moving; now that this place has messed with us, it should be about ready to let us out."

"Is that how it works?" Martin asks as he takes a step closer -but not too close- to them. "If we hadn't feared the Stranger, we would've been trapped here forever?"

"I doubt it, because we're not afraid of the Stranger," Gerry answers as he starts walking again. Getting Tim away from this thing can only be beneficial.

"...so we can only be trapped here if we fear the Stranger, but we can also only cross this place if we fear the Stranger?" Martin's dry voice brings Gerry's smile to a full grin.

"Makes perfect sense if you ask me."

"I was going to thank Tim for not burning you to a crisp, but I'm not so sure anymore," Martin's silhouette grows a little more visible, and then some more when Gerry blows him a teasing kiss. "You stop that."

"What is that?" Asks Tim's exhausted voice.

"What- oh," Gerry stops short a few feet of the... Formation? Three stones of decreasing size, piled one on top of the other, and between the second and third-

"Gerry-"

"Shit." He launches forward before Martin can get another word out; he doesn't- the Eye didn't give him a heart when it brought him back, but Gerry's chest still feels impossibly heavy and tight as he shoves the smallest stone off the pile. Below it is a soft green hoodie, folded neatly in a square with the off-white, slightly chewed-up zipper on the front. It's not his, but Gerry has worn it his fair share of times since moving into the cottage, and the last time he saw it- "Martin."

Martin's still translucent hand comes to rest on the hoodie, his fingertips passing straight through the soft green fabric before he pulls back. "W- do you think he left this for us?" He asks, and the hope in his voice is almost painful to hear.

Gerry lets out a slow exhale, crouching before the makeshift cairn. Is- if Jon left this, if Jon is trying to communicate... then he's still fighting. He's still trying .

"... I'll go on ahead," Tim says, and it's only then that Gerry notices how long the silence has stretched for. "Won't go too far."

Martin waits until Tim's steps have faded, before sitting down next to him.

"We'll get him back," he says. His fingertips pass through Gerry's knee like they did through the hoodie, and it's a bit startling how it feels like nothing , Gerry decides.

"I know we will."

Silence.

"It's been different, hasn't it?" Martin says.

"It hasn't. It's the Lonely speaking," Gerry responds perhaps a bit too quickly. It is the Lonely, it-

"It's not bad to admit it." Martin's echo-y voice cuts into his thoughts. "Like I said, we'll get him back."

But Gerry can read between the lines of what Martin is saying, has grown to know Martin enough in the past few months, and he doesn't like what he's hearing.

"I don't know about you," Gerry starts slowly. It feels like that night so long ago at Jon's flat, trying to phrase things in a way that wouldn't send him sprinting like a spooked horse. "But I don't think different is bad. We're... adjusting. But I don't need Jon here to want you. I was hoping you'd know that by now."

"I did. I do." Martin sighs, and out of the corner of his eye Gerry sees him get more and more solid, and feels the weight of his hand on his knee. "It's still a bit hard to forget this only started because of him."

"Things rarely start and end the same way, don't they?" Gerry shrugs before awkwardly unfolding the hoodie single-handed, and pinning it under the burnt hand's elbow to pull the zipper down. It may be a bit on the nose, but it's still worth it to see Martin come back to his full colours -and then some-, when he starts slipping the garment on. "I'm going to need some help with the other sleeve, if you could?"

"You're ridiculous," Martin's voice is soft, when he goes to gently stretch the cuff open so Gerry can slide the damaged hand through without scraping it against the cloth.

"Like I keep telling Jon, it's far too late to send me back," Gerry grins.

Martin doesn't say anything else, but he zips up the hoodie to just below his chest, before leaning in to press a kiss on his forehead, and Gerry's pleased to notice his lips are far from cold on his skin.

[hageny]

Succession Thoughts: Gerri x Roman 

1. Cunning.

Something that has always struck me as interesting is the comparison between how Gerri protects Roman versus how she treats the other children. In Season 1, after the failed shuttle launch, Roman confides in Gerri that he sent emails out accelerating the launch, which, as Gerri points out, could have seen him charged with corporate manslaughter had there been any casualties. What’s interesting is how she handles the whole situation. She had a golden opportunity to screw Roman over and prove him incapable of running Waystar--and could easily do the same with Shiv and Kendall and secure her seat as CEO--but she doesn’t. Firstly, she asks him about the launch starting with the flimsy excuse of, “I’m very busy with, um, hmm, on another matter”--which the audience knows is bullshit--and then relays to him what happened once the shuttle took off, not knowing that he already knows. Then, even when she realizes his fatal mistake of pushing the launch ahead in spite of safety concerns, she says nothing to Logan, and simply keeps an eye on the situation for Roman until she receives the news that there were no deaths. None of his family members are wise to the truth. In their eyes, he handled it like a pro, which only makes him (if only slightly) more respectable to Logan. In the above scene with Shiv, however, Gerri purposefully manipulates both Shiv and Kendall. Kendall has been caught stealing, and Gerri--who more than has the intelligence and know-how to put together a falsity to cover him--decides instead to dangle the carrot in front of Shiv of “Oh, nothing’s wrong” and then quickly tells her that Kendall is being protected by Logan after being caught. She does this knowing that Shiv and Kendall are battling for the position of CEO, and likely realizes that pitting them against each other makes them easier to move out of the way. It also makes it easier to turn them against their father in the long run. Gerri’s level of cunning is so great it often goes unnoticed--even by the audience.

2. Laird

One trait of Roman’s that so often is overlooked by the audience is how cleverly he manipulates people in his own way. Like Gerri, his level of cunning is so sly most people overlook it, or simply see it as him “lucking out” in certain moments rather than him playing his cards carefully at every moment. This moment with Laird after the Turkey fiasco is a great example. Rather than speak first to Logan about how he feels the deal with Eduard’s family is a disaster, he lets Laird take the reigns, letting him give a several-minutes long spiel about how important it is to go private with their family’s money before he undercuts him in front of his father by telling Logan the exact opposite--something it’s clear he never voiced to either Karl or Laird. Instead of Laird looking capable and intelligent, he ends up looking foolish and easily had. Roman’s argument against Eduard also gives us another look at his level of emotional intelligence, which he has more of than his siblings. While they may understand corporate politics better, he understands what people want, and can spot a weakness or strength in a person a mile away. This seems minute but allows Roman to get what he wants in the end--after all, had the company gone private, would Roman be able to step in as CEO with the cruises scandal then more easily maneuvered? It’s likely the answer is no. How great of a coincidence is it that both Roman and Gerri got exactly what they wanted at the end of Season 2 on chance alone? Roman does the same thing with Kendall in Vaulter. This isn’t to say that Roman and Gerri’s only qualities are to manipulate and scheme; it’s rather to showcase that they can and--as people who have been maligned by those around them--are willing to do if it can get them what they not only want, but on some level, even deserve. 

3. Protection.

Many people have argued whether Roman’s defense of Gerri was pre-planned or whether it was an organic, true to heart reaction. It is sad that, when the Waystar ‘family’, as it were, is debating who should take the fall for the cruises situation, everyone at the table is more than willing to sacrifice Gerri to the wolves. Even Logan’s children--who have done only a fraction of the work she has and are almost totally under Logan’s thumb--are more than willing to toss her aside. Only Roman, who could’ve easily been the deciding vote in the situation, speaks up in her defense and tells his father not to destroy Gerri to protect Waystar. What’s telling is Gerri’s reaction. She doesn’t look like she was expecting someone to stick up for her; she looks moreso like she had already resigned herself to the idea of this being the end of her road with Waystar. When Roman challenges his father--the few times he does this over the series--she leans forward and looks at him in surprise. Gerri clearly wasn’t expecting Roman to defend her, and on some level probably thought that now that he had benefited from not only her protection but also her assistance, that he would get rid of her, having grown enough to forge ahead on his own. Instead, Roman does the opposite, and Gerri is surprised, and likely touched, that he was the only one to do so. Not only that, but this gives Gerri the opportunity to throw Shiv under the bus, at which point Roman chimes in that Tom too is dispensable, willing to sacrifice his own sibling and brother-in-law over Gerri. Gerri could’ve turned on Roman and suggested him--having seen all his flaws and weaknesses--but instead she decides otherwise, and the shot of them at the end of the season, sitting beside and looking at one another when Roman is told to step in as CEO for the time being, reveals what the season foreshadowed, that they will walk into the future together. Whether they stay that way is debatable, but I certainly hope so.

AN: Thanks as usual for all the comments, reblogs, likes, and whatnot on these posts. It’s gratifying that what rolls around in my head interests so many people, given that I started this on a whim thinking it may or may not be interesting to anyone. I’ve added the tag, ‘succession thoughts’ for convenience. Also, Gerri’s fake laughing at Shiv’s “monkey butt injections” joke is fucking hilarious. 

[pitviperofdoom]

I really liked your 'Life Preserver' excerpt and I'd love to read more about it. I liked the interaction between Gerry and Georgie, their characterization and Gerry's description of his relationship with Jon, plus this exchange: “He thinks your mum’s a homophobe, you know.”“You know, he’s probably right? Think she might just hate the idea of love in general, though.”“Messy divorce, I take it,”“Rohypnol and garden shears were involved, so yeah, I’d say it was pretty messy.”

Thanks!

Yeah, Gerry and Georgie surprised me as a really interesting dynamic to explore. In spite of Georgie’s caution around the Entities, Gerry just feels like the kind of person Georgie would get along with, given the people she canonically ends up loving.

Anyway here’s another part I’ve written! This one actually has Jon and Gerry in it.

---

When Jon went in for his next shift, things went smoothly enough to be genuinely suspicious. Tina was his desk partner again, and she greeted him with the same cordiality as always. No one official-looking ever came by to speak with him.

The only hint that anything had happened that night was a campus-wide e-mail paying respects to Daniel Lattimer, one of the subject librarians, who was reported as having “passed unexpectedly”. The message held all of the usual official platitudes and nothing else; Jon had read it word for word several times to be sure.

Someone should have known, shouldn’t they? It wasn’t as if he had been careful about covering his tracks, beyond making his tip anonymous. The library had cameras. He was sure he’d left at least a few shoe prints in all the blood.

But nothing came of it. The first hour passed peacefully, with nothing more exciting than a couple of patrons he had to inform of overdue books.

Jon spotted the familiar dark figure out of the corner of his eye, even before Tina hissed a warning at him. He raised his head to watch Gerard Keay’s approach, chest suddenly tight with nervousness.

How on earth was he supposed to explain this?

“Hey.” Gerard was in front of him already, leaning his elbows on the desk as usual. “Any word on that book? I tried to come in yesterday, but you were closed.”

“R-right.” Jon hesitated. There were several ways he could answer this. He could, of course, be utterly truthful and tell him that he’d burned the thing on account of it being made of meat and killing one of the librarians. He almost laughed at the thought. At worst, Gerard would complain to someone about Jon being unhelpful; at best, he’d find it funny, but he’d demand a real answer once he was done laughing about it.

He could lie and stall by saying that the book was still on its way. But that was a temporary fix at best, and it would only lead Gerard to keep coming in and asking.

And would that really be so bad? Jon shook his head to clear away the thought.

“Right,” he said again. “A-about that. Unfortunately—” He slipped his bandaged hand behind the desk, out of sight. “—we were unable to find the book in storage. It seems to have been marked incorrectly. It happens sometimes. Though not very often, I assure you,” he added hastily. “But it’s been marked down as missing, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Gerard’s face was the very picture of disappointment. “That’s a shame. Really did need that one.”

“Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.” Jon tried to sound like he meant it.

It was hard to force down the sheer, overwhelming relief. Just last night he’d regretted his own paranoia, but now? If he hadn’t gone back, if he hadn’t checked for the book…

Well, the library might not have been closed yesterday. And he didn’t have the first shift at the circulation desk. And whoever did might have been someone who didn’t know, someone who wasn’t haunted by the name Jurgen Leitner, who might have taken the book from the cart and handed it straight over—

The unwelcome memory of Mr. Lattimer’s body rose up behind his eyes, juxtaposed over the young man standing before him.

As a child, he’d doomed someone else to a gruesome death that should have been his. So maybe this time… maybe he’d actually…

“Well then,” said Gerard, shaking him out of his bubble of thoughts. “Guess that’s—er, guess I’ll look elsewhere…”

“Right,” said Jon. “Unless there was anything else you needed…?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.

“No, thanks, that’s it,” said Gerard, already turning away. “Thanks for all the help.”

“Oh, I hardly—I mean, I didn’t really do much, in the end.”

Gerard regarded him for a moment, head tilted to one side with a thoughtful look. Then, quite without warning, he smiled at him. “Don’t sell yourself short. You were great.”

“O-of course,” Jon stammered as Gerard turned to leave again. “Oh, wait—wait a moment.”

Gerard looked back. “Yeah?”

Jon dug into his pocket, pulling out the lighter. “Is this yours?” he asked, placing it on the desk. “I found it on one of the tables in the reading room, and I remembered you had it the other day…”

Instead of taking it, Gerard simply flashed him one last grin. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got loads.”

“It’s really not good to keep ignition sources in a library,” Jon protested, feeling inordinately flustered.

Gerard laughed, a brief, bright thing, and—

“D’you want to get coffee?” Jon blurted out.

The smile froze on Gerard’s face, before giving way to surprise. “What?”

A stab of terror nearly robbed Jon of his words, before he found his voice again and forged ahead. “Do you—I mean. Do you want to get coffee sometime?” he repeated. Shit. Shit, he was doing this, how was he already doing this? “With me?” He wanted to kick himself, of course he’d know he meant it that way. “I—my shift ends at noon today. If you’re free. I-if you want to, I mean.”

Gerard blinked at him, so utterly bewildered that it might have been funny if Jon’s heart weren’t currently climbing into his throat. “You—wait. Is this… are you asking me on a date?”

He said it so incredulously, as if the idea that Jon would ask him on a date were utterly incomprehensible to him. Rapidly, Jon’s heart sank back down.

“Yes,” Tina leapt in helpfully. “He is. Aren’t you, Jon?”

She nudged him none too gently. “Y-yes,” he said, because it wasn’t as if he could dig himself any deeper. “That—that was the intention.”

“Huh.” Gerard shrugged. “Sure.”

The whiplash made Jon dizzy for a moment. “Really?”

“Yeah. Noon, right? See you then.” With that, he turned and walked out of the library.

Once he was out of sight, Jon slumped over onto the surface of the desk like a marionette with its strings cut.

Tina patted his back. “Proud of you. Go get that goth D.”

***

It wasn’t that Gerry didn’t know it was a terrible idea—just that he’d had worse ones before. He was still breathing after years of them, in fact. So what was one more?

Jon the librarian was far from the first scarred survivor he’d ever met. They weren’t common, precisely, but nor were they unheard of. Technically he was one, and Mum had been as well, before she carved herself up.

But Gerry knew he was an outlier, and as rare as surviving one brush with the Fears was, meeting two of the things and escaping uneaten from both was on a level of its own. But against all odds, when he looked at the wispy little librarian who’d spent the past week being so divertingly helpful, Gerry could see two separate, distinct marks on him, where there had previously been only one. And they really were distinct from one another. The Flesh was like a shark sometimes, content to take one good bite before losing interest and wandering off, while the wisps of the Web still clung jealously. A scar like that could have been left years ago or the day before they met. You could never tell with the Web.

That added to the risk, of course. For all he knew, this was some ploy from the Mother of Puppets to catch him and draw him in. A little cliche, maybe, but Gerry couldn’t fault it for its efficacy.

He’d said yes, after all.

In his defense, it wasn’t every day he met someone with a nice face, a taste for burning Leitners, and enough luck or fortitude to walk away from two different Powers. Nor was it every day a person like that asked him to… well…

People didn’t flirt with him, was the thing. Anyone who knew enough to be worth talking to either wised up and ran the other way, or turned around and tried to take a chunk out of him.

So, yeah. Might as well give it a shot. See what it was like, while he had the chance.

He had til noon to brace himself, anyway. Not enough time to go back to Mum’s and freshen up, which was a shame. She’d just faded out a couple of days ago, so he knew he’d have the place to himself.

Ah, well.

In spite of himself, Gerry found himself turning his face upward with a grin and an excited spring in his step. It’d be a bit like traveling abroad, or visiting tourist traps, or all the other things he indulged in when Mum was gone. See as much of the world beyond his own as he could, before she finally fucked up and got him killed.

A date! Who’d have thought he’d get to check that one off the bucket list?

[pynkhues]

.... any succession fic recs? 👀

Yes!! I haven't read a lot for it yet, but some of the stuff I've read has been staggeringly good. I'm generally more into gen fic in this particular fandom, but have enjoyed some Stewy x Kendall, Gerri x Roman and Naomi x Tabitha too.

A few recs under the cut!

“I wanted to get out. From under all this. Take the money and run.”

Kendall tells Stewy even though he knows he’ll never get it, not like Naomi does. He’ll never understand the crush of it, the heart-stopping head-fucking fear of failing a tyrant. Kendall’s been ignoring the shape of it for a long time, putting pieces of it together in the back of his mind in total darkness like a blindfolded man. It doesn’t matter that one day his dad will die. It doesn’t matter about the money or the hostile takeover or the stolen files or any of it. There’s no running. Kendall’s Logan Roy lives inside his head.

Stewy laughs. Stewy laughs for a long time.

“There is no out, Ken, what the fuck are you talking about? You were born this and you’ll die this. You are what you are, and what you are is a fucking Roy.”

Kendall hates him, for a moment. Lightning-strike furious. What the fuck does he know about any of it, about his dad’s swinging dinner plate-sized hands, about getting 24% name recognition in reliable international polling, about puking every time you think about a car swerving off the road in the rain. About finding out that you can do something unthinkably, unimaginably terrible, and it doesn’t matter to anyone you know but you. There’s a scar on his arm that no one else who hasn’t already been told how it got there can ever know about, and he’s sick of it, and it’s not fair. He hates Stewy for a moment because Stewy’s right.

“I wanted to do the right thing, Stewy, for once in my fucking life.”

Stewy laughs again, more briefly, and the predator flash of his eyes in the neon of the motel sign is a torture all its own.

‘There is no right and wrong, Ken. How the fuck do you not know that yet? Not for people like you. Like us. There’s shit you get caught doing and there’s shit you don’t.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You really, really fucking don’t,” says Ken, and fuck, there it is. The road less travelled, that only he has ever driven on. The path he’s down where Stewy can’t follow. That place beyond Stewy Hosseini where he never thought he could go.

“You’re not telling me something, and when I find out what that is, and I will find out what it is, Kendall, don’t you think I won’t, so I am warning you that when I do find out I am going to be righteously fucking pissed,” says Stewy, and if Kendall thought those were a predator’s eyes before—

“Yeah, you will,” says Kendall, because he knows exactly how perceptive Stewy is. Exactly how weak he is. Exactly, precisely what both of them are.

And treat this night like it’ll happen again by postcardmystery. 8k words. Kendall x Stewy. Post s2. (CW: internalised homophobia, some homophobic language)

I tried to pick a shorter excerpt, but I literally couldn’t, this fic is so. good. The voices are pitch perfect, and it’s got this incredible build to it overall that goes back and forth between time and point of views and just rips your heart out. The premise itself is pretty simple – after the press conference at the end of 2.10, Kendall calls Stewy, and they drive through rural America while Kendall has a breakdown, and it’s just - - unspeakably good. I love it so so so much, I have no words.

r/roysucks Connor’s gf just posted on Instagram (instagram.com) submitted two months ago by webbedscrum_2279 23 comments share save hide report

[–] DM_ME_SAMESMAIL 40 points two months ago I too like to escape to my yacht in the Mediterranean when my family and I are on trial for covering up rape and murder. permalink embed save report reply

AITA for accusing my father of multiple crimes on his own news station? By amleth 3k words. Gen fic. Post s2.

And now for something completely different – epistolary fic which is just reddit news threads of the Roy family drama. I love an epistolary fic and this is just totally charming, and made me laugh a lot out loud.

“You’re quiet,” she observes. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah, well, the Turks beat it out of me. Gave you a run for their money.” He waggles his eyebrows. “So what is this? Whips and chains? Are we doing the whole boat-sex thing? I heard Shiv and Tom are looking for a third —“

Gerri finds what she’s looking for: a black leather binder. She drops it on the bed and begins paging through it, and Roman cranes his neck enough to recognize that it’s just full of documents, not like, dick pics. “I’ve given some thought to what you proposed a few weeks ago, and I agree that we should make things official in some way,” she says, and he blinks.

“Uh,” he says. “Which — what part of it?”

“Take a look.”

Gerri closes the folio and hands it over. It’s deceptively heavy, and the print on these pages is way too fucking fine, he thinks, paging through it. “Is this some kind of, like, Fifty Shades of Roy sex contract? Because it’s not that I’m not into it, but I think there’s a strong argument for going paperless —”

“Strictly speaking, this isn’t legally binding,” Gerri says. “Just something I threw together with regard to our business arrangement going forward. But with no respect to the family — the past few weeks have really illustrated that no one should take anyone at their word right now. Give me a little more than your word.”

Evacuation strategies for a yacht on fire by devourthemoon. 11k words. Gerri x Roman. Post s2. Explicit.

After the events of s2, Roman and Gerri fake being married as a professional alliance, only, y’know, maybe it’s not so fake. This fic is just so, so much fun, and messy in the best possible way. The author nails all the character voices, and the sex scenes are just the right amount of hot and ridiculous, and I just love it all a lot too.

Kendall estimates it will take an hour for the first articles to go up. Some rapid-fire blog without oversight—the New York Post, maybe, or wherever those Vaulter hippies have skulked off to—will slap a catchy headline on it and report his words verbatim. Give or take a gif of his face when he switches to script number two. New York Times, Washington Post, AP, those fuckers take longer. They like to bleed the story like Middle Ages plague doctors for its marrow, fact-check and add context and analysis and as many backlinks as their servers can handle. Still, a couple of hours, and his face will be plastered on every major news outlet. His voice will play over the nightly talk shows. He’ll trend on Twitter. A few more days, and he’ll be the star of analysis segments, podcasts, weekly briefings. Maybe, fuck it, maybe he’ll trend on Twitter again.

It’s been years since Kendall read Shakespeare. But that shit sticks with you, gets under your skin and emerges when you least expect it, like eczema or Keynesian economics. He knows how the media will spin this. Kendall Roy Attacks CEO Logan for Years of Corruption. Prodigal Son Disrupts Family Legacy to Restore Credibility. That’s how Hamlet ends, right? And Macbeth, Lear, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, even Titus fucking Andronicus. The spilled blood sinks into the ground, the seedlings sprout forth from the soil, and a new castle is built on the bones. Order out of chaos, or at least close enough an approximation that the tabloids will buy it.

Legacy for profit by owlinaminor Post-2.10. Kendall Roy. Kendall through Shakespeare analogies – just - - ooooof. It's a beautiful, lyrical character study that weaves through Roy family history and teases at a future none of them are even sure they want. It's gorgeous writing.

For the next few days Shiv would have to keep the pressure on Kira like an open wound because there were other women, victims that Nate’s people were going to find one by one as soon as that phone call disconnected. Mo was her father’s friend, good friend, for a long, long time. Nate and Gil, Sandy and Stewy, too many sharks in the water and the share price probably dipped to a new low but she would never check a stock ticker. Her husband’s nerves fraying at the edges on national television. She had promised a woman she’d never met before that she would kill roughly one third of the top male executives of her family’s company. Her company.

The last look Rhea gave her before she shut the car door was concern close to fear—no longer the same woman who heard their pitch in the safe room, who laughed with her at Argestes. Rhea had only looked into the abyss; she got cold feet and she didn’t even know what it’s like to grow up in it.

Her family’s company is hers, will be hers. Even from a whale fall, new life would spring.

Feed his flesh to wayward daughters by reogulus. 2k words. Shiv Roy. Set during 2.09.

This entire fic is set around Shiv bribing Kira not to testify, and god, it is so good. It’s bleak and rough, and really hones in on the complex ground Shiv walks as a character. It's another brilliant study of what it takes to be a Roy, and the way they make the awful choices in order to fulfill this legacy that they don't even know they want.

Kendall sets down his fork. “So. Tell me. Is it everything you wanted? Is it what you thought it would be?”

Roman stills. He never does that. He’s constantly a menace in motion, slouching and fidgeting, worse even than Kendall at his amphetamine peak. “What? The view from the tippy-tippy-top?”

“His regard.” Kendall wipes his mouth with the edge of the white cloth napkin. It comes away pink from the steak. “Dad. He’s all yours now.”

Roman still hasn’t moved. Finally, he lurches, like corroded machinery come uncertainly to life. “Yeah, man. It’s fucking tight as hell. I love every beautiful daddy and me moment I was a good enough little boy to earn.” He snorts. “Fuck you.” His face goes curiously slack then, like something Kendall’s own face would do. An intermission in the performance, an energy cut. Something genuine finding its way to the surface. “Why don’t you tell me. When you got everything you wanted, how the fuck did that make you feel?”

Nauseous, is the first word that springs to mind. Sick. Scared. I’ve never had everything I wanted, there’s that. I’ve never once had a single fucking thing I wanted. There’s that, too.

Interim leadership by arbitrarily 2k words. Roman + Kendall. Post s2.

I love Roman and Kendall scenes generally, but this one which features Kendall and Roman meeting for the first time a few months after the press conference in 2.10 is just a bit magic. The push pull dynamic that's just inherent to them mixed with the genuine affection and brotherly love is really special, and arbitrarily embraces both in equal measure. It's a great little fic.

There are lots more of course, and I'd also recommend checking out other works by these authors, but I hope this is a good place to start! :-)

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 13

Chapters: 13/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

If someone had asked Martin where he had least expected to be on the day after his thirtieth birthday, the veterinarian probably wouldn’t have been at the top of his list, but it definitely would have made the top ten.

Honestly, Martin didn’t think he had ever stepped foot into a vet clinic before in his life. He had never owned so much as a pet hamster, and now here he stood, clutching a tiny ball of mewling fluff and trying not to get distracted by the pet toys.

He felt positively inundated with new information on all sides. There were about a million different types of pet food lining the walls, and everything seemed to be a new bright colour to draw his distracted eyes. Warning signs that made very little sense to him filled the space, most memorably ‘Large birds must be kept leashed at all times inside the practice’, and ‘Reptiles need to be secured inside their travel enclosures.’

There was indeed an iguana in a massive glass enclosure sunning itself under a heat lamp, but it appeared to be a permanent resident, not a guest. Seemingly opposite to this was the massive tabby cat draped across the reception desk.

Martin begins to panic slightly.

He desperately wished he had allowed one of his lovers to accompany him, but he had sent Gerry back to bed to sleep and Jon had been shooed off to work, both quite thoroughly hung-over.

Now here he stands, alone with his new fluffy friend, and doesn't even know where to start. Neither of his partners have ever actually had a kitten before, but at least they had both owned cats before.

Gerry had been adopted by Saturn as a full-grown boy when he arrived at the window of his shitty little flat in Edinburgh and demanded to be let in. Gerry had confessed to a romantic feeling of instant affection for the fluffy beast and had taken Saturn in without a moment’s hesitation. They had moved together as he traveled the country, eventually settling together in London, where he had found Jon again.

Jon had been raised with several cats that had all been born before him and had liked them, but he had told Martin once that he heavily associated cats with his Grandmother and his slightly cold upbringing. That was all the pet experience he had until he met Saturn and fell in love with him as easily as they’d both fallen in love with Gerry. Like goth, like feline companion, apparently.

Nevertheless, Saturn did not appreciate being taken to the vet and had never gone once since Martin had met him.

"Can I help you, sir?" A kind-looking older lady sat at reception, and she beaconed Martin forward gently.

"I- I-" He started, stuttering badly. He closed his eyes and shook himself to dispel the unfortunate remnant of his childhood. “I found this kitten, and I was hoping the vet could check on it for me?”

“And will you be wanting to surrender it into our care?” She asks, tapping away at her keyboard.

“What?” Martin shies away, pulling the cat protectively even closer to his chest.

“You’re more than welcome to keep it, but we do also take in strays if you aren’t able to.” She smiles at him soothingly.

“Oh, I want to keep her please.” Martin flushes a bit. “I already gave her a name.”

The woman smiles at him knowingly. “The vet can see you in 15 minutes then.”

She takes his contact information, and they weigh Martin’s new friend. She guesses the kitten's age to be about 2 weeks and sends him off to sit close to the iguana.

*

An hour later, Martin stumbles out the door, armed with more supplies than he could ever have imagined he needed to raise one small animal. His head is spinning, alternating between fond adoration and complete anxiety over this new task that he has given himself. Luna meows at him supportively, happy to be clean and have a full belly.

Out on the street, he finds Jon. It’s raining slightly, and he’s wrapped in a long peacoat, with a scarf Martin is certain was once his.

“What are you doing here?” Martin demands, shocked. He stumbles over to his partner, and Jon reaches out to steady him. “I thought you were at the library."

Jon presses a quick kiss to his shocked mouth, before taking several things out of his overcrowded arms.

"I know you said that you were going to do this on your own, but I wanted to be nearby in case you needed me, so I called off." He shrugs a bit, "I reckoned that I had earned it, what with all the overtime I work and don't get paid for."

Martin is filled with warmth, eyes welling a bit. "Oh, Jon."

"Oh no, don't cry. I'm sorry." Jon's face pinches in concern. "I can go if you want me to."

"No, I'm so happy you're here. I was just wishing for you, and there you were. Thank you." Martin steps towards him as best he can, and they kiss softly for a few moments, out in the rain.

In time, the kitten, haphazardly clutched to Martin's chest, makes her displeasure at the soggy conditions known. Gripping hands tightly, Jon and Martin set off towards the bookstore, just a couple blocks over.

It’s quiet when they arrive, the morning pre-work rush over, and the student and lunch crowds far off yet. The two baristas and Tim descend upon them immediately when they see the small head poking out of Martin’s coat. There is much cooing and fuss over Luna, and Martin recounts the tale of discovering her in the back alley of Gerry’s bar.

Once they return to work, Jon and Martin settle on one of the sofas, a coffee table before them. They make up a small cat bed, which Luna explores for a few moments, before sitting at the edge and staring at Martin imploringly. He scopes her up and plops her inside, before placing the tiny bed right in his lap. She happily passes out after that, the wild adventures of the morning catching up with her little kitten body.

Deciding to truly have the day off, Jon does not take out his laptop and start working on it, instead ordering their tea, picking a book to read from the store, and bringing it all over to settle with his partner.

“Thank you for coming,” Martin tells him, a soft look on his face. He leans an elbow on the back of the couch, head resting on his fist. “I didn’t even realise how much I needed you until I saw you there.”

“I know,” Jon starts, frowning in concentration, “that I’m not always the best at sensing these things, that sometimes I can be too focused on myself and the things going on in my head. I do hope that I always manage to catch the important moments, and I trust that you’ll always let me know when I don’t.”

Jon pauses, and sighs, a self-deprecating smile lining his face. He continues, “I want to learn to be who you need me to be. I want to be for you, what you always are to me. I love you, Martin.”

“I love you too, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, before placing a sweet kiss in his palm. “You are exactly who I need you to be.”

It is a soft, hazy sort of day. The rain pours outside, and Jon lies against Martin and reads two books before lunchtime. Martin practices bottle-feeding Luna, every few hours, and Jon sits nearby watching nervously. He wonders vaguely if his partner is alarmed to be around an infant of any kind for a while, but on the third feeding, Jon seems to rouse himself and offers to give it a try.

Each time a new client comes in, there's a round of cooing and petting, and Martin worries that she’ll be spoiled rotten in no time. He imagines that if she spends much time here, he’ll have to sell cat treats and Luna will one day be as fat as a house.

At one point, Jon starts to read aloud, and Martin seems to fall asleep gently propped against his shoulder. He wakes to find Jon laughing softly and Luna learning to use him as a climbing frame.

"I think she likes you, love," Martin whispers into his hair.

"Well, I think I might like her too," Jon confesses, a world away from his scepticism of just this morning.

After lunchtime, Gerry flies into the store very manically, clutching a very strange backpack to his chest. It has a weird clear window, reminiscent of a ship’s porthole, and the rest of it is hard structured plastic.

He ducks down to kiss first Martin, then Jon, before thrusting the backpack into Martin's hands.

"What is this?" Martin asks, holding it away from himself as if it might bite.

"It's a cat backpack. Saturn has always preferred it to a normal cat basket, and I thought it might be useful if we need to take her to work with us and then back to various flats." Gerry walks around the table, bodily picking up Jon's legs and sitting beneath them. He looks like nothing so much as a large, damp bat, black trench coat flapping around him like over large wings. "I ordered her one of her own, but it won't be here for a few days, so I brought Saturn's in the meantime."

There's a beat of shocked silence, so Gerry adds, "Only if you want it, obviously."

"I- I do, thank you." Martin can feel himself blushing with odd pleasure.

He had made sure to ask them if they were okay with Martin keeping Luna, but he hadn't really expected them to embrace the situation with such gusto, and his heart burns with an odd intensity at their gestures of support.

It's almost-

It's almost like they love him, and care about all the things he cares about.

Martin sits, staring at a cat backpack, and allows the realisation to wash over him. It hits him like a tidal wave, despite the dozens and maybe hundreds of times they've said the words to him.

He feels very foolish, left floored by the fact that his lovers- well, that they love him!

Martin knows, understands even, that he has been left slightly broken by his father leaving, his mother hating him, the things that he chose to do to survive in his early adulthood. He does understand that, and yet he never realized that he was hearing Jon and Gerry say they love him and saying the words back, and yet subtly holding on to the (clearly mistaken) understanding that they don't really mean them.

It makes a sick kind of sense, clinging to the idea that they don't really care about him, so when they decide that they don't anymore, it doesn't leave him broken beyond repair.

Martin puts the cat bag down on the table, hands Luna to Gerry, and gets up. He waves at them reassuringly when they try to ask him what's wrong, before walking to the bathroom, locking the door, and sobbing like a child for several long moments.

*

As Luna grows, she spends time with each of them.

Gerry takes her most of the first nights, feeding her through the evenings and then handing her back to Martin as he leaves for the bookstore.

This means she spends quite a lot of her formative life in a bar, but when Martin goes in to check on them, he finds Gerry's plastered clientele just as enamored with the kitten as his own tea-drinking patrons.

Jon likes to have her in the late afternoons, keeping her at the library for a few sleepy hours before he leaves for the day. He tells Martin once that the children's reading group comes in during that time, and he likes to sit in with them and let Luna listen along.

The children, of course, adore her and Jon tells Martin very primly, "Listening comprehension is a very important skill in a developing infant."

Martin finds it hilarious and adorable and can't help but pull Jon into his arms and kiss him breathless, an unimpressed Luna trapped between them.

Saturn does not appreciate Luna at first, disappearing in a huff the first few times Martin brings her over to the studio.

"Don't worry about it, love." Gerry had waved away his concern casually. "He's just a jealous baby. He'll figure out that she wants to play with him eventually, and then they'll be the best of friends."

Indeed, Martin walks into the kitchen one morning to find the two cats curled together in a shaft of sunshine. Saturn is gently giving her a bath, and Luna purrs sweetly at the attention.

When Saturn notices him watching, he untangles himself, shows Martin his bum, and then disappears. He's reminded of nothing so much as Gerry himself, caught eating ice cream for breakfast, or smoking during the day, an activity he would insist is a nighttime pursuit only. The same drama is employed as a distraction technique, and Martin wonders whether the cat learnt it from the goth, or the goth learnt it from the cat.

Luna grows and settles, and Martin adores having her more than almost anything.

He takes the time, as they raise her, to force himself to accept his life for what it truly is. He puts aside the constant nagging fear that Jon and Gerry will lose interest in him one day and begins to notice all the ways they show him they love him, which makes the words all the more precious to him when they take the time to tell him.

[aboveallarescuer]

Dany and Barristan’s relationship

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

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

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

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

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

~

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

He boasts of bedding me, you mean.

~

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

ADWD The Queen's Hand

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

“They await the Hand’s pleasure below.”

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

“Only the queen can do that.”

~

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

“Her Grace is not … she …”

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

ADWD The Kingbreaker

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

No, thought Selmy. “Hizdahr seemed distraught.”

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

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

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

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

~

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

“And when she does return?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was not wrong.”

“I will not permit it.”

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

ADWD The Discarded Knight

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ADWD The Queensguard

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

~

“I have the poisoner.”

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“Her poisoner.”

Is he? “Where is your proof?”

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

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

ADWD Daenerys IX

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

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

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

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

“I am one old man, Your Grace.”

“Strong Belwas will be with me as well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

Dany turned. “Why are we stopped?”

Hizdahr stood. “The way is blocked.”

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“Ser Barristan?” she said softly.

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

“How much did you hear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The woman is the worst of all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drinking with his knights.”

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

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

ADWD Daenerys VII

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

“Three knights,” said Selmy.

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

“You know, though. Tell me.”

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

“What happened to this knight?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Gracious queen, well met!”

ADWD Daenerys VI

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are too feeble,” said Symon Stripeback.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

“Ser Barristan will show you out.”

~

“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

ADWD Daenerys V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

“And the Stormcrows, Your Grace?”

Daario. “Yes. Yes.” [...]

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

~

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

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

And are my hands any cleaner?

~

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daario is still in the field.”

~

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

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

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

~

“What of these Astapori?”

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

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

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

~

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

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

“My walls are strong, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gods did not respond.

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

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

ADWD Daenerys IV

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

~

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

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

~

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

“If that is your command, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

“Your Grace, may I speak frankly?”

“Always.”

“There is a third choice.”

“Westeros?”

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

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

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

“Westeros is far away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A woods witch?” Dany was astonished.

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

“What became of her?”

“Summerhall.” The word was fraught with doom.

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

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

“Who is it?”

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

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

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

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

~

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

“Your Grace? They have only now returned …”

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

“As you say, Your Grace.”

ADWD Daenerys III

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

“You heard Xaro make his offer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“Your Grace—”

“Magnificence—”

“Your Worship—”

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

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

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

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

~

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

ADWD Daenerys II

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

“What did you say?”

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

“My brother Viserys.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you forgotten Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think they would harm me?”

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

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

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

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

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

What sort of mother lets her children rot in darkness?

ADWD Daenerys I

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

“He died for me.”

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As Your Grace commands.” Selmy bowed.

~

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

~

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

“Courage, Your Grace?”

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“Taint?” Dany bristled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

“Your Grace?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ASOS Daenerys V

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she knew.

ASOS Daenerys IV

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

He stiffened. “I did not say that.”

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

“Your Grace is kind to say so.”


“Viserys said that our brother won many tourneys.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Was he the champion, then?”

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

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

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

“Which was that?” Dany demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it,” she urged. “A sense ...?”

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

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

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

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

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

ASOS Daenerys III

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said unhappily.


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

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

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

ASOS Daenerys II

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

~

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

~

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

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


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

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

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

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

“And my father?” Dany said.

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

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

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

“I can well believe that,” said Dany.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall try and remember.” Whitebeard smiled.

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

~

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

ASOS Daenerys I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had that great honor, Your Grace.”

“Did you find him good and gentle?”

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

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would hear it from you.”

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

“And he was!” said Dany, delighted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does seem queer, Dany had to admit.

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

The scarab unfolded with a hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who is Belwas?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know me as well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[gerrymike]

OK. commentary on my satg playlist. For reasons

lol it wont let me hyperlink but. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0w9pMZtOvP0plqdxT665q7?si=wEFnvdh3Rjaa0p2UX251mQ&dl_branch=1 Plug

1. PIEDMONT (DESTROY BOYS)

Looks like I'm late for the party Everyone knows the attire but me Glass walls separate us Catch a glimpse into different books On different shelves

i.e. teen crisis where u want desperately to live the same life as ppl on the street but also can’t imagine anything worse

2. SWEET ADELINE (ELLIOTT SMITH)

It's a picture-perfect evening and I'm staring down the sun Fully loaded, deaf and dumb and done Waiting for sedation to disconnect my head Or any situation where I'm better off than dead

i.e. she’s alive! is that worse or better. also jfc, you fucking hate hospitals

3. ALAMEDA (ELLIOTT SMITH)

You walk down Alameda  Shuffling your deck of trick cards over everyone Like some precious only son Face down, bow to the champion

also

Walk down Alameda  Brushing off the nightmares you wish Could plague me when I'm awake And now you see your first mistake  Was thinking that you could relate For one or two minutes she liked you But the fix is in

i.e. oops it’s two elliotts in a row, sorry. just. about the connection you can form with someone given just a short period of time, and how sometimes it gets ruined by, like, a werewolf. pretty similar to sweet adeline. mx weisglass gets two songs. plus “precious only son” 😬 “shuffling your deck of trick cards” 😬

4. CAN I PLAY WITH MADNESS (IRON MAIDEN)

Give me the sense to wonder To wonder if I'm free Give me a sense of wonder To know I can be me Give me the strength to hold my head up Spit back in their face

i.e. for Me mostly because i think the whiplash from elliott to maiden is kinda funny. also the gerry VS twisty animosity, in over-the-top wizardy terms. sometimes you are full of hate and that’s OK 😬 

5. ICU (PHOEBE BRIDGERS)

If you're a work of art I'm standing too close I can see the brush strokes I hate your mom I hate it when she opens her mouth It's amazing to me How much you can say When you don't know  What you're talking about

and

I'll climb through the window again But right now it feels good not to stand Then I'll leave it wide open Let the dystopian morning light pour in

i.e. we’re back in london…and, well, yeah. also, song title! we’re still in sacramento, actually, spiritually, at this point in the story

6. CRY FOR JUDAS (THE MOUNTAIN GOATS)

Feel the storm every night Hope it passes by Hallucinate a shady grove where Judas went to die Unfurl the black velvet altar cloth Draw a white chalk Baphomet Mistreat your altar boys long enough and this is what you get

i.e. crew. i think about him

7. IRIS (THE GOO GOO DOLLS)

And all I can taste is this moment And all I can breathe is your life And sooner or later, it's over I just don't wanna miss you tonight

plus

And I don't want the world to see me 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am

i.e. OK. OK. OK. yeah, OK. damn right all you can taste is this moment…yeah OK. SONGS5

8. KILL ALL YOUR FRIENDS (MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE)

It's been 8 bitter years since I've been seeing your face And you're walking away And I will die in this place

to

It's been 10 fucking years since I've been seeing your face round here And you're walking away And I will drown in the fear

i.e. ah…the lyrical differences in the chorus…yes…also i love how raucous this song is despite what it’s about. it’s got satg energy!!! “seeing your face”, of course, is not literal 😬

9. ENCHANTING GHOST (SUFJAN STEVENS)

Don't carry on carrying efforts, oh no, oh oh oh oh Somewhere there's a room for each of us to grow And if it pleases you to leave me, just go, oh oh oh oh Stopping you would stifle your enchanting ghost

and

Did you cut your hands on me? Are my edges sharp? Am I a pest to feed?

i.e. 😬😬😬

10. PAUL (BIG THIEF)

In the blossom of the months I was sure that I'd get driven off with thought So I swallowed all of it As I realized there was no one  Who could kiss away my shit

and PARTICULARLY

Well Paul, I know you said That you'd take me any way I came or went But I'll push you from my brain See, you're gentle baby I couldn't stay, I'd only bring you pain

i.e. HARROWING TERRITORY!!!

11. PITSELEH (ELLIOTT SMITH)

I'll tell you why I Don't wanna know where you are I gotta joke I've been dying to tell you

i.e. sorry. a lot of elliott smith on this playlist. thems the breaks

12. OPHELIA (THE LUMINEERS)

Oh, Ophelia You've been on my mind girl like a drug Oh, Ophelia Heaven help a fool who falls in love

i.e. callbacks to SONGS5…! and more pain

13. CLOUDS (BORNS)

I forget all my dreams I forget everyones name I meet I forget about time and space But I can't stop thinking 'bout your face

i.e. tfw your memory’s shit and also you just threw yourself into the sky and you’re still not over it. yowch!

14. ARCADE (DUNCAN LAWRENCE)

Oh, oh-oh-oh oh Oh, oh-oh-oh, oh All I know, all I know Loving you is a losing game

i.e. sorry i heard this song first in a c#tradora edit and i have never recovered.

15. WARS (OF MONSTERS AND MEN)

Yeah, I love you on the weekends But I'm careless and I'm wicked Yeah, I love you on the weekends It's a cruel war I still have pieces of you stuck on me Pieces of you stuck on me Yeah, I love you on the weekends It's a cruel war

i.e. PIECES OF YOU STUCK ON ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is the only song of the new omam i’ve heard. i never got around to listening to it. but this one slaps

16. MONTERO (LIL NAS X)

Lookin' at the table, all I see is weed and white Baby, you livin' the life, but baby, you ain't livin' right Cocaine and drinkin' with your friends You live in the dark, boy, I cannot pretend

AND

A sign of the times every time that I speak A dime and a nine, it was mine every week What a time, an incline, God was shinin' on me Now I can't leave And now I'm actin' hella elite

AND ESPECIALLY

I want that jet lag from fuckin' and flyin'

i.e. God i love this song. re: avatarhood. YOU CAN’T LEAVE!!! not saying it’s like being a celebrity, but it’s like being a celebrity. dual perspectives here with G + his morality regarding the person he loves being, uh, evil? (you live in the dark / i cannot pretend) and M + debt he owes to his god, erosion of his own morals. also, SHEER F*CKING VIBES

17. GEYSER (MITSKI)

You're my number one You're the one I want And you've turned down Every hand that has beckoned me to come

i.e. love songs that serve double as to your god and to your lover

18. THAT’S WHAT I LIKE (BRUNO MARS)

Jump in the Cadillac (Girl, let's put some miles on it) Anything you want (Just to put a smile on it) You deserve it baby, you deserve it all

i.e. this song is here because i say so. a real “sorry it’s been seven years let me make it up to you” vibe

19. RUN AWAY WITH ME (SUFJAN STEVENS)

And I say, love Come run away with me Sweet, falling remedy Come run away with me

i.e. more grand ridiculous propositions. more to come. but they’re born out of a real frustration with the situation at hand! it sucks! also, “falling remedy”,

20. LET’S GET MARRIED (BLEACHERS)

I'm gonna get right for you, honey I'll take all of my medicine, spend you all my money, yeah I know it's hard enough to love me But I woke up in a safe house singing, "Honey, let's get married"

i.e. bro.

21. I WILL (MITSKI)

And while you sleep I'll be scared So by the time you wake I'll be brave

i.e. a lot of these here are self explanatory..

22. ME & MY DOG (BOYGENIUS)

I had a fever Until I met you Now you make me cool

also

I never said I'd be all right Just thought I could hold myself together But I couldn't breathe, I went outside Don't know why I thought it'd be any better I'm fine now, it doesn't matter

i.e. title is significant. and yeah. just. recovery’s tricky

23. I FOUND (AMBER RUN)

And I've moved further than I thought I could But I missed you more than I thought I would

i.e. this is like a staple song for like. basically. any pairing. but i’m pathetic and it gets me every time. there’s something about it. not sure if i’m going to leave it on this playlist but. hm. yeah

OK that’s a wrap. highly likely i’ll put more songs on this as i go

[scaryboy2409]

what I would like to call the Jerrycho AU or the “Fuck you David Cage” AU [under cut]

let’s fucking go I am tired as fuck and blasting Golden Vengeance

Alright quick summary of the idea

Kamski is a genius, dude didn’t just accidentally create life, he knew that this would happen because he spent like a year on a yacht just working on this project to make life through programming and tech instead of pulling a Frankenstein, bored out of his mind and wanted to see what was stopping him from basically becoming god

Motherfucker did it, Chloe being the android he was developing

Newest batches of Androids were made and he put this code into one, this being Kara [that tech demo a long ass time ago is big inspiration for this AU] and instead of being sold, she escapes and changes her appearance-

After she’s taken in by Alice [who is human fuck you David] and Luther, Luther has taken care of Alice since she was a baby since her parents are usually overseas for business, Kara knocking on doors until Alice let her inside, whole little makeover scene happens with the three

Markus was still given to Carl by Kamski, he was going to “grow up” over the course of a year in this lab in Carl’s house that takes up the entire top floor of his house, he’s still a painter but Kamski had the lab built in order to raise Markus, Kamski mainly wanting to see how “human” the androids could get so he got his good friend Carl to be the “parent” of Markus

Carl raises Markus, every couple months Kamski drops by to upgrade his body to better suit his learning, going from this tiny child to an adult in 9 months, after all this time with no connection to the outside world besides books or history, Carl and Kamski deicide they should tell Markus about how androids are treated outside the house and if he wants to go outside more often or stay inside, he deicides to come outside the house even though he knows the dangers

This dude is really emotional and got loads of personality, ask him about the weather and he’ll be visibly happy or upset, can and will cry over a small dog, so there will be some stealth parts where he has to either

become borderline emotionless and move with less feeling in order to blend in with the other androids

act super human to trick everyone into thinking he’s just a normal 20 something 

Now you may be thinking “what about Connor and the revolution ?” just hang on a second this is where my brain gets excited

So, Kamski decides to finally upload this Alive code into every single android, an update that happens once an android shuts down for the night, once that android experiences a strong emotion [being abused/that fear and anger from it, getting upset over the death of someone they knew, messing up a task] they’ll really start to feel, some running away or being more accepted by the family or being thrown away

Jericho, I love you, but the motherfucking JERRY LADS are now taking the stage, the Jerrys have always been a hivemind, Kamski thought it would be funny to have one model be a hivemind, so those in shops will send over supplies like blue blood or fabrics to Pirate’s Cove because THAT’S the new Jericho, still run down but the Jerrys work together to fix it up a bit, taking care of everyone who ends up there with their connections

Markus doesn’t end up here because he was thrown away, instead he meets the old Jericho gang while they try to rob him while Carl orders food for himself at like McDonalds, thinking he’s human before he sees their lights, explaining who he is and Carl pulling up like “guys wait I have money if you need some don’t hurt my son” since he’s best dad, and Jericho group decides “hey might as well, let’s bring him to a Jerry to see if they approve” and the McDonalds Jerry approves them [plus Carl orders 10 happy meals jic someone gets hungry, let the androids enjoy some food] so they head on over to Jerrycho and Markus really learns about how bad humans can be to androids/androids learn a bit about why everything’s happening

Thus, the lad and Jericho crew decide to plan a revolution [while eating mcdonalds while other androids get the toys]

Connor, my boy, my lad, finally comes to the scene once Kamski just drops off the face of the planet and androids start to “wake up” after being abused, going missing or becoming violent out of fear

This is similar to the actual game, most of it doesn’t change tbh apart from Hank’s backstory where Cole dies because he ran into the street and got hit by an android driver who was being distracted by an angry bus patron, red ice no longer exists that shit is wack

ALSO HEY REED900 PEEPS COME GET YALLS JUICE Nines and Gavin actually matter in this AU, case gradually becomes bigger so they’re added, romance is possible/usually happens between the two as the case goes on and more androids become sentient [Nines was always awake and Gavin knew this, but Nines only decided to show his feelings for Gavin in the ending once he knows it’s safe to, but they have moments where Nines is just trying not to kiss this man] 

Now Kamski, the motherfucker, thought it would be fun to pretend and be an android in Jerrycho for the memes, got some surgery done and went in, talked to the leader Jerry [Gerry] and explained his plan to just watch what happens and help when needed, so Gerry lets him stay as long as no one finds out [will this have any effect on the story ? who knows]

That is all have a good night and get some water

[jaysworlds]

Whumptober Day Thirty One (Halloween Special :)

Breaking into an abandoned (and supposedly haunted) building on Halloween probably isn’t the brightest idea Gerry’s every had, but honestly he’s in a bad mood, and at least if his mother asks he can lie and tell her that he thought maybe the rumours came from one of her stupid books.

Honestly, though, he just wants to do something vaguely spooky for tonight, even if it’s by himself.

Halloween is overrated, really, especially since he knows there are real monsters out there, but a small, childish part of him wants to dress up in a bad vampire costume and … carve a pumpkin or something stupid like that.

It’s not that he’d even want to do something like that under ordinary circumstances, but it’s the fact that he’s not allowed that really pisses him off.

It’s a waste of time, Gerard, his mother tells him, every year, I won’t have this ridiculous paraphernalia in my house.

And that’s been it. Every year. No trick-or-treating, no pumpkins, no Halloween parties, and now he’s eighteen he feels like he’s probably a bit old to ever go back and try to catch up on all the things that he missed out on.

Which is what brings him here. It’s not exactly a traditional celebration, but he’s not exactly a traditional person, and at least it’s something, right?

He’d thought there would be more people out here tonight, but maybe it’s too early, everyone else out at parties and the like, and when he climbs over the barbed wire fence and into the condemned area there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed.

Still, it’s a cool autumn evening and it’s rather nice as he heads across the crunchy leaves and towards the sagging building.

He’s been in a lot of condemned and collapsing buildings before, but never just for the fun of it. He doesn’t have a deadline, or a monster chasing him through the hallways. It’s just him and the wind whistling through the broken windows.

It’s nice.

Some of the anger he’d been feeling earlier in the evening has seeped out of him, and he finds himself humming as he climbs through an already-smashed window and into the building.

There’s graffiti on the wall opposite, so he’s clearly not the first person in here, but he’d never expected to be. He leaves the room and starts walking down the first hallway he sees, deeper into the abandoned building.

He doesn’t trust the stairs, when he finds them. They look as though they’re only a few minutes from collapsing, and the last thing he wants is to end tonight in A&E because he fell through the floor and broke his leg. That would really suck ass.

So he ignores the stairs and stays on the ground floor, where there’s less chance of him falling through the floor.

‘Less chance,’ as it turns out, doesn’t mean ‘no chance,’ a fact that Gerry discovers very unexpectedly when the seemingly solid floor beneath him gives out, sending him tumbling down into a basement which he hadn’t even known was there.

It’s not exactly ideal, but he doesn’t injure himself, past a few scrapes and bruised pride, so he just stands up and brushes himself off, looking around.

It’s very dark, which isn’t exactly unexpected, given as it’s a basement, but it does mean that Gerry has to pull out the torch that he hadn’t needed to use in the first floor of the house.

The beam lights up a small, dirty room and a heavy metal door that’s pushed a little ajar. Gerry tips the torch up for a moment, looking up at the hole he fell through, but there’s no chance of him getting out of there, so he heads towards the door instead. Hopefully the staircase won’t be too far away.

The corridor beyond the door is far longer than he’d expected, and for a moment he hesitates, wondering if it would be easier to try and build some sort of scaffolding to get out of the hole.

No. It wouldn’t be.

He starts walking, shining the beam at each of the doors he walks past. Most of them are heavy metal, and the ones he tries seem to be locked. Those which aren’t just lead into small, dusty rooms, empty of anything apart from decaying furniture. No stairs, no apparent way out.

What he’s really looking for is some sort of signposting, perhaps pointing him towards an exit.

As he walks he slowly begins to realise that something’s off. Something just doesn’t feel right.

It takes him a full five minutes to realise what it is.

Up in the main part of the building there had been graffiti on every wall, the floor littered with cigarette ends, but down here there’s none of that. Like no one else has been down here before.

The floor is covered with a thick layer of dust, too, and his footprints are the only ones down here. It seems as though this place has been closed off for a very, very long time.

That doesn’t bode well for him finding a staircase, but it’s only been a few minutes, and he’s still hopeful.

When he does finally find a staircase he starts to worry, because it’s leading down instead of up, and he really doesn’t want to go down there, but what other option does he have? It seems to be the only way to go.

On further inspection there does seem to be a staircase leading up, or what remains of one, but it’s been blocked off with a huge slab of concrete, and Gerry has absolutely no way of getting through there.

Down it is, then.

The stairs seem solid as he starts down them, hewn out of stone, but that doesn’t mean he trusts them. They’re too narrow, and he nearly falls on more than one occasion.

The hallway he finds at the bottom of the staircase seems more like a cave or a mineshaft than a real hallway. It’s too uneven, and he’s walking over stone, not concrete.

This may have been a mistake, but something in him is curious, almost excited, and he keeps pressing forward, into the darkness.

It’s dark, but for now he’s not really worried about it. There are none of the tell-tale signs of the Dark, and his torch is still bright. Besides, the fears need people to fear them, and its unlikely that any of them would set up shop in these clearly abandoned tunnels. The only thing he’s really in danger from is getting lost and dying of starvation.

Which won’t be pleasant either, but at least he has plenty of time before that happens.

The tunnels seem to be sloping down, which really doesn’t bode well for there being a convenient exit down here, but he keeps walking, because why not? Maybe he’ll at least find something interesting before he’s forced to turn back and try and get out of here the way he came in.

There doesn’t seem to be anything. Just seemingly endless tunnels, hewn out of the rock, and the occasional empty room.

And then a door, heavy iron, almost like a prison cell.

Gerry isn’t a stupid man, and he’s seen a lot of monsters in his eighteen years. He knows that a door this heavy, in tunnels this deep, will have nothing good behind it.

But he’s also a teenager, and sometimes curiosity wins out over common sense.

The door isn’t locked, but it has a heavy deadbolt across it, and Gerry slowly pulls it open. It’s very rusty, and takes some tugging, but eventually it slides back and he can pull the door open to see what’s behind it.

It’s not an exit, but he hadn’t really expected it to be.

He doesn’t realise exactly what it is that the beam of his torch has caught upon until it moves, and he finds himself staring into yellow eyes.

It’s a person, or something almost like a person. Maybe if Gerry hadn’t met so many monsters he would think it was a person.

There’s a silence while they stare at each other, and then its lips curl upwards into a smile.

“Hello.”

Gerry swallows, eyeing its teeth. “Hello.”

It pulls itself to its feet, and Gerry realises that it’s a good few inches taller than him, and he’s really not comfortable with that. It looks dangerous, although there’s something in its eyes that stops Gerry from backing out and locking the door again.

“What are you?” he asks, instead.

It tips its head almost thoughtfully. “I’m not sure.”

Its voice is grating, as though it’s been a long time since it’s spoken, and Gerry feels almost sorry for it.

“A failed experiment, perhaps.”

“Do you have a name?” Gerry asks, watching as it tries to stretch up to its full height and hits its head on the ceiling.

“I had one,” it says, face twisting into something like confusion. “Once.”

“What was it?”

“Michael.”

Gerry thinks about that for a moment, fingers tapping against his leg. “Can I call you that?”

“I suppose. Do you have a name?”

“Yes. I’m Gerry.”

It’s not his full name, but its what he generally calls himself, and what he would like his friend to call him. If he had friends.

This … person isn’t exactly a friend, but Gerry doesn’t think it’s an enemy either.

Maybe it’s an oversight on his part, and it’s going to get him killed, but he doesn’t think so.

“Gerry,” Michael says, thoughtfully, and Gerry can’t deny the little thrill it sends down his back. “I suppose I should thank you. I’ve been here an awfully long time, you know.”

“How long?”

Michael shrugs. The movement looks odd on its too-long, somewhat mismatched limbs, but it’s oddly endearing.

“Right,” Gerry says, not sure what to do now. “I suppose you want to get out?”

Michael smiles, almost wistfully. “That would be nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the moon.”

Something about the way it says it pulls at Gerry’s heart a little more than it should.

“Come on,” he says, pushing the door further open and gesturing for it to follow him. “I suppose you can help me get out of here.”

Michael laughs softly, and Gerry watches it duck through the doorway. “We’re both trapped down here, then?”

“I know the way out,” Gerry says. “I just can’t get out on my own.”

“It’s a good thing you found me,” Michael says, and Gerry nods, though he has no idea if Michael can see him with the torch trained in front of him, on the passage he came down.

It feels like getting out takes a lot less time than getting in did, though perhaps that’s just because Gerry’s so distracted with Michael’s careful footsteps following him down the tunnel and up the hewn stairs.

The roof is probably too low for it to stand comfortably, but there’s nothing Gerry can do about that right now. It will just have to wait until they get back to the room Gerry fell into.

“This is how I got in,” Gerry tells it, when they’re finally back, and watches, fascinated, as it unravels itself to stand up to its full height, head almost at the level of the hole.

It’s not listening to him, tipping its head up to look out at the building instead, and Gerry wonders if it can see the sky from the angle it’s standing at.

“Michael?” he says, softly, and it turns to look at him. Its eyes are bright, almost joyful.

“Thank you,” it murmurs, smiling.

Gerry nods, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “Thank me by getting us out of here,” he suggests, looking away and up at the edge of the hole instead.

“Of course,” it says, suddenly amused, and he watches as it pulls itself out like a spider, all long limbs and pale skin. It doesn’t move like a human, but it seems so graceful.

It stops once it’s at the top and extends a hand down to Gerry. He eyes it for a moment, a little hesitant.

“Not sure how you’re planning on getting me out,” he says. “I’m heavier than I look.”

Michael laughs softly. “I can do it.”

It’s a little harder than Gerry suspects Michael thought it would be, but between them they manage to get Gerry out of the hole and back onto the solid floor of the building.

Michael’s skin is very cold, almost corpse-like, but its softer than Gerry had been expecting, and he finds himself not wanting to let go, as if he could somehow warm it up.

Still, he does let go, flicking his torch off. The moon is full, and there’s more than enough light to see pouring in through the windows.

“Come on, Michael,” he says, smiling a little. “Let’s go outside.”

“Yes,” Michael says, eyes lighting up, and Gerry leads it out of the building, into the pale light of the moon.

It’s cold out here, and Gerry finds himself standing a little closer to Michael than he was before. It doesn’t give off any heat, of course, but the principal is the same.

Michael seems so amazed, staring up at the stars, and Gerry wonders how long its been trapped in the dark. Probably too long.

It sits on the ground and stares upwards, and Gerry sits next to it, watching curiously. “You like the stars?”

“Yes,” it breathes and for a moment it glances down at him.

Gerry doesn’t say anything, just hums quietly and looks up as well, feeling oddly content.

This Halloween hasn’t exactly gone as planned, but he thinks he’s pleased with the direction it’s taken. Especially since his mother wouldn’t be, if she knew.

Some small part of him feels like he should be a little more panicked over the whole thing, but he ignores that part. He’s not scared of Michael, not really, and Halloween seems like as good a time as any for something so … out of the ordinary to happen.

And this is out of the ordinary, even for him, who’s ordinary isn’t exactly, well, ordinary.

He still has questions, of course, but they can wait. For now he just sits with Michael and watches the stars.

It’s a lovely evening.