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"Amsterdam’s roofs have just been converted into a giant sponge that will make the city more climate resilient.
The Dutch have always been famous for their ability to control water, born out of the necessity of their homeland, much of which is below sea level.
Now, their expert water management skills are transforming the city skyline in the capital city of Amsterdam from one of terracotta tile, concrete, and shingles into green grass and brown earth.
It’s part of a new climate-resiliency trend in architecture and civic planning known as the ‘sponge city concept,’ in which a garden of water-loving plants, mosses, and soil absorbs excess rainwater before feeding it into the building for use in flushing toilets or watering plants on the ground.
If heavy rains are predicted, a smart valve system empties the stored rainwater into the municipal storm drains and sewers in advance of the weather, allowing the roof to soak up water and reduce flooding in the city.
In this way, the rooftops of buildings can be wrung out and filled up just like a sponge.
In Amsterdam, 45,000 square meters, or 11 acres of flat metropolitan rooftops have already been fitted with these systems, and the contracting firms behind the technology say they make sense in dry climates like Spain just as much as in wet climates like Amsterdam...
A 4-year project of different firms and organizations called Resilio, the resilient network for smart climate adaptive rooftops, rolled out thousands of square meters of sponge city technology into new buildings. As with many climate technologies, the costs are high upfront but tend to result in savings from several expenditures like water utilities and water damage, over a long-enough time horizon...
All together, Amsterdam’s sponge capacity is over 120,000 gallons.
“We think the concept is applicable to many urban areas around the world,” Kasper Spaan from Waternet, Amsterdam’s public water management organization, told Wired Magazine. “In the south of Europe–Italy and Spain–where there are really drought-stressed areas, there’s new attention for rainwater catchment.”
Indeed the sponge city concept comes into a different shade when installed in drought-prone regions. Waters absorbed by rooftops during heavy rains can be used for municipal purposes to reduce pressure on underground aquifers or rivers, or be sweated out under the Sun’s rays which cools the interior of the building naturally.
Additionally, if solar panels were added on top of the rooftop garden, the evaporation would keep the panels cooler, which has been shown in other projects to improve their energy generation.
“Our philosophy in the end is not that on every roof, everything is possible,” says Spaan, “but that on every roof, something is possible.”
Matt Simon, reporting on the Resilio project for Wired, said succinctly that perhaps science fiction authors have missed the mark when it came to envisioning the city of the future, and that rather than being a glittering metropolis of glass, metal, and marble as smooth as a pannacotta, it will look an awful lot more like an enormous sculpture garden."
-via Good News Network, May 15, 2024
#amsterdam#netherlands#green roof#blue roof#city planning#urban#urban landscape#flood#climate change#climate action#climate emergency#climate hope#solarpunk#hope posting#go green#eco friendly#climate adaptation#sponge city#urban planning#good news#hope#rooftop garden
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Hello everyone,
Brazil is underwater, and we come here asking you for your help.
As some of you may know, the state of Rio Grande do Sul (RS) has been getting torrential rains since last Monday (29/04/24).
In four days, it has rained 436,2 millimeters (17,2 inches), which’s triple the normal amount in a month, which is 140 millimeters (5,5 inches)
More than two great rivers in our region had their volume duplicated, or sometimes, triplicated in size.
This means all the cities that are close to these rivers ended up completely underwater
There were more than 110 towns flooded and the estimate is that more than half a million people have been affected by this climate disaster. There are also thousands of people who are arriving in my city (the state capital, Porto Alegre) as climate refugees, coming from communities displaced by the floods.
Through this unprecedented tragedy we have been really happy to see entire communities mobilizing to help others. Still, there are people who have lost everything, especially those in marginalized communities living in precarious, unsafe and unsanitary housing.
That’s where you come in. We need money. Money to buy food, clothes, medicine, basic hygiene products, mattresses so that refugees have a place to sleep, basically everything.
Right now, the biggest demand is drinkable water: my city is almost completely out of water, because the water treatment stations have been flooded.
We understand that you may be able to give very little, but also what is little to you means A Lot more to us. Just a dollar is enough to buy 5 liters of fresh water.
Here are the links for international donations:
(these donations are managed by people I know and trust. if you can, donate to them and not the government, but I’ll include that below as well. we don't trust the government to do anything right now, basically)
This is another option:
Government donations:
And here is some international news coverage of what’s happening:
PLEASE share and donate anything you can. Everything is greatly appreciated.
#donations#please donate#signal boost#climate crisis#climate catastrophe#natural disasters#brazil#im desperate and i dont know what to do#this is a living fucking nightmare#idk how else to tag this but yeah#please share
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winters widow | chapter iv
Summary: The journey to the capital brings tests that bring our lord and lady closer which results in Lord James giving her his word.
Warning: Arranged Marriage. Storm/Severe Weather. Emotional Distress.
Word Count: 1096
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A/N: These two have my heart. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B
Winter’s Widow: @lanabuckybarnes | @sapphirebarnes | @sebastians-love | @mrsnikstan | @learisa | @railmesebstan | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @barnesxstan | @ghalouha | @mrsstuckyboo | @g-nobody
Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick
On the sixth day of the journey, Lord James, the bannermen, and yourself neared the borders of the neighboring land. Suddenly, a storm swept across the plains, rain lashing down and turning the ground into a quagmire.
Tents were hastily pitched as everyone sought shelter from the downpour. Huddled under a small canopy with Lord James and a few of his closest advisors, the tension in the air was thick as the storm raged. Illuminating the worried looks of the soldiers and servants, the lightning split the sky, and thunder drummed.
You couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness in the discomfort of the situation as you weathered the storm with Lord James.
“I don’t like the look of this weather,” one of the advisors muttered, their gaze fixed on the sheets of rain outside.
“It will pass,” Lord James reassured before turning to you, speaking with a hint of concern. “Are you holding up alright, Lady Romanoff?”
Despite the unease settling in your stomach, you offered a reassuring smile as you nodded. “I’m fine, my lord. It’s just a bit of rain.”
He glanced down at you, a flicker of something passed through his eyes before he placed another layer of pelt around your shoulders. “Stay wrapped. We’ll resume the journey as soon as it lets up.”
As the storm continued, raging around you, you felt Lord James’ presence closer to you. His breath was warm against your ear. “Have no fear,” he spoke firmly, his voice steady. “This storm is no stranger. I was born amidst such tempests.”
Resonating deeply within you, his words carried a weight of resilience. Looking at him in the dim light from the flickering torches, you swore you saw a glimpse of the man behind the titles. His expression softened slightly as he met your gaze.
“You’ve faced many trials,” you acknowledged, your voice audible to only Lord James over the howling wind.
A faint smile touched his lips. “And, I have survived them all.”
Hours passed in comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional clap of thunder. Leaving behind a soggy landscape, the storm began to subside. Albeit at a slow pace, the decision was made to press on with cautious optimism due to the muddied roads.
Still guarded, the aftermath of the storm mirrored the newfound shift in your relationship with Lord James as you rode alongside him again.
~
The sun hung high in the skin, a golden hue over the hills as your entourage continued the journey south. Riding alongside Lord James, Honeybreeze and Alpine trotted gracefully in tandem. The days grew warmer, and a gentle breeze carried the familiar scent of wildflowers through the air.
Glancing over at Lord James, you noticed his jaw set in determination as his eyes scanned the horizon. His focus mirrored his reputation as the White Wolf. Clearing his throat, he jolted you out of your trance.
Realizing your eyes were locked onto his side profile, you averted your gaze and offered a sheepish smile. “My apologies, my lord,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced over at you briefly, amusement in his eyes before he returned his focus ahead, “No harm done, Lady Romanoff,” there was a hint of a smile in his reply. “Just keep your attention on the road ahead as we enter more contested lands.”
You nodded, grateful for his understanding. Turning your focus back to the road stretching ahead, the landscape shifted around you.
“Tell me about your sisters,” Lord James prompted, his voice carrying above the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt.
You faced him, a curious expression on your face. He caught you off guard with his inquiry, but you welcomed the opportunity to share a piece of your world with him.
A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you began telling him about your sisters. Lord James listened intently, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he took in the details of your sisters’ strengths and characters. Bridging the gap between you both, the conversation flowed easily between you.
~
As the weeks wore on, the relentless pace began to take its toll as the sun was high overhead. There was a growing weariness in your limbs. Honeybreeze’s usually smooth gait seemed to jar your bones.
Ever vigilant, Lord James noticed your discomfort. Concern flickering in his gaze as he looked at you, the furrow between his brows deepened. “Lady Romanoff,” he began in a gentle tone. “You appear fatigued. Perhaps riding in the carriage would be best.”
Shaking your head, you forced a smile. “Just a bit tired, my lord. I’m fine, I can remain here, with Honeybreeze and yourself.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I appreciate your desire to ride,” he admitted. “But, I worry about your safety, I would feel more at ease if you traveled in the carriage for a while.”
You hesitated, his genuine concern tore into your steadfast decision. Your gaze moved down to Honeybreeze. Just say you were about to respond, Lord James continued, his voice gentle yet persuasive.
“I promise you,” he continued. “I will keep Honeybreeze close to me. She will receive the best care and attention. You have my word… my lady.”
Resonating with sincerity, his words made it difficult to refute his earnest pleas. Gazing into his eyes, you saw a depth of concern in the ocean color, touching you deeply– a concern that went beyond his obligation.
You relented with a small nod after a moment of internal struggle. “As you wish, my lord,” you acquiesced quietly. “I shall travel by carriage for a while.”
Relief flickered across Lord James’ features. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, offering an appreciative smile. “Your decision will serve us both well.”
As you dismounted Honeybreeze, he signaled for the carriage to be prepared. You gave Honeybreeze a reassuring pat before climbing into the waiting vehicle.
Through the window, you watched cautiously as Lord James took the reins of Honeybreeze. He gently guided her alongside Alpine, true to his word, he kept her close.
You settled onto the cushioned seat, a surprising sense of relief as it offered a respite from the constant jostling.
As the procession moved forward, the gentle sway of the carriage lulled you into a state of relaxation. Resting your head against the window, you noticed occasional glances from Lord James toward the carriage.
Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself a moment of rest. You were comforted by the knowledge that your lord– your future husband, was looking out and protecting both you and Honeybreeze.
---
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#winters widow series#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky x y/n#bucky x female reader#bucky fanfic#james bucky barnes#bucky fic#winter soldier#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x romanoff!reader#regency#regency au#period drama au#lord!bucky#lady!reader
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As the Sun Forever Sets - Terror in the time of the Telegraph
It’s nuts I’ve been working on this game for over 4 years at this point. As the Sun Forever Sets is for sure my biggest and most capital G Game. It even has a publisher and everything. It’s also my first game! Wow! It's been tough, though. We'll get into it!
Britain, 1899
As the Sun Forever Sets is a survival horror sandbox based on the War of the Worlds, utilises the Forged in the Dark ruleset, and is about ordinary people surviving a Martian invasion of Victorian era Britain. We play to find out how they rise to meet the storm of destruction, the ways in which it shapes them, and if they survive to see a new world emerge, or die amidst the rubble of the old.
In the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign, the British Empire stretches across a quarter of the globe, and under the guise of genteel progress and civilisation, it commits theft and murder on a global scale. Britain itself is on the verge of the modern era, the Second Industrial Revolution pushing people into the cities to drive the factories and forges owned by the greedy industrialist class. But beyond the common causes of humanity and unbeknownst to the men who impose their rule over it, vast wheels have begun their inexorable turning. Across 40 million miles of void, the Martian invasion hurtles Earthward. Screaming across the stars, instruments of annihilation unlike anything believed possible lie ready for assembly, alongside the Martians themselves. They are truly inscrutable beings, but their intent is as clear as it is terrible – they will suck the literal and figurative blood from the Earth, and nothing less than the complete and utter subjugation of humanity will be enough.
If this sounds cool to you... well, you gotta wait, it’s not done yet. Sorry! But you can come and hang out in the Sick Sad Games discord, where I post excerpts and occasionally organise playtests.
The Hard Times of (Old) England
Be warned, this is a long one - over 4000 words. It turns out when you work on a game for a long time, you have a lot to say about it. Strap in, grab your gin and laudanum, and let’s destroy an evil empire just by existing.
Thanks to the wonderful @hendrik-ten-napel for taking a look over my disorganised thoughts.
(Potential) Spoilers for: The Bear, The War of the Worlds, The Last of Us, Children of Men, Threads, When the Wind Blows, Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs, The Thing.
Roleplay in the Pre-Post-Apocalypse
TTRPGs love a good post apocalypse. It's understandable - gas up and ride glorious on the legally distinct fury road, run a commune of like minded weirdos in the ashes of the old world, go digging through retro-futuristic ruins to find retro-futuristic treasures. Who wouldn't want to do any of these? But As the Sun Forever Sets is about an apocalypse as it begins, not after it’s over.
There's a lot of crossover, of course. There’s a focus on similar things - disaster and spectacle, relationships and trust, scavenging and survival. But the bonus of the world not yet being over, is that we get to roleplay out dealing with that terrible, inexorable reality.
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HG Wells wrote a book about blowing up all the places he used to live, and it's a banger. I was surprised to find there wasn't a TTRPG based on the War of the Worlds, being the tantalisingly public domain ur-alien invasion story it is. As the Sun Forever Sets is very explicitly an adaption of it, to the point that before I came up with the name it almost got released as The War of the Worlds: The Roleplaying Game (lol). I'm glad I didn't, doing my own thing has meant both me and the people playing are way more free to fuck around without the expectation that it must adhere to a canon.
The book is good, strikingly modern feeling in parts, and obviously massively influential - so much science fiction can be traced back to our nameless Narrators tormentuous trek across the south of England. But Wells’ prose is typical Victorian - overly wordy and florid (any book that contains the word “ejaculating” meaning “to shout” might be difficult for readers who aren’t used to the style), so when it comes to recommending an actual adaptation, there’s only one true king. Whenever I bring up Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds, the usual reaction from anyone outside of the UK is to say "... they made a what?"
My mom was very keen to get me into musicals, but nothing really stuck until she tried this, the secret best War of the Worlds adaption (sorry Steven Spielberg, but you were doomed from the start.) It's the bombast and drama you'd expect from a disaster film, the horror and pathos of Wells’ classic, all expressed through vivid narration and sick nasty prog rock - wailing guitar and crunchy 70's synths operating at full effect. It's not completely faithful to the book, it doesn't matter. It’s the best.
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Ah yes, the film bro's favourite mid 2000's film. Did you see that sick oner? That’s six minutes without a cut, that means the film’s good right? Children of Men is a slow burn apocalypse, dressed up like a world that’s already ended. Plenty has been written about all the little ways the film is prescient about the state of the UK - the slow belly-crawl into facism and nationalist fervour, the particularly British decay and class divide exacerbated by the desperate times, even the willful ignorance and the explicit sense that everyone’s just given up, it’s all here.
All that thematic stuff seems like it’d be really relevant to As the Sun Forever Sets, right?
Unfortunately, we are in fact here to talk about the long takes. The unbroken moment-to-moment action scenes evoke The War of the Worlds to a tee. Theo navigates danger with the same fraught tactical tension as War of the World's Narrator - dashing between doorways, groping for an axe handle in the darkness, desperately trying to start a car as assailants sprint towards him. What’s the best way out of this situation? How do I get from here to where I need to be? He lives his life in rolling, fleeting 5 second intervals, because he’s forgotten what it means to think in the long term - about the future, and what it might hold.
I was always fascinated and terrified by the idea of nuclear war. I guess it comes from watching a lot of 90’s disaster movies, but those are often ultimately fun romps where the day gets saved at the end, or at least the main characters find themselves alive and well at the end of the saga of destruction. Instead, As the Sun Forever Sets asks you to reflect on the horror and sadness present at the end of the world. Things are going to change forever, and change is always hard.
There’s not many clips of Threads and When the Wind Blows online, so it’s a little hard to demonstrate their particular nuclear inflected pitch black darkness. They’re grim - Grave of the Fireflies grim - differing in focus but united in their horrible impact.
When the Wind Blows is a story of an elderly couple living in rural England when the bombs drop, based on the comic by Raymond Briggs. Yes, The Snowman’s Raymond Briggs made a film about 2 lovely grandparents dying of acute radiation poisoning. Jim and Hilda are completely unprepared for what’s to come, their only reference is the Blitz - terrible in its own way, but not a patch on the scale of death they’re about to experience.
They survive the blast and wait for the good old British Government to arrive to save them, as it did in the 40’s. Slowly liquifying in the nuclear fallout, they hold onto each other and keep their spirits up, eventually making the decision to clamber into the paper sacks they mistakenly believed might protect them from the blast. Clutching their medical cards and birth certificates (for the ambulance, sure to be along any minute now), Jim mumbles painfully through a final prayer that morphs into a misremembered Charge of the Light Brigade, and they slip into a perpetual slumber together.
The most tragic part is Jim and Hilda’s unshakeable faith that their government is there for them - ready to catch them when they fall - borne out of Britain’s post WW2 renewal but absent in the 1980’s of the film’s plot, and the Britain of today. It’s a masterful film, shockingly sad, but the shock is the point.
Instead of aiming for your heart, Threads aims for the head. It’s a drama that aims to be as accurate as possible to government research into what a nuclear war might look like, plainly and forensically setting it out without any thought of softening these hard facts for its audience. Rather than focusing on a personal story, Threads flits around several groups of characters - minor government figures and ordinary families. Like Jim and Hilda, they too are woefully unprepared for the end of the world, and those in charge know there’s no way the UK could ever be ready for such a thing.
As mundane life is quietly intruded upon by news updates detailing far off geopolitics and the subsequent escalation that leads to war, the tension rises subtly then suddenly, like a spacecraft on the launchpad. People we’ve seen pottering about their normal lives are maimed and evaporated in the subsequent shocking nuclear exchange, whilst stark statistics flash on the screen - the hundreds of thousands instantly killed, how long the millions more fatally irradiated have left to live, the woefully inadequate tonnage of stockpiled food to feed those who survive. Each zero hits like a gutpunch.
And when you think the film must nearly be over, it keeps going. 1 week later. 1 year later. Threads grinds to an excruciating halt 13 years after the bombs fall, after year upon year of failed harvests from a destroyed earth barely able to support a population level equivalent to medieval Britain. At one point, mute children watch a warped and scratchy VHS of classic kids educational programme Words and Pictures on a TV powered by a steam generator.
The friendly presenter spells out the word “cat” through the thick veil of static, accompanied by a picture of one - an animal the children watching will likely never see. As they watch with blank, emotionless faces, the image of the cat fades to one of its skeletal form. “A cat’s skeleton” the presenter enthusiastically intones. The unrelenting bleakness might feel like a punishment, but Threads doesn’t mean it to be. This is just what would happen, after all.
Love in the time of the Heat-ray
In fact, someone in a Reddit thread said As the Sun Forever Sets “wasn’t just endless misery” and I’m glad that comes across. I wanted there to be moments of tenderness, quiet joy, anger, frustration, love and loss to punctuate the action and the horror.
People are messy and complicated even at the best of times. Under pressure, this is amplified a thousandfold - a little crush becomes a whirlwind romance, small disagreements become full blown fights, and not fully understanding someone might transform them into an enemy in your head.
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The little town Bill conspires to be left alone in ends up comparatively untouched by the horrors going on elsewhere, as untouched as anywhere can be in The Last of Us. He hated the world anyways - so he isolates himself as he prepares for it to end, and it makes sense that his life only really begins as the show does. When Frank arrives, Bill is forced not to just engage with the broader world outside of his little enclave, but in the act of truly living in it.
There’s no prepper’s guide to romance. A human heart can’t be field stripped for maintenance. By choosing to exist as a vulnerable, emotional being, Bill opens himself up to a different kind of apocalypse. Frank becomes the flowering vines that slowly crack the flat concrete wall of a world that Bill created, and when those vines die, the wall can only crumble. It’s so fraught and lovely, delicately yet absolutely gut wrenching. At least their apocalypse was one they decided to have together.
“I’m old. I’m satisfied. And you… were my purpose.” - "Long Long Time”, The Last of Us
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While several of my TTRPG writing friends were gushing about how great The Bear is, Em Acosta, author of the wonderfully inspirational Exile pointed out something super interesting - a lot of the show is about how you deal with people you’ve found yourself stuck with. No matter how much they piss you off, or whatever they do wrong, there’s something that means you can’t ever let them truly exit your life. They’re there, like it or not, until the bitter end.
Turns out this is very similar to how As the Sun Forever Sets handles Player Character relationships. In both it and The Bear, nothing’s ever truly resolved between characters - every relationship is like a cooking pot perpetually simmering. You might’ve apologised, made a truce, or just ignored your issues for so long that they seem to disappear, but no matter what, you’ve got to keep your eye on that pot.
Because suddenly a crisis will hit, and someone says something, or a diceroll comes up bad and all of a sudden the pot boils over and things are once again fucked. You storm out, start screaming, throw a fork. Even in the worst case scenario where a Character leaves because they’re absolutely sick of the rest of the group, they might show up at the end of the game for one last scene. Who knows how you’ll all feel at the end - nothing is ever truly fixed, and only the dead are truly broken.
“I quit, chef, is what’s going on. You are an excellent chef. You are also a piece of shit. This isn’t on me. Goodbye." - “The Review”, The Bear
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I’ve talked about The Thing a little before, John Carpenters sweaty, paranoid antarctic masterpiece. Along with the incredible effects and the (mostly) restrained use of action and bombast, the thing that makes... The Thing work is that the staff of the stricken research base lack any and all emotional intelligence.
It’s sort of the ultimate reverse Dudes Rock movie. Nobody knows anything about each other, so when their bodies and minds are colonised by the titular chameleon from outer space, they’re just another stranger to the rest of the crew. I’d ask you a question only you would know the answer to, but uh.. I don’t know anything about you. Whoops!
Over the course of the film, the whole operation falls apart as they try their best to work together to deal with the alien interloper, but their complete lack of ability to trust or relate to each other - present even before the crisis they find themselves in - is their ultimate downfall.
That final excellent shot of MacReady and Childs sat in the snow at the end of the film as their compound burns around them is the subject of a lot of unnecessary theorycrafting youtube videos, which kind of misses the point. Each suspects the other, but ultimately it doesn’t matter if one of them’s a Thing. One stranger is the same as another. Why bother getting to know each other now?
“Well...What do we do?” “Why don't we just... wait here for a little while? See what happens.” - Childs and Macready, The Thing
Science Fiction Revenge Fantasy
I’m not a historian, but the parallels between 1899 and now are pretty plain to see. Increasing class disparity, a lack of political will to help those in need, rampant cronyism and profiteering. As long as you’re in the place for it, roleplaying in a fictionalised version of the past to air out the issues of the present can be super fun and cathartic. You’re not expected to get a degree in British history to make it work, either.
The title is a play on the phrase “The Sun Never Set on the British Empire”, and it’s plainly stated in the book that Britains Empire acted as a mechanism of genocidal oppression, and that the Martians are here to end it - intentionally or not. It’s appealing as a premise on the face of it, but it goes a little deeper. Memories of Empire echo across time in Britain like the ringing of a malevolent bell, a cause celebre for braying Tories and fascistic right wing cunts (two very close circles in the venn diagram.)
We used to be a great country before this woke nonsense. Things were better back in the old days. The DEI contingent is trying to destroy our noble past. Yada yada yada, fuck offff. I’m sure someone somewhere will accuse me of “wokewashing” the past for including explicitly trans and queer characters as part of the book, along with the historical facts around how we fit into the oppressive Victorian conception of sex and gender. Unfortunately for them, we’ve always been here.
To be a little pretentious about it, every game of As the Sun Forever Sets reaches back into the past and cuts the myth of a glorious and benevolent Empire, and the good old days enjoyed within it off at the neck, purely in the act of beginning one. That sparks a little joy for me. Destroying a racists dream is fun, even if it’s only in the abstract.
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A horror game about the most literalist Victorian industrialist imaginable hearing the phrase “Eat the rich” and getting right on that. I’ve not played Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs despite fond (??) memories of playing The Dark Descent in a room full of jumpy friends, and seeing Dear Esther played live on stage, with a live orchestra and narrator - an exquisite way to experience that game.
The mechanical chops of Frictional Games mixed with the narrative verve of The Chinese Room, how could this game be anything less than incredible?
After The Dark Descent I fell off’ve the “scary guy chases you around” genre of game until Alien: Isolation revitalised it, and the reviews of A Machine for Pigs were mixed - kind of boring, middling gameplay, too dark - so I never went back. I was planning on writing a little about its vibe - dark, gothic Victoriana that rhymes nicely with As the Sun Forever Sets - but after a bit of research, Mandus’ quest for his missing sons strikes an unexpectedly resonant and terrible chord.
The writing and voice acting is phenomenal, Mandus’ split consciousness - the self you play and the other half of him that’s seen the horrors of the forthcoming 20th Century and is compelled to act, imbued into the myopic machine he built - is extremely compelling. He feels compassion for the poor and wants to save them, but they fill him with fear and disgust. He knows the industrialist class is killing the world, but feels a deep shame in the fact that he counts himself amongst them. So his machine grinds the rich into meat for the poor, who it distorts into grotesque pig homunculi and forces them to operate the machine’s inscrutable workings.
It’s Mandus’ twisted way of saving the world - kill the rich for their crimes, enslave the poor for their own good, all hail the new machine/god/manager of the 20th century. It’s a neat reflection of the way modern politicians contort themselves to the whims of big business and AI snake oil salesmen to avoid doing the simple and obvious things that’d better the world. It’s a nightmarish refutation of Victorian Liberalism, that only the upper class know how to fix the problems of the lower class. It’s brilliant, and we should play it.
"Do you hear me Mandus? This is what you planned! This world is a machine! A Machine for Pigs! Fit only for the slaughtering of pigs! Whores, beggars, orphans, filthy degenerates. Pigs all. But I will purify the streets, cleanse this city, set the great industry free. I will clean the world, make it pure." - The Machine, A Machine for Pigs
Song of the Year, of the Century
Not long after I came out as trans, I was asked what (in an ideal world) would make transition easier. I replied - never having to leave the house. One day I'd shut the front door as a man and another day, months or years later, I'd open it again as a woman, neatly sidestepping the terror of being perceived in a notoriously transphobic Britain.
In 2020 I shut that door and didn't open it for 4 months. At work, I remember calling the nearby shelter to donate our excess hand sanitizer and toilet roll, figuring out at the last second how support workers could take calls from their already isolated clients via their mobile phones, and fixating on the steady stream of scared coworkers leaving early. Tearfully, I felt the urge to hugged those that remained as we locked up, before we remembered we probably shouldn't.
I've never been more aware of the minutia of moving through a space on the way home - How many people had their hands on this handrail? Have I touched my mouth or eyes without realising? Is anyone in the office already sick? Or on this train? How many more people are going to die? - My heart was in my chest, I heard the blood whoosh through my head to the beat of my steps on the pavement. At home, I realised my boyfriend had to go into work the next day. After he went to sleep, terrified he might die, I cried.
"I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down." - "The Heat Ray", The War of the Worlds
Writing As the Sun Forever Sets was my way of coping with the disconnect with the world I felt, the fear of both Covid and the rising transphobia kept me inside even as the lockdowns eased. That feeling of throbbing death creeping at the window took a long time to wrestle under control, and getting deeply obsessed with a big project became part of that process. It seems incredibly maudlin to make a TTRPG dealing with darkness and death during a pandemic that killed (and continues to kill) millions of people, but I suppose I’m kind of a maudlin person.
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“I haven't written a song in a month, So I'm playing the same chords again. I know I need to get lost in the moment, But I get lost before it begins. Fingers stretching out into space. Reaching as a thought slips away.”
It also burnt me the fuck out. After years of constant work and testing (beginning long before Evil Hat picked up the game), I ran out of steam. I spent the months after Evil Hat’s public playtest ended not really able to write anything ATSFS related at all. The game kind of froze - I knew what I wanted to change or fix or add, but the moment the google doc opened I couldn’t make myself start typing. It was incredibly frustrating to have the switch flip from endless obsessive writing to constant nothing, and I don’t think I truly recognised the burnout I was feeling until recently. It turns out spending years staying up past midnight writing is bad, who know!
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A lot of Forged in the Dark games don’t get finished (or more accurately, get stuck in perpetual development), something that the excellent and dearly missed +1 Forward podcast recognised in their episode collecting their thoughts on the FITD games they looked at back in 2021. I think that’s because, at least to me, writing a Forged in the Dark game is like trying to hold a plate of spaghetti without the plate. It’s deceptively simple at its heart, but the system squirms when you poke at it - write one thing and it affects 3 other things. Tug one piece of pasta out and you lose a meatball without realising it.
When I listened to that episode, I took it as a challenge. Part of me now wonders if it was a curse. I'm being hyperbolic, of course. But a little part of me did think it might be better to give the game up.
That’s not going to be As the Sun Forever Sets' fate, thankfully. Evil Hat has been there to support me when I’ve felt guilty about shifting another deadline or replying to a check-in email with another late “Not much progress this month, sorry!” The frozen writers block is thawing, and I’m so tantalisingly close to finishing the final text. This blog is part of that process, another chip in the icy dam.
The wheels of dread Martian terror turn once again, and it feels good. Part of that is down to not beating myself up about a lack of progress. The more important part came when I realised I felt able to return to the world again - living in it, not hiding from it. Staying connected to it, even when there's times I'm not able to inhabit it physically. Covid, Britains particular brand of transphobic brainworms, and the shadow of Empire all continue to exist, and so do I - a weird maudlin transsexual woman - in spite of them all.
“The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the sweetness of the air!” - “The Stillness”, The War of the Worlds
You made it!
Thanks for sticking with my messy thoughts. If what I talked about here sounds cool to you, please stop by the Discord, we'd love to have you. Look forward to seeing As the Sun Forever Sets come to a crowdfunding platform of Evil Hat's choice (I assume backerkit) at some point in the future ♥.
#ttrpg#indie ttrpg#forged in the dark#horror#war of the worlds#ttrpg design#science fiction#incredible self indulgence#as the sun forever sets#Youtube
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Bittersweet - Part I;
Fluff w angst, Lee Know x fem!reader, coffee shop AU, idol AU, 2k words. Content warning: knife, mid violence, mention of blood and injury. nothing graphic!
I like to take things slow, I hope you'll enjoy ♡
Coffee is your thing. It has been for what feels like ages. You remember the first time you smelled the grounded beans your grandmother cherishes, slowly boiling in her French press on a dewy morning. The aroma of your father’s embrace when he would leave early for work, a mixture of wet dirt after a storm and dark chocolate. Coffee was always there for you, even if it took you time to grow accustomed to its taste – or rather tastes.
Everything changed when you set foot in a coffee shop for the first time, though. It didn’t matter how bitter the beverage was to your inexperienced pallet, this was the place for you. This warm blend of hurried workers desperate for a comforting break and silent readers having a cozy late breakfast. Everything about coffee shops always felt right for you, the music, the people, the ambiance. The smell. It smelled like home and excitement at the same time. So naturally you became a barista. You learned everything there was to learn about coffee. You knew it was hard-work, and you loved every bit of your life that it took over.
It had been 8 months since you left the peaceful boredom of your hometown for the buzzing capital city of South Korea. You always knew in your heart that you were meant to live the city life, if only for the plethora of coffee places big cities offer. Seoul became a dream destination when you had the opportunity to exchange with a few talented Korean baristas and roasters from a well-known Gangnam company. It then became an option when you successfully graduated and managed to charm your way into said company (in Korean nonetheless). You were now working at one of their newest coffee shop in Gangdong district.
It had been 8 months since you left the peaceful boredom of your hometown for the buzzing capital city of South Korea and you felt lonely. Your heart was heavy with the concern that your dreams required sacrifices you didn’t know you had to make. How can your days go by seeing so many faces, hearing so many names and still felt so alone. You had friends of course, among which were your three usual coworkers, and language quickly managed to not be a barrier anymore. Yet, you felt so lonely it made your favorite blend turn to bitter dirt in your mouth as you finished your last cup of the day. A clot of black liquid to turn your heart dark - you thought. The autumn air could make you so dramatic.
“Chilly Weather” by Norwegian Wood and Kim Jin Sol was playing over the speaker. The atmosphere was calm and cushy in the café at this time of day. Only two of you were working, and barely six customers were cruising or queuing or snoring in a booth. You could make out a few regulars. There was a woman in her late 40s, who religiously ordered the same ice cold drink at 8pm everyday (your shop was open till midnight). You always assumed she must work at night given her business attire and resigned expression, but you never dared to ask. Then there was the usual highschool student who liked to roam by, musing about their future adult life. There was also a young man, about your age, who always kept his face covered and always picked a discreet seat in the back, far from any windows. He would sometimes come in with a book or a friend, but you had yet to see his face. He was polite and his voice was kind and soft. His eyes glistened the way coffee does when it’s freshly served. You liked seeing him around, as if there was in him something that mirrored your loneliness. You kept yourself from feeding into this feeling, though, his secretive appearance reading as a “do not disturb” sign. One of your coworkers had informed you the coffee shop shares its street with a famous entertainment company and you sometimes wondered if he was not just one of the many idols working there.
You decided to clean up any table that needed to be cleaned when a young man rushed into the coffee shop, nearly bumping into you as he passed by. He didn’t even bother greeting you or your coworker and had a very determined look on his face. A bad kind of determination. His steps were heated and quick. You instantly noticed he was moving towards the young man sitting alone in the back. Before you even realized, you were swiftly following his pace. Coffee shops were relatively tranquil environments but the romantic setting had been the witness of numerous break-ups and lover's quarrels. You had learned to play the diplomat as to maintain the peace many customers seek here. The young man sitting at the booth seemed to pay no mind to his furious acquaintance, that until the other man screamed his name. You could feel every head in the café rise and turn. You promptly looked back at your coworker in a desperate attempt to communicate your surprise when the young man at the booth finally got up and asked the other man who he was. The angry man seemed even more furious now, as if the question had lit a fire in him. From where you were manically swiping a table that was already clean, you heard him mumble something about his girlfriend leaving him for the other man. A lover’s quarrel again it seemed. What is it with Thursday evenings…
The few customers that hadn’t already left after the man shouted didn’t seem to be interested in the situation one bit, which you deemed lucky if the mystery customer was indeed a celebrity. This wasn’t the kind of free advertising neither him nor the coffee shop would enjoy. The man at the booth seemed to have no idea what the angry man was talking about, and you wondered if it was a habit of his, stealing people’s girlfriends. Were you always this noisy when anything eventful happened here on a slow evening? Or was it the glistening eyes of the young man that had drawn you in? Your gazes met when the angry man started spewing insults. Something else then caught your attention, something shiny that the angry man held in his right hand. Is this a knife? You wondered. IS THIS A KNIFE? You rushed to the scene when it finally hit you. The angry man was raising his knife to the customer when you placed your hand on his shoulder, swiftly making him turn to you. He froze in surprise as you grabbed onto the knife’s blade. You kept a straight face as blood started to run from your palm and immediately used the cleaning spray still in your other hand to blind the man with its content. He whined as the spray burned his eyes and intuitively let go of the knife to cover himself. A gasp escaped from the few witnesses and you heard your coworker dial the police. The angry man must have noticed too, and decided to flee the scene.
Your heart was pounding in your veins and you could barely make sense of your surroundings, if it wasn't for the familiarity of it. The customer you had just saved was standing in front of you now, talking. You couldn't make out the words but kept on repeating that you were okay, that everything was…okay…the man grabbed onto your sides before you could collapse. His closeness made it easier for you to hear him.
“Let me take you to the hospital,” he said.
You nodded as an answer and the both of you were quickly out of the coffee before anyone could fully digest what had happened. He pulled you in his car as the lights of the city flew around you into thousands of shooting stars. You felt warm and cold at the same time. You fold in the car seat after this stranger - what am I doing in a car with a stranger? - kindly puts your seat belt on.
“Are you okay? I'm so sorry…” he says as he starts the car.
- “I'm fine… it's been a long… day… I just… I'm just tired…” you answer. “I haven't eaten yet.”
You can feel the car going faster as the night sky and the buildings blend into brush strokes. You can faintly see the man’s reflection in your window. His eyes draw your features on the glass like a wet brush fuses with aquarelle. You don't know whether you should trust your sight or not. After all, you're still in shock from what happened. What happened?
“We’re here,” the man says. You feel a shiver crawl down your spine. His voice is kind and soft. You let him guide you out of the car, carefully holding you by the arm as to let your injured hand rest.
- “Lucky me being left-handed,” you say. Both of you lightly chuckle to diffuse the tension as you make your way to the hospital entrance.
The stranger helps you fill the paperwork as you wait on one of the temporary beds in the emergency room. You realize he now knows your name while you do not know his. A nurse comes in to check on you and the man tells you he will wait for you in the waiting room. The cut is less deep than you had expected. You were fortuitous to be holding on a dust rag when you grabbed the knife by the blade. That was a pretty dumb move… The nurse neatly stitches you up, warning you of the future scar you’ll get. She prescribes you painkillers for the few days to come and a check-up in two weeks from now. You are not to work for seven days which feels like a bigger punishment than the scar.
You come to join the stranger in the waiting room but he is nowhere to be found. You take a seat wondering if you should call a cab or wait. You finally decipher his back at the front desk. He is lean and comfortably dressed. He turns to you and smiles as he hastily walks to join you. A plastic bag dangles from one of his hands.
“Here. You said you haven’t eaten yet. I didn’t know what you liked so I got you a bit of everything.”
- “Thank you,” you reply. You open the bag to discover a variety of convenience store snacks. You open up an onigiri and bite into it.
“What did the nurse say?” He asks politely.
- “She had to stitch me up but the cut wasn’t deep enough for any nerve to be damaged. I still have to come back in two weeks.” you answer while finishing your snack. To hell with being well-mannered. “I should go pay the bill.”
“No need,” he says, eyes locking into yours. “It’s the least I could do.” You look into each other for a moment, slowly blinking in agreement. “Should I drive you back to the coffee shop… or perhaps your home?”
You hesitate before answering. After everything you are still two strangers. Or at least he is to you. A stranger who causes trouble in public places nonetheless…
- “Home, if you don’t mind,” you answer, inclined to trust him no matter what. You both get up and leave. He hands you the bag on your way out and gently insists you keep its content. You can tell words are clogging in his throat. You’re both seated back in the car when he finally talks again.
“I don’t know whether I should apologize or thank you.” he says, head low on the steering wheel. “Thank you.” his eyes meet yours as he says those words heavily.
- “Ah! No worries, I’m a part-time knife catcher. Coffee doesn’t pay the bills” you answer with a grin on your face. He laughs the stress off.
“Rest if you want.” You wonder if he’s always this caring as the car drives away. You rest your head on the cold window and your eyes quickly shut. Had they been opened you would have noticed how quickly his smile left his mouth. How soft his gaze was whenever he could look at you instead of the road. How his fingers nervously played with the leather of the steering wheel.
The car smoothly makes its way in front of your apartment when you finally wake up. You look up at the driver with tired eyes. He seems as exhausted as you.
“Thank you for driving me home,” you tell him softly.
- “It’s the least I could do.”
“I don’t even know your name”
- “It’s…” he hesitates and you wonder why. “It’s Lee Minho.” You realize it’s your first time seeing him without a hat or a face mask. When did he remove them? His face is familiar but you can’t pin it. He is strickingly handsome which leaves you silent for a few minutes.
“I don’t mean to intrude but… whoever this man was, you should probably go to the police about him.” you finally say.
- “I don’t know him. I swear. Maybe he mistook me for someone else… I mean I have a pretty common name” You nod, more as a way to show you understood than you agree. You don’t agree. Something about this whole situation seems off. But it doesn’t really have to be your problem does it?
“Alright… I believe you.” You do not understand why but you truly do. “I should go now, it’s getting late.” He stays silent when you open the door and leave. As you fetch your keys, he comes out of the car to join you and hands you a piece of paper.
- “Here. Take this. It has my number on it. If anything happens, call me. I’ll be there.” he says. His dark eyes reflect the light like the sea reflects the moon. Your hands gently brush as you take the card, leaving goosebumps all over both of your bodies.
“Goodnight, Lee Minho” you say before the entrance to your apartment closes.
- “Goodnight, Y/N.” he calls back.
You dreamed of nothing but coffee and him that night, feverish with pain and infatuation.
#mine...#skz x reader#skz fanfic#skz lee know#stray kids#stray kids x reader#lee know x reader#lee know fluff#lee know fanfic#lee know#bittersweet
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Jonmund + Targaryen Jon
AU where Robert’s rebellion doesn’t happen and Jon is brought up in Kings Landing with his father Rhaegar and his sibling’s after his mother dies giving birth to him.
He has a relatively happy childhood, but he knows his siblings resent him for not sharing their mother, and his fathers pained look every time he sees him tells him he’s nothing but a painful reminder of his mother.
As the second son, he’s not the immediate heir to the throne, so in an effort to connect with his mothers family his father allows him to ride north to spend time in Winterfell with the Starks.
He flourishes in the north, finding he fits in better than he does in the south- he certainly feels he’s more Stark than Targaryen.
The Starks love having him around, he and Robb become as close as brothers, Sansa adores his tales of life in the capital and he spends more time than is proper for a Prince playing with Arya, Bran and Rickon.
The years he spends at Winterfell are the happiest of his life yet, though he misses his father and his siblings the cold and wild terrain agrees with him far more than the heat and politics and social expectations of the south.
When they discover the direwolves, they offer one to Jon, telling him he’s as much a Stark as they are. He and Ghost become inseparable, but secretly Jon worries about what will happen when he has to return home, for Kings Landing is surely no place for a direwolf.
As he gets older he knows that the day he has to return south grows closer, so he decides to make the most of the north while he can, and takes to sneaking out on a night and riding alone with Ghost, as it’s the only way he can get away from the constant chaperones forced on him as a Prince.
One of the nights he’s out riding he’s hit by a terrible snowstorm, he falls from his horse, is separated from Ghost, and finds himself so cold he’s unable to move.
He lies there in the woods, no clue where he is for how long he doesn’t know; it could be minutes, it could be hours that he lies drifting in and out of consciousness.
The only thing he registers is at some point being lifted into strong arms and suddenly feeling warmth for the first time in what felt like forever.
When he wakes the storm has passed, and he’s lying next to a campfire with several people in light grey and white furs stood around him - he recognises them as wildlings.
A tall man with a ginger beard explains that they found him half dead in the woods, and when he asks why they didn’t just leave him he gestures at the Valyrian steel haninging from his belt.
‘You’ve got a pretty sword, and if your fighting skills are anywhere near as good as your weapon, we could use you beyond the wall’
Jon panics at the thought of going beyond the wall, of the wildlings wanting him to be one of them. He’d heard from the northerners that they were feral, rapists and thieves and murderers.
But when he sees a red headed girl elbow the tall man and whisper ‘his sword isn’t the only thing you thinks pretty’ to he met with a shove and a laugh, he doesn’t see how the people that saved his life could he that bad.
In a fit of impulsivity he decides to go with them. He’s always been too much of a Stark for Kings Landing; despite how much he loved it there the people of Winterfell all see him as a Targaryen; maybe he can find where he belongs beyond the wall?
As they’re setting off on their journey north, they ask Jon his name. He almost tells them, but then thinks better of it, knowing that his family could be known beyond the wall and he doesn’t want his name getting him sent back, or worse killed.
He settles on ‘Jon Snow’, the surname of Northern bastards, and is slightly ashamed of himself to find it feels more like his name than ‘Jon Targaryen’ ever has.
The further North he gets the more he finds he enjoys life with the wildlings- or free folk as they call themselves.
Tormund, as he finds the tall man is called, tells him all about their philosophies, how they’ve chosen their leader unlike the kneelers down south, and they become very close on their journey.
Despite being a King’s son, and in the line of succession, he actually agrees with what they say thinking that if the people of Westeros chose their own leaders, a lot of suffering could easily be avoided.
He didn’t think he’d be this happy with the free folk but he is.
Climbing the wall is a whole different story.
The Wall is the tallest thing he’s ever seen, at least twice the height of the top of the Red Keep, and with no stairs in sight.
The only thing that keeps him going on his ascent is Tormund’s occasional teasing remarks and the knowledge that the only way he’s making it alive is if he follows them up.
The horrendous climb is almost worth the view at the top. He feels like he’s on top of the world and when he turns to share his grin with Tormund, that’s when the wildling kisses him for the first time.
Jon’s so taken aback he nearly topples off the wall, and very may well have fallen to his death if not for Tormund’s strong arms catching him.
The taller man apologises, saying he knows that sort of thing is frowned upon in the south and promising that since Jon clearly doesn’t feel the same he’ll never do it again, etc etc....
While Tormund is rambling in an uncharacteristically nervous way, Jon thinks about the kiss and how much he enjoyed it. He knows that the Southerners wouldn’t approve but he’s not a southerner anymore is he?
Tormund is still talking when Jon shuts him up by kissing him again. They stand there, hands grasping each other tight, lips locked together, and wind whipping at their faces until Ygritte shouts over at them that they better wait until they’ve climbed down the wall before they fuck.
Jon blushes the entire time he’s climbing down the wall, thinking about Tormund’s body pressed against his own, and Ygrittes crude words, and everything that waits for him beyond the wall.
When they finally have their feet on the ground Tormund grabs him again, kissing him hard, and whispering ‘when we get to the camp I’ll kiss you properly Jon Snow’ before walking off with the rest of the group.
Jon’s knees go a little bit weak at the thought of the kisses he’s experienced so far not even being proper kisses, and Ygritte seems to notice this by the way she smacks his ass and shouts laughing ‘Come on Jon Snow, leave your innocence behind that wall!’.
Once they reach the wildling camp, some of his excitement leaves him and is replaced by fear and anticipation at meeting the King Beyond the Wall.
If it wasn’t for Tormund by his side on his way there he might have run the other way at the site of giants or the Thenn as Tormund calls the wildings with scarred faces who look at his as if he’s food.
Meeting Mance Rayder isn’t as scary as he first thought it might be, but what he tells Jon exceeds any sort of terror he’d ever felt before.
He understands why they took him beyond the wall with them- if he had known about the army of the dead marching south he may have suggested they stop to collect more. But he doesn’t truly believe it until a stray wight stumbles into their camp.
Mance tells him that they need to get everyone south of the wall, or the hundreds of thousands of free folk gathered will die, and become part of the dead’s army, who will inevitably then march south, and take all of the seven kingdoms. He says that they’re to begin marching for Castle Black immediately, ready to kill all the brothers of the Nights Watch if they must.
Jon offers him a different solution, knowing the Jon Snow may not be able to help, but Prince Jon of House Targaryen can.
He reveals his identity to Mance, and the other free folk (Tormund is smug to find out that he’s been fucking a Prince the entire time and doesn’t stop mentioning it until Ygritte threatens him with an arrow through the eye if he doesn’t shut up).
Jon, Mance, Tormund, Ygritte and a select few others all head to castle black ahead of the rest of the Free Folk in hopes that when they arrive they’ll be able to walk straight through with no bloodshed.
It’s not a smooth journey unfortunately- Jon sees his first White Walker and feels fear grip him in the way the Wight never did. The look of understanding in the walkers eyes makes him feel colder than any snow storm, or wall of ice ever has.
They tell Jon to run, that without fire or dragonglass they cannot kill the white walker. Jon falls down in his efforts to escape, and in a desperate bid he swings his sword. The walkers body shatters then and there, and Jon feels relief like he never has before.
“Valyrian steel, you’re full of surprises aren’t you little prince” Tormund says, before pulling him into a fierce hug, and planting a desperate kiss on his lips. “Now, never scare me like that again” he says deadly serious and Jon laughs in spite of himself.
At Castle Black however there is no time for laughing. They’re immediately met with drawn swords and notched arrows, until Jon shouts his name and hesitantly the brothers withdraw their weapons.
Lord Commander Mormont says they will have to be kept in the cells until they can get proof of Jon’s identity, which the hastily agree to.
He explains the situation beyond the wall, and Mormont seems to believe him, permitting him to send ravens to his Uncle Ned in Winterfell who can come to identify the supposed Prince.
Days later he’s led out of the cells to the courtyard of Castle Black, still in chains, only to be knocked over by Ghost and shortly after, Arya, who’s no longer the little girl he remembered.
When he gets back to his feet he’s embraced just as aggressively by his Uncle and Robb, who almost shed a tear at the sight of him.
They tell him he was presumed dead after he went missing and Ghost showed up at Winterfell alone. Arya plasters herself to his side even as Mormont is unchaining him, and Ned tells him fondly that she couldn’t be persuaded to stay at Winterfell when there was a chance he was alive.
[His little cousin had supposedly ran away to Braavos once Jon had gone missing, returning a more skilled swordsman than anyone at Winterfell - Jon was proud of her even if both Robb and Ned looked torn apart at the memory of her leaving.]
Mormont and the brothers apologise profusely for keeping him in the cells - “I hope you understand your grace, but we had no way to tell who you were.”
Jon politely asks that his companions be released and at this the men of the watch bristle. They’ve been fighting wildlings their whole lives, they say, they aren’t about to just let a bunch of them free in Castle Black.
He’s angry at their response, but he somewhat understands, and he heads down into the cells to apologise. He presses his forehead against Tormund’s through the bars and touches his hand with his own, promising he won’t be left their for long, he just needs to convince the watch.
He starts with Ned and Robb, telling them all about the wights, begging them to believe him. They trust him, and so vouch for him to Mormont, saying that the wildlings can stay in the lands surrounding Winterfell, and Mormont reluctantly agrees to open the gates for the free folk when they arrive.
Jon tells Ned about the army of the dead, how they need to gather all the living and defeat them. Ned agrees to call his bannermen, and tells him that his father will agree to call all the Houses to march North, but that they will need proof before they do so.
So Jon arranges an expedition beyond the wall, himself (much to Ned’s disapproval), Tormund, Ygritte, and three brothers of the watch, Edd, Pyp, and Grenn. Mance stays at Castle Black awaiting the rest of the Free Folk so that he can lead them south with Ned.
While beyond the wall they manage to capture a lone wight, despite all the tension between the Free Folk and the watch- but it doesn’t come without cost.
Jon, Tormund and Edd return to Castle Black sombrely with the rest of their party gone, and the smell of smoking bodies still on their clothes.
There’s no time to mourn however, as soon as they’re back, Jon, Ned and Tormund (who refuses to leave Jon) head for Kings Landing with a select few northern guards, leaving behind a Night’s Watch who are now convinced of the army of the dead, and all the wildlings now safely south of the wall.
It’s a long journey to King’s Landing, even by boat, and Tormund complains the entire time of the ever increasing heat. Jon thinks his uncle can tell from the fond way he smiles at Tormund, and the gingers hungry gaze what’s happening between them, but he’s gracious enough not to mention it. All he says one night before they retire is a whispered ‘be careful’, a small smile, and a pat on the shoulder.
Jon feels guilty to say he hasn’t missed Kings Landing, not the smell, or the heat, or the millions of people confined in a tiny space.
But when his father clutches him in is arms, shedding tears with no shame, saying how he’d missed him while he was gone- that he had missed.
It’s evident from the lack of reaction (for Rhaegar the tears and shouting had barely scratched the surface of a reaction) that Ned hadn’t told him about the months Jon had been missing, and he tried his best to avoid it.
But when trying to explain why he had gone beyond the wall, there was no way to phrase it without getting his Uncle into trouble.
Jon’s sure that the only thing stopping Rhaegar from hitting Ned is that 1) Ned had spent the entire time out searching and 2) Jon had insisted that his uncle didn’t authorise him to leave.
Then they get onto the important stuff.
They reveal to the King the wight and he immediately responds with ‘how do we stop them’. Jon tells him about their plan, of meeting the dead with an army as large as they can get, and Rhaegar immediately sends the order for all the armies in the seven kingdoms to march north.
He also says he will write to Daenerys, who’s been in Essos since Jon went to Winterfell, liberating Slavers Bay, and becoming a ruler in her own right. She now supposedly commands an army of Unsullied, the Dothraki, and has three dragons.
Rhaegar sends them back up north, saying he’ll wait for Dany and that the armies should be shortly behind him, taking with them all the dragonglass they can find (thankfully his Uncle Viserys had long since found the stores below Dragonstone, where he became Lord as soon as he was of age).
Jon is shocked by how clingy Tormund is with him for the entire trip back, but Tormund tells him that despite the huge army they’re building and the possibility of three dragons, there’s still no certainty they’ll win this war, and he wants to make the most of every last moment with Jon. (If Jon tears up a little at this Tormund never tells anyone.)
He’s stood on the battlements at Winterfell with Sansa, now a woman grown, Arya, Robb, Ned, and of course Tormund, looking out at the armies of free folk, northmen, and the rest of the noble houses who arrived not long ago, when he first sees a dragon - or rather three of them.
They’re huge, magnificent creatures, and Jon can just make out Dany on the back of the largest one, and his father and Viserys on the other two. Out in the distance he can see the thousands of Unsullied marching in perfect formation, and the stomping of thousands of dorthraki close behind.
With them comes Jorah Mormont, who announces himself as Queensguard to Daenerys. When Jon tells him of meeting his father he looks away in shame, telling him he has dishonoured his house, and hopes to make up for it by serving his Queen loyally.
The dragons finally land, and Jon ventures over to reunite with his family and meet the dragons. They’re even more amazing up close, and they don’t seem to mind him, his father, and uncle, but they huddle around Daenerys like young children with their mothers. (It makes sense when she’s announced as Queen Daenerys of the Bay of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons).
Jon wants to desperately to hear about how his aunt came to be a queen beyond the narrow sea, but they have more immediate problems.
They hold a war council, with all the great lords, the three eldest Targaryen siblings, all the Stark children but Bran and Rickon, Mance Rayder, Tormund and of course Jon.
They decide upon a preemptive strike- if they can wipe out the dead before they cross the wall and avoid a battle they sure as hell will.
The decision they come to is that Dany and Viserys (riding on Drogon and Viserion) will fly across the wall and destroy as many wights as possible with dragonfire.
Rhaegar tries to insist he go as well, but everyone refuses to allow the King to go with them due to the risk.
They all wait while the two of them fly north, holding their breath for any sign of them.
After what feels like days, there is a lone screech, and a singular flying figure on the horizon.
Dany and Drogon land, and she’s stood looking angry as Jon had ever seen her.
She chokes out that the leader of the White Walkers, who she dubs the Night King, killed Viserion and Viserys with him.
They know now they will have to face them in battle, on their side of the wall, so they immediately begin forging weapons made of dragonglass and fortifying Winterfell.
They receive a message from Last Hearth, clearly written in a rush, reading ‘the dead are here, they are coming’.
They send Dany out as a scout, to estimate how long they have before the dead are upon them. Once she returns, telling them they have days at most they all ready for battle.
#I wrote this like 6 years ago lol#cringing at my old writing#I wanna go back and change so much of this#cos I love the basic idea but the plot holes are killing me#but by the time I do that should I just write a whole ass fic#pls share ur thoughts#jonmund#game of thrones#tormund giantsbane#jon snow
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The Velaryon Blockade or, How Not to Fight a War at Sea
Greetings and Salutations! After many months since completing the Military Analysis series, and having watched Season 2 of House of the Dragon (surely one of the shows of all time), I've returned to do some further analysis of the war of the Dance. I may end up including this entry in a subsequent re-write of the original analysis series, but I'm currently in the middle of working on a Daeron fanfic and wanted to write this to get my juices flowing. Without further ado, onto the main event: The Blockade of the Gullet (WARNING: Spoilers for HOTD and F&B; this is gonna be a long one!)
Analyzing the blockade of the Gullet or the Velaryon Blockade, as portrayed in Fire and Blood and House of the Dragon, requires tackling the subjects of how King's Landing is fed and whether such a blockade is feasible given the technology available to the setting. I'll start with the provisioning of King's Landing since the show made a big deal out of it, and it has implications for Fire and Blood's portrayal of the Dance.
The idea of a blockade of the Gullet leading to food shortages and near-starvation in King's Landing is a non-starter, since it is supported neither by the ASOIAF books or the show Game of Thrones. In the former case, we know that House Tyrells support for Renly leads to the Roseroad being closed and near famine conditions in KL, as noted by Tyrion in A Storm of Swords:
The mob loved Margaery so much they were even willing to love Joffrey again. She had belonged to Renly, the handsome young prince who had loved them so well he had come back from beyond the grave to save them. And the bounty of Highgarden had come with her, flowing up the roseroad from the south. The fools didn't seem to remember that it had been Mace Tyrell who closed the roseroad to begin with, and made the bloody famine. (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)
GoT retained this thread in Season 2 and returned to the subject of the Reach supplying KL with the 'Loot Train Battle' in Season 7.
Looked at more broadly, there are three sources of food that KL can access which render the Gullet completely redundant: Firstly, there is the Crownlands themselves, which should be accessible to KL by road or by boat via Blackwater Bay; there's the Reach, which is the most agriculturally abundant of all the Seven Kingdoms, although the main artery of this supply really should be the Mander river and not the Roseroad; and finally we have the Riverlands, which ought to be more important of a source for food since goods could reach KL from there entirely by boat or barge thanks to the Blackwater Rush and the God's Eye lake. Regardless, access to these areas means that little if any food provisions should be required to pass through the Gullet to support the capital, and this creates problems for the show and the books.
Leaving aside how the Blockade in the show is rendered useless, there is a massive plot hole for the Dance created by acknowledging this information. Prior to Criston Cole's Crownlands Campaign, most of that region, most of the Reach and all of the Riverlands have sworn fealty to Rhaenyra. Even if rationing was introduced and every source of food in the city were exploited, KL is still cut off from it's main food providers and this fact should have been addressed by the councils of either faction. Rhaenyra's allies were capable of cutting off the city's food supply and their armies could have come together to lay siege to the city. The only real obstacles they would face are Vhagar and Sunfyre, since Borros Baratheon and the Stormlands vanish from the narrative following Luke's death.
On the other hand, Aegon should have seized upon this threat to push for immediate action given his impatience with Otto's letter writing, the only payoff for which is the Triarchy's attack on the Gullet at the start of the next year. Aemond already secured the Baratheons, Tyland guarantees the Westerlands' support, and Ormund is effectively alone in supporting Aegon's cause in the Reach. As it turns out, neither faction is cognizant of this specific vulnerability of the capital at this time or later on in the Dance. When living conditions deteriorate under Rhaenyra, her tax policy is blamed rather than the fact that Cole's campaign should have negatively affected Crownlands agriculture; the Reach is rapidly switching sides thanks to Daeron; Daemon left the Riverlands in the hands of his army and those of the Lannisters, Aemond and Cole, with devastating consequences for the land and people; and finally, that the onset of winter should be having a negative effect on the food supply of the the Kingdoms.
It also needs to be stressed that for KL to rely on overseas shipments for the majority if not entirety of it's food supply, it would require the Targaryen monarchy to possess far greater governmental and military resources than they are given by George. Looking at Rome from the Middle Republic onwards and the Eastern Roman Empire prior to the Arab invasions, we can see that grain shipments helped to sustain far greater cities than King's Landing in Rome and Constantinople. In both cases though, they could rely on a hinterland for local food markets (Italy for Rome, Thrace/modern day Bulgaria for Constantinople) and possessed almost overwhelming naval supremacy which ensured the security of the seas. Rome could reliably access Sicily, North Africa, and Egypt for its grain needs, and Constantinople could do likewise with Anatolia, Egypt, the Black Sea basin and later Sicily and North Africa as well.
Ships bound for KL from the Reach would have to sail the treacherous waters and barren coast of southern Dorne, brave storms and pirates in the Stepstones, and risk further storms off the coast of the Stormlands, and this is without considering how dangerous the transit would be during years long autumns and winters. Essosi shipments have the same problem but with the added wrinkle that the crown would have to pay for them, whereas Roman grain shipments were often provided by collecting taxes in kind rather than cash from farmers in Egypt and North Africa. This alone would automatically elevate House Lannister above the Targaryens as the foremost house in the Seven Kingdoms, given their access to nigh-infinite gold deposits. This is all to say that the premise of the Gullet Blockade starving out KL is utterly preposterous, which makes it completely unsurprising that Ryan Condal and Sara Hess chose to run with it!
By contrast, the blockade attempted in F&B was meant to put pressure on the Greens by cutting off all trade to the capital, preventing merchants from reaching the city or leaving it. The foreign and domestic merchants trapped in Blackwater Bay are among the loudest voices criticizing Aegon and his leadership, which was seemingly the aim of Corlys Velaryon. Unfortunately for George's plot, close examination of the development of naval warfare in the Medieval and Early Modern Periods (c.500-1500 and c.1500-1800 respectively), the very periods George has derived his naval technology and ship designs from, indicate that the blockade of the Gullet makes no sense militarily. I arrived at my conclusion about the Blockade after consulting John H. Pryor and Elizabeth M. Jeffries excellent book The Age of the Dromon: The Byzantine Navy c.500-1204, with further insight provided by X users SzablaObr2023 and the "Orc Logistics Guy" himself, Professor Bret Devereaux.
The most fundamental problem with the Gullet Blockade is that it's the wrong kind of blockade to attempt within the setting; historically, there have been two types of blockade attempted in war: Close and Distant. Close blockades were the most common in pre-modern times, and involved cutting off naval traffic from a region or area (typically a port) with ships posted within sight of the coastline. Distant blockades aim to cut off traffic to a much larger area by posting ships at sea far from the coastline of the intended target. The Velaryons are attempting the latter kind by controlling the waters between Dragonstone and Massey's Hook, to prevent any ships from entering or leaving Blackwater Bay and thereby isolating King's Landing.
The forces available to Corlys Velaryon are not insignificant: we know that Alyn Velaryon sailed against the Stepstones in 133 AC with 60 war galleys, 30 longships, and over 100 cogs and great cogs, to which we can add the 7 warships that escorted the Gay Abandon in 129-130 AC. Increasing this fleet by a third and rounding up to account for the losses suffered in the Battle of the Gullet gives the Velaryon Fleet at least 270 ships at the outset of the Dance, potentially as high as 300. By comparison, the Redwyne Fleet in 300 AC possesses 200 warships, about equal to the Carthaginian fleet at the outset of the First Punic War and larger than any fleet used by Athens against Sparta during the Peloponnesian War (see this video from 15:27 onward).
Based on Alyn's order of battle, it appears that the Velaryon Fleet was evenly split between oared warships and pure sailing vessels, which presents a problem for the Gullet Blockade. While oared and sailing vessels could maintain a close blockade, the former are completely unsuited for a distant blockade due to their logistical requirements and seaworthiness. Close blockades were often used to cut off a port or narrow stretch of water in support of a siege by land forces; an excellent historical example is the Battle of Actium in 31 BC, when the army and fleet of Gaius Octavian trapped Mark Antony's forces in the Ambracian Gulf. Closeness to the coast and the friendly armies stationed there ensured that oared ships had access to food supplies and more importantly, fresh water. Pryor and Jeffries estimate that each member of a Byzantine rowing crew required a minimum of 8 liters of fresh water per day; a Dromon with 108 rowers would thus need 864 liters per day and 1000 liters or one tonne if the marines and officers are included (adding a second crew of rowers would almost double that amount). Mediterranean war galleys of the Medieval and Early Modern Periods had storage for only 4-8 tonnes of fresh water on board, making accessible fresh water sources a sine qua non for operations of any length.
The other factor rendering oared warships unsuitable for distant blockade duties is their seaworthiness, which Pryor and Jeffries discuss at length:
if the wind rose to Beaufort Scale Four-Five (16-17 knots) ... That would raise waves of around 4.75 feet, 1.45 metres. All galleys at all times were designed to cut through the water rather than to ride the waves and such a wind, which is just a “moderate” to “fresh” breeze on the Beaufort Scale, nothing out of the ordinary, would send waves washing over the deck of any dromon. Even if the wind were astern, she would still be forced to run for the coast. If the wind were ahead, it would be worse because that would mean that the ship was attempting to beat to windward and therefore would be heeling over with one gunwale continuously under water." ... Scale Seven winds would raise seas up to 13.5 feet (4.115 metres) and no dromon would stand a chance of continuing its voyage in such conditions. The authors of the Olympias project have concluded that a trieres [Trireme] would be swamped in waves above 0.85 metres, and we believe that in all probability a dromon would have been also. ... However, galleys were simply not designed to be sailed and throughout history they were always notoriously poor sailers. Because their lack of deep keels meant that they made excessive leeway when beating into the wind, because their shallow draft and low freeboard meant that they could not heel under sail very much, because their narrow beam and low depth in hold meant that their hulls did not have the structural strength to carry a large press of sail, and because their extreme length:beam ratio and lateen sails meant that they carried pronounced weather helm, constantly griping, the bows coming up into the wind, galleys were always notorious for poor upwind performance under sail. That is nothing to be wondered at for they were not designed to do that ... Moreover, a heel under sail of a mere ten degrees or so would put the lower rims of the lower oar ports at the flat water line and at that point it is highly questionable whether the oar sleeves would have prevented water from entering the hull, even if they were tied off. (Age of the Dromon, pg. 336-338)
Velaryon war galleys and longships would need to stay close to Cracklaw Point, Massey's Hook, Driftmark and Dragonstone to be of any assistance to the Blockade, although with the rough seas and weather of autumn and winter even this would be a doubtful prospect. Corlys would have to rely upon the cogs and great cogs of the Velaryon Fleet to conduct the blockade; Devereaux and Szabla noted that sailing vessels are capable of conducting distant blockades, as demonstrated by Britain's Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. They also note that conducting such a blockade entailed problems all its own:
A distant blockade with sailing vessels still required significant logistical support, a well developed naval command structure and bureaucracy, and only began to be attempted centuries after the High and Late Middle Ages when the Cog was widely used.
Even if we leave these issues aside, the Gullet Blockade still has another serious problem: Communications. Based on a distance map of Westeros, the distance between Crackclaw Point and Sharp Point appears to be c.125 miles while the length of the Gullet proper from Dragonstone to Sharp Point may be 100 miles or less. Meleys is the only dragon known to have supported the Blockade and seems not to have been replaced after her death at Rook's Rest. Over 100 cogs and 1 dragon at best would be the only forces capable of patrolling the Gullet to any effect, while the need for ships to resupply the blockade and to act as reserves to relieve ships from the Blockade line drastically reduces the amount of ships that could patrol the Gullet. Pryor and Jeffries' assessment of Byzantine visual signaling suggests that communications within the Blockade would be almost impossible:
The masthead height of the foremast of a standard dromon as we have reconstructed it was only around 10.65 metres above sea level. There were, admittedly, larger dromons; however, for what follows a couple of metres more of masthead height would make no difference to the conclusions reached. With a foremast height of 10.65 metres above sea level, the theoretical horizon of a lookout at the masthead would have been only around 11.8 kilometres. Theoretically, the peak of a lateen sail 21 metres above sea level could be seen a further 51.7 kilometres away but, of course, no man could see 63.5 kilometres with unaided sight. In all probability, around 15-20 kilometres would have been the limit of visibility from the masthead of a dromon. Scout ships could not, therefore, patrol a space more than 30-40 kilometres in advance of a fleet and probably no more than 30, since they were always said to have been smaller than standard dromons and would have had lower mastheads. In fact, in order to be able to actually read signals with unaided eyesight and communicate them back to the fleet, distances must have been even less than this. Syrianos Magistros advised that a fleet should always proceed with scout ships out ahead, up to six milia or so. Two scout ships should be 6 milia ahead and another two should be between them and the fleet to relay any messages. Six milia was only around 8 kilometres. If the forward scout ships then had a range of visibility of another 8-16 kilometres, then the real maritime space that could be observed was only around 25 kilometres at best. (Age of the Dromon, pg. 388-389).
Compared to the Gullet, the Strait of Otranto is 100 km wide (c.69 miles) while the distance between Crete and Rhodes is 180 km (c.112 miles) with the island of Karpathos in the middle; neither the Byzantines nor contemporary Mediterranean powers could control entry and exit through such space.
It might be argued that spyglasses, known in ASOIAF as Myrish Lenses or a Myrish Eye, could offer a solution to such long distances; unfortunately these devices are only produced in Myr, and of the three mentioned in the main books only one is used onboard a ship. The lenses used by Maesters Luwin and Aemon are large enough to require a tripod; the only one mentioned aboard a ship is a collapsible Eye carried by a Myrish captain whose ship is taken by Victarion en route to Slavers Bay. Even if Myrish lenses were available to some degree, it's unlikely they could overcome the problems of distance and the conditions at sea.
Writing about the War of 1812, Frederick Leiner states that a lookout "perched on the masthead, 80 or 100 feet above the main deck, and equipped with a spyglass, with the horizon perhaps 20 miles off ... might be able to discern a larger warship-like frigate perhaps as far as 15 miles distant, if the weather were clear and sea conditions allowed." 15 miles or 24 km is impressive compared to the 8-16 km of the Byzantine scout ships mentioned by Pryor and Jeffries, but the heights of Leiner's masts are more than double that of a Dromon and taller still than a cogs. Even a spyglass from two centuries after they were first introduced would not greatly enhance the vision of a Velaryon lookout, and the notoriously poor weather and seas of the Westerosi autumn and winter would certainly counteract it. With ships being kept off station to ferry supplies and act as reserves, the area needing to be patrolled would make visual signaling highly impractical.
To quote Pryor and Jeffries once more, "Expeditionary objectives could frequently be achieved best by preserving one’s forces intact and actually avoiding battle since naval warfare was essentially amphibious warfare whose purpose was to secure control of terrestrial objectives rather than to attempt to control maritime space (Age of the Dromon, 388)." Using the Velaryon Fleet to support the Black armies rather than attempting an exercise in futility by blockading the Gullet, would have applied pressure to Aegon and the Greens more effectively while being consistent with the setting that George created and its inspirations.
The most obvious way for the Velaryon Fleet to support the Blacks would be through transporting Northern and Vale troops south of the Neck and the Mountains of the Moon, to take the fight to Aegon rather than sitting back passively once Daemon rallied the Riverlords and the Blacks in the Reach marched on Oldtown. Considering how swiftly both of those armies were raised, it makes no sense why the Vale could not at least send troops to assist Rhaenyra in the Crownlands. Another option and one which I proposed in part 12 and the conclusion of my military analysis series, would be to send the Velaryon Fleet south against the Stormlords.
Otto Hightower believed that Tarth would support Rhaenyra's cause, and Lord Buckler and Lady Fel were both executed by Aegon for refusing to swear fealty to him instead of Rhaenyra. The bulk of the Crownlands supports Rhaenyra prior to Criston Cole's campaign, and Felwood and Bronzegate are located south of the Crownlands astride the Kingsroad to Storm's End. The Wendwater flows through the Stormlands and Crownlands before emptying into Blackwater Bay; assuming the river is even partially navigable, this could allow shallow drafted boats to move troops and supplies into the lower Kingswood and prevent Aegon and Borros from aiding one another. Naval operations along the coast would be risky given the arrival of autumn, but the weather rarely affects the plot of the Dance if the author doesn't want it to. Tarth would serve as a base for the Velaryon ships to resupply and further raid the coast or land troops and the Blacks in the Reach could threaten the border, with the Cockleswhent and Blueburn rivers potentially serving as supply arteries for an invasion from the west.
There are also compelling political reasons for the Blacks and particularly the Velaryons to attack the Stormlands: It would punish Borros Baratheon for breaking his father's oath to Rhaenyra, esp. since his father supported Rhaenys and Laenor in 101 and Rhaenys is currently part of the Black council; it could be portrayed as vengeance for the death of Lucerys Velaryon over Shipbreaker Bay; and it could potentially force the Greens out of King's Landing. Aemond's betrothal to Floris Baratheon would give him some obligation to support his ally and future good-father against their common foe, and failure to give aid would endanger the Baratheon alliance. Aegon's only other allies are in the Westerlands and the Honeywine valley of the southern Reach, and without the Baratheons he is completely surrounded by his enemies. Whether Aegon, Aemond or both set out with an army to aid Borros, King's Landing's garrison and perhaps one dragonrider are all that would be left to defend against an attack by Daemon and the Riverlords and/or the Black houses of the Reach.
These scenarios offer a more effective employment for the Velaryon Fleet, but there is a way to retain the blockade while ensuring that the ending of the Dance remains relatively the same (Rhaenyra and Aegon are dead, Aegon III and Jaehaera marry, most of the dragons are dead, etc.) by acknowledging that the blockade is a poor strategy. It could start by allowing Mysaria's spies to discover the fate of the Royal Treasury, with ships carrying 75% of the treasury out of Blackwater Bay without the awareness of the Velaryon Fleet. It can even be implied that Larys Strong leaked this information to play both sides and drive a wedge between Rhaenyra and her Hand; this pays off as Rhaenyra blames Corlys and the Velaryons for this embarassment and imposes the Blockade against Corlys' judgement. The blockade serves as a way for her to get back at Aegon while asserting her royal authority after her claim was usurped.
The Velaryon Fleet is thus forced to commit the entirety of its forces to a task that Corlys, his vassals, and his captains and crews know is beyond their means to carry out successfully. Many galleys could be lost to the stormy seas and their crews drowned, while the cogs must endure the same weather and miserable conditions in pursuit of a pointless task. Morale declines steadily as many ships desert completely, turning to piracy or becoming merchantmen and sellsails in Essos, which further undermines the blockade. Tensions between Rhaenyra and Corlys would already be high before Rhaenys' death and could reach a crisis point after the Battle of the Gullet. The way the battle plays out in F&B could likewise be retained if the mistakes made by the Blacks are acknowledged, being the failure of naval or dragon patrols to detect the approach of the Triarchy Fleet. Gyldan could point out that both Prince Jacaerys and Lord Corlys are at fault for the disaster, but that Rhaenyra solely blames the Velaryons. I would even go a step further: Medieval and Early Modern naval combat relied heavily on boarding actions, excluding cannons since they're not present in George's setting. With many galleys and ships being entangled in these close-quarters bouts, it would not be surprising if the dragonriders set fire to Velaryon ships by mistake and further contributed to the deterioration of Velaryon support.
With many officers and crews having lost their families and homes in the Triarchy attack, this would present a perfect opportunity for Vaemond Velaryon's sons, Daeron and Daemion, and his nephews the 'Silent Five' to take action if they were not already involved in the events of the Dance. With Larys possibly assisting them, they could begin organizing a fleet-wide mutiny against Rhaenyra and the Black Council, which would take place after Corlys is arrested. Addam and Alyn would flee to Dragonstone and Driftmark, the former to seek Baela and Moondancer's help and the latter to rally ships and crews to help his father. The mutineers capture Alyn while Addam finds Moondancer dead, Baela imprisoned, and Dragonstone in the hands of Aegon II, with a battle ensuing between Sunfyre and Seasmoke which leads to Aegon's injuries and Addam fleeing the bay worse for wear. Heading to Maidenpool and finding that Nettles has fled and Daemon and Aemond are fallen in battle, Addam could then rally what forces he can for a suicide mission against Tumbleton with the aim of killing Daeron and the Betrayers and mauling their army before it can join Aegon at King's Landing.
This sets up how I would fix Second Tumbleton, by Addam showing up to find Daeron already battling with the Betrayers and the army divided. Knowing that neither Aegon and Alicent nor Alyn, Baela and Corlys will survive if the Betrayers take the capital, Addam and Daeron join forces and rout the Betrayers army, with all four dragonriders being killed in the battle. This change is important if Jaehaera's death is retained, since there needs to be strong foundations for reconciling the Greens and Blacks. Addam and Daeron the Daring's sacrifice gives both factions heroes that they can memorialize and honour together; Daenaera's marriage to Aegon III is also helped by her father and uncle having been actively involved in Rhaenyra's downfall in support of Aegon II. A final touch I would add would be for Alyn to lead a counter-mutiny following Aegon II's death which leads to deaths of Daeron Velaryon and three of the 'Silent Five'; Alyn could swear an oath to the dying Daeron to look after his daughter Daenaera now that both her parents will be dead. This magnanimous act by Alyn and the respect the Velaryon Fleet has for him could inform Daemion's decision to break with the remaining 'Silent Five' and support Alyn's claim as Corlys' heir.
If you've made it to the end of this wall of text, I commend you! For those that want a TL;DR: The Show's blockade is nonsense; the Book blockade is unworkable as a strategy; nonetheless, the blockade and the Velaryon Fleet can still play an important role in the story if the aforementioned flaws are acknowledged. Thanks for reading, and I'll catch you on the flip side!
#asoiaf#house of the dragon#hotd#fire and blood#asoiaf critical#hotd critical#grrm critical#house velaryon#team green#team black#corlys velaryon#alyn velaryon#addam velaryon#military history
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Days in the Sun: Part of For You - A Collection of Requests Benefitting Palestine
Oberyn returns victorious from King's Landing after defeating the Mountain and spends a day with his beloved wife and their daughters.
Event Terms: Commissioners could choose to donate between $15 and $50 via Ko-Fi for one fic of 1-2k words to be written by April 1, 2024. Payment due after completion of the fic. Donation with a match by the author to be paid to PCRF on April 2, 2024 in honor of Pedro Pascal's birthday ❤️ Commissioners had the option to choose to keep a fic private and all fics may not be shared here.
Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader
Warnings: Basically none! No use of Y/N, Minors DNI 18+ only.
Length: 2.2k
A/N: Written for @aurasjournal, the OG Oberyn Girlie ❤️ She requested some soft, SFW Oberyn love. This fic takes place immediately after the fight with the Mountain in King's Landing, except Oberyn emerged victorious and unscathed to return home (as he always should have, fight me GRRM.) Enjoy!
For You Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Oberyn was tired of the sea.
It was fine when viewed from Sunspear, when he was on dry land with the sand at his back. It hadn’t been bad from King’s Landing, either, where there was sun and heat that he could feel on his skin. But that warmth was a poor substitute for your touch as you were so far from him, safe at home in Dorne.
The journey back to his beloved had not been an easy one, though. Even the satisfaction he had at killing the man who murdered his sister was cold comfort as storms bared down on his ship, bringing harsh winter winds and cold air from the north.
It would have been better if you were there, you and the three daughters you shared with him. The soft, gentle comfort of your warmth and love would have eased the passage, as would have the high peels of laughter that was so common anytime your daughters were close. But the risk of bringing you to King’s Landing was too great in Oberyn’s eyes.
Yes, he was traveling as a Prince of Dorne and yes, he was visiting for a state event, but neither title nor time had protected his sister. He could not risk losing you to the lions that prowled in the capital, he could not risk your children together. You had to stay behind and he had to make the journey alone.
But while the storms early in the voyage had made the days on the water miserable, they had pushed the ship south faster and now, Sunspear was on the horizon, more than a day earlier than expected.
Oberyn stood at the bow of the ship, a smile on his face as he watched his homeland draw closer. This, he thought, was where he belonged. Where he could feel the sun, where he and you were far from the cold calculation of the Westerosi.
The port was unprepared for his arrival, dockworkers scrambling to accommodate his ships and the entourage that was necessary when traveling as a Prince of Dorne.
In other times, it might have bothered him. There were things he had become accustomed to in his position and the trappings of royal life were indulgences he much enjoyed. But today, ceremonial greetings and meals would have only gotten in the way of what he truly needed: seeing you and your children together.
“My Prince,” his advisor who had remained behind greeted him on the dock with a bow of his head but there was no sign of you. Oberyn frowned. “My apologies, there was no raven to warn of your arrival, we were not expecting you for several days at least…”
“My business in King’s Landing concluded early,” Oberyn cut him off. “I’m sure we will have much to discuss about our relationship with the new king when the time is right. But now, I need to see my wife and she is not here.”
“No, your highness, I’m afraid we could not find her when we saw your ships on the horizon,” he said. “She left your chambers this morning with your daughters and their guard but did not say where they were going. I am sure you missed the princesses greatly but I’m afraid that there is much to attend to…”
“If you were not expecting me for several days, surely business can wait,” Oberyn said, already walking away from him. “There are far more pressing matters that demand my attention.”
He didn’t bother to wait for any of the others to follow nor did he ask anyone for help in tracking you down. He knew exactly where you would be.
He heard you before he saw you, working his way to the quietest, most secluded part of the water gardens. Hidden away from the pressures and prying eyes of the palace and its stately visitors, the two of you had stolen away to this little place for many hours of your courtship. He had come to think of it as belonging to just the two of you long before your first daughter was conceived there. Now, it was the small homeland of the five of you, a place of escape and belonging and love.
“Mara, Elia, my loves, you mustn’t play that rough,” you called as Oberyn approached, a smile on his face at the sound of your voice. The guards hovering on the path leading to your corner of the gardens snapped to attention when they saw him. He gave them a nod. “You are sisters, not enemies. Stop pulling each other’s hair.”
Your back was to the path as Oberyn entered the clearing of palm trees and tall hedges. He took a moment to admire you when you couldn’t see. The curve of your waist as you sat on a blanket in the grass, the way the vibrant fabric of your dress draped over your frame, the arch of your neck as you watched your daughters dust themselves off, grass stains smearing the yellow of their clothes with green. The girls took off, chasing each other around the edge of a small pond and into the trees beyond.
“I sometimes wonder if we are raising little vipers, not little princesses,” Oberyn said, smiling. You jumped at the sound of his voice, turning quickly to find him there. You all but leapt to your feet, throwing your arms around him as he caught you, holding you close to him. He pressed his nose into your hair, breathing the soothing floral scent of you deep into himself.
“You’re here,” your voice was muffled, your mouth buried in the crease of his neck. Your voice was tender and wet. “Oh, how I missed you. You were so far from me, I was so worried…”
“I know, my love,” he ran one large hand from the back of your head down your neck, your back, pausing at the exposed skin to relish the softness of you. “But I promised I would return to you, did I not?”
“You did,” you said, pulling yourself from him to look him in the eye and he smiled as his gaze traced the familiar and beloved contours of your face. “But I was still afraid. What if they hurt you and I wasn’t there? The journey alone can be treacherous but King’s Landing…”
He silenced you with a gentle kiss, your lips soft against his own. He resisted the urge to deepen it, to pull you tighter to him and feel all of you in every way he could.
But there would be time for that reunion later, when he could take his time lavishing you with every ounce of and passion he’d had to set aside in your weeks apart. For now, he was happy to just know you were back in his arms where you belonged. He pulled away from you, cupping your cheek and running his thumb over the softness of your lips, pulling a small gasp from you as he did.
“I’m back where I belong, my sun,” he said gently. “At your side.”
You smiled and brushed your nose against his, closing your eyes for a moment.
“And how were our little vipers?” He asked. “On their best behavior, I’m sure.”
“If our daughters are vipers, they are vipers because of you, not I,” you smiled, stepping back from you before tucking yourself against his side. His arm slipped behind your back, finding its most comfortable home around you. The two of you began your slow walk around your favorite corner of the water gardens, the giggles of your daughters like chimes on the air. “But… yes, they were well behaved. Mostly. Though the maesters may say different. Alyse…”
As if on cue, you and Oberyn’s eldest daughter, Alyse, jumped out of a tree, wooden spear in hand, shrieking like a warrior. Oberyn, however, was ready for her, catching her out of the air and laughing as he set her down.
“Father!” She looked up at him, her wide, brown eyes so like his own. “You’re here! I learned a new attack while you were gone, with the spear, just like you! And if this were war I would…um…I would have…”
He smiled and rested his large palm on the crown of her small head, bending to be on her level.
“You would have attacked me well,” he mussed her hair. “My little viper.”
She beamed at him.
“Why don’t you find your sisters?” He asked. “Have they been learning, too?”
“Boring things,” she crinkled her nose. “Elia doesn’t like to fight and Mara likes a sword more than a spear…”
Oberyn felt you tense at the mention of his youngest daughter’s name. You had been the one to suggest it, knowing how he had so dearly loved his sister. You’d proposed it during each pregnancy but he felt as though it wasn’t right, not until his third daughter. She had become the gentlest of his children and therefore the one most like his late sister. She was kind hearted and sweet and smart, loving fiercely and caring deeply. But that also made her the least like him and a constant reminder of what had been lost at the hands of the Lannisters. He tried his best to not let that cast a pall over his relationship with his youngest child but there was always an air of sadness in how he saw her, one that you could feel as well as he.
“You know, my sister Elia didn’t like to fight, either,” he said kindly. “But we found other ways to spend our days. Can you find Elia and Mara for me, little viper?”
She smiled a toothy smile and gave him a nod before taking her small spear and darting into the trees. Oberyn looped his arm around you again, beginning your slow walk through the gardens again.
“You spoke of Elia,” you said softly, looking at him with deep and gentle eyes. He nodded once. “You did so happily.”
“I did,” he said. You watched him closely and he trailed his nose over your cheek to your temple. “I know it has been… difficult, the pain of her loss and how it has colored my life. Not just for me but for you and our daughters, too. But… I believe it will be different now. I killed Gregor Clegane and I forced him to admit to his crimes when I did. I forced the admission of Tywin’s guilt. No more are her killers alongside the iron throne so she can have peace. And so can I.”
You stopped your slow walk, your eyes searching his before you reached out, trailing your fingers through his hair before kissing him softly.
“Father!” Elia cried. Oberyn pulled away from you to find her standing beside the pond, the same glow of kindness in her eyes that he had so loved in his sister’s.
“You’re back!” Mara ran alongside her little sister, Alyse coming right behind.
“My little princesses,” he smiled and all three of his daughters ran for him. He let them tackle him to the ground, you stepping to the side just before they brought him down. They giggled and climbed on him and he tried to hold all of them in his arms but their squirming bodies and gleeful love were too much for him to bear. “Oh how I’ve missed you.”
“We’ve missed you, too!” Elia propped her elbows on her father’s chest and smiled down at him. “Are you back for a long time, Father?”
“Yes, my darling,” he kissed her forehead. “I am.”
The five of you made your way back to the blanket, you against his side as the girls ran ahead, laughing and playing as they went. There was a spread of your and Oberyn’s favorite foods waiting for you there and the two of you settled in side by side as the girls played.
“It’s good to see real food,” he moaned, taking a bite. “I sometimes think the Westerosi are sickened by flavor…”
You laughed and leaned against him, sighing happily as you ate a piece of fruit, watching your children play in the sun.
“Did you mean what you said to Elia?” You asked, looking up at him from your place against his chest. “That you will be in Dorne - where you belong - for a time?”
“I did, my love,” he kissed the crown of your head. “There will be nothing to take me away from you or our three children…”
“Four,” you said, leaning forward to pick up a goblet and take a sip.
Oberyn paused.
“Four?” He asked. You smiled and took his hand in yours, gently guiding it to your womb.
“Four.”
A smile broke over his face as he looked reverently at the place where his child was growing inside you.
“Oh, my sun, my beautiful wife,” his thumb brushed against you there. “I’ll not leave my home with you, not for a very, very long time.”
A/N: Thank you for reading my first foray into writing Oberyn Martell! I hope you enjoyed it!
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Daily update post:
On Friday, there was yet another Palestinian terrorist attack. Terrorists started shooting at Israelis near a yeshiva, and as security forces gave chase, an explosive device was set off through remote control, which shows just how sophisticated some of these terrorists are getting. Seven Israeli soldiers were injured. The explosives were homemade, and I heard one estimate that if they had been "proper," the number of casualties would have been much higher.
Friday was also International Women's Day, when we asked people to remember Israeli and Jewish women, including the ones still being abused by terrorists in captivity. Here's a small round up of a few related global events... In South Africa, Jewish women marched, asking their president and government to condemn Hamas' sexual violence, protesting against the extra burden of proof demanded of Jewish women. Similar protests were held in other places around the world, among them in front of the UN headquarters in NYC. Following an Israeli request, the US, the UK and France have asked the UN's security council to have an emergency session on the UN report regarding Hamas' sexual crimes, Israel's Foreign Minister and the families of the hostages are meant to attend. But maybe the most poignant news come from the Norwegian capital of Oslo, where protesters holding up signs in support of the Israeli women held hostage by Hamas were barred from participating in the International Women's Day March by its organizers, after other participants of the march were physically stopping the group supporting the kidnapped Israeli women.
Biden's recent MSNBC interview, where he's said that "there has to be another way to deal with the trauma caused by Hamas," has managed to piss off even left wing journalists here. I'm gonna pass along what one said... Biden doesn't get it. We're not fighting in Gaza to deal with trauma, this is not the equivalent of going to therapy. We're facing a terrorist organization that massacred us, rules an entire strip of land, and has turned it into the world's biggest base for terrorist activity, turned its 2.1 million people population into a human weapon, and if there is another way to make sure Israeli civilians are safe by destroying Hamas, with less casualties on the other side, let him present it in practical matters. So far, all he does is to give the vague, abstract, "Israel needs to do better," which is not a practical plan of action, and it's especially condescending, when we don't actually have historical examples of any country doing better during fights conducted under the conditions created by Hamas in Gaza.
I have written about the incident in northern Gaza, where over 100 people were killed in a stampede, as they were storming humanitarian aid trucks. It was a complex situation, in addition to those who died from the pushing and trampling (something we've seen in lots of tragic disasters around the world, which were by no means a massacre, such as a fairly well known stampede of Liverpool soccer fans), apparently some of those who died, were ran over when the (Arab) truck drivers were scared and tried to drive away from the mob, while a small number of suspicious people advanced menancingly on the soldiers. An IDF investigation report confirms the Israeli soldiers only fired at this smaller group, suspected of being terrorists, not at anyone else, and certainly not at the aid convoy itself. Of course none of this complexity was reflected in any anti-Israel propaganda posts, which labeled this a massacre. But now the size of the stampede has been confirmed as well, which in itself says a lot about this tragic chain of events: no less than 12,000 (!) Gazans were storming those aid trucks. Given the size of that crowd, it's almost a miracle that not more people were killed. Just compare the Liverpool fans stampede, where the size of the involved crowd was smaller, the situation less complex (no moving trucks or terrorists around), and the number of fatalities was practically the same, at 97 people killed.
This has got to be one of the worst things I've heard since Oct 7 brought new focus to the antisemitism problem on American college campuses. One of the morally clearest voices against this Jew hate has been a Jewish Israeli professor at Columbia University, Shai Davidai. Now apparently the uni has started an investigation into him, instead of... IDK, learning from the criticism he has raised regarding their failure to address antisemitism. They sure are doing a great job, showing Jews they're listened to and cared about, and protecting Davidai's freedom of speech, that last line of defense that all the college presidents fell back on when they had to address why calling for the genocide of Jews is not considered bullying or harassment on their campuses.
youtube
This is 100 years old Yocheved Gold (on the left, obviously).
Yocheved was born in 1923 in Germany. In 1936, as a Jewish teenager who was mistaken for a Christian girl, and despite her fear, she refused to hand a bouquet of flowers to Hitler at the Berlin Olympics. Two years later, at the age of 15, she was among the last Jews to flee Europe before WWII. She managed to make it to the Land of Israel, which saved her life. On Oct 7, she was in kibbutz Sa'ad, one of the southern Israeli communities attacked by Hamas terrorists. Eighty years after antisemites first forced her to flee her home, she had to do it again, and is maybe the only Israeli evacuee to be over 100 years old. Now she has returned to kibbutz Sa'ad, even though most still haven't (as they don't feel safe from Hamas), because she said she doesn't want to die away from home.
(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)
#israel#antisemitism#israeli#israel news#israel under attack#israel under fire#terrorism#anti terrorism#hamas#antisemitic#antisemites#jews#jew#judaism#jumblr#frumblr#jewish#israelunderattack
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Recently had the Fates brainworms reawakened, so begins my redesigning of the royals and their retinue. I don't knoww if I'll get the the Hoshidans, but I have my eyes set on finishing the Nohrian sibs. Camilla and co are up next !
Selena's impressions of Nohr and its cavalry under the cut ~
~
Arriving in a new country is always weird. You'd think with years across worlds and realms I'd stop being surprised, but there's always something new that gets me.
Getting here was shitty, that's for sure. Our hands and legs were bloody from the climb out of the canyon, though Owa-hm. Odin. Had somehow kept Mikoto spotless carried on his back, didn't have time to see if she was any damn grateful for it though. About a days trek northward, and the lack of settlements was strange. This war we were told about was recent, recent enough there should at least be remnants of fighting along the border if there'd been people, but there was nothing. Just craggy land, some sparse trees and dry vegetation.
The town we did reach answered little, some wooly pigs but no signs of larger livestock, not like there'd be much viable land to raise them on. There were a few jacks, with one's meat being smoked in the center, broken leg they'd said. Az managed to grab us some local clothing and a large cloak for us to share.
Going westward as we were told only made Nohr seem more bleak. There was little farmable land, Nagas tits it was cold, and the woods, full of smaller game and wild boar, were vast and easy to get lost in (His Most Darkest Majesty or whatever rambled something about dark spirits, who knows). With the weather unpredictable as it was we managed to get a mule, in case we wouldn't be able to hunt during a storm. Bred from city stock, the seller'd said, which was surprising. So far we'd heard it only gets harsher towards the capital, no space for horses.
Passed by manors and minor lord's retinues, the people seem well trained, it's becoming clear what Mikoto meant when she spoke about Nohrians being a fearsome people. Living in these conditions makes them hardy, and the commons seem like one of those uncaring for social niceties.
There's a tournement being held in the capital, a merc on the road told us. I didn't get his name. Heading the same way he is; held by the royal family and a way to win a hiring near the castle. Lent us a spot in his wagon for the rest of the way, which is nice I suppose. Even got us a portion of smoked boar.
Az-Laslow, kept the conversation up for the ride. The mercs horse is Hlenni, got the right to keep her after he earned his parents land back in the south. Wealthy family from the sound of it. Been training her for battle, wants to serve the crown on the frontlines, take hoshidan land for his servants.
Cavalry's a lords 'right', apparently. Stories of fearless charges, many a tale of man and horse being as one like brothers. Odins giving him advice now, as if he's going to last 15 minutes in a real fight, but it's not my job to stop him.
-
I'm not sure what I was expecting once the treeline broke after another few days, but it certaintly wasn't this. The forest just ended, made more obvious with a line of burnt trees and ash and grey ground. For a minute I thought we'd been tricked and he'd taken us to some sort of prison, though Lazlow held me back before I could react. Standing on the side of the cart all we could see for leagues was dead ground, ash filled the air and in the distance dragonets circled an armored fortress, giant iron spikes protruding from what looked like a fucking cratered volcano. Odin was stunned for words for a moment, I think he felt out darkness-ed, the idiot.
My hand was on my hilt the entire way across the expanse, paths we could see leading to the 'city'. Other wagons pulled by horses meandering their way in and out which, seriously, where are they keeping these things?
I muttered as much to Laslow, and the bastard just winked at me, like he'd heard something he hadn't told us from our last stop. The security at the gate was impressive, the guards and city clearly expected attacks. Took about an hour to get through, winding in a tunnel built into the wall, a slow slope felt, definitively downwards but gentle enough for the animals comfort.
After the third inner gate, I was stuck in awe, as I always seem to be, at this new city. Laz ended up pulling on my arm to get moving. Laughing at me, probably. Asshole.
Didn't hear him though. Standing in front of us, nestled in this fucking volcano, was Krakenburg. An obsidian palace loomed in the center, held by pillars and connected to the upper layers with massive bridges. Below it we could see what seemed a district of rich and intricately designed mansions, connected to barracks and fortifications, and then...
Ah. There. A carved layer of miles of fertile land filled with grazing cattle and horses. I couldn't make out far enough, but it seemed expanded on the natural tiered interior structure of the volcano. I could also make out what appeared to be the bulk of the city stepped underneath, presumabely hiding the slums and and prisons even lower. Didn't have time to look further, we'd arrived where we'd be staying. The others laughter filled the background, and kept me warm against the harsh chill of the capitol.
-
Princess Camilla. Eldest daughter, Wyvern Sister, Scourge of the Western Plains, and fucking 8 foot tall smokestack. That's who I landed in service to. Not sure if I should be jealous of the others royals, Lord Xander seems like a stubborn pain to deal with, and Lord Leo distrusts any air breathed near him. But we're here now, one step closer to finding Corrin. Camilla at least is quick to gush about her family, so we know she's being held in a fortress to the north.
I've been sent to have Beruka, my new coworker, show me the ins and outs of the barracks and stables. I'm honestly having trouble figuring out how they created this place. Especially how they keep these animals healthy. Even with the pastures they must've adapted to live well without sunlight.
Most of the horses seem to be small, fleet footed things. Heavier than I thought they'd be, hurt like a bitch if they charged you. Most, I say, because I'm introduced to the Lady's riding horse, Ótr, who, matching the towering royals, must be 20 hands at the whithers. Ótr's breath felt like a stove in front of my face, and a brush was placed in my hand. I remember briefly hearing the crown prince was a renowned cavalier.
Ah
Laslows going to hate this next year.
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okay, as promised (thank you @madsmilfelsen for the encouragement lmao) post rewatch thoughts on true detective ep2:
— the landscape becomes more prevalent in this episode, or maybe i'm just more aware of it. it feels like nearly every scene we get a long, sweeping shot of the bayou, of the oil refineries, of the tangled roads like clogged-up arteries connecting to the heartland. these shots are often panning shots, the kind that in this genre we'd expect to be revealing something. standing right there, we think, will be the next clue — we just have to wait for the camera to reach it. this is a microcosm of the detective genre as a whole, the structure of a medium that reveals and solves truth. but TD has a troubled relationship with the camera and the filmed medium (panning away from the camera screen in ep1, the fontenot tape that 'no one should have' and indeed becomes a weapon against geraci, dora's mother saying “i saw it on the television, i prayed for that woman’s family, and it’s me.”) and its own genre in general. it won't be so easy as panning to the culprit — instead, the camera remains stubbornly fixed on the emptiness of a oily, polluted landscape, and gradually we begin to accept that landscape (cancer alley, one of america's most literal expression of the slow violence of capitalism) as a culprit in itself. this is reflected in the title sequence, which uses richard misrach's photography of petrochemical america.
(a great reference for the role of oil in true detective is Byrnes, Delia. “‘I Get a Bad Taste in My Mouth Out Here’: Oil’s Intimate Ecologies in HBO’s True Detective.” The Global South 9, no. 1 (2015): 86–106. https://doi.org/10.2979/globalsouth.9.1.07.)
— this is also connected to the pollution of the body. dora's mom gets headaches like 'storms' from the chemicals she was exposed to working in dry cleaning; dora's ramblings about the yellow king in her diary lead marty to say 'fried her brain, whatever she was on'; the whole episode deals with rust's 'neural damage' and visions from his time working narco. the brain is a permeable membrane that can be polluted just like the landscape — and it is that pollution, rust's 'mainlining the secret truths of the universe', that leads him to the mural on the wall of the church, the classical climactic reveal we expect in the detective genre. but it's not good old fashioned police work or sheer brilliance that gets him there — it's the chemical damage done to him by his trauma, his environment, and his job as police.
— speaking of, this episode is where marty's good-guy persona rapidly falls away and becomes something quite sinister. already, TD is taking aim at the copaganda myths of the troubled cop who needs to come home to unwind, party to horrors beyond imagining. he presents these excuses to maggie and they cut no ice, because they're fiction, because when he's out late he's actually just drinking and cheating on his wife.
— this is made most explicit in the juxtaposition of rust buying pills from a sex worker while marty has sex with lisa. marty brings handcuffs to the encounter; he intends them to be used on lisa, but lisa uses them on him instead, cuffing him as she recites his miranda rights just the way a cop would. meanwhile, rust tells lucy that of course he's dangerous; he's police. 'i can do terrible things to people with impunity.' he doesn't hurt her, but he could. and marty does not contradict this; he lets lisa cuff him and 'arrest' him only because she can't in reality. later on, when he uses his badge against the guy she's sleeping with from the longhorn, this reversal of power is revealed to be not a reversal at all. it's the same as when the bikers dress up as cops and rust becomes a cop pretending to be a biker pretending to be a cop; at a certain point, it all collapses and reveals police authority to be not innate and integral but in fact malleable, corrupt, and invariably performed for sexual and violent gratification.
— there remains a remove, however. as with the shots of the landscape, we mainly experience the louisiana environment as scenery speeding past while rust and marty drive. we experienced this with the glimpse of the girl (sophia's ghost?) in the first episode; we see this again at the start of ep2, when a group of young girls are smoking, scantily clad, on the side of the road and marty shoots them a troubled look through the window as they go past. it encapsulates his control issues as they unfold in this episode and beyond — that he has the desire to rescue, but really control, women's 'purity' and sexuality, but he can't. either he has to drive right on past or he has to give them a 'down payment' which will result in sexual favours later down the line. there is no way of leveraging his masculine cop authority that is not corrupt.
stay tuned for tomorrow night's round of Thoughts on ep3!
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Blue Hydrangeas
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original stark female character
Summary: Anora Stark, the younger sister of Lord Cregan Stark, is sent south in order to do her duty and marry the prince Aemond Targaryen. She has heard the rumors about the One Eyed Prince, both the good and the bad, and is uncertain where the prince stands in regards to her and their arranged marriage. Will they grow to love each other? And what will happen to the Stark family once the Dance of the Dragons starts?
Also published on AO3:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/51385267
Chapter I
The carriage ride from Winterfell to King's Landing was calm at best, boring and too long at worst. She would have preferred to make the trip by boat, but storms have haunted the narrow sea since the start of the year, and the journey by land was much safer. Though it was autumn, the weather in the south was much more forgiving, except for the heavy rains that encountered them in the Riverlands. But all that was left behind, now that Anora and her party made their way through the King’s gate, into the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, and her month long trip came to an end.
Anora slightly moved one of the carriage curtains, in order to observe the city and its people. The streets were full of people, some making business, other’s just walking around, but most followed her entourage with their eyes, either knowing what her arrival meant or questioning what was happening. She had heard stories of how Kings Landing was not an ideal place to live in, how the smell was overwhelming and the people dangerous, and though the rumors about the odors seemed to be true, the population seemed just like the one in White Harbor: busy, hard working, a community. In a moon, those will be her people, hers to protect and care for.
She’s to be married to the prince of the realm, Aemond Targaryen, and to unite their noble families. She didn’t know the prince, only the stories and rumors that surrounded him. They said that he had lost an eye, though the specific circumstances no one agreed on: some said that his dragon, the mighty Vhagar, ate it when he claimed her; other’s say that his older sister, the princess Rhaenyra, had it ordered as revenge, for prince Aemond had questioned the legitimacy of her three eldest children. She had also heard of his character, how he was cold and aloof, a good fighter and a fast learner, how he loved his mother, followed his duty to a T, and how he was the picture perfect image of a valyrian prince.
When the betrothal request had reached Winterfell, her brother Cregan had been hesitant to accept it. She was his little sister, after all, and he didn’t want to throw her in the jaws of a dragon. She was the one that accepted the proposal, that had the final say. Even though she was unsure, and truthfully nervous about the union and the type of person that her future husband would be, this was a very advantageous match. Not only would it make her a princess, but her children would be possible dragon riders, her house would be protected by the crown, and the prince was the same age as her, a luxury that other brides couldn’t afford.
She had heard from Lord Manderly's wife, that the prince was quite handsome, if you ignored his marred eye, and that he seemed to be dutiful and honorable, and the complete opposite of his older brother, who was a drunk adulterer. She hoped they could find an amicable marriage, and from what she had heard about prince Aemond, she believed she would at least tolerate his company. She could only hope that he would find her presence endurable as well.
As she noticed that they were nearing the Red Keep's walls, her nerves started to arise. She had never been south of the neck, much less in court. Both her parents were from the North, which meant that she wasn’t taught the ways of the South. She had read and educated herself about them, truthfully reading seemed like the only thing she did during the weeks on the road, but she feared it was not enough. Would she make a fool of herself in front of her betrothed, of his family, of the entire court? What if the prince hated her? Or what if she hated him, if he was cruel and vile?
Her anxiety-ridden thoughts were interrupted by her carriage passing through the castle walls, into an open courtyard where an entourage of people were waiting to welcome her, including her betrothed and the royal family. She hastily let go of the curtain, closing it and blocking her view of the group of people awaiting her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, waiting for her name to be announced for her to exit the coach and finally meet her future husband. When it did happen, her door was opened, and one of the servants came to help her out of the carriage. When her feet landed on the ground, she smoothed her skirts and looked in the direction of the royal family. There stood the queen Alicent Hightower, wearing a beautiful and modest dark green dress, and a welcoming smile on her face. On her right stood a tall, older man, also supporting green clothes and a golden broach in his doublet, meaning that he could be none other than Otto Hightower, the queen’s father and the Hand of the King. She also sees who she can surmise to be prince Aegon and princess Helaena, and their three small children. Prince Aegon seems bored, like he wishes to not be there, while princess Helaena has a distant but sweet expression on her face, and her youngest son, Maelor, in her arms.
In the middle of them all, stood a man who was undeniably her husband-to-be. He was tall and slender, though strong, had long silver hair, a handsome face, and an indigo eye. Eye, a singular one. The other one was covered by an eye patch, which fails to conceal the whole of the scar that peeks from above his brow and down his left cheek. She takes a few steps in their direction, and makes a deep and elegant courtesy, keeping her eyes down to show respect. When she corrected her posture and lifted her eyes again, she made eye contact with her betrothed. He had a blank, aloof expression on his face, she could not tell what he was thinking, and it scared her a bit. In her restlessness, she gave him a small, polite smile, and turned her gaze to his right, where his mother was. She was immediately greeted by the queen's warm brown eyes, and her kind expression.
“We welcome you, Lady Stark, to our home and to our family. We hope you enjoy yourself, and may we grow close to one another.” The queen spoke to her, with a gentle but firm voice.
Anora smiled at the older woman, and at her family.
“Thank you, your grace. You are the most kind. I also hope that we may grow into a happy union, and I will follow my duty as the future princess in the meanwhile”.
After all the courtesies and gentilities are exchanged, Anora is instructed to her chambers. Her rooms are large and welcoming, having a lot of light, warm and rich furniture, and a large and comfortable looking bed. She was gifted a sleeping chamber, a sitting chamber, and a dining room, as well as some castle maids. She had brought along two of her lady’s of company from Winterfell, Audra Whitehill and Moira Woolfield, who were her friends since childhood, but the extra hands and company pleased her. She knew not to get too accustomed with her new rooms, since she would be moved to her husband's chambers once they got married. When the door of her room closed and she was left by herself for the time being, she took her shoes and jewelry off and laid in her new bed.
There was to be a welcoming feast later in the evening, to celebrate her arrival and her betrothal to the prince. But for now she intended to rest, and maybe calm her nerves before she was to encounter him again. The way he looked at her, and the lack of expression on his face still haunted her. What did he think of her? Did he find her beautiful? Did he have a good first impression, or was he displeased with her? She turned to her side, unable to fall asleep. She was overthinking it, she had to rest to be in her best mood during the feast. Anora blew the candles on her bedside table and laid a blanket over her body, before finally falling asleep.
She was awoken a few hours later by her lady’s, in order for her to get ready for the banquet. They bathed her, dressed her, brushed her hair and styled it, painted and treated her face in order to enhance her natural beauty. In the end, Anora felt splendid. She was dressed in a soft blue, almost gray dress that matched her eyes. Her jewelry was simple but beautiful, made of silver and engraved with delicate patterns. Her hair was half up in a conglomerate of elegant braids that crowned her head, while the other half fell down her back in her natural curls. In her face, they applied some cream rouge to her cheeks, eyelids and lips, and brushed her eyebrows. She hoped that her betrothed would find her appearance pleasant. When she expressed her wishes to Moira, she whispered back:
“How could he not? Look at you Anora! He would stupid if he found you anything less than breathtaking.”
They giggled like little girls at this, and Anora felt her anxieties calm down a bit. When the time struck, one of her guards knocked at her door to tell her that she had to leave for the feast now. She made her way to the throne room, where the celebration was taking place, with her household guards at both her sides. When she arrived just outside the room, one of the royal guards told her to wait there until her name was announced, then, and only then, was she allowed to go through the doors and enter the throne room, where her betrothed was already seated.
The nerves came back, and she started to feel her hands getting sweaty. She made a last effort to look as presentable as possible, smoothing her skirts, adjusting her bustle, retouching her hair and her jewelry. Finally, after what felt like hours, her name and titles were announced to the court, and the double doors opened.
She started walking at a slow but sure pace, being careful not to trip in her skirts while also keeping her eyes up. She could see him sitting in the middle of the dais, and she noticed that he was already looking at her. His eye held no negative emotion, but it also didn’t show any positive one. It just stared at her and at her every move. She refused to break eye contact, and held it even when she stopped in front of the grand table installed on the foot of the Iron Throne, and curtsied for the royal family.
As it was expected, prince Aemond stood up, and made his way to her side, where he bowed and offered his arm to her. She took it gently, and noticed how warm and firm it was. She couldn’t help but to blush. They made their way to their seats in the middle of the dais, where he pulled her chair back to allow her to sit. He took his chair on her left side, and with that, the feast began.
#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen#hotd#house of the dragon#aemond stannies#aemond x reader#aemond fanfiction#prince aemond#hotd aemond#hotd fic#aemond the kinslayer#oc#original female character#stark#dance of the dragons#cregan stark#alicent hightower#rhaenyra targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#helaena targaryen#jacaerys velaryon#lucerys velaryon
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Day 298 ⚠️ TW
🇱🇧 Israel bombs Beirut in claimed targeting of senior Hezbollah commander Fuad Shukr, killing 3, injuring 74. Conflicting claims on Shukr’s survival. Hezbollah promises retaliation after escalation on Lebanese capital
🇵🇸 37 Palestinians killed, 73 injured in Gaza in 24 hours
🇵🇸 Israel expands evacuation orders to both Bureij & Nuseirat camps (central). 86% of Gaza now under evacuation orders but no safe refuge. IOF attack on Nuseirat kills 12 & injures many, as attack on Bureij kills 9 while transporting bodies
🇵🇸 IOF withdraw from Khan Younis (south) after 8-day invasion, killing 255+, injuring 300, destroying 90% of infrastructure, leaving it uninhabitable
🔓 Arrest warrants dropped for the 9 IOF soldiers for rape & torture of Palestinian hostage at Sde Teiman camp after politicians & citizens stormed IOF base & rallied in solidarity with the rapist soldiers
🇵🇸 IOF kill 2 men amid raid on al-Ein refugee camp (West Bank). IOF claims victims tried to stab them
#palestine#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#jerusalem#israel#tel aviv#gaza strip#from the river to the sea palestine will be free#joe biden#news#breaking news
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Once again with the ned sansa reddit post, joffrey is to sansa what robert is to ned.
One of the biggest points in Ned's pov is that he is deeply disturbed by the death of the last Targaryens. He basically leaves the capital after seeing Rhaenys and Aegon dead, and from what we know has very little contact with the South for a long time. He distrusts Tywin and Gregor for this act alone, and dislikes the Lannisters even though it was mostly done to appeal to Robert(and Robert did reward them by making Cersei his queen, although i'm pretty sure he was not really aware of how his actions would be seen just like in stannis and storm's end situation)
He refuses to see Robert's cruel, corrupted and careless side, despite Robert allowing Lady's death, putting the throne in great debt, filling the court with Lannisters and many more. Catelyn warns him that Robert is not the same Robert. Robert and Ned's relationship comes to a breaking point only after Robert directly supports the murder of Danaerys and Viserys, which forces Ned to subconsciously confront the fact that yes, Robert would kill Jon if he knew who he truly was.
we see a similar pattern with Sansa: she refuses to see joffrey in a negative light, shifts the blame of her dead direwolf onto his father and arya(when ned basically killed lady to calm joffrey and cersei down), despite being shown that lannisters are dangerous to her family, she still thinks cersei and joffrey would help her, and is also confronts the reality of joffrey when joffrey calls for her fathers head.
Obviously sansa is more unreasonable and extreme in her defense mechanisms, it's the same writing with different fonts.
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A rare deluge of rainfall left blue lagoons of water amid the palm trees and sand dunes of the Sahara desert, nourishing some of its most drought-stricken regions with more water than many had seen in decades. Southeastern Morocco’s desert is among the most arid places in the world and rarely experiences rain in late summer. The Moroccan government said two days of rainfall in September had exceeded yearly averages in several areas that get an average of less than 250 millimeters (10 inches) annually, including Tata, one of the areas hit hardest. In Tagounite, a village about 450 kms (280 miles) south of the capital Rabat, more than 100 mm (3.9 inches) was recorded in a 24-hour period. The storms provided more rainfall than had been seen in decades, leaving striking images of bountiful water gushing through the Saharan sands amid castles and desert flora. In desert communities frequented by the many tourists who visit the Sahara, 4x4s motored through the puddles and residents surveyed the scene in awe. “It’s been 30 to 50 years since we’ve had this much rain in such a short space of time,” said Houssine Youabeb of Morocco’s General Directorate of Meteorology.
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Capitalism’s climate catastrophe: How fossil fuel giants fueled the storm crisis
By Scott Scheffer
On Sept. 26, Hurricane Helene hit near Tampa, Florida, and tore north and then northwest through Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina, even reaching the eastern part of Tennessee.
Helene stretched about 400 miles across and sustained 140 mph winds, smashing into homes and leaving millions without electricity. The flooding and devastation from the wind were at a historic level.
No areas near the path were spared, and the mountain community of Asheville, North Carolina, was utterly destroyed by flooding. A local journalist reported seeing two homes being swept away by raging water that then crashed into each other.
Just two weeks later, Hurricane Milton landed 75 miles south of Helene’s landfall and ripped its way north/northwest across the panhandle and then out into the Atlantic. Work crews were clearing debris from Helene when Milton arrived.
It’s not unusual for hurricanes to spawn a few tornados. Usually, they’re weak and fizzle out quickly. Not these. The storm yielded a record 38 of them, and they smashed everything in their paths.
As of Oct. 15, the combined death toll had climbed to 268, and there were still 192 people unaccounted for. Damage estimates are all over the map, from $35 billion to $200 billion.
These were two of the most destructive storms in history. “Thousand-year” storms are happening frequently now. Hurricanes, droughts, and cyclones are increasing in severity. Heat waves are more frequent and threaten to make some cities that millions call home uninhabitable.
This is all a product of the capitalist economy. Giant energy companies and their banking partners have pushed the exploitation of fossil fuels, spewed gigatons of CO2, methane, and other greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, and caused global warming.
#climate crisis#Hurricanes#disaster#Asheville#Florida#Hurricane Helene#Hurricane Milton#fossil fuels#Big Oil#capitalism#imperialism#Struggle la Lucha
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