#he's just a mercenary! he's a fighter and a soldier!! but hes a fair and nice man.

[the-acid-pear]

Btw only today I remembered the time a Baki character crawled thru and out a man's asshole.and his only explanation was I could do that because I'm very small (he's 160cm).

[scotianostra]

July 30th 1335 saw the Battle of Boroughmuir where a body of Scots led by the Earl of Moray defeat an English force en route to join Edward III and his army at Perth.

Usually when delving into the history of battles I can collate my posts through numerous sources, it works well with the biggies, your Stirling Brdge, Bannockburn and Culloden, there are always fresh perspectives and articles where I can glean information and as the years go by, it's year 13 now by the way. Anyway I get flumoxed at times, year in year out I find little or no new info, so what I am saying is I just have to copy and paste from past years..........

This was a battle during the Second Wars of Scottish Independence, I covered the subject a fair wee bit in the past and concerns John Balliol’s son, Edward’s attempts to wrestle the Scottish crown from King David II, son of Robert the Bruce. An army of mercenaries and the Disinherited had invaded Scotland a couple of years before and “crowned” Edward at Scone.

Many of you will no doubt know the name of Boroughmuir from the School or sports fans from the rugby club of the same name, but the the space now known as The Meadows was once called The Borough Muir.

Fronted by Guy, Count of Namur, the English, bolstered by a considerable body of foreign troops from the Flanders region of Belgium, had marched up from Berwick expecting to bypass Edinburgh minus any drama, but it was not to be.

The site of the battle has been a traditional place where Scottish armies mustered before heading south to pick a fight, most notably before the tragic events of Flodden in 1513.

In the Martial Achievements of the Scottish Nation, Patrick Abercromby records that the Namurois, when defeated by the Scots at Boroughmuir retreated into Edinburgh, where they entered further conflict, particularly as they entered St Mary’s Wynd near the Netherbow Port.

Citing a 14th century account that recorded the valorous efforts of one particularly formidable Scots fighter, Abercromby wrote: “Here (St Mary’s Wynd) a Scots knight, Sir David Annand, a man of incredible strength and no less courage, having received a wound from one of the enemy, was thereby so much exasperated, that, at once exerting all the vigour of his unwearied arms, he gave his adversary such a blow with an axe, that the sharp and ponderous weapon clave both man and horse, and falling with irresistible force to the ground, made a lasting impression upon the very stones of the street.

This story may seem a little too romantic, and I would not have related it had I not cited a very good voucher, John de Fordoun, who flourished in 1360, not long after it happened.” The Count of Namur’s troops dispersed across the city, some fleeing towards the countryside to the south of Edinburgh.

However, a sizeable number, the Count included, took refuge at Edinburgh Castle, which had lain in ruin since 1315 when Robert the Bruce ordered its to be destroyed to prevent its re-occupation by the English.

Battered, bloodied and desperate, the Count ordered all his horses to be slaughtered and used their carcasses to fill the gaps in the castle’s broken defences. Besieged by the Scots, the Count of Namur and his Anglo-Flemish army survived a day before “hunger and thirst compelled him to capitulate”.The victorious Earl of Moray sent the Count and his band of followers on their way, on the proviso that never again would they bear arms against the ruling David II in Scotland.

An interesting fact about the battle is that in the aftermath, it was discovered that at least one English combatant was a woman. The soldier had engaged with a Scot named Richard Shaw, with the two fighters felled by one another’s spears. Upon stripping the Flemish fighter of the armour, the “gallant stranger” turned out to be a woman.

Centuries later, in 1867, a great quantity of human remains, said to date from the conflict, were discovered around 5 feet below the surface of Glengyle Terrace on the northern verge of the Boroughmuir, at what is now Bruntsfield Links. The remains were reburied by the Town Council.

Ultimately Balliol lost out in his attempt and relinquished his quest to rule Scotland in exchange for a pension from the English dying in obscurity at Wheatley, Doncaster, where his body is said to lie under a Post Office.

[claire-starsword]

Shining Force Data Collection - May 1992

These are from a special on japanese magazine Beep! Megadrive. I haven’t translated most of it because it’s your typical character stat analysis and item/magic list, but there were some fun character tidbits as well.

Protagonist

Leave the finishing blows to him

Character: A typical man, doesn't talk much. Many warriors admire him and join his force.

Special skills: He's the only one capable of ordering the wild members of the Shining Force to retreat.

Mae

Daughter of the Knight Captain, running through the wide fields

Character: Super harsh. Though that's what you can expect of a knight that was also raised like a princess.

Special skills: Her father was the Knight Captain Varios. Her bloodline is as good as it gets for a knight.

Ken

This model apprentice is a guy that grows stronger real fast

Character: Honest. To the point where he comes off as rude to other people. Though it's also a good thing.

Special skills: His youth is his strength. As a knight in training, his growth upon getting real battle experience is extraordinary.

Arthur

The hidden power of a laundry worker

Character: Extremely earnest. His weak point is that he's quick to worry.

Special skills: He's a unique knight who can learn magic. Is that a given when you work on the laundry in Manarina?

Pelle

Are mercenary knights immortal?

Character: A hothead. Perhaps that's why he's easy to deceive, he's completely helpless when it comes to surprise attacks.

Special skills: Has the sheer determination to climb up from a precipice. His strong will beyond that of regular mercenaries isn't just an act.

Vankar

Never stops drinking

Character: Loves alcohol and freedom and fighting. Has an adult charm to him.

Special skills: Fights head-on, one-on-one, a fair clash of power versus power. He's a knight for hire with a lot of pride.

Earnest

A knight of the shadows living for revenge

Character: A man of conviction who won't turn back at any danger in order to attain his goals.

Special skills: Skilled at guerilla tactics, seeing how he penetrated a fort leading only a small bunch of soldiers.

Luke

A brat charging onward with a dumpling of a nose!

Character: A natural-born fighter who loves battling, However, he's usually a kind man.

Special skills: Great physical strength. Shows a fighting style distinct from the knights.

Gort

A hot blooded grandpa unmatched in the battlefield

Character: A kind warrior who loves his family and homeland. Has the charm of an unassuming master.

Special skills: Relies on skill more than strength, contrasting with the young Luke.

Hans

Talented archer who hates fighting

Character: A pacifist. Does things on his own pace and whines a lot, but when he decides to act he does it well.

Special skills: Precise as a machine with the bow. Never misses a target.

Diane

Sniper woman raised in the mountain country

Character: Having been raised as a hunter since a young age, she is very self reliant. Also full of vitality.

Special skills: Runs through hills and fields like a wild beast, chasing after her prey through any distance.

Lyle

Heavy firearm guy with a terrible sense of direction

Character: He's careless, but the kind of guy that's hard to hate. Even he admits his sense of direction is poor.

Special skills: Certainly strong. Carries around that heavy cannon without a single complaint.

Guntz

An inventor’s soul running through the battlefield

Character: A sensitive guy despite his appearance. Seems to be very watchful of his surroundings.

Special skills: Has dexterous hands. Does maintenance of the steam suit by himself.

Tao

The burning woman was devoted

Character: Seemingly meek, but strong on the inside. As expected of a fire mage.

Special skills: Cooks the undead of monsters well-done. A monster chef.

Anri

The princess is a silver haired mage

Character: She is a princess yet has lived in Manarina for a while, perhaps she's good at adapting to other environments?

Special skills: A princess who attacks with ice magic, it's a bit of a scary image to conjure.

Domingo

An impertinent creature since the day he hatched

Character: Talks way too much. Perhaps his egg was hatched in a bad way.

Special skills: His gelatinous body is hard for enemies to damage. Very resistant.

Alef

The magician of lightning attacks hates Lowe?

Character: A woman (?) with a unique adult vibe among those in the force. Quite attractive...

Special skills: The Bolt magic that makes one's fur stand on end and summons lightning. Its power is outstanding.

Lowe

The one who saved a life is a priest in training

Character: Very nosy and curious. Yet has a vibe that's hard to dislike.

[idk book did you read the previous character]

Special skills: Being a priest, that is healing magic of course. Especially eager to treat the girls' wounds.

Khris

Has hidden strength very unexpected of her looks

Character: Because she has served a princess for a long time, she's mild mannered and very quiet.

Special skills: With experience she becomes quite strong, even in close combat. She also looks kind of lonely.

Torasu

The best when it comes to Aura

Character: The eldest in the force. Has a surprisingly funny face.

Special skills: Thanks to his long life, he has learned plenty of healing spells. Very knowledgeable.

Gong

The peak of body training

Character: He wanders about while training himself. A monk with strict discipline.

Special skills: Summons the healing fairies with a strong proper fist. You have to see it.

Balbaroy

Dances like a butterfly, stings like a hornet

Character: Has a deep sense of honor. Fought to protect the priest in Shade who took care of him.

Special skills: A valuable member who can fly. Can't anything be done about his kinda low strength...?

Amon

Do you understand how to use the birdmen couple?

Character: A gentle wife who cares dearly for her husband. You want to answer her pleas no matter what.

Special Skills: Another flying member along her husband. You can leave the battlefield scouting to them.

Kokichi

Flying is his life

Character: He has persisted for fifty years on experiments with flying machines. That says all you have to know about his personality.

Special skills: Kokichi is the only human in all of Rune to have flown. It's an amazing feat.

Bleu

Is this a legendary Sacred Dragon?

Character: He's a crybaby, but his care for his friends might be beyond that of humans. Likes Karin.

Special skills: Bleu is still only a child. He's just starting to develop his powers as a sacred dragon.

Zylo

The only option when it comes to forest battles

Character: While a beastman, he is the king of Bustoke. A noble and kind ruler.

Special skills: A forest spirit. In a forest, no one can match his power.

Adam

Robot given a duty

Character: Loyal servant to the protagonist. He was created for this role. A long. long time ago.

Special skills: His whole body is weaponized. By getting experience, he may be able to unlock its abilities.

Musashi

A strong warrior visiting from an eastern country

Character: The embodiment of the samurai code. He cannot ignore evil, no matter how small.

Special skills: With a single swing of his katana he can tear apart even air! Such skill might be above even the protagonist's.

Hanzou

This user of ninja arts holds his sword in a backwards grip

Character: A complete mystery. His nature, his personality, all unknown. A literal fighting machine?

Special Skills: The secret art of hiding in the shadows. Now, let's look out for him thoroughly.

Yogurt

Why does he fight?

Character: "I don't get it..."

Special skills: He runs. Has a helmet. Tumbles down. Apparently has a lot of unexpected skills. Really unexpected.

[earthnashes]

I have commissioned several such pieces from you myself, though I was wondering if you had drawn any scenes from sessions you've played or run.

I do actually! :)

THIS big gal is Surya! She was the character I played in one of the first campaigns I've ever played. She was Fighter Class but if I ever play her again, she'll be a Barbarian instead. She wasn't the smartest of the bunch but she was loud and simplistic and happy :) Buuuuut during the first campaign, she got bit by a werewolf. Since it was a mini-campaign, it didn't get to go much farther than the initial stages but man it was so cool.

This drawing here is after she and the squad fled from an entire pack of werewolves overruling the town they were sent to investigate. Surya was exhausted from all that happened and they ran into the Fey Woods, and with nowhere else to run the group decide to chance a long rest. Surya just outright collapsed and went right to sleep where she fell; our Kobold paladin Zeppu had to pick her big ass up and drag her to relative safety xD

And this is what you'd get if Surya actually fully turned (which she was well on her way to). At some point in the campaign, the group was separated in the Fey Woods and fell into one hell of an illusion. Surya managed to break out of hers (after being lured away from the group that is) but she was confronted by a Fey God; if I remember right he was as large as a giant and partly skeletal, his domain was filled with skeletons, and he was missing one eye.

He had offered Surya a deal; serve him for a few years in exchange of either complete control over her werewolf form, the release of the binding band imprinted onto her shoulder, and returning her and her squad home. When Surya hesitated he forcefully changed her into what she'd eventually become: the image you see above. It was only for a split second but it rattled her, but despite that she ultimately refused and he allowed her to return to the group. It was one of the coolest moments I got to experience in a campaign! :)

-------

Switching gears a little:

This boi is Ishmael! Ishmael of the Moon to be precise. He is a Cleric Dragonborn, and the character I'm currently playing in a big campaign. :) I fucking love this dude man; He's goofy and a big bumbling old man but he's apparently the literal dad of the group. And an actual dad! He's in the campaign on a personal quest of looking for his runaway daughter, who ran away years ago for reasons I can't talk about due to SPOILERS.

Basic backstory: he was a soldier, and when he retired he became a mercenary, but after his daughter ran away he turned to the gods and became a Cleric through that. He worships Dragon Goddess Tamara, and he hates alcohol. The plush on his belt is one his daughter gave him when she was just a little thing; he keeps it with him at all times.

And this is how he and one of the squad members, Ura, met! They were at the docks of Balder's Gate and she convinced him to come play a simple game of "guess that cup". Funnily enough Ishmael did actually guess right but Ura is too crafty for him, and she had her little mouse buddy pull a fast one on him. He has no idea she scammed him even to this point and thinks it was just a game he lost fair and square. xD

Shit is really getting serious in the campaign ya'll though I tell ya WHAAAT. Actually, the sessions are all recorded thanks to the PotG Kyrit, so if she and everyone are okay with it I might start sharing those recordings of our adventures O:

[maniakmonkey]

I wanna talk about Grimothy

Captain Grime is one of my favorite characters in Amphibia and I think it’s because he’s a really tragic character in hindsight.

I don’t usually do analysis stuff so the rest will be under the cut. Spoilers from the beginning of the show, all the way through Season 2: Battle of the Bands.

When we first are introduced to him we see this terrifying toad warrior with a glowing eye. We quickly learn that while he is an frightening character, he has literally no social skills beyond intimidation. 

He’s mean, he doesn’t know how to talk to people, and the only way he knows how to encourage his soldiers is through fear. It isn’t until he meets Sasha he starts learning how to talk to people in ways other than by threatening them. We know Sasha’s teaching him how to manipulate people but it’s an improvement over violence and fear. 

After Toad Tower is destroyed, and Sasha and Grime are on the run, we see Grime at his lowest. He has no motivation with the loss of his tower and soldiers. He spends every day drinking and watching trashy TV, which to be fair is really funny watching this former edge lord laughing over Suspicion Island and wanting to watch the finale.

When corned by General Yunan who has come to kill Sasha and Grime we learn two things in this encounter. First, Grime has become genuine friends with Sasha and is willing to sacrifice himself so she can get away. This is a huge step away from the villain we met in the very beginning of the show.

Secondly we learn that Grime was the Champion of the Colosseum in Newtopia. Frustratingly none of the episodes in Newtopia mention the colosseum so we don’t know anything about it, but we can infer based on history it was probably something like the Roman Colosseum. Generally, gladiators didn’t go to fight in the colosseum for fun. They were convicts, slaves, and prisoners of war. A fighter that survived long enough in the colosseum usually earned his freedom and would be sought after as body guards and mercenaries. We can make a leap of logic and guess Grime was a prisoner of some sort, won is freedom, and became Captain of Toad Tower as a result. Potentially he also lost his eye or eyes in the colosseum but until the show confirms it in anyway there’s no way to know. (Adding this concept art of the Toads because this might be an early Captain Grime. I love this concept art so much)

Skipping ahead to Barrel’s Warhammer, we meet Beatrix, Grime’s sister, and we learn that his real name is Grimothy. Oddly enough she also has lost an eye in the same manner as Grime, but more importantly we find out that Beatrix teases Grime and he is embarrassed by her. Being embarrassed by your family is such a real endearing thing I think a lot of people can relate to, so it’s so crazy we’ve gone from the Grime at Toad Tower, to the blushing Grimothy standing before all these other Toad armies and being embarrassed by his sister!

Finally we get to The Dinner and Battle of the Bands. In these episodes we learn several things about Grime that are played off as jokes. Grime enjoys playing Pictionary, Grime likes baking, and Grime not only can play the harp, but he can play it so expertly that he plays it for hours and has an entire town enthralled and crying from the performance! He wins the battle of the bands and ends up joining the rest of the Wartwood cast for a group photo.

So why does this all matter? Well, Captain (Grimothy) Grimes is a goober and a good friend. He’s a toad that is willing to fight and die for those he cares about. He is a person who giggles at the chance of competition, who loves to bake, and play games, and watch trashy TV, and he can play music like no one else can. And all of these things were probably taken from him when he fought in the colosseum and became a soldier of Toad Tower. It was only after becoming friends with Sasha did he start to regain his humanity (for lack of a better word). Grime is such a great character and it’s been so cool learning these bits about him throughout the show. I have no real conclusion or anything I just want to show my appreciation for the character. Grime’s great. I hope we get a proper backstory episode in the future. Thanks for reading!

[firstknightss]

its gwaincelot time

(footage of me linking this and turning incoherent thoughts to words)

so in s3 e13, we see lancelot getting slashed by one of cenred's men. since the soldier's immortal, lancelot can't kill him, but he sure can do some hefty damage to lancelot. the chainmail in the show, is shown to be quite useless ngl. it can stand some hits from swords and the like, but in the previous and further episodes, we see people being injured through the chainmail.

for arthur, his chainmail was quite steady, and the arrow that hit him in the ep before, probably hit a hole in the chain, creating a wound. but! this is arthur, the prince, and soon to be king of camelot, so obviously he has better chainmail

they were low on supplies when they minted the round table, so im assuming that whoever was wearing chainmail before, stayed in it. so arthur, percival, leon and lancelot stayed in their mail, whereas elyan and gwaine didnt and got new ones now. lancelot and percival had been living as mercenaries, which means that their supplies weren't as good as leon and arthurs. therfore lancelot and percy's armour was cheaper and lower quality

percival, of the two, is at the better objective advantage, as he's.....................tall.................so the places where his chainmail would have been the weakest (joints) was higher up, and harder to reach lancelot, on the other hand, is short as fuck. therefore his joints were lower and easier to hit leading him to get hit by the sword, in a battle which would have been pretty much a cakewalk for percival

also, we know, that the whole ordeal probably had a really bad effect on merlin, since he had to use powerful magic for a steady period of time. not to mention how tiring holding the dragon breath sword would have been. now there is no actual evidence merlin healed lancelot. (he sure could have. but for this hot take. im not gonna acknowledge it) and y'know what? fair? Merlin's gone through a LOT. and i mean a LOT. he probably had magical exhaustion another thing we know for sure, is that gwaine, however stupid u think he is, is quite competent. not only is he a really good fighter, BUT! considering he's got nobody to depend upon, and - most recently - in that slave trader situation, since he was his "best fighter", i assume he got injuries and probably fixed them himself. he's been around a Lot. therefore must. must have picked stuff up. jack of trades shit. i assume he'd be the second person you'd go for injuries, assuming merlin's incapacitated. its mostly just elimination than anything else arthur cant care for people for shit <3 gwen may be a seamistress but theres a line between sowing people up and fixing wounds. elyan may be a blacksmith, but again theres a line between mechanics and actually healing someone. leon - do u think he can heal people? look me in the Eye.

and percival. he'd be great for a mental health day, but not one for physical health ngl gaius is also there, but he straight up killed someone and he's quite old - so im gonna throw magical exhaustion at him. he did much less than merlin, but also age does add to it therefore, since the knights know gwaine is a bit of a "jack of all trades" thing, ofc they'd go to him for patchups

also ALSO reminder that gwaines one to have a proper Proper education because sure arthur has been "trained to kill since birth", and leon's probably trained to be first knight since birth. so they must have focused more on martial arts and swordmanship instead of like. actual studying.

but gwaines dad, hes probably a lower noble. so therefore, gwaine must have had more freedom to study like. whatever.

most of the medicine at that time was in LATIN. and seen as HERBAL. so gwaine could have deadass done the two subjects at school. like a latin 101 and herbology 101

now im gonna need u to hold these facts, and imagine a scenario

lancelot, probably tired as shit, a little feverish because who knows how good his shirt is under his armour, hobbling over to gwaine in camelot, after merlin and gaius r passed out

and then cut to tender scene where gwaine (who everyone thinks is like. beyond saving) softly patching up lancelot (who everyone thinks is like. the Purest)

and lancelot's like "oh gwaine!! didn't know you could do such work!!!" and gwaine's all like "ohh it's one of my MANY talents you dont know about [winkey face winky face]"

and its just shippy and cute

and also also. lancelot fevered. and gwaine offers to bunk w him. obv merlin would be a first choice, but hes. currently passed out due to exhaustion. so GWAINE it is

they dont have rooms yet so i assume they just sleep half in leons room and half in arthurs room

leons room contains lancelot and gwaine. leon very nobly offered lancelot his bed. and gwaine Jumps In like "dont mind if i do ;) "

and leons like.........okay

(leons going through somehting rn bc its hitting him that hes immortal. and he cant sleep. so he dozes off on the sofa, but NOT BEFORE looking over the two sleeping)

they wake up cuddling <3 :sparkles:

and leons like. in a very aro way. "fools"

and anyway they ride next to each other, when they get their horses the next morning. because sleeping next to another knight rlly speedruns a slow burn

tldr; i saw one scene where they rode together, therefore they must be gay

[violetjedisylveon]

Chora

Finished drawing Chora, she's one of the main antagonists for my Amnesia Bad Batch story. She a Pantoran bounty hunter/mercenary/assassin and low level force sensitive.

She's really good at her job, sometimes cruel but mostly fair, unless you piss her off. She's got a good record but doesn't go for notoriety to avoid the downsides of it, most people just look at the armor and respect her.

Her armor is from a Mandalorian heritage and she speaks Mando'a, Pantoran and a collection of odd languages from the Outer Rim, basic is very much her second language.

She's very good at ranged and melee combat, can use lots of weapons and is a really good fighter without weapons. She's a well rounded fighter with some strength in everything. For certain targets she does have a melee preference cause she likes to get up close and personal, makes it easier to mess with people.

She has a low level of Force sensitivity, not enough to be a Jedi or to be very noticeable unless you know what your looking for, but enough to be useful to her. She can sense others, track them, has precognition, a fast reaction time and limited mind reading skills, which she uses to get into people's heads. Her skills with the Force don't extend much outside of that, she's very bad at moving things around in the Force.

There are two areas she does have skill in, it's mediocre skill but not as bad as her physical applications are. Those are a limited ability to connect with animals(if the animal is too rild up it's harder to get a good grip) and some basic healing, she usually uses that on herself to make serious injuries less life threaten but it's very draining.

Currently, she is on contract with the Empire as a hired bounty hunter, she did this so she could apend more time with her girlfriend, Yaosney Alameryn, when the latter enlisted in the Empire as one of it's first recruited troops. Yaosney is ES-02 btw.

She is currently tracking the activities of the fugitive Clone Force 99 and the person of Imperial interest, Freyu O'asisk, who is with them.

She's a lesbian and dating Yaosney, they started dating before the Clone Wars. She isn't shy about the relationship, neither is Yaosney, and likes to make people uncomfortable with it. They really love each other and look out for each other, another reason for working for the Empire is making sure Yaosney isn't signing up to be canon fodder.

She has a general dislike for clones rooted in history with Jango Fett, and that some groups of clones were responsible for crimes against innocent non humans, she doesn't stand for that you try calling her a slur and you'll be dead before you know it.

She has a particularly strong dislike for arrogant ones, especially Crosshair for his superiority complex, and often reminds him that he isn't as great as he thinks just cause he's enhanced and thinks himself better than most people because of it. He's also speciest and xenophobic(cause he's a willing soldier in a fascist regime) and she doesn't like that.

She'll take any chance she can get to take him down a peg and remind him that he isn't better than she is just because he's been modified or cause he's human.

They have fought in training type set upd and she's absolutely kicked his ass. She's about ~30 and he's like 12, she's got a lot more experience.

One of her favorite weapons is her modified beskar Force pike.

I'm not explaining her armor, I didn't want this to take a month so I didn't draw it. The only thing I'll be explaining is this

This is a Force pike. It's a type of vibro weapon. Chora's is heavily modified and self made.

In addition to being a vibro weapon, both ends are sharpened and can release electrical charges and toxins.

The whole thing is made of beskar making it resistant to lightsabers. The pole between the tip and handle is lined with incredibly tiny barbs to make it more deadly.

So that's Chora, she's going to show up more prominently in the next chapters of Amnesia.

[tf2-hellhole]

Grim af but I kinda like angst- okay so the either rsepawner stoped working and the mercs had to watch their s/o die or they some how got into the crossfire and died

Bless your soul homie, I love writing fluff but I’ve been itching to write some angst-

I imagined that the S/O was exploring the battleground but didn’t know that a match was about to start. They’re killed about a third of the way into the match but their merc finds their body near the end

Warning: Death, emotional trauma, alcoholism, etc

Scout:

At first, another teammate told him his S/O was on the battlefield but doesn’t know they’re dead yet. He spends several minutes running around trying to find them. He doesn’t try to attack any enemies or cap the objective and is sent through respawn several times.

But after a little while, he finds them. He doesn’t realize they’re dead and tries to bring them a health pack, believing they’ve only passed out. It’s only when he grabs their wrist that he realizes there’s no pulse.

When it hits him, he just freezes. He just stares down at them and tears form in his eyes. He stays there with their body until another BLU comes along and takes the free kill. He spends the rest of the match in the back of the spawn room crying quietly and shaking violently. No one even notices him there until the end of the match.

When the rest of the team finds out, Spy and Sniper (who is heavily implied to be Scout’s good friend) sit with him while their body is retrieved. He doesn’t say a word the whole time.

But the moment he gets back to his room, he has an absolute meltdown. It lasts a very long time and he breaks a lot of his stuff. The other mercs can hear him and all feel horrible. Spy has to leave because he doesn’t want the others to see that he’s on the verge of tears for his son.

Heavy has to come in and stop Scout before he accidentally hurts himself. As soon as he’s in his arms, he stops thrashing and just sobs. He stays in a depressive state for several weeks after this.

He’s a lot quieter afterward. He eventually gets his cocky personality back several years later, but he’s nowhere near as loud or confident as before. He never truly recovers and doesn’t try dating again for a long time.

Soldier:

Soldier, like Scout, doesn’t realize his S/O is dead and tries to shake them awake. But the moment he realizes his S/O is dead, he flies into a violent rage.

He thoughtlessly attacks the BLU team. He doesn’t consider the objective and just attacks the BLUs. He’s so reckless that he just dies several times and barely gets any kills. His team loses the match because of him.

After the match, Soldier brings their body to the med bay himself. He demands Medic make them come back. When Medic tells him there’s nothing he can do (this is before he had the funding to learn to revive someone) he attacks him, saying that he’s lying. The others have to subdue him before he kills someone while respawn is off

After he’s calmed, he spends several weeks just replaying the moment he realized they were dead in his mind. How could this happen? He was supposed to protect them! He was supposed to protect them and he failed… He never gets over that thought.

He pays for most of his S/O’s funeral to make sure it’s beautiful, because they deserve it

Over several years he eventually heals and turns back into the normal Soldier, but for the rest of his life he always carries a photo of his S/O everywhere and dedicates every match RED wins to them.

Pyro:

Pyro’s entire world quickly turns grey and dark when they find the body of their S/O. They drag their S/O’s body to a safe place and hold them to their body, just sobbing quietly into their mask. But after a few moments, they’re filled with fury and go on a rampage similar to Soldier’s. They charge directly into enemy fire, only caring about taking revenge for his S/O. But unlike Soldier, theirs is slightly more calculated and results in RED winning a match they almost lost.

After the battle, Pyro won’t leave the body alone. They pick up their S/O and carry them back to the base bridal style, shaking and sobbing the whole time. They take the body to the med bay and just sit there crying into their arms. They’re there for several hours and would’ve sat there for days is Engie didn’t lead them away

For a couple of weeks, Pyro refuses to participate in combat, leading to many additional losses for the RED team. All they do is sit around and don’t have the motivation to do anything for a while, though they eventually return to work after the other mercenaries encourage them to.

For a very long time, Pyro’s world is lifeless and dull and nothing can fix it. They just feel horrible and live in despair for a long while. They spend most of their days sitting outside or in their room in the base, completely silent. Over a few years they heal, but their world turns grey and sad much more often than before. Some days they feel really guilty about not being there to protect their S/O, and they feel so horrible about it that even flames can’t lighten their mood.

Demo:

Demo is in absolute shock upon finding their body, but his first instinct is to pick up their S/O and run to Medic, desperately begging for him to do something. When the medigun doesn’t do anything, Medic and Demo instantly know that it means they’re gone, and Demo goes completely silent.

Demo carries his S/O to a safe spot for the rest of the match to just hold them against him and ask them to please, please wake up. His life was hell before he met them, what is he gonna do without them? They can’t leave him, not now, it’s not fair! They had so much ahead of them!

His mental state goes downhill after this. His S/O had practically kept him sane; They encouraged him to cut back on drinking, comforted him after his mother would insult him over the phone, and complimented him after every RED win. He spirals back into a state of thinking about all of his regrets and insecurities and drowning them in alcohol, then repeating the process in the morning.

He falls into a severe depression and just falls apart. The only things he has the motivation to do are go to the kitchen to grab all the alcohol he can find, take it back to his room, drink it all, and spend the rest of the day sleeping. He eventually has to be moved to the med bay to be cared for by Medic due to his refusal to eat. He’s in this state for a very long time and it’ll be months before his team sees him on the battlefield again.

Demo never really recovers. He starts to eat again after a while and becomes depressed less often over time. But he will often drink a lot more when his S/O is on his mind and never seeks another partner. Sometimes alcohol can’t make the image of them in his head go away and he just sits in silence, tears running down his face, trying to clear the image from his mind. It hurts him so much.

Heavy:

When another teammate tells him his S/O is on the battlefield, he absolutely panics. He can’t let anything happen to them. He immediately turns to Medic and tells him to pocket him and help him find his S/O. They spend a little while running around and trying to find them, and after a few minutes find the enemy Soldier standing over their body.

Heavy immediately revs up his gun and mows down every enemy in sight to get them away from his S/O, starting with the Soldier. Once he’s done he drops his gun and rushes to their side with Medic, desperately hoping they’re still breathing. You can practically hear his heart shatter when he realizes they aren’t.

You’d expect him to get angry and use the rest of the match to get his revenge, but not yet. He runs back to base with his S/O in his arms and spends the rest of the match holding their body and whispering to them in Russian. He refuses to let them go for several hours after the match.

The next match is when he gets his revenge on the BLU Soldier. He gets the other mercs to help him kidnap the Soldier, and tortures him for a while before sending him back to respawn.

Heavy is allowed to leave work for a little while and goes to his family for a few months. He isn’t depressed while he’s with them, he helps them around the house, but he spends a lot more time alone and reads for hours and hours to get the image of his S/O’s body out of his head. It isn’t until a few weeks after his S/O is killed that he breaks down in his bedroom. He doesn’t scream or sob, he just sits at his desk with his head in his hands with tears running down his face for hours.

Engineer:

When Engineer was told that his S/O was on the battlefield, he went pale. He was terrified because he knows he’s not the best fighter and he can’t run out there and get them. He just has to stay focused on supporting his team and hope Scout or Soldier finds them.

It isn’t until RED had already won the match that one of his teammates brings the body to him. He lets out a pained cry and runs over to take his S/O into his arms. He asks in a shaky voice who killed them, but none of the mercs know.

Engineer just throws himself into his work for months. He gets up in the morning and goes to his workshop, only leaving for things like showering and eating, though he does these things rarely, and goes to sleep at around 2 AM. He’s extremely quiet now and rarely interacts with the other mercenaries, usually only speaking to them when he has to. He doesn’t work for the first couple of battles after his S/O’s death but after a few weeks he joins his coworkers. He does his job as efficiently as before but he rarely speaks and is still very, very distant. He’s even distant to the merc closest to him, Pyro.

Over a long while, probably a few years, he heals. He gets back his extroverted and kind personality but he’s a little quieter than before. He won’t ever seek another partner.

He makes sure to visit his S/O’s grave regularly and tell them how he’s been doing. He always makes sure to leave them fresh flowers, and he makes sure their grave is kept pristine even after he’s gone.

Medic:

Medic is pocketing Heavy and is about to pop Uber when Heavy yells, “Doctor, look!”. He turns to see where his friend is looking and lets out a surprised cry when he sees his S/O’s body. He immediately abandons Heavy and runs to them.

He drops down in front of them and immediately checks their pulse. For a moment after he realizes there is no pulse, all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and bow his head over their body. But he quickly grabs his minigun and runs back to Heavy. He pockets him and growls at him to push forward, since his Uber is ready. They go in and he gets his revenge as all of BLU is mowed down in seconds. He’s not satisfied but he can’t do much else

Like Scout, he has a complete meltdown in his lab after the match. He destroys tons of equipment and attempts to destroy his medigun. In his mind, if it couldn’t save his liebling, then what point does it have? But luckily, the other mercs stop him before he damages it too much.

Once he’s calmed, he focuses every waking moment on trying to bring his S/O back. This is before the comics, and at this point he does not have enough funding to invent a way to revive them. He spends months trying to work out a way to bring them back.

During this time, he is very aggressive towards his teammates. He doesn’t attack them, but he yells for them to get out the moment they enter the lab. The only person allowed in his Heavy, but even he can’t be in there for more than ten minutes before Medic is growling at him to leave too. The team actually has to hire a real doctor to look after the mercs while he’s in this state. He still participates in battles though, he just doesn’t take care of their general health.

Sniper:

Sniper is the only one to actually watch his S/O fall. He was forced to watch through his scope as the enemy Spy put a bullet in their head before he could get a clear shot. The moment he’s killed the Spy, he’s running from his nest to his S/O

He scoops up the body before more BLUs show up and drag them back. He wants to bring them a health pack or yell for Medic, but he knows they wouldn’t be able to do anything. For a while, he just sits there holding them and shaking. But after a short while, Medic comes nearby and notices Sniper.

Once Medic is beside him, something snaps in Sniper. He tells Medic to take care of his S/O and he runs back to his nest. He proceeds to perform better than ever before, landing every single shot. He’s always waiting for the enemy Spy and never fails to blow his head off every single time he uncloaks.

At some point during the match, the Spy tries to get rid of Sniper. Before he can backstab him though, Sniper spins around and pins him down with his kukri to his throat. He uses his weapons to make the Spy pay for what he did before killing him.

After the battle, he becomes extremely distant. He goes to his camper and stays there for days, never leaving, not even to eat. He just lays in his bed, his face buried in his pillow, replaying what he saw in his head.

He turns to drinking to make the moment leave his mind. He had already been through so much in his life, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He becomes an alcoholic very quickly and just spends his free time drinking in his camper. His performance suffers drastically in battle and the REDs have several losses before the other mercs make him go through rehab before this becomes a permanent habit. He relapses several times but eventually recovers.

Out of all the mercs, he recovers the least. He permanently becomes more distant to the other mercenaries because he’s terrified of losing people he becomes attached to. He becomes much more introverted and often takes trips out into the wilderness for weeks.

Spy:

Spy happened upon his S/O’s body while he was cloaked, trying to sneak into the enemy base. When he noticed them, he threw himself around a corner and covered his mouth to stifle the surprised cry that came from it. There were several BLUs nearby, trying to push forward. He had to wait for several minutes crammed into a corner until the BLU pushed forward before he could go to his S/O.

The moment he was able to, he ran over to the body and picked them up, his voice breaking as he mumbled in French to them. He ran to safety and threatened Medic to make him bring them back somehow. He almost attacked him when he said he couldn’t. When he finally accepted that his S/O was gone, he slumped against the wall, holding them close and apologized over and over in French.

(Part of this point is based on another headcanon, though idk who's because I read it before I made this account.) After the battle though, he was very composed. He stayed with the body for several hours, just holding their hand and speaking softly, but he didn’t cry or sob. It was when he went to his smoking room that he lost it. He yelled in anger and shattered several bottles of alcohol. It was short and was over as quickly as it started. When he’s done, he stalks over to his chair and chainsmokes late into the night. Over the next few months, he has several short meltdowns in private.

He absolutely hates sleeping now. He just lies there and stares at the empty space in the bed where his S/O used to sleep. He remembers them snuggling up against him and smiling up at him before cupping his cheek in their hand. He often falls asleep crying.

Like Sniper, he tries to stay away from others a lot more after that, because he couldn’t bear to have another heartbreak like that. His ability to trust is also severely ruined. He never finds another partner.

[dwellordream]

“...Warrior has a fairly obvious etymology, being related to war (itself a derivative of French guerre); as guerre becomes war, so Old French guerreieor became Middle English werreior and because that is obnoxious to say, modern English ‘warrior’ (which is why it is warrior and not ‘warrer’ as we might expect if it was regularly constructed).

By contrast, soldier comes – it has a tortured journey which I am simplifying – from the sold/sould French root meaning ‘pay’ which in turn comes from Latin solidus, a standard Late Roman coin. So there is clearly something about pay, or the lack of pay involved in this distinction, but clearly it isn’t just pay or the word mercenary would suit just as well.

So here is the difference: a warrior is an individual who wars, because it is their foundational vocation, an irremovable part of their identity and social position, pursued for those private ends (status, wealth, place in society). So the core of what it is to be a warrior is that it is an element of personal identity and also fundamentally individualistic (in motivation, to be clear, not in fighting style – many warriors fought with collective tactics, although I think it fair to say that operation in units is much more central to soldiering than the role of a warrior, who may well fight alone). A warrior remains a warrior when the war ends. A warrior remains a warrior whether fighting alone or for themselves.

By contrast, a soldier is an individual who soldiers (notably a different verb, which includes a sense of drudgery in war-related jobs that aren’t warring per se) as a job which they may one day leave behind, under the authority of and pursued for a larger community which directs their actions, typically through a system of regular discipline. So the core of what it is to be a soldier is that it is a not-necessarily-permanent employment and fundamentally about being both in and in service to a group. A soldier, when the war or their term of service ends, becomes a civilian (something a warrior generally does not do!). A soldier without a community stops being a soldier and starts being a mercenary.

Incidentally, this distinction is not unique to English. Speaking of the two languages I have the most experience in, both Greek and Latin have this distinction. Greek has machetes (μαχητής, lit: ‘battler,’ a mache being a battle) and polemistes (πολεμιστής, lit: ‘warrior,’ a polemos being a war); both are more common in poetry than prose, often used to describe mythical heroes. Interestingly the word for an individual that fights out of battle order (when there is a battle order) is a promachos (πρόμαχος, lit: ‘fore-fighter’), a frequent word in Homer.

But the standard Greek soldier wasn’t generally called any of these things, he was either a hoplite (ὁπλίτης, ‘full-equipped man,’ named after his equipment) or more generally a stratiotes (στρατιώτης, lit, ‘army-man’ but properly ‘soldier’). That general word, stratiotes is striking, but its root is stratos (στρατός, ‘army’); a stratiotes, a soldier, for the ancient Greeks was defined by his membership in that larger unit, the army. One could be a machetes or a polemistes alone, but only a stratiotes in an army (stratos), commanded, presumably, by a general (strategos) in service to a community.

Latin has the same division, with similar shades of meaning. Latin has bellator (‘warrior’) from bellum (‘war’), but Roman soldiers are not generally bellatores (except in a poetic sense and even then only rarely), even when they are actively waging war. Instead, the soldiers of Rome are milites (sing. miles). The word is related to the Latin mille (‘thousand’) from the root ‘mil-‘ which indicates a collection or combination of things.

Milites are thus – like stratiotes, men put together, defined by their collective action for the community (strikingly, groups acting for individual aims in Latin are not milites but latrones, bandits – a word Roman authors also use very freely for enemy irregular fighters, much like the pejorative use of ‘terrorist’ and ‘insurgent’ today) Likewise, the word for groups of armed private citizens unauthorized by the state is not ‘militia,’ but ‘gang.’ The repeated misuse by journalists of ‘militia’ which ought only refer to citizens-in-arms under recognized authority, drives me to madness).

...The idea of the ‘universal warrior’ erases these important distinctions, instead supposing that there is really only one way that combatants relate to their societies, often by anachronistically retrojecting the values of modern soldiers onto pre-modern warriors (as Pressfield does, assuming that modern soldiers share a value system with the Spartiates; they do not).

...As you might well imagine warriors and soldiers have quite different values and a very different relationship to their societies. It is perilous to generalize overmuch, but generally, warrior-classes tend to sit at the top of their social hierarchy, ruling the rest by a mix of force and legitimacy born from their military success. The honor or glory of a warrior’s actions derive from their unique excellence and combat skills. Consequently, in societies with warriors we often see a strong emphasis on personal identifiablility for those warriors, often in stark contrast to the ‘lowlier’ soldiers in their employ, either in the form of personal banners or a high social value placed on the gathering of specific spoils or trophies (or similar acts, such as counting coup).

(As a quick aside, because this is a point we will come back to, it is important to note the place of ‘warriors’ within their societies. Within non-agrarian societies – hunter-gatherers, Steppe nomads, etc – it is generally the case that all free adult males are expected to fight and are thus warriors. By contrast, ‘warriors’ within agrarian societies appear as an aristocratic elite. There is no ‘all elite warrior’ society, despite this being a common trope in the public thinking about the Spartans or Vikings or what have you (and one, I should note, Pressfield explicitly invokes).

There are societies where every male, from the most fearsome to the most incompetent, is expected to be a warrior (these societies have at best an indifferent track record against more specialized societies) because those societies lack significant amounts of specialization within gender roles (these are generally non-agrarian societies) and there are societies with a small aristocratic elite that consider themselves warriors, where the real strength of the society comes from the great masses below them. Put a pin in that point for a couple of weeks, we’ll come back to it.)

Soldiers, by contrast, are – almost by definition – never at the top of their hierarchy, because they must be in service to a community which can give them orders. That isn’t to say soldiers are not honored – in many societies they are (although in many societies they were not; the professional soldiers of Early Modern Europe were very poorly thought of by their officers and civilians), but that honor derives from duty and service. The importance of individual exploits never wholly goes away (these are humans, after all) but is often far more strongly leavened with the importance of group-belonging (unit cohesion). And of course, being not generally wealthy aristocrats whose position of social dominance generates large rents with which to maintain them, soldiers must often be paid (though in conscription based systems, often quite poorly out of an understanding that soldiering was a civic duty and also a civic honor).

To be clear, this is not to flatten out the distinctions between different warriors and soldiers! As we’ve seen, a Mongol warrior was not the same as a Sioux warrior, nor was a Roman soldier the same as a Han Dynasty soldier or a Macedonian soldier. It is also not, by the by, to suggest that the two types cannot coexist in the same society either; quite the opposite – complex, specialized societies with warrior classes almost always also include a soldiery which serves that aristocratic warrior class (indeed, the word ‘sergeant’ – now a military rank – comes via French from the Latin serviens, ‘a serving man,’ as the term for the lower-social-status soldiers who served the knightly aristocrat in his army).

But as a system of classification, we may safely conclude that there are soldiers, there are warriors, and there is – as a product of their definition – no real overlap between these two groups. Attempting to treat them as a single undifferentiated whole is sure to make a giant mess of their motivations and social roles because they occupy such different places in their societies. But this ‘universal warrior’ and the attendant glorification of a ‘warrior ideal’ isn’t merely a problem for understanding the past. It is a problem in the present.”

- Bret Devereaux, “The Universal Warrior, Part I: Soldiers, Warriors, and…”

[aboveallarescuer]

Dany’s intelligence, thoughtfulness and overall line of reasoning for taking decisions

As I was rereading ASOIAF, I made it my goal to compile all* the book passages demonstrating either certain key attributes of Daenerys Targaryen (e.g. that she's compassionate and smart) or aspects of hers that are usually overstated (e.g. that she's ambitious and prophecy-driven).  Doing such a task may seem exaggerated, but I'd argue it's not, for many, many misconceptions about Dany have become widespread in light of the show's final season's events (and even before).

It must be acknowledged that it can be tricky to reference, say, ADWD passages to counter-argument how she was depicted in season eight (which allegedly follows ADOS events). Dany will have had plenty of character development in the span of two books. However, whatever happens to Dany in the next two books, I would argue that there is more than enough material to conclude that her show counterpart was made to fall for flaws that she (for the most part) never had and actions that she (for the most part) would never take. (and that's not even considering the double standards and the contradictions with what had been shown from show!Dany up until then, but that's obviously out of the scope of these lists)

Another objection to the purpose of these lists is that Game of Thrones is different from A Song of Ice and Fire and should be analyzed on its own, which is a fair point. However, the show is also an adaptation of these books, which begs the questions: why did they change Dany's character? Why did they overfocus on negative traits of hers or depicted them as negative when they weren't supposed to be or gave her negative traits that were never hers to begin with? Another fact that undermines the show=/=books argument is that most people think that the show's ending will be the books', albeit only in broad strokes and in different circumstances. As a result, people's perception of Dany is inevitably influenced by the show, which is a shame.

I hope these lists can be useful for whoever wants to find book passages to defend (or even simply explore different facets of) Dany's character in metas or conversations.

 *Well, at least all the passages that I could find in her chapters, which is no guarantee that the effort was perfectly executed, but I did my best.

Also, people could interpret certain passages differently and then come up with a different collection of passages if they ever attempted to make one, so I'm not saying that this list is completely objective (nor that there could ever be one).

Also, some passages have been cut short according to whether they were, IMO, relevant to the specific topic of the list they're in, so the context surrounding them may not always be clear (always read the books and use asearchoficeandfire). Many of them appear in different lists, sometimes fully referenced, sometimes not.

I listed the passages back to front because I felt doing so highlighted Dany's evolution better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

To justify the existence of this list, let's see examples of widespread opinions that I feel misrepresent Daenerys Targaryen:

Adaptational Badass: Thanks to her being four years older in the show, it is she and not her advisers who come up with the battle plans in Seasons 3 and 4, plus her army does not seem to be on the verge of starving when they reach Meereen; showing her talent for logistics and conquering. (TVTropes)

~

Daenerys is super uncompromising about slavery, which is great, but her moral absolutism undermines her own goals. After conquering Yunkai and Astapor, and freeing their slaves, she peaces out to her next project. Since she never bothers to establish any kind of tenable power structure, they collapse and return to slavery, or similar, as soon as she is gone. (Wisecrack)

~

Daenerys [...] has exactly one strategy, and it’s called, “Yell A Lot and Burn Stuff.” That’s not always a bad strategy. The good ol “yell and burn” has gotten Daenerys out of being kidnapped, snagged her 8,000 Unsullied soldiers, saved Meereen from warships, and earned her the loyalty of the Dothraki not once, but twice. (Wisecrack)

~

Take the Unsullied. They aren’t exactly sellswords when they’re first introduced; they’re slaves. They aren’t fighting for loyalty or religion. However, by freeing them, Daenerys has transformed them from unwilling mercenaries to dedicated soldiers who are now devoted to her cause. So far, they’ve been her best fighters and their leader, Grey Worm, is one of her most trusted advisors. So, while freeing the Unsullied could be just another shining symbol of Daenerys's wokeness, it's also strategic. It’s likely no accident that she leaves the mercenaries in Meereen when she ships off to Westeros with the troops that now very much believe in her. (Wisecrack)

Dany doesn't come up with the battle plans in the books? Dany doesn't establish any kind of tenable power structure (it can be argued that she didn't do enough, but to say she didn't bother is plain wrong)? Dany only wants soldiers devoted to her cause (we even saw that she found treachery convenient in ADWD Dany VIII; besides, that would be dumb because she'd lose lots of men if she acted on that strictly and she's consistenly characterized as someone who listens to several perspectives, which is the opposite of desiring full devotion ... but I digress)? Dany's only strategy is to "Yell A Lot and Burn Stuff"?

I would argue these claims certainly cannot be made after reading the books (some can't even after watching the show's first 71 episodes, but it can be all over the place), so take a look at these passages.

NOTE: to decide which passages to include, I considered parameters such as social intelligence (she can usually read people well and act on that information, which we see from when she executes her plan against the masters in ASOS Dany III to when she notices that Daario didn't know that Quentyn's party was made of knights; there are exceptions, such as in Mirri's case), political awareness (like when she chooses to wear Qartheen gowns in ASOS Dany III and ADWD Dany III to appease Xaro and the masters or when she chooses Strong Belwas instead of the other men to fight against Oznak zo Pahl in ASOS Dany V or when she ponders if marrying Hizdahr will make her lose the Shavepate's support or when she asks Barristan to release Pretty Meris so she can try to obtain the support of Gylo Rhegan and the Tattered Prince for Dany's side because she's distrustful of the Yunkish in ADWD Dany VIII), battle plans (like when she concocts a plan to conquer Yunkai when her opponents least expect it in ASOS Dany IV) or clever associations (like when, even far away from Meereen, she remembers Belwas's physical reaction to the locusts and realizes, by herself, that they were poisoned, and then becomes suspicious of Hizdahr, who offered them to her and later screamed in favor of Drogon's death (she might be wrong in the latter, but she has a good reason to think so) in ADWD Dany X or when she realizes that "they cheer me on the same plaza where I once impaled one hundred sixty-three Great Masters" in ADWD Dany IX or in AGOT Dany I, in which she noticed that using a golden collar made her look like both a princess and one of Khal Drogo's slaves). Magical intuition would also fit, but I made a separate list for that one.

I must note, though, that the point of gathering these passages is not to find moments where Dany necessarily gets things right, but rather, to show that Dany almost always has a set of reasons for making the decisions she does. Even when she makes mistakes (and while her mistakes may have bigger negative effects than most of other characters', it must also be remembered that she makes bigger gambles than most), it can't be said that she was reckless, but rather that she lacked information or experience.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

Two days ago, climbing on a spire of rock, she had spied water to the south, a slender thread that glittered briefly as the sun was going down. A stream, Dany decided. Small, but it would lead her to a larger stream, and that stream would flow into some little river, and all the rivers in this part of the world were vassals of the Skahazadhan. Once she found the Skahazadhan she need only follow it downstream to Slaver’s Bay.

~

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me? She wondered if Hizdahr was still king. His crown had come from her, could he hold it in her absence? He wanted Drogon dead. I heard him. “Kill it,” he screamed, “kill the beast,” and the look upon his face was lustful. And Strong Belwas had been on his knees, heaving and shuddering. Poison. It had to be poison. The honeyed locusts. Hizdahr urged them on me, but Belwas ate them all. She had made Hizdahr her king, taken him into her bed, opened the fighting pits for him, he had no reason to want her dead. Yet who else could it have been? Reznak, her perfumed seneschal? The Yunkai’i? The Sons of the Harpy?

~

She would have slept beside the water if she dared, but there were animals who came down to the stream to drink at night. She had seen their tracks. Dany would make a poor meal for a wolf or lion, but even a poor meal was better than none.

~

She fumbled in the water, found a stone the size of her fist, pulled it from the mud. It was a poor weapon but better than an empty hand.

~

In a dozen heartbeats they were past the Dothraki, as he galloped far below. To the right and left, Dany glimpsed places where the grass was burned and ashen. Drogon has come this way before, she realized. Like a chain of grey islands, the marks of his hunting dotted the green grass sea.

ADWD Daenerys IX

“Half of these Brazen Beasts are untried freedmen.” And the other half are Meereenese of doubtful loyalty, he left unsaid. Selmy mistrusted all the Meereenese, even shavepates.

~

How queer, the queen thought. They cheer me on the same plaza where I once impaled one hundred sixty-three Great Masters.

~

Across the pit the Graces sat in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of Galazza Galare, who alone amongst them wore the green. The Great Masters of Meereen occupied the red and orange benches. The women were veiled, and the men had brushed and lacquered their hair into horns and hands and spikes. Hizdahr’s kin of the ancient line of Loraq seemed to favor tokars of purple and indigo and lilac, whilst those of Pahl were striped in pink and white. The envoys from Yunkai were all in yellow and filled the box beside the king’s, each of them with his slaves and servants. Meereenese of lesser birth crowded the upper tiers, more distant from the carnage. The black and purple benches, highest and most distant from the sand, were crowded with freedmen and other common folk. The sellswords had been placed up there as well, Daenerys saw, their captains seated right amongst the common soldiers. She spied Brown Ben’s weathered face and Bloodbeard’s fiery red whiskers and long braids.

~

Barsena’s blade was running red, but the boar soon stopped. He is smarter than a bull, Dany realized. He will not charge again.

~

“Magnificence, the people of Meereen have come to celebrate our union. You heard them cheering you. Do not cast away their love.”

“It was my floppy ears they cheered, not me. Take me from this abbatoir, husband.”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“Is there some man in the Second Sons who might be persuaded to … remove … Brown Ben?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...] “We can still use them. One was a woman. Meris. Send her back, as a … a gesture of my regard. If their captain is a clever man, he will understand.”

“The woman is the worst of all.”

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

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

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

[...] [“]Set Pretty Meris free. At once.”

~

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

~

Martell’s square face was flushed and ruddy. Too much wine, the queen concluded, though he was doing his best to conceal that.

~

“The dragon has three heads,” Dany said when they were on the final flight. “My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes. I know why you are here.”

“For you,” said Quentyn, all awkward gallantry.

“No,” said Dany. “For fire and blood.”

~

“You … you mean to ride them?”

“One of them. All I know of dragons is what my brother told me when I was a girl, and some I read in books, but it is said that even Aegon the Conqueror never dared mount Vhagar or Meraxes, nor did his sisters ride Balerion the Black Dread. Dragons live longer than men, some for hundreds of years, so Balerion had other riders after Aegon died … but no rider ever flew two dragons.”

~

He does not belong here. He should never have come. “You ought to return there. My court is no safe place for you, I fear. You have more enemies than you know. You made Daario look a fool, and he is not a man to forget such a slight.”

“I have my knights. My sworn shields.”

“Two knights. Daario has five hundred Stormcrows. And you would do well to beware of my lord husband too. He seems a mild and pleasant man, I know, but do not be deceived. Hizdahr’s crown derives from mine, and he commands the allegiance of some of the most fearsome fighters in the world. If one of them should think to win his favor by disposing of a rival …”

“I am a prince of Dorne, Your Grace. I will not run from slaves and sell swords.”

Then you truly are a fool, Prince Frog.

ADWD Daenerys VII

It was close to sunset before Daario Naharis appeared with his new Stormcrows, the Westerosi who had come over to him from the Windblown. Dany found herself glancing at them as yet another petitioner droned on and on. These are my people. I am their rightful queen. They seemed a scruffy bunch, but that was only to be expected of sellswords. The youngest could not have been more than a year older than her; the oldest must have seen sixty namedays. A few sported signs of wealth: gold arm rings, silken tunics, silverstudded sword belts. Plunder. For the most part, their clothes were plainly made and showed signs of hard wear.

~

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

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

~

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

“And bought you too, I do not doubt.” He did not trouble to deny it.

ADWD Daenerys VI

“Irri, bring the green tokar, the silk one fringed with Myrish lace.”

“That one is being repaired, Khaleesi. The lace was torn. The blue tokar has been cleaned.”

“Blue, then. They will be just as pleased.”

She was only half-wrong. The priestess and the seneschal were happy to see her garbed in a tokar, a proper Meereenese lady for once, but what they really wanted was to strip her bare.

ADWD Daenerys V

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

~

Skahaz was convinced that somewhere in Meereen the Sons of the Harpy had a highborn overlord, a secret general commanding an army of shadows. Dany did not share his belief. The Brazen Beasts had taken dozens of the Harpy’s Sons, and those who had survived their capture had yielded names when questioned sharply … too many names, it seemed to her. It would have been pleasant to think that all the deaths were the work of a single enemy who might be caught and killed, but Dany suspected that the truth was otherwise. My enemies are legion. “Hizdahr zo Loraq is a persuasive man with many friends. And he is wealthy. Perhaps he has bought this peace for us with gold, or convinced the other highborn that our marriage is in their best interests.”

~

“It is good that you have come,” she told the Astapori. “You will be safe in Meereen.”

The cobbler thanked her for that, and the old brickmaker kissed her foot, but the weaver looked at her with eyes as hard as slate. She knows I lie, the queen thought. She knows I cannot keep them safe. Astapor is burning, and Meereen is next.

~

“What do you counsel, ser?”

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

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

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

“Or five. And if I give you the Unsullied, I will have no one but the Brazen Beasts to hold Meereen.”

[...] “I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …” She could not say it.

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

“I need Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

If I wed Hizdahr, will that turn Skahaz against me? She trusted Skahaz more than she trusted Hizdahr, but the Shavepate would be a disaster as a king. He was too quick to anger, too slow to forgive. She saw no gain in wedding a man as hated as herself. Hizdahr was well respected, so far as she could see.

~

“You know why you are here. The Green Grace seems to feel that if I take you for my husband, all my woes will vanish.”

“I would never make so bold a claim. Men are born to strive and suffer. Our woes only vanish when we die. I can be of help to you, however. I have gold and friends and influence, and the blood of Old Ghis flows in my veins. Though I have never wed, I have two natural children, a boy and a girl, so I can give you heirs. I can reconcile the city to your rule and put an end to this nightly slaughter in the streets.”

“Can you?” Dany studied his eyes. “Why should the Sons of the Harpy lay down their knives for you? Are you one of them?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

He laughed. “No.”

~

The Shavepate will not be happy with me, but Reznak mo Reznak will dance for joy. Dany did not know which of those concerned her more. She needed Skahaz and the Brazen Beasts, and she had come to mistrust all of Reznak’s counsel. Beware the perfumed seneschal. Has Reznak made common cause with Hizdahr and the Green Grace and set some trap to snare me?

~

“Ninety days is a long time. Hizdahr may fail. And if he does, the trying buys me time. Time to make alliances, to strengthen my defenses, to—”

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

“Her duty.”

~

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

Ser Barristan seemed to understand.

~

“... a dozen of the Long Lances decided they would sooner be Stormcrows than corpses, so we came out three ahead. I told them they would live longer fighting with your dragons than against them, and they saw the wisdom in my words.”

That made her wary. “They might be spying for Yunkai.”

ADWD Daenerys III

Reznak mo Reznak’s mouth was open, and his lips glistened wetly as he watched. Hizdahr zo Loraq was saying something to the man beside him, yet all the time his eyes were on the dancing girls. The Shavepate’s ugly, oily face was as stern as ever, but he missed nothing.

It was harder to know what her honored guest was dreaming.

~

In his honor Daenerys had donned a Qartheen gown, a sheer confection of violet samite cut so as to leave her left breast bare. Her silver-gold hair brushed lightly over her shoulder, falling almost to her nipple. Half the men in the hall had stolen glances at her, but not Xaro. It was the same in Qarth. She could not sway the merchant prince that way. Sway him I must, however.

~

“I am glad you came to me. It is good to see your face again, my friend.” I will not trust you, but I need you. I need your Thirteen, I need your ships, I need your trade.

~

In Qarth, you had three bloodriders who never left your side. Wherever have they gone?”

“Aggo, Jhoqo, and Rakharo still serve me.” He is playing games with me. Dany could play as well.

~

Dany knew him too well to be moved. Qartheen men could weep at will. “Oh, stop that.” She took a cherry from the bowl on the table and threw it at his nose. “I may be a young girl, but I am not so foolish as to wed a man who finds a fruit platter more enticing than my breast. I saw which dancers you were watching.”

~

“[...] A ditch, to bring water from the river to the fields. We mean to plant beans. The beanfields must have water.”

“[...] Meereen needs beans more than it needs rare spices, and beans require water.”

~

“...The ships are yours, sweet queen. Thirteen galleys, and men to pull the oars.”

Thirteen. To be sure. Xaro was one of the Thirteen. No doubt he had convinced each of his fellow members to give up one ship. She knew the merchant prince too well to think that he would sacrifice thirteen of his own ships. “I must consider this. May I inspect these ships?”

“You have grown suspicious, Daenerys.”

Always. “I have grown wise, Xaro.”

~

“for young and strong as you now seem, you shall not live so long. Not here.”

He offers the honeycomb with one hand and shows the whip with the other. “The Yunkai’i are not so fearsome as all that.”  

~

“Some other night.” His mouth was sad, but his eyes seemed more relieved than disappointed.

~

“A map? It is beautiful.” It covered half the floor. The seas were blue, the lands were green, the mountains black and brown. Cities were shown as stars in gold or silver thread. There is no Smoking Sea, she realized. Valyria is not yet an island.

~

“...Take these ships and sail away, or you will surely die screaming. You cannot know how many enemies you have made.”

I know one stands before me now, weeping mummer’s tears. The realization made her sad.

~

The next morning Xaro’s galleas was gone, but the “gift” that he had brought her remained behind in Slaver’s Bay. Long red streamers flew from the masts of the thirteen Qartheen galleys, writhing in the wind. And when Daenerys descended to hold court, a messenger from the ships awaited her. He spoke no word but laid at her feet a black satin pillow, upon which rested a single bloodstained glove.

“What is this?” Skahaz demanded. “A bloody glove …”

“… means war,” said the queen.

ADWD Daenerys II

“I will have no more Unsullied slaughtered. Grey Worm, pull your men back to their barracks. Henceforth let them guard my walls and gates and person. From this day, it shall be for Meereenese to keep the peace in Meereen. Skahaz, make me a new watch, made up in equal parts of shavepates and freedmen.”

“As you command. How many men?”

“As many as you require.”

Reznak mo Reznak gasped. “Magnificence, where is the coin to come from to pay wages for so many men?”

“From the pyramids. Call it a blood tax. I will have a hundred pieces of gold from every pyramid for each freedman that the Harpy’s Sons have slain.”

That brought a smile to the Shavepate’s face. “It will be done,” he said, “but Your Radiance should know that the Great Masters of Zhak and Merreq are making preparations to quit their pyramids and leave the city.”

Daenerys was sick unto death of Zhak and Merreq; she was sick of all the Mereenese, great and small alike. “Let them go, but see that they take no more than the clothes upon their backs. Make certain that all their gold remains here with us. Their stores of food as well.”

~

Her name had been Hazzea. She was four years old. Unless her father lied. He might have lied. No one had seen the dragon but him. His proof was burned bones, but burned bones proved nothing. He might have killed the little girl himself, and burned her afterward. He would not have been the first father to dispose of an unwanted girl child, the Shavepate claimed. The Sons of the Harpy might have done it, and made it look like dragon’s work to make the city hate me. Dany wanted to believe that … but if that was so, why had Hazzea’s father waited until the audience hall was almost empty to come forward? If his purpose had been to inflame the Meereenese against her, he would have told his tale when the hall was full of ears to hear.

ADWD Daenerys I

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

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

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

“Then who, if not Unsullied? Dothraki would be even worse.” Dothraki fought from horseback. Mounted men were of more use in open fields and hills than in the narrow streets and alleys of the city.

~

Dany had dispatched her tiny khalasar to subdue the hinterlands, under the command of her three bloodriders, whilst Brown Ben Plumm took his Second Sons south to guard against Yunkish incursions.

The most crucial task of all she had entrusted to Daario Naharis, glib-tongued Daario with his gold tooth and trident beard, smiling his wicked smile through purple whiskers. Beyond the eastern hills was a range of rounded sandstone mountains, the Khyzai Pass, and Lhazar. If Daario could convince the Lhazarene to reopen the overland trade routes, grains could be brought down the river or over the hills at need … but the Lamb Men had no reason to love Meereen. “When the Stormcrows return from Lhazar, perhaps I can use them in the streets,” she told Ser Barristan, “but until then I have only the Unsullied.”

~

Dragons are fire made flesh. She had read that in one of the books Ser Jorah had given her as a wedding gift. 

~

By shaving, Skahaz had put old Meereen behind him to accept the new, and his kin had done the same after his example. Others followed, though whether from fear, fashion, or ambition, Dany could not say; shavepates, they were called.

~

I need this man, Dany reminded herself. Hizdahr was a wealthy merchant with many friends in Meereen, and more across the seas. He had visited Volantis, Lys, and Qarth, had kin in Tolos and Elyria, and was even said to wield some influence in New Ghis, where the Yunkai’i were trying to stir up enmity against Dany and her rule.

And he was rich. Famously and fabulously rich ...

And like to grow richer, if I grant his petition. When Dany had closed the city’s fighting pits, the value of pit shares had plummeted. Hizdahr zo Loraq had grabbed them up with both hands, and now owned most of the fighting pits in Meereen.

The nobleman had wings of wiry red-black hair sprouting from his temples. They made him look as if his head were about to take flight. His long face was made even longer by a beard bound with rings of gold. His purple tokar was fringed with amethysts and pearls.

~

“If Your Majesty will hear my arguments ...”

“I have. Five times. Have you brought new arguments?”

“Old arguments,” Hizdahr admitted, “new words. Lovely words, and courteous, more apt to move a queen.”

“It is your cause I find wanting, not your courtesies. I have heard your arguments so often I could plead your case myself. Shall I?” Dany leaned forward. “The fighting pits have been a part of Meereen since the city was founded. The combats are profoundly religious in nature, a blood sacrifice to the gods of Ghis. The mortal art of Ghis is not mere butchery but a display of courage, skill, and strength most pleasing to your gods. Victorious fighters are pampered and acclaimed, and the slain are honored and remembered. By reopening the pits I would show the people of Meereen that I respect their ways and customs. The pits are far-famed across the world. They draw trade to Meereen, and fill the city’s coffers with coin from the ends of the earth. All men share a taste for blood, a taste the pits help slake. In that way they make Meereen more tranquil. For criminals condemned to die upon the sands, the pits represent a judgment by battle, a last chance for a man to prove his innocence.” She leaned back again, with a toss of her head. “There. How have I done?”

“Your Radiance has stated the case much better than I could have hoped to do myself. I see that you are eloquent as well as beautiful. I am quite persuaded.”

She had to laugh. “Ah, but I am not.”

~

“Your Magnificence,” whispered Reznak mo Reznak in her ear, “it is customary for the city to claim one-tenth of all the profits from the fighting pits, after expenses, as a tax. That coin might be put to many noble uses.” 

 “It might … though if we were to reopen the pits, we should take our tenth before expenses. I am only a young girl and know little of such matters, but I dwelt with Xaro Xhoan Daxos long enough to learn that much. Hizdahr, if you could marshal armies as you marshal arguments, you could conquer the world … but my answer is still no. For the sixth time.”

~

She nibbled whilst she listened, and sipped from a cup of watered wine. The figs were fine, the olives even finer, but the wine left a tart metallic aftertaste in her mouth. The small pale yellow grapes native to these regions produced a notably inferior vintage. We shall have no trade in wine. Besides, the Great Masters had burned the best arbors along with the olive trees. 

~

“Three-and-twenty.” Dany sighed. “My dragons have developed a prodigious taste for mutton since we began to pay the shepherds for their kills. Have these claims been proven?” 

“Some men have brought burnt bones.” 

“Men make fires. Men cook mutton. Burnt bones prove nothing. Brown Ben says there are red wolves in the hills outside the city, and jackals and wild dogs. Must we pay good silver for every lamb that goes astray between Yunkai and the Skahazadhan?” 

“No, Magnificence.” Reznak bowed. “Shall I send these rascals away, or will you want them scourged?” 

Daenerys shifted on the bench. “No man should ever fear to come to me.” Some claims were false, she did not doubt, but more were genuine. Her dragons had grown too large to be content with rats and cats and dogs. The more they eat, the larger they will grow, Ser Barristan had warned her, and the larger they grow, the more they’ll eat. Drogon especially ranged far afield and could easily devour a sheep a day. “Pay them for the value of their animals,” she told Reznak, “but henceforth claimants must present themselves at the Temple of the Graces and swear a holy oath before the gods of Ghis.”

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. Poor Groleo. He still grieved for his ship, she knew. If a war galley could ram another ship, why not a gate? That had been her thought when she commanded the captains to drive their ships ashore. Their masts had become her battering rams, and swarms of freedmen had torn their hulls apart to build mantlets, turtles, catapults, and ladders. The sellwords had given each ram a bawdy name, and it had been the mainmast of Meraxes—formerly Joso’s Prank—that had broken the eastern gate. Joso’s Cock, they called it. The fighting had raged bitter and bloody for most of a day and well into the night before the wood began to splinter and Meraxes’ iron figurehead, a laughing jester’s face, came crashing through.

Dany had wanted to lead the attack herself, but to a man her captains said that would be madness, and her captains never agreed on anything. Instead she remained in the rear, sitting atop her silver in a long shirt of mail. She heard the city fall from half a league away, though, when the defenders’ shouts of defiance changed to cries of fear. Her dragons had roared as one in that moment, filling the night with flame. The slaves are rising, she knew at once. My sewer rats have gnawed off their chains.

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

~

Meereen had been sacked savagely, as new-fallen cities always were, but Dany was determined that should end now that the city was hers. She had decreed that murderers were to be hanged, that looters were to lose a hand, and rapists their manhood. Eight killers swung from the walls, and the Unsullied had filled a bushel basket with bloody hands and soft red worms, but Meereen was calm again. But for how long?

~

“It shall be done as you command, glorious queen,” said Daario. “My Stormcrows will collect your tenth.” If the Stormcrows saw to the collections at least half the gold would somehow go astray, Dany knew. But the Second Sons were just as bad, and the Unsullied were as unlettered as they were incorruptible. “Records must be kept,” she said. “Seek among the freedmen for men who can read, write, and do sums.” 

~

While Joso’s Cock and the other rams were battering the city gates and her archers were firing flights of flaming arrows over the walls, Dany had sent two hundred men along the river under cover of darkness to fire the hulks in the harbor. But that was only to hide their true purpose. As the flaming ships drew the eyes of the defenders on the walls, a few half- mad swimmers found the sewer mouths and pried loose a rusted iron grating. Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas, and twenty brave fools slipped beneath the brown water and up the brick tunnel, a mixed force of sellswords, Unsullied, and freedmen. Dany had told them to choose only men who had no families ... and preferably no sense of smell.

~

“You are trembling, Khaleesi,” the girl said as she knelt to lace up Dany’s sandals.

“I’m cold,” Dany lied. “Bring me the book I was reading last night.” She wanted to lose herself in the words, in other times and other places. The fat leather-bound volume was full of songs and stories from the Seven Kingdoms. Children’s stories, if truth be told; too simple and fanciful to be true history. All the heroes were tall and handsome, and you could tell the traitors by their shifty eyes. Yet she loved them all the same. Last night she had been reading of the three princesses in the red tower, locked away by the king for the crime of being beautiful.

ASOS Daenerys V

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

~

Meereen posed dangers far more serious than one pink-and-white hero shouting insults, and she could not let herself be distracted. Her host numbered more than eighty thousand after Yunkai, but fewer than a quarter of them were soldiers. The rest ... well, Ser Jorah called them mouths with feet, and soon they would be starving.

~

They watched Oznak zo Pahl dismount his white charger, undo his robes, pull out his manhood, and direct a stream of urine in the general direction of the olive grove where Dany’s gold pavilion stood among the burnt trees. He was still pissing when Daario Naharis rode up, arakh in hand. “Shall I cut that off for you and stuff it down his mouth, Your Grace?” His tooth shone gold amidst the blue of his forked beard.

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.” She was growing angry, however. If I ignore this any longer, my own people will think me weak. Yet who could she send? She needed Daario as much as she did her bloodriders. Without the flamboyant Tyroshi, she had no hold on the Stormcrows, many of whom had been followers of Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor the Bald.

High on the walls of Meereen, the jeers had grown louder, and now hundreds of the defenders were taking their lead from the hero and pissing down through the ramparts to show their contempt for the besiegers. They are pissing on slaves, to show how little they fear us, she thought. They would never dare such a thing if it were a Dothraki khalasar outside their gates.

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

“It will be.” Dany said, as the hero tucked his penis away again. “Tell Strong Belwas I have need of him.”

[...] “Why that one, Khaleesi?” Rakharo demanded of her. “He is fat and stupid.”

“Strong Belwas was a slave here in the fighting pits. If this highborn Oznak should fall to such the Great Masters will be shamed, while if he wins ... well, it is a poor victory for one so noble, one that Meereen can take no pride in.” And unlike Ser Jorah, Daario, Brown Ben, and her three bloodriders, the eunuch did not lead troops, plan battles, or give her counsel. He does nothing but eat and boast and bellow at Arstan. Belwas was the man she could most easily spare. And it was time she learned what sort of protector Magister Illyrio had sent her.

~

“We should have given him chainmail,” Dany said, suddenly anxious.

“Mail would only slow him,” said Ser Jorah. “They wear no armor in the fighting pits. It’s blood the crowds come to see.”

~

Oznak zo Pahl charged a third time, and now Dany could see plainly that he was riding past Belwas, the way a Westerosi knight might ride at an opponent in a tilt, rather than at him, like a Dothraki riding down a foe.

~

“Given time, we might be able to mine beneath a tower and make a breach, but what do we eat while we’re digging? Our stores are all but exhausted.”

“No weakness in the landward walls?” said Dany. Meereen stood on a jut of sand and stone where the slow brown Skahazadhan flowed into Slaver’s Bay. The city’s north wall ran along the riverbank, its west along the bay shore. “Does that mean we might attack from the river or the sea?”

“With three ships? We’ll want to have Captain Groleo take a good look at the wall along the river, but unless it’s crumbling that’s just a wetter way to die.”

“What if we were to build siege towers? My brother Viserys told tales of such, I know they can be made.”

“From wood, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “The slavers have burnt every tree within twenty leagues of here.[”]

~

“These sewers do not sound promising.” Grey Worm would lead his Unsullied down the sewers if she commanded it, she knew; her bloodriders would do no less. But none of them was suited to the task. The Dothraki were horsemen, and the strength of the Unsullied was their discipline on the battlefield. Can I send men to die in the dark on such a slender hope?

~

“Where shall we go, Your Grace?”

“To hell, to serve King Robert.” Dany felt hot tears on her cheeks. [...] “You go ...” [...] “You go ... go ...” Where?

And then she knew.

ASOS Daenerys IV

Dany reined in her mare and looked across the fields, to where the Yunkish host lay athwart her path. Whitebeard had been teaching her how best to count the numbers of a foe. "Five thousand," she said after a moment.

~

Dany considered. The slaver host seemed small compared to her own numbers, but the sellswords were ahorse. She’d ridden too long with Dothraki not to have a healthy respect for what mounted warriors could do to foot. The Unsullied could withstand their charge, but my freedmen will be slaughtered. “The slavers like to talk,” she said. “Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent. And invite the captains of the sellsword companies to call on me as well. But not together. The Stormcrows at midday, the Second Sons two hours later.”

“As you wish,” Ser Jorah said. “But if they do not come—”

“They’ll come. They will be curious to see the dragons and hear what I might have to say, and the clever ones will see it for a chance to gauge my strength.” She wheeled her silver mare about. “I’ll await them in my pavilion.”

~

“You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai shall not fall so easily.”

“Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten thousand of my Unsullied,” said Dany. “I am only a young girl and do not understand the ways of war, yet these odds seem poor to me.”

“The Stormcrows do not stand alone,” said Prendahl.

“Stormcrows do not stand at all. They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail you to be staunch, when the Second Sons change sides?”

“That will not happen,” Prendahl insisted, unmoved. “And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the stalwart men of Yunkai.”

“You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears.” When she turned her head, the twin bells in her braid rang softly. “Once battle is joined, do not think to ask for quarter. Join me now, however, and you shall keep the gold the Yunkai’i paid you and claim a share of the plunder besides, with greater rewards later when I come into my kingdom. Fight for the Wise Masters, and your wages will be death. Do you imagine that Yunkai will open its gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?”

“Woman, you bray like an ass, and make no more sense.”

“Woman?” She chuckled. “Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.” Dany met his stare. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, khaleesi to Drogo’s riders, and queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

~

“What say you take those clothes off and come sit on my lap? If you please me, I might bring the Second Sons over to your side.”

“If you bring the Second Sons over to my side, I might not have you gelded.”

The big man laughed. “Little girl, another woman once tried to geld me with her teeth. She has no teeth now, but my sword is as long and thick as ever. Shall I take it out and show you?”

“No need. After my eunuchs cut it off, I can examine it at my leisure.” Dany took a sip of wine. “It is true that I am only a young girl, and do not know the ways of war. Explain to me how you propose to defeat ten thousand Unsullied with your five hundred. Innocent as I am, these odds seem poor to me.”

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and won.”

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and run. At Qohor, when the Three Thousand made their stand. Or do you deny it?”

“That was many and more years ago, before the Second Sons were led by the Titan’s Bastard.”

“So it is from you they get their courage?” Dany turned to Ser Jorah. “When the battle is joined, kill this one first.”

~

Dany seated herself on a mound of cushions to await them, her dragons all about her. When they were assembled, she said, “An hour past midnight should be time enough.”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” said Rakharo. “Time for what?”

“To mount our attack.”

Ser Jorah Mormont scowled. “You told the sellswords—”

“—that I wanted their answers on the morrow. I made no promises about tonight. The Stormcrows will be arguing about my offer. The Second Sons will be drunk on the wine I gave Mero. And the Yunkai’i believe they have three days. We will take them under cover of this darkness.”

“They will have scouts watching for us.”

“And in the dark, they will see hundreds of campfires burning,” said Dany. “If they see anything at all.”

“Khaleesi,” said Jhogo, “I will deal with these scouts. They are no riders, only slavers on horses.”

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

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

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

~

“A spy?” That frightened her. If they’d caught one, how many others might have gotten away?

~

Dany was dubious. If this Tyroshi had come to spy, this declaration might be no more than a desperate plot to save his head.

~

“Keep this one here under guard until the battle’s fought and won.”

She considered a moment, then shook her head. “If he can give us the Stormcrows, surprise is certain.”

“And if he betrays you, surprise is lost.”

Dany looked down at the sellsword again. He gave her such a smile that she flushed and turned away. “He won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

She pointed to the lumps of blackened flesh the dragons were consuming, bite by bloody bite. “I would call that proof of his sincerity. Daario Naharis, have your Stormcrows ready to strike the Yunkish rear when my attack begins. Can you get back safely?”

“If they stop me, I will say I have been scouting, and saw nothing.” The Tyroshi rose to his feet, bowed, and swept out.

~

The exile knight went to one knee before Dany and said, “Your Grace, I bring you victory. The Stormcrows turned their cloaks, the slaves broke, and the Second Sons were too drunk to fight, just as you said. Two hundred dead, Yunkai’i for the most part. Their slaves threw down their spears and ran, and their sellswords yielded. We have several thousand captives.”

“Our own losses?”

“A dozen. If that many.”

Only then did she allow herself to smile.

ASOS Daenerys III

She had chosen a Qartheen gown today. The deep violet silk brought out the purple of her eyes. The cut of it bared her left breast. While the Good Masters of Astapor conferred among themselves in low voices, Dany sipped tart persimmon wine from a tall silver flute. She could not quite make out all that they were saying, but she could hear the greed.

Each of the eight brokers was attended by two or three body slaves ... though one Grazdan, the eldest, had six. So as not to seem a beggar, Dany had brought her own attendants; Irri and Jhiqui in their sandsilk trousers and painted vests, old Whitebeard and mighty Belwas, her bloodriders. Ser Jorah stood behind her sweltering in his green surcoat with the black bear of Mormont embroidered upon it. The smell of his sweat was an earthy answer to the sweet perfumes that drenched the Astapori.

~

Dany let them argue, sipping the tart persimmon wine and trying to keep her face blank and ignorant. I will have them all, no matter the price, she told herself. The city had a hundred slave traders, but the eight before her were the greatest. When selling bed slaves, fieldhands, scribes, craftsmen, and tutors, these men were rivals, but their ancestors had allied one with the other for the purpose of making and selling the Unsullied. Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people.

~

“Tell them I await their answer.”

She knew the answer, though; she could see it in the glitter of their eyes and the smiles they tried so hard to hide. Astapor had thousands of eunuchs, and even more slave boys waiting to be cut, but there were only three living dragons in all the great wide world. And the Ghiscari lust for dragons. How could they not? Five times had Old Ghis contended with Valyria when the world was young, and five times gone down to bleak defeat. For the Freehold had dragons, and the Empire had none.

~

Dany turned away from him, to the slave girl standing meekly beside her litter. “Do you have a name, or must you draw a new one every day from some barrel?”

“That is only for Unsullied,” the girl said. Then she realized the question had been asked in High Valyrian. Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

~

“If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.” She looked troubled. “When you are ... when you are done with them ... your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?”


“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not ... I ... Your Grace ... ”


“Tell me.”


The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you.

~

The rest of her people followed: Groleo and the other captains and their crews, and the eighty-three Dothraki who remained to her of the hundred thousand who had once ridden in Drogo’s khalasar. She put the oldest and weakest on the inside of the column, with the nursing women and those with child, and the little girls, and the boys too young to braid their hair. The rest—her warriors, such as they were—rode outside and moved their dismal herd along, the hundred-odd gaunt horses that had survived both red waste and black salt sea.

~

I ought to have a banner sewn, she thought as she led her tattered band up along Astapor’s meandering river. She closed her eyes to imagine how it would look: all flowing black silk, and on it the red three-headed dragon of Targaryen, breathing golden flames. A banner such as Rhaegar might have borne.

~

At first glimpse, Dany thought their skin was striped like the zorses of the Jogos Nhai.

~

Dany handed the slaver the end of Drogon’s chain. In return he presented her with the whip. The handle was black dragonbone, elaborately carved and inlaid with gold. Nine long thin leather lashes trailed from it, each one tipped by a gilded claw. The gold pommel was a woman’s head, with pointed ivory teeth. “The harpy’s fingers,” Kraznys named the scourge.

Dany turned the whip in her hand. Such a light thing, to bear such weight. “Is it done, then? Do they belong to me?”

“It is done,” he agreed, giving the chain a sharp pull to bring Drogon down from the litter.

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper’s host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind.

She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy’s fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. “IT IS DONE!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “YOU ARE MINE!” She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. “YOU ARE THE DRAGON’S NOW! YOU’RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!”

She glimpsed old Grazdan turn his grey head sharply. He hears me speak Valyrian. The other slavers were not listening. They crowded around Kraznys and the dragon, shouting advice. Though the Astapori yanked and tugged, Drogon would not budge off the litter. Smoke rose grey from his open jaws, and his long neck curled and straightened as he snapped at the slaver’s face.

It is time to cross the Trident, Dany thought, as she wheeled and rode her silver back. Her bloodriders moved in close around her. “You are in difficulty,” she observed.

“He will not come,” Kraznys said.

“There is a reason. A dragon is no slave.” And Dany swept the lash down as hard as she could across the slaver’s face. Kraznys screamed and staggered back, the blood running red down his cheeks into his perfumed beard. The harpy’s fingers had torn his features half to pieces with one slash, but she did not pause to contemplate the ruin. “Drogon,” she sang out loudly, sweetly, all her fear forgotten. “Dracarys.”

The black dragon spread his wings and roared.

A lance of swirling dark flame took Kraznys full in the face. His eyes melted and ran down his cheeks, and the oil in his hair and beard burst so fiercely into fire that for an instant the slaver wore a burning crown twice as tall as his head. The sudden stench of charred meat overwhelmed even his perfume, and his wail seemed to drown all other sound.

Then the Plaza of Punishment blew apart into blood and chaos. The Good Masters were shrieking, stumbling, shoving one another aside and tripping over the fringes of their tokars in their haste. Drogon flew almost lazily at Kraznys, black wings beating. As he gave the slaver another taste of fire, Irri and Jhiqui unchained Viserion and Rhaegal, and suddenly there were three dragons in the air. When Dany turned to look, a third of Astapor’s proud demon-horned warriors were fighting to stay atop their terrified mounts, and another third were fleeing in a bright blaze of shiny copper. One man kept his saddle long enough to draw a sword, but Jhogo’s whip coiled about his neck and cut off his shout. Another lost a hand to Rakharo’s arakh and rode off reeling and spurting blood. Aggo sat calmly notching arrows to his bowstring and sending them at tokars. Silver, gold, or plain, he cared nothing for the fringe. Strong Belwas had his arakh out as well, and he spun it as he charged.

“Spears!” Dany heard one Astapori shout. It was Grazdan, old Grazdan in his tokar heavy with pearls. “Unsullied! Defend us, stop them, defend your masters! Spears! Swords!”

When Rakharo put an arrow through his mouth, the slaves holding his sedan chair broke and ran, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground. The old man crawled to the first rank of eunuchs, his blood pooling on the bricks. The Unsullied did not so much as look down to watch him die. Rank on rank on rank, they stood.

And did not move. The gods have heard my prayer.

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

“Dracarys!” they shouted back, the sweetest word she’d ever heard. “Dracarys! Dracarys!” And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire.

ASOS Daenerys II

The harpy of Ghis, Dany thought. Old Ghis had fallen five thousand years ago, if she remembered true; its legions shattered by the might of young Valyria, its brick walls pulled down, its streets and buildings turned to ash and cinder by dragonflame, its very fields sown with salt, sulfur, and skulls. The gods of Ghis were dead, and so too its people; these Astapori were mongrels, Ser Jorah said. Even the Ghiscari tongue was largely forgotten; the slave cities spoke the High Valyrian of their conquerors, or what they had made of it.

Yet the symbol of the Old Empire still endured here, though this bronze monster had a heavy chain dangling from her talons, an open manacle at either end. The harpy of Ghis had a thunderbolt in her claws. This is the harpy of Astapor.

~

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks.

~

The girls followed close behind with the silk awning, to keep her in the shade, but the thousand men before her enjoyed no such protection. More than half had the copper skins and almond eyes of Dothraki and Lhazerene, but she saw men of the Free Cities in the ranks as well, along with pale Qartheen, ebon-faced Summer Islanders, and others whose origins she could not guess. And some had skins of the same amber hue as Kraznys mo Nakloz, and the bristly red-black hair that marked the ancient folk of Ghis, who named themselves the harpy’s sons.

~

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

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

~

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

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


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

~

An old city, this, she reflected, but not so populous as it was in its glory, nor near so crowded as Qarth or Pentos or Lys.

Her litter came to a sudden halt at the cross street, to allow a coffle of slaves to shuffle across her path, urged along by the crack of an overseer’s lash. These were no Unsullied, Dany noted, but a more common sort of men, with pale brown skins and black hair. There were women among them, but no children. All were naked.

~

“You speak of sacking cities. Answer me this, ser—why have the Dothraki never sacked this city?” She pointed. “Look at the walls. You can see where they’ve begun to crumble. There, and there. Do you see any guards on those towers? I don’t. Are they hiding, ser? I saw these sons of the harpy today, all their proud highborn warriors. They dressed in linen skirts, and the fiercest thing about them was their hair. Even a modest khalasar could crack this Astapor like a nut and spill out the rotted meat inside. So tell me, why is that ugly harpy not sitting beside the godsway in Vaes Dothrak among the other stolen gods?”

“You have a dragon’s eye, Khaleesi, that’s plain to see.”

“I wanted an answer, not a compliment.”

“There are two reasons. Astapor’s brave defenders are so much chaff, it’s true. Old names and fat purses who dress up as Ghiscari scourges to pretend they still rule a vast empire. Every one is a high officer. On feastdays they fight mock wars in the pits to demonstrate what brilliant commanders they are, but it’s the eunuchs who do the dying. All the same, any enemy wanting to sack Astapor would have to know that they’d be facing Unsullied. The slavers would turn out the whole garrison in the city’s defense. The Dothraki have not ridden against Unsullied since they left their braids at the gates of Qohor.”

“And the second reason?” Dany asked.

“Who would attack Astapor?” Ser Jorah asked. “Meereen and Yunkai are rivals but not enemies, the Doom destroyed Valyria, the folk of the eastern hinterlands are all Ghiscari, and beyond the hills lies Lhazar. The Lamb Men, as your Dothraki call them, a notably unwarlike people.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but north of the slave cities is the Dothraki sea, and two dozen mighty khals who like nothing more than sacking cities and carrying off their people into slavery.”

“Carrying them off where? What good are slaves once you’ve killed the slavers? Valyria is no more, Qarth lies beyond the red waste, and the Nine Free Cities are thousands of leagues to the west. And you may be sure the sons of the harpy give lavishly to every passing khal, just as the magisters do in Pentos and Norvos and Myr. They know that if they feast the horselords and give them gifts, they will soon ride on. It’s cheaper than fighting, and a deal more certain.”

ASOS Daenerys I

“His Grace was ... often pleasant.”

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


~

[“] A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”

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

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

~

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

~

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

That does seem queer, Dany had to admit. Strong Belwas was an ex-slave, bred and trained in the fighting pits of Meereen. Magister Illyrio had sent him to guard her, or so Belwas claimed, and it was true that she needed guarding. The Usurper on his Iron Throne had offered land and lordship to any man who killed her. One attempt had been made already, with a cup of poisoned wine. The closer she came to Westeros, the more likely another attack became. Back in Qarth, the warlock Pyat Pree had sent a Sorrowful Man after her to avenge the Undying she’d burned in their House of Dust. Warlocks never forgot a wrong, it was said, and the Sorrowful Men never failed to kill. Most of the Dothraki would be against her as well. Khal Drogo’s kos led khalasars of their own now, and none of them would hesitate to attack her own little band on sight, to slay and slave her people and drag Dany herself back to Vaes Dothrak to take her proper place among the withered crones of the dosh khaleen. She hoped that Xaro Xhoan Daxos was not an enemy, but the Qartheen merchant had coveted her dragons. And there was Quaithe of the Shadow, that strange woman in the red lacquer mask with all her cryptic counsel. Was she an enemy too, or only a dangerous friend? Dany could not say.

Ser Jorah saved me from the poisoner, and Arstan Whitebeard from the manticore. Perhaps Strong Belwas will save me from the next. He was huge enough, with arms like small trees and a great curved arakh so sharp he might have shaved with it, in the unlikely event of hair sprouting on those smooth brown cheeks. Yet he was childlike as well. As a protector, he leaves much to be desired. Thankfully, I have Ser Jorah and my bloodriders. And my dragons, never forget.

~

She took a chunk of salt pork out of the bowl in her lap and held it up for her dragons to see. All three of them eyed it hungrily. Rhaegal spread green wings and stirred the air, and Viserion’s neck swayed back and forth like a long pale snake’s as he followed the movement of her hand. “Drogon,” Dany said softly, “dracarys.” And she tossed the pork in the air.

Drogon moved quicker than a striking cobra. Flame roared from his mouth, orange and scarlet and black, searing the meat before it began to fall. As his sharp black teeth snapped shut around it, Rhaegal’s head darted close, as if to steal the prize from his brother’s jaws, but Drogon swallowed and screamed, and the smaller green dragon could only hiss in frustration.

“Stop that, Rhaegal,” Dany said in annoyance, giving his head a swat.

“You had the last one. I’ll have no greedy dragons.” She smiled at Ser Jorah. “I won’t need to char their meat over a brazier any longer.”

“So I see. Dracarys?”

All three dragons turned their heads at the sound of that word, and Viserion let loose with a blast of pale gold flame that made Ser Jorah take a hasty step backward. Dany giggled. “Be careful with that word, ser, or they’re like to singe your beard off. It means ‘dragonfire’ in High Valyrian. I wanted to choose a command that no one was like to utter by chance.”

~

“It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I understand that, but how am I to win the Seven Kingdoms without such risks? Am I to conquer Westeros with one exile knight and three Dothraki bloodriders?”

~

“What is there for me in Slaver’s Bay?”

“An army,” said Ser Jorah. “If Strong Belwas is so much to your liking you can buy hundreds more like him out of the fighting pits of Meereen ... but it is Astapor I’d set my sails for. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied.”

[...] “That is what you will find in Astapor, Your Grace. Put ashore there, and continue on to Pentos overland. It will take longer, yes ... but when you break bread with Magister Illyrio, you will have a thousand swords behind you, not just four.”

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

“Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not ... these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh ... slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.”

“Those are Illyrio’s tiger skins,” she objected. 

“And Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen.” 

“All the more reason not to steal his goods.”

“What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”

That’s true. Dany felt a rising excitement. “There will be dangers on such a long march ...”

“There are dangers at sea as well. Corsairs and pirates hunt the southern route, and north of Valyria the Smoking Sea is demon- haunted. The next storm could sink or scatter us, a kraken could pull us under ... or we might find ourselves becalmed again, and die of thirst as we wait for the wind to rise. A march will have different dangers, my queen, but none greater.”

“What if Captain Groleo refuses to change course, though? And Arstan, Strong Belwas, what will they do?”

Ser Jorah stood. “Perhaps it’s time you found that out.”

“Yes,” she decided. “I’ll do it!”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

Pale men in dusty linen skirts stood beneath arched doorways to watch them pass. They know who I am, and they do not love me. Dany could tell from the way they looked at her.

~

“...Give me a son, my sweet song of joy!”

Give you a dragon, you mean. “I will not wed you, Xaro.”

His face had grown cold at that. “Then go.”

“But where?”

“Somewhere far from here.”

~

Perhaps she had lingered in Qarth too long, seduced by its comforts and its beauties. It was a city that always promised more than it would give you, it seemed to her, and her welcome here had turned sour since the House of the Undying had collapsed in a great gout of smoke and flame. Overnight the Qartheen had come to remember that dragons were dangerous. No longer did they vie with each other to give her gifts. Instead the Tourmaline Brotherhood had called openly for her expulsion, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers for her death. It was all Xaro could do to keep the Thirteen from joining them.

~

Xaro Xhoan Daxos would be no help to her, she knew that now. For all his professions of devotion, he was playing his own game, not unlike Pyat Pree. The night he asked her to leave, Dany had begged one last favor of him. “An army, is it?” Xaro asked. “A kettle of gold? A galley, perhaps?”

Dany blushed. She hated begging. “A ship, yes.”

Xaro’s eyes had glittered as brightly as the jewels in his nose. “I am a trader, Khaleesi. So perhaps we should speak no more of giving, but rather of trade. For one of your dragons, you shall have ten of the finest ships in my fleet. You need only say that one sweet word.”

“No,” she said.

“Alas,” Xaro sobbed, “that was not the word I meant.”

“Would you ask a mother to sell one of her children?”

“Whyever not? They can always make more. Mothers sell their children every day.”

“Not the Mother of Dragons.”

“Not even for twenty ships?”

“Not for a hundred.”

His mouth curled downward. “I do not have a hundred. But you have three dragons. Grant me one, for all my kindnesses. You will still have two and thirty ships as well.”

Thirty ships would be enough to land a small army on the shore of Westeros. But I do not have a small army. “How many ships do you own, Xaro?”

“Eighty-three, if one does not count my pleasure barge.” “And your colleagues in the Thirteen?”
“Among us all, perhaps a thousand.”
“And the Spicers and the Tourmaline Brotherhood?” “Their trifling fleets are of no account.”

“Even so,” she said, “tell me.”

“Twelve or thirteen hundred for the Spicers. No more than eight hundred for the Brotherhood.”

“And the Asshai’i, the Braavosi, the Summer Islanders, the Ibbenese, and all the other peoples who sail the great salt sea, how many ships do they have? All together?”

“Many and more,” he said irritably. “What does this matter?”

“I am trying to set a price on one of the three living dragons in the world.” Dany smiled at him sweetly. “It seems to me that one-third of all the ships in the world would be fair.”

Xaro’s tears ran down his cheeks on either side of his jewel-encrusted nose. “Did I not warn you not to enter the Palace of Dust? This is the very thing I feared. The whispers of the warlocks have made you as mad as Mallarawan’s wife. A third of all the ships in the world? Pah. Pah, I say. Pah.”

Dany had not seen him since. His seneschal brought her messages, each cooler than the last. She must quit his house. He was done feeding her and her people. He demanded the return of his gifts, which she had accepted in bad faith. Her only consolation was that at least she’d had the great good sense not to marry him.

~

Dany would get no help from the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, or the Ancient Guild of Spicers.

~

The Usurper offered a lordship to the man who kills me, and these two are far from home. Or could they be creatures of the warlocks, meant to take me unawares?

~

“A most excellent brass, great lady,” the merchant exclaimed. “Bright as the sun! And for the Mother of Dragons, only thirty honors.”

The platter was worth no more than three. “Where are my guards?” Dany declared. “This man is trying to rob me!”

~

“Thirty? Did I say thirty? Such a fool I am. The price is twenty honors.”

“All the brass in this booth is not worth twenty honors,” Dany told him as she studied the reflections.

~

“Ten, Khaleesi, because you are so lovely. Use it for a looking glass. Only brass this fine could capture such beauty.”

“It might serve to carry nightsoil. If you threw it away, I might pick it up, so long as I did not need to stoop. But pay for it?” Dany shoved the platter back into his hands. “Worms have crawled up your nose and eaten your wits.”

“Eight honors,” he cried. “My wives will beat me and call me fool, but I am a helpless child in your hands. Come, eight, that is less than it is worth.”

“What do I need with dull brass when Xaro Xhoan Daxos feeds me off plates of gold?”

~

The brass merchant came hopping after them. “Five honors, for five it is yours, it was meant for you.”

~

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

~

“Four! I know you want it!” He danced in front of them, scampering backward as he thrust the platter at their faces.

~

“Two honors! Two! Two!” The merchant was panting heavily from the effort of running backward.

“Pay him before he kills himself,” Dany told Ser Jorah, wondering what she was going to do with a huge brass platter.

~

“Put down your steel! Stop it!”

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

“They were defending me.” Dany snapped her hand to shake the sting from her fingers. “It was the other one, the Qartheen.” When she looked around he was gone. “He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in that jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out of my hand.”

~

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

Joy bloomed in her heart, but Dany kept it from her face.

ACOK Daenerys III

She was garbed after the Qartheen fashion. Xaro had warned her that the Enthroned would never listen to a Dothraki, so she had taken care to go before them in flowing green samite with one breast bared, silvered sandals on her feet, with a belt of black-and-white pearls about her waist. For all the help they offered, I could have gone naked. Perhaps I should have. She drank deep.

~

Descendants of the ancient kings and queens of Qarth, the Pureborn commanded the Civic Guard and the fleet of ornate galleys that ruled the straits between the seas. Daenerys Targaryen had wanted that fleet, or part of it, and some of their soldiers as well. She made the traditional sacrifice in the Temple of Memory, offered the traditional bribe to the Keeper of the Long List, sent the traditional persimmon to the Opener of the Door, and finally received the traditional blue silk slippers summoning her to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.

~

“Come with me to the Arbor, Xaro, and you’ll have the finest vintages you ever tasted. But we’ll need to go in a warship, not a pleasure barge.”

“I have no warships. War is bad for trade. Many times I have told you, Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a man of peace.”

Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a man of gold, she thought, and gold will buy me all the ships and swords I need. “I have not asked you to take up a sword, only to lend me your ships.”

He smiled modestly. “Of trading ships I have a few, that is so. Who can say how many? One may be sinking even now, in some stormy corner of the Summer Sea. On the morrow, another will fall afoul of corsairs. The next day, one of my captains may look at the wealth in his hold and think, All this should belong to me. Such are the perils of trade. Why, the longer we talk, the fewer ships I am likely to have. I grow poorer by the instant.”

“Give me ships, and I will make you rich again.”

“Marry me, bright light, and sail the ship of my heart. I cannot sleep at night for thinking of your beauty.”

Dany smiled. Xaro’s flowery protestations of passion amused her, but his manner was at odds with his words. While Ser Jorah had scarcely been able to keep his eyes from her bare breast when he’d helped her into the palanquin, Xaro hardly deigned to notice it, even in these close confines. And she had seen the beautiful boys who surrounded the merchant prince, flitting through his palace halls in wisps of silk. “You speak sweetly, Xaro, but under your words I hear another no.”

~

“The Milk Men shun him. Khaleesi, do you see the girl in the felt hat? There, behind the fat priest. She is a—”

“—cutpurse,” finished Dany. She was no pampered lady, blind to such things. She had seen cutpurses aplenty in the streets of the Free Cities, during the years she’d spent with her brother, running from the Usurper’s hired knives.

~

Dany looked uneasily at where the ladder had stood. Even the smoke was gone now, and the crowd was breaking up, each man going about his business. In a moment more than a few would find their purses flat and empty.

ACOK Daenerys II

“Qarth is the greatest city that ever was or ever will be,” Pyat Pree had told her, back amongst the bones of Vaes Tolorro. [...]

Dany took the warlock’s words well salted, but the magnificence of the great city was not to be denied.

~

“I do not understand her.” Pyat and Xaro had showered Dany with promises from the moment they first glimpsed her dragons, declaring themselves her loyal servants in all things, but from Quaithe she had gotten only the rare cryptic word. And it disturbed her that she had never seen the woman’s face. Remember Mirri Maz Duur, she told herself. Remember treachery. She turned to her bloodriders. “We will keep our own watch so long as we are here. See that no one enters this wing of the palace without my leave, and take care that the dragons are always well guarded.”

“It shall be done, Khaleesi,” Aggo said.

“We have seen only the parts of Qarth that Pyat Pree wished us to see,” she went on. “Rakharo, go forth and look on the rest, and tell me what you find. Take good men with you—and women, to go places where men are forbidden.”

“As you say, I do, blood of my blood,” said Rakharo.

~

“Ser Jorah, find the docks and see what manner of ships lay at anchor. It has been half a year since I last heard tidings from the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps the gods will have blown some good captain here from Westeros with a ship to carry us home.”

The knight frowned. “That would be no kindness. The Usurper will kill you, sure as sunrise.” Mormont hooked his thumbs through his swordbelt. “My place is here at your side.”

“Jhogo can guard me as well. You have more languages than my bloodriders, and the Dothraki mistrust the sea and those who sail her. Only you can serve me in this. Go among the ships and speak to the crews, learn where they are from and where they are bound and what manner of men command them.”

~

“Khaleesi,” the knight said when they were alone, “I should not speak so freely of your plans, if I were you. This man will spread the tale wherever he goes now.”

“Let him,” she said. “Let the whole world know my purpose. The Usurper is dead, what does it matter?”

“Not every sailor’s tale is true,” Ser Jorah cautioned, “and even if Robert be truly dead, his son rules in his place. This changes nothing, truly.”

“This changes everything.” Dany rose abruptly. Screeching, her dragons uncoiled and spread their wings. Drogon flapped and clawed up to the lintel over the archway. The others skittered across the floor, wingtips scrabbling on the marble. “Before, the Seven Kingdoms were like my Drogo’s khalasar, a hundred thousand made as one by his strength. Now they fly to pieces, even as the khalasar did after my khal lay dead.”

“The high lords have always fought. Tell me who’s won and I’ll tell you what it means. Khaleesi, the Seven Kingdoms are not going to fall into your hands like so many ripe peaches. You will need a fleet, gold, armies, alliances—”

“All this I know.” She took his hands in hers and looked up into his dark suspicious eyes.

Sometimes he thinks of me as a child he must protect, and sometimes as a woman he would like to bed, but does he ever truly see me as his queen? “I am not the frightened girl you met in Pentos. I have counted only fifteen name days, true ... but I am as old as the crones in the dosh khaleen and as young as my dragons, Jorah. I have borne a child, burned a khal, and crossed the red waste and the Dothraki sea. Mine is the blood of the dragon.”

“As was your brother’s,” he said stubbornly.

“I am not Viserys.”

“No,” he admitted. “There is more of Rhaegar in you, I think, but even Rhaegar could be slain. Robert proved that on the Trident, with no more than a warhammer. Even dragons can die.”

“Dragons die.” She stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on an unshaven cheek. “But so do dragonslayers.”

ACOK Daenerys I

She dare not turn north onto the vast ocean of grass they called the Dothraki sea. The first khalasar they met would swallow up her ragged band, slaying the warriors and slaving the rest. The lands of the Lamb Men south of the river were likewise closed to them. They were too few to defend themselves even against that unwarlike folk, and the Lhazareen had small reason to love them. She might have struck downriver for the ports at Meereen and Yunkai and Astapor, but Rakharo warned her that Pono’s khalasar had ridden that way, driving thousands of captives before them to sell in the flesh marts that festered like open sores on the shores of Slaver’s Bay.

~

“Ghosts,” Irri muttered. “Terrible ghosts. We must not stay here, Khaleesi, this is their place.”

“I fear no ghosts. Dragons are more powerful than ghosts.” And figs are more important. 

~

“...Nothing mattered but our love, I told myself. We fled to Lys, where I sold my ship for gold to keep us.”

His voice was thick with grief, and Dany was reluctant to press him any further, yet she had to know how it ended. “Did she die there?” she asked him gently.

~

“What shall we seek, Khaleesi?” asked Jhogo.

“Whatever there is,” Dany answered. “Seek for other cities, living and dead. Seek for caravans and people. Seek for rivers and lakes and the great salt sea. Find how far this waste extends before us, and what lies on the other side. When I leave this place, I do not mean to strike out blind again. I will know where I am bound, and how best to get there.”

~

Dany gave him charge of a dozen of her strongest men, and set them to pulling up the plaza to get to the earth beneath. If devilgrass could grow between the paving stones, other grasses would grow when the stones were gone. They had wells enough, no lack of water. Given seed, they could make the plaza bloom.

~

Dany thanked him and told him to see to the repair of the gates. If enemies had crossed the waste to destroy these cities in ancient days, they might well come again. “If so, we must be ready,” she declared.

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Daenerys X

“I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur,” she said, “for the lessons you have taught me.”

“You will not hear me scream,” Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.

“I will,” Dany said, “but it is not your screams I want, only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life.” Mirri Maz Duur opened her mouth, but made no reply. As she stepped away, Dany saw that the contempt was gone from the maegi’s flat black eyes; in its place was something that might have been fear. Then there was nothing to be done but watch the sun and look for the first star.

When a horselord dies, his horse is slain with him, so he might ride proud into the night lands. The bodies are burned beneath the open sky, and the khal rises on his fiery steed to take his place among the stars. The more fiercely the man burned in life, the brighter his star will shine in the darkness.

Jhogo spied it first. “There,” he said in a hushed voice. Dany looked and saw it, low in the east. The first star was a comet, burning red. Bloodred; fire red; the dragon’s tail. She could not have asked for a stronger sign.

~

She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn.

[...] Now, she thought, now, and for an instant she glimpsed Khal Drogo before her, mounted on his smoky stallion, a flaming lash in his hand. He smiled, and the whip snaked down at the pyre, hissing.

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder.

Only death can pay for life.

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.

When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away ... yet she was unhurt.

The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.

Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to lay his arakh at her feet. “Blood of my blood,” he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth. “Blood of my blood,” she heard Aggo echo. “Blood of my blood,” Rakharo shouted.

And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo’s.

As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

AGOT Daenerys IX

“The khal lives,” Irri answered quietly ... yet Dany saw a darkness in her eyes when she said the words, and no sooner had she spoken than she rushed away to fetch water.

~

My son is dead, she thought as Jhiqui left the tent. She had known somehow. She had known since she woke the first time to Jhiqui’s tears. No, she had known before she woke. Her dream came back to her, sudden and vivid, and she remembered the tall man with the copper skin and long silver-gold braid, bursting into flame.

She should weep, she knew, yet her eyes were dry as ash. She had wept in her dream, and the tears had turned to steam on her cheeks. All the grief has been burned out of me, she told herself. She felt sad, and yet ... she could feel Rhaego receding from her, as if he had never been.

~

“Princess, are you well? Should you be up, weak as you are?”

“Weak? I am strong, Jorah.” To please him, she reclined on a pile of cushions. “Tell me how my child died.”

“He never lived, my princess. The women say ...” He faltered, and Dany saw how the flesh hung loose on him, and the way he limped when he moved.

“Tell me. Tell me what the women say.”
[...]

“They say the child was ...”

[...] “Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. The knight was a powerful man, yet Dany understood in that moment that the maegi was stronger, and crueler, and infinitely more dangerous.

AGOT Daenerys VIII

“We have ridden far enough today. We will camp here.”

“Here?” Haggo looked around them. The land was brown and sere, inhospitable. “This is no camping ground.”

“It is not for a woman to bid us halt,” said Qotho, “not even a khaleesi.”

“We camp here,” Dany repeated. “Haggo, tell them Khal Drogo commanded the halt. If any ask why, say to them that my time is near and I could not continue. Cohollo, bring up the slaves, they must put up the khal’s tent at once. Qotho—”

~

Irri wanted to leave the tent flaps open to let in the breeze, but Dany forbade it. She would not have any see Drogo this way, in delirium and weakness. When her khas came up, she posted them outside at guard. “Admit no one without my leave,” she told Jhogo. “No one.”

~

“Khaleesi,” Jhiqui said, “he fell from his horse.”

Trembling, her eyes full of sudden tears, Dany turned away from them. He fell from his horse! It was so, she had seen it, and the bloodriders, and no doubt her handmaids and the men of her khas as well. And how many more? They could not keep it secret, and Dany knew what that meant. A khal who could not ride could not rule, and Drogo had fallen from his horse.

~

Mirri Maz Duur had no use for the carcass. “Burn it,” Dany told them. It was what they did, she knew. When a man died, his mount was killed and placed beneath him on the funeral pyre, to carry him to the night lands. The men of her khas dragged the carcass from the tent.

~

“Take her to the maegi.”

No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see? Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.

[...] No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! she screamed. The dancers!

Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

AGOT Daenerys VII

They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate.

~

“Why should you want to help my khal?”


“All men are one flock, or so we are taught,” replied Mirri Maz Duur.

~

Drogo put a huge hand on her shoulder. She took some of his weight as they walked toward the great mud temple. The three bloodriders followed. Dany commanded Ser Jorah and the warriors of her khas to guard the entrance and make certain no one set the building afire while they were still inside.

AGOT Daenerys VI

Drogo would take his bloodriders and ride in search of hrakkar, the great white lion of the plains. If they returned triumphant, her lord husband’s joy would be fierce, and he might be willing to hear her out.

~

“I would still like to taste that summerwine you spoke of.”

The man bounded to his feet. “That? Dornish swill. It is not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask.”

Khal Drogo’s visits to the Free Cities had given him a taste for good wine, and Dany knew that such a noble vintage would please him.

~

“You taste it first.”

“Me?” The man laughed. “I am not worthy of this vintage, my lord. And it’s a poor wine merchant who drinks up his own wares.” His smile was amiable, yet she could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.

“You will drink,” Dany said, cold as ice.

 AGOT Daenerys V

Her handmaids had helped her ready herself for the ceremony. Despite the tender mother’s stomach that had afflicted her these past two moons, Dany had dined on bowls of half-clotted blood to accustom herself to the taste, and Irri made her chew strips of dried horseflesh until her jaws were aching. She had starved herself for a day and a night before the ceremony in the hopes that hunger would help her keep down the raw meat.

~

“Khalakka dothrae mr’anha!” she proclaimed in her best Dothraki. A prince rides inside me! She had practiced the phrase for days with her handmaid Jhiqui.

~

Khal Drogo laid his hand on Dany’s arm. She could feel the tension in his fingers. Even a khal as mighty as Drogo could know fear when the dosh khaleen peered into smoke of the future. At her back, her handmaids fluttered anxiously.

~

The Dothraki eyed the sword as he passed; Dany heard curses and threats and angry muttering rising all around her, like a tide.

~

There were five thousand men in the hall, but only a handful who knew the Common Tongue. Yet even if his words were incomprehensible, you had only to look at him to know that he was drunk.

~

Her brother drew his sword.

[...] Dany gave a wordless cry of terror. She knew what a drawn sword meant here, even if her brother did not.

AGOT Daenerys IV

Viserys was less impressed. “The trash of dead cities,” he sneered. He was careful to speak in the Common Tongue, which few Dothraki could understand, yet even so Dany found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain he had not been overheard. He went on blithely. “All these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built ... and kill.” He laughed. “They do know how to kill. Otherwise I’d have no use for them at all.”

“They are my people now,” Dany said. “You should not call them savages, brother.”

“The dragon speaks as he likes,” Viserys said ... in the Common Tongue.

~

“The princess must be presented to the dosh khaleen ...”

“The crones, yes,” her brother interrupted, “and there’s to be some mummer’s show of a prophecy for the whelp in her belly, you told me. What is that to me? I’m tired of eating horsemeat and I’m sick of the stink of these savages.” He sniffed at the wide, floppy sleeve of his tunic, where it was his custom to keep a sachet. It could not have helped much. The tunic was filthy. All the silk and heavy wools that Viserys had worn out of Pentos were stained by hard travel and rotted from sweat.

AGOT Daenerys III

The khal had commanded the handmaid Irri to teach Dany to ride in the Dothraki fashion, but it was the filly who was her real teacher. The horse seemed to know her moods, as if they shared a single mind. With every passing day, Dany felt surer in her seat. The Dothraki were a hard and unsentimental people, and it was not their custom to name their animals, so Dany thought of her only as the silver. She had never loved anything so much.

~

“Take his horse,” Dany commanded Ser Jorah. Viserys gaped at her. He could not believe what he was hearing; nor could Dany quite believe what she was saying. Yet the words came. “Let my brother walk behind us back to the khalasar.” Among the Dothraki, the man who does not ride was no man at all, the lowest of the low, without honor or pride. “Let everyone see him as he is.”

~

Dany rode along quietly for a time, working his words like a puzzle box. It went against everything that Viserys had ever told her to think that the people could care so little whether a true king or a usurper reigned over them. Yet the more she thought on Jorah’s words, the more they rang of truth.

[...] “My brother will never take back the Seven Kingdoms,” Dany said. She had known that for a long time, she realized. She had known it all her life. Only she had never let herself say the words, even in a whisper, but now she said them for Jorah Mormont and all the world to hear.

Ser Jorah gave her a measuring look. “You think not.”

“He could not lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one,” Dany said. “He has no coin and the only knight who follows him reviles him as less than a snake. The Dothraki make mock of his weakness. He will never take us home.”

~

Soon there would be laughter, when the men of her khas told the story of what had happened in the grasses today. By the time Viserys came limping back among them, every man, woman, and child in the camp would know him for a walker. There were no secrets in the khalasar.

~

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” she asked as Irri scrubbed her back and Jhiqui sluiced sand from her hair. She had heard that the first dragons had come from the east, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai and the islands of the Jade Sea. Perhaps some were still living there, in realms strange and wild.

“Dragons are gone, Khaleesi,” Irri said.

“Dead,” agreed Jhiqui. “Long and long ago.”

Viserys had told her that the last Targaryen dragons had died no more than a century and a half ago, during the reign of Aegon III, who was called the Dragonbane. That did not seem so long ago to Dany. “Everywhere?” she said, disappointed. “Even in the east?” Magic had died in the west when the Doom fell on Valyria and the Lands of the Long Summer, and neither spell-forged steel nor stormsingers nor dragons could hold it back, but Dany had always heard that the east was different. It was said that manticores prowled the islands of the Jade Sea, that basilisks infested the jungles of Yi Ti, that spellsingers, warlocks, and aeromancers practiced their arts openly in Asshai, while shadowbinders and bloodmages worked terrible sorceries in the black of night. Why shouldn’t there be dragons too?

~

They were on the far side of the Dothraki sea when Jhiqui brushed the soft swell of Dany’s stomach with her fingers and said, “Khaleesi, you are with child.”

“I know,” Dany told her.

AGOT Daenerys II

There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud.

~

Her brother Viserys gifted her with three handmaids. Dany knew they had cost him nothing; Illyrio no doubt had provided the girls.

~ “I shall treasure them always.” Dany had heard tales of such eggs, but she had never seen one, nor thought to see one. It was a truly magnificent gift, though she knew that Illyrio could afford to be lavish. He had collected a fortune in horses and slaves for his part in selling her to Khal Drogo.

~

A daring she had never known filled Daenerys then, and she gave the filly her head.

The silver horse leapt the flames as if she had wings.

AGOT Daenerys I

Her brother held the gown up for her inspection. “This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric.”

Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. “Is it really mine?”

“A gift from the Magister Illyrio,” Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. “The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess.”

A princess, Dany thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known. “Why does he give us so much?” she asked. “What does he want from us?” For nigh on half a year, they had lived in the magister’s house, eating his food, pampered by his servants. Dany was thirteen, old enough to know that such gifts seldom come without their price, here in the free city of Pentos.

“Illyrio is no fool,” Viserys said. He was a gaunt young man with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale lilac eyes. “The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne.”

Dany said nothing. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he’d never had a friend he wouldn’t cheerfully sell for the right price. Dany listened to the talk in the streets, and she heard these things, but she knew better than to question her brother when he wove his webs of dream. His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it “waking the dragon.”

~

Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden torc emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.

“Now you look all a princess,” the girl said breathlessly when they were done. Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully provided. A princess, she thought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal Drogo was so rich even his slaves wore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and gooseflesh pimpled her bare arms.

~

Dany could smell the stench of Illyrio’s pallid flesh through his heavy perfumes.

Her brother, sprawled out on his pillows beside her, never noticed. His mind was away across the narrow sea. “We won’t need his whole khalasar,” Viserys said. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his borrowed blade, though Dany knew he had never used a sword in earnest. “Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king.” He looked at Illyrio anxiously. “They do, don’t they?”

“They are your people, and they love you well,” Magister Illyrio said amiably. “In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water.” He gave a massive shrug. “Or so my agents tell me.”

Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone was doing or thinking across the narrow sea, but she mistrusted Illyrio’s sweet words as she mistrusted everything about Illyrio. Her brother was nodding eagerly, however. “I shall kill the Usurper myself,” he promised, who had never killed anyone, “as he killed my brother Rhaegar. And Lannister too, the Kingslayer, for what he did to my father.”

“That would be most fitting,” Magister Illyrio said. Dany saw the smallest hint of a smile playing around his full lips, but her brother did not notice. Nodding, he pushed back a curtain and stared off into the night, and Dany knew he was fighting the Battle of the Trident once again.

~

Dany noticed that her brother’s hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of his borrowed sword. He looked almost as frightened as she felt.

~

Magister Illyrio’s words were honey. “Many important men will be at the feast tonight. Such men have enemies. The khal must protect his guests, yourself chief among them, Your Grace. No doubt the Usurper would pay well for your head.”

“Oh, yes,” Viserys said darkly. “He has tried, Illyrio, I promise you that. His hired knives follow us everywhere. I am the last dragon, and he will not sleep easy while I live.”

The palanquin slowed and stopped. The curtains were thrown back, and a slave offered a hand to help Daenerys out. His collar, she noted, was ordinary bronze.

[moon-yean]

could u elaborate what was so bad about the barbarians? i saw the show and thought it was ok but i don't have enough knowledge to know what are the ideological implications of it? sorry, just really curious and wanna learn more

*takes a deep breath* oh boy, where to even begin? Thanks for your question as I might finally get this off my chest! Okay, fair’s fair, anyone who likes the show should look away now because I’m not going to mince words. And I want to reiterate that there were things about the show that I liked, mostly on a superficial aesthetical level. Generally you could tell from the get-go though that the writers are hacks who know nothing about history or good storytelling for that matter. I could’ve dealt with a show that was historically inaccurate if only the character drama had been written well. I might also have enjoyed the show more if the character drama had been mediocre but if there had been a sense of historical authenticity (not accuracy, mind; but still something tangibly more substantial than the patina they tried to throw onto their frankly embarrassingly lowbrow attempt by having parts of the dialogue translated into Latin by an expert and by hiring a good crew for the costume and props design - of the Romans at least... putting lipstick on a pig and all that, although pigs are great and the writing here is not).

Since you asked about the ideological implications specifically, I’ll start with that and work my way towards other criticisms (this is going to be LONG):

19th century nationalism: The story of Arminius and his merry band of brothers who defy the big bad Roman empire is a narrative that became especially popular in Germany in the 18th and 19th century, both with liberal patriotic movements that were advocating for the unification of the “German cultural nation” in a modern nation state (spurred by the Wars of Liberation against Napoléon Bonaparte and French occupation) and later with the völkisch movements where that nationalism segued into the pseudo-scientific racial ‘theories’ of a ‘superior German race’ which in turn was part of the ideological foundation of the genocides and atrocities committed by Germany in the 20th century (not only in WWII, see also the colonial genocide of the Herero in 1904). We cannot disentangle this predominantly racist reception history that re-invented Arminius (”Hermann der Cherusker” - “Hermann the Cheruscan” - or, indeed “Hermann the German” ha!) as the founding myth of a German people from the way this story has been depicted in media, entertainment and culture and, as evidenced by Barbarians, continues to be to this day.

Barbarians pays lip service to the fact that actually there was no German people at the time by having the tribes meet at the Ting in the first episode and have someone outright state it. These kinds of tidbits literally voiced by characters give off a strong whiff of the authors googling something, reading something on Wikipedia, and then putting it in there. I’m sorry (actually not sorry) to come down harsh on this but given what we’re talking about here, that’s just not good enough. It’s an embarrassing level of “writing”. The authors clearly have NO idea what they’re talking about or what they’re dealing with because despite their lip services, they actively reproduce the harmful narratives that were spun around this actual historical event and these actual historical figures in the 19th century. No effort was made to depict anything complex or realistic here. Case in point: Even though there’s a pretense that the tribes aren’t part of the same people, they don’t look much different from each other, they all speak the same kind of modern high German that sounds like they’re at a costume party in the year of our lord 2020 (and in the case of Folkwin, drugged out of their mind; he sounds like a guy who’d throw beer cans at passersby). They come across as basically just being separated by the few acres between their villages. And then when the big bad evil Roman empire wants to squash their resistance (Asterix did it better change my mind challenge), freedom fighter Arminius rallies them together with a heroic speech and they charge at the Romans RAAHWWHR! ... no, just no.

There would have been SO MANY ways to reframe and retell this story in a fresh, new, and exciting way that would have made for amazing character drama. The premise is so good. If we were to look at the basics of what is known, there are so many personal AND political complexities in there that just beg to be coloured in with a little imagination. I just... I don’t even know where to begin to fix the choices that the show did go with since most of them don’t make any sense, don’t contribute anything to the narrative and are just. there. Have y’all noticed that there is ZERO dramatic tension in any of the scenes? Like, what? How?? Culture clash, divided loyalties, identity issues, the way that a militaristic upbringing might warp the mind, feelings of home and belonging and displacement, the return of the lost son, the betrayal of a high-ranking officer, just, there are so many themes that the show could have focused on but it botches all of them, nothing of it feels real, earned, or logical. Characters behave in idiotic ways for the sake of the plot (I wanted to like Thusnelda, I really did, I’m always here for female characters but she was so painfully obviously written by 3 dudes who thought that feminism = praying to the good sisters of the forest and slashing your face aöldksfaökdjf plus the actress could not sell any of it, she sounded ridic).

I’m exhausted just thinking about the many ways in which the writing on the show sucked. Impaired character used as a symbol~ for other characters instead of being a character on his own? Check. Weird mystical shit? Check. Earthbound tribal people who are one with nature? Check. Death on the cross to get that Christian imagery in there? Check. Lack of female characters except feisty!badass!Thusnelda, scheming!conniving!pulling-the-strings!wife, weird!mystical!seer? Check. Varus doing a Herod by demanding first-borns to up the Christian persecuted ante? Check. (All he was missing was the mustache to twirl. Was he even a character? He looked vaguely concerned and sceptical. That was his character.)

Look, the actor Arminius was great but even he couldn’t make sense of any of it. The character work was so shoddy, it was shocking. One minute he’s still all-in with the Romans, ordering lashes for “German” mercenaries without being very conflicted about it, reminiscing with fellow Roman soldiers about the good old times in some fireside bonding, asking his foster father to go home to Rome, and then when bad!dad is like “lol no” (surely they would have had that convo before??? surely Arminius would have known how far his career could go???), Arminius turns around and goes “let’s kill 3 Roman legions!! I’M MAD!!” ... lmao dude, just...

Another favourite of mine: The romance between Thusnelda and Folkwin is supposed to be illicit and against her social status. Does anyone even notice? Does anybody even care? Why did the writers come up with Folkwin in the first place? (His name Folkwin Wolfspeer is a hoot and an embarassment in itself. I wonder whether they used some kind of Germanic name generator. They certainly did use a generic speech generator for the battle speech Arminius gives in the last episode lol)

Back to the topic of a lack of tension. Of course there can’t be any tension if the characters suck. But it’s also because of the design of the scenes and plot points. The cliffhangers are so telegraphed and artificially constructed, it’s almost hilarious. My “favourite” has got to be the one of the first episode: The “hi dad” one. Not only does Arminius go to the village with other Romans in tow who then disappear because nothing in this show makes sense but this kind of revelation also goes against everything we know about good storytelling. There’s a famous quote by Hitchcock and I’ll quote it in full because I think it absolutely applies here (and it is valid for character tension as much as it is for suspense):

There is a distinct difference between "suspense" and "surprise," and yet many pictures continually confuse the two. I'll explain what I mean.

We are now having a very innocent little chat. Let's suppose that there is a bomb underneath this table between us. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, "Boom!" There is an explosion. The public is surprised, but prior to this surprise, it has seen an absolutely ordinary scene, of no special consequence. Now, let us take a suspense situation. The bomb is underneath the table and the public knows it, probably because they have seen the anarchist place it there. The public is aware the bomb is going to explode at one o'clock and there is a clock in the decor. The public can see that it is a quarter to one. In these conditions, the same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: "You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!"

In the first case we have given the public fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion. In the second we have provided them with fifteen minutes of suspense. The conclusion is that whenever possible the public must be informed. Except when the surprise is a twist, that is, when the unexpected ending is, in itself, the highlight of the story.

I hope you can see what I mean here. Barbarians continuously springs surprises on its audience but it has absolutely no tension/suspense in any of its scenes. The only time where the show even comes close to having any kind of genuinely dramatic moment is the conversation between Arminius and Varus where Arminius tries to hide his hurt and disappointment, and all the emotion in that scene is completely due to the actor since the dialogue is fairly idiotic for what is supposed to be the turning moment. Let’s go back to the basics and imagine what the show could have done differently, even allowing for the way in which the writers wanted to tell it (which, as I mentioned, is not appropriately sensitized to the misappropriation of the material in the past - but even if we go with THAT kind of freedom fighter / lost child narrative, it ought to be done well). And here now follows my actual essay of grievances:

The premise of the story, in as much as we know from history, is amazing: An officer of the Roman army, delivered to the Romans by his tribe as a child, returns to the "country" of his birth as part of the invading Roman army which oppresses the natives of the lands. He switches sides, unites different tribes and leads them to a decisive victory against the Roman army in a battle in a forest that lasted for several days and was cleverly planned by the "Germans" who end up outsmarting the Romans who are victims of ambush and the terrain, being split up and stumbling through the forest exhausted and without finding a way back to the other troops (love that the show as we have it managed to squeeze in the cliché "two armies standing on opposing sides decide to just start running towards each other, epic clash, chaos" (which is militarily so fucking stupid and nobody ever did that)).

Anyway, that premise is amazing. You could do so much with it. And if you wanted to make a miniseries about it, the biggest question would surely be: Why did Arminius switch sides? That’s the key plot point. And themes of otherness, oppression, exploitation, identity, and so on, would be a good fit. The first problem with the miniseries is that it has nothing to say about any of that. Arminius doesn’t even feel like the main character (aside from his actor being a cut above the rest). We don’t get to see much of his POV. We don’t get many meaningful conversations between him and Varus (actually just one after which he has a total character transplant). Instead, we get to spend lots of time with characters that don’t add anything in particular to the central plot nor to any of the central themes. Literally, why? 6 episodes is already pretty fucking short to make Arminius’ turn believable, so you’d better spend most of them on him. This is not material for an ensemble show (nevermind that the other characters suck and are not well-acted and written to behave stupidly... that’s just ON TOP of the fundamental issue of this show lacking a POV).

Like, you can turn this into a big Hollywood action movie about the battle or you make it a character drama where the battle is also told from a character perspective (i.e. focusing on the mounting fear and desperation of the soldiers as the battle drags on for days etc but more importantly focusing on why the battle takes place and why it’s important to both the Romans and the “Germans”). As it is, in the show, we don’t get any idea why the Romans are even there in the first place and pestering the people by demanding some tributes. And we don’t get any idea why the Germanic tribes are so opposed to this or why others of them might not be. We don’t get any of the broader political implications, we just get some eagle-stealing pranks (defiance!! cool, just agitate them in a completely stupid and arbitrary way, why don’t you) and a few people executed because the “Germans” were being stupid. That’s not the scale that’s needed here. And I don’t mean that we needed to see mass executions. In fact, I would have preferred if there had been no such hackneyed and emotionally manipulative device.

Arminius is basically absent for all the early encounters of the Romans with the “Germans”. So while we suspect that the mistreatment of the “Germans” at the hands of the Romans would be a strong motivational factor for him, we don’t actually see him witness any of few hints in that direction that we get, so it doesn’t actually matter for his character arc. I have so many issues with how his arc is written. In the first episodes, we don’t get any sense that he’s not a happy Roman. When a “Barbarian” mercenary ridicules Rome, he has him whipped and we don’t get much of a sense that he’s very conflicted about it. Even just moments before he ends up destroying his effigies of Roman gods, we see him trying to get Varus to send him back to Rome. Earlier in the same episode, he prays to those Roman gods. I’m sorry but wtf? How the turntables... If you want to make it believable that he would turn on Rome, why not start with him already being frustrated with the way that things in Rome work? With the way the army is run? And why not give him a careerist streak and make him frustrated that he can’t advance much further because of his lowly birth and background? And instead of Varus being an asshole to him about it (he’s supposed to be his foster father, surely Arminius would already know how Varus thinks about his people and surely he’d already know how far he can climb up the ranks), have Varus be sympathetic but basically like “sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

Arminius betraying Rome shouldn’t be about Varus saying something mean~, if anything a personal connection of his with Varus should just make the betrayal harder and be something that he does despite the fact that there are Romans he cares about. If you start out the show with him already having significant doubts about his place in the Roman army and identity issues, you just need to add something to it that will finally breaks the camel’s back. Have him become increasingly agitated by the way the "Germans” are treated by the Romans. Start the show with him making to leave Rome, someone asking him whether he’s excited to return to his place of birth and him joking about it but obviously being conflicted and then overwhelmed when he actually gets there because it totally destroys his sense of self which he has built for himself (and for which we would have needed to see the contrast, even if just for one scene, of how he is treated in Rome – perhaps snobbed by others, not treated equally in some sort of social setting, could be something subtle – to show us and him that as much as he wishes, he is not and will never be accepted as a Roman).

And then when he gets to the provinces, we need to see that from his perspective. What’s his reaction to arriving there? To seeing the familiar landscapes? (Or maybe he was taken as a younger child and doesn’t actually have that many memories of it but feels a sense of belonging anyway.) There are so many scenes in this show that seem to hint at these things but they are completely random and unfocused and interspersed with the stupid village people shenanigans. Varus talks about burning down villages in retribution. Well, why don’t we see any of that? (Nevermind that it’s comic book villain level of evil, but I’m working with a fix here and not a total rewrite as would be better.) Surely it can’t be too expensive to burn down a few huts in the night. And having Arminius ride along / witness it but not say anything even though we can see these things having an effect on him. As mentioned: The worst offense is the scene when he rides to the village (with other Romans in tow!) and announces “hi dad!” just to have that cliffhanger. Wtf?

Characters doling out information that the viewer doesn’t have is the absolute worst way of telling a story and maintaining tension. It should be the other way around. How about instead you have him be part of a Roman delegation that rides into the village and demands [random, whatever, the fucking eagle if you must keep that shit] and when the Reik (whom the audience already knows to be Arminius’ father) doesn’t want to give it (because he’s not actually a weak fucking clown as almost everyone in the actual show is aside from feisty Thusnelda who’s a fierce~ fucking clown rmfe), the Romans begin beating the dad or whipping him or whatever, completely humiliating him and his people, and we see Arminius on his horse watching the show with growing unrest until the realization really hits him that this is his father (cue flashback to a very young Arminius being dragged away) and the tension keeps ratcheting until he shouts in German “that’s enough” before correcting himself to give the same command in Latin (maybe he still thinks in German, would be an interesting idea) and the Romans look at him with suspicion, like wtf was that, and the "Germans” are like, why tf does this Roman officer speak German, and it’s super awkward and shit and maybe Varus is also there and he looks at Arminius like, oh shit I need to protect my boy he’s actually all up in his feels about these wildlings let’s go back to the camp and have a talk, and so the Romans end up leaving and the “Germans” are like “wait, was that... could it have been.. remember lil Ari who you gave up... but it couldn’t be...” and meanwhile the beaten dad doesn’t want to hear any of that because he actually has never dared hope he would see his son again and also he kind of doesn’t want to see him again because he would be too ashamed to meet his eyes.

And then later we see Arminius pacing up and down in his tent because this won’t let him go, even after he had a talk with Varus, and after some agonizing he steals away in the night to go confront his father (if you want to keep that German mercenary noticing shit, have him notice that). And then we see the father in his hut and everything is quiet and we are waiting for Arminius to show up because we know he’s on his way. But we don’t know whether he wants to talk to his father or just kill him in revenge for the trauma he’s caused him. You’d show the dad and if it were a good actor, you could see so much in his unrest, maybe despite not wanting to think that that guy could be his son, he kind of knows in his heart that it must be and he’s unsettled and whatnot and then we hear someone outside the door and the door opens and there stands Arminius in a cloak and there’s none of that ridiculous music that wants to scream “epic” but falls way short. Have it be quiet. Have Arminius enter and pull back the hood and they just look at each other. And the dad looks like he wants to hug him but he doesn’t move. And Arminius looks like he wants to murder him but he actually moves to sit down, all the while they keep an eye on each other because who knows, they might actually end up murdering each other. That’s the kind of confrontation you need with a reunion like this jfc. And then they talk and it’s an important scene and I’m not going to write it all out but I hope y’all know what I mean.

I feel like you’d have to rewrite this whole show to actually give the character drama the weight that it needs and deserves because what’s happening in the show is dramatic af but you wouldn’t know because it’s so unbelievably stupidly written. I CANNOT believe that when Arminius is back in the village, he’s standing around with Thusnelda and Folkwin in a field as if they’re catching up at a high school reunion. “So, how’s it been?” “My name is now Arminius lol” “You’re kidding lol” ... uhm hello ??? Is this show a meme or...???

Actually as a last thought, I would have kept Arminius’ mother alive and killed his dad. His dad is irredeemable. He gave him away. But if we assume that he never had a substitute mother, then meeting his mother again (who was against giving him away) would make for much more interesting scenes and would also have a much stronger impact on Arminius. I’ll stop now but I just wanted to note how much I hate the writing on this show and everything it chooses to be. Thanks.

[astranne]

Crossover idea MCU/GoT

I was watching a Game of Thrones edit and this idea came in my mind. 

2012, when Loki attacked New York, he had Clint Barton (Hawkeye) under control. But not only that. Clint had a strong mind, so Loki took all his memories of his personal life, only leaving the ones full with violence and darkness. He doesn’t remember his family, his loyality to S.H.I.E.L.D., his friendship with Natasha. He thinks, that he’s a mercenary and just working for this Loki guy. And when his job is finished, his handler sends him away, through a portal. 

Now, Loki made some mistakes, especially with this archer. He talked to much about his plans, he can’t risk his victory and reign over earth. So, he stole many memories, happy memories of this mortal and send him to another world, another dimension. But he isn’t too cruel, he enchants the quiver, so the mortal has an infinite amout of arrows. He makes him faster and stronger than any human, like a super soldier and sends him away to a world full of knights, kings and other dumb mortals. His mortal will be the best of all. 

Clinton lands in the middle of snow and trees. He just sighes and makes his way through the forest, until he comes to a town. There he sees, that his clothes are not really usuall and he steals a cloak. Since he’s trained as a spy, a mercenary, he does his ‘magic’ and makes some money. He now knows, he’s in Westeros, in the North and wants to go to Dorne. He buys a horse and makes his way. Some years pass and he makes himself a name. The common folk calls him the Hawk, since he never misses and also has a tamed hawk as a pet. He even goes to the King, who is the biggest joke he ever saw, and asked for a house. House Barton, we never miss. Naturally a hawk and an arrow are his house sign. He goes to his castle, the Nest, which is in the north. That makes the Starks his ‘bosses’. Not that he really cares, they are honorable and good fighters. Soon Barton men are known to be the best archers in the whole world, but also woman become ‘Hawks’, as everybody calls them. Clinton takes his job as lord seriously, he is loved by his common folk and feared by many lords. He’s ruthless, but kind to innocents. He’s a hunter and always finds his prey. He makes money with training hawks, eagles and other birds, but also his bows and arrows. His weapons are the best in whole Westeros, even Essos. They are made with metal and cost a fortune for anyone who is not a part of the Barton household. He personally trains his archers, in many ways. Since he’s known to be a good, fair but also strict lord, many come to pledge loyality to him. Bc of this, his army grows, his ‘Hawks’ become more. He lives is peace, trains a elite group to be like him (mercenarys (only loyal to him)). Then he hears, that Lord Stark goes to Kingslanding and offers a place over night for the King and the Lords, to stop, before they leave the north. Naturally, they accept, since Ned wants to talk with him and Robert enjoyed his presence. The King’s and Lord Starks households are in awe with the nest, the caste, which grew in the past years. There are hawks, eagles and other birds of prey. Lord Clinton Barton welcomes them, as well some of his best fighters. Since he knows, that Robert is the biggest whore alive, he sent most of the woman away. While his guests eat, he observes them and finds out, that Lord Stark is worried. Before they march to Kingsman, he asks, if he could make Arya as his ward, since he sees great talent in her. Ned hestiates, but Robert just laughes and says he approves. So, Clinton takes Arya under his wing, teaches her everything he knows. She becomes his shadow, which many find amusing, they can see the stars in the girls eyes, whenever Clinton talks with her. 

Then the whole shit in Kingslanding happens, well, almost. Clinton has his birds (of prey (he definitly doesn’t call them his little birds, like Varys)). They save Ned Starks life, but there is war. Ned recovers in the Nest, while Clinton makes preparations to go to Winterfell. He sends many forces away, telling them, they need to hide in the common folk. He takes 1′000 archers with him, and leaves the elite group in charge of the nest. 

Ned Stark remains in Winterfell, while his son goes at war to rescue his sister. Clinton becomes one of his best advisors, many Lords don’t know him personally but are impressed. He keeps his eyes close to Roose Bolton and when he’s sure, that this man will betray the Starks, he kills him. Well, his eagle kills him, and blames Roose for this. His animals are loyal and would never hurt a friend, they remain peaceful, as long they are not bothered. And instead that Roose asks for help, he tried to hurt/hit/kill the animal. When Clinton is sure, that they don’t have spies anymore, he calls every archer, he sent away from the nest. Robb is baffled, when he suddenly has 5′000 soldiers more. They are all great swordfighters, but even better archers. With new strenght, they walz the Lannisters to the ground and defeat Tywin. Well, Clinton defeats him (his army) and takes him as hostage. 

Robb almost dies, but Clinton could save his life. He sents the young Lord home and leads the big army himself. At first, the lords start to protest, but then Robb himself says, that this is the best idea. Clinton is now always seen at the front, with his two eagle (Artemis and Apollo) and his three hawks (Ares, Mars and Tyr) He marches in only three months to Kingslanding, defeating every army and winning every battle. When he’s finally at the capital, he kills Joffrey, says that Tommen would be the better king than his mad brother and safes Sansa. He keeps some of his Hawks in Kingslanding, so he still has informations. He’s grinning the whole day (many are terrified, when they see his grin), when one of his Hawks told him, that she’s now the secret lover of Tommen Baratheon. 

He goes back to the north and starts his normal life again, bc of his glorious victory in the war, more people come and want to be trained by him. Slowly, his army becomes bigger than anyone’s, but he hides the number before everyone. His official number now is 10′000, but he has around 15′000. Since he saved a Stark’s life, twice, he’s now a true friend to the house. Everything is good, until he hears of Daenerys Targaryen, who is now the queen of Mereen. He takes some of his men/women (something like 100?) and makes his way to Essos. He sends some spies, gathers informations and is intrigued by this young woman. Clinton offers his alliance, at first Daenerys is very skeptical, but then she hears what people say about him. Clinton remains some weeks at Essos, starts to teach the young Queen and promises her, that he will fight for her. He isn’t a big fan of Baratheons and Lannisters, there is a reason why Targaryens are Kings and Queens. He leaves 10 Hawks with her, to protect but also train her. 

Then fast forward, Cersei kills Tommen, becomes Queen, bla bla. The Starks don’t care about the shit in Kingslanding. Ned makes Robb the Lord of Winterfell, since he fears his health. (someone tried to poison him (totally the Lannisters)) Then all the shit in the series happens, until Daenerys finally comes to Westeros. She immediatly has the support of the Starks, since Clinton spoke with them. (more manipulated, but eh- does he care? Daenerys is the best choice for the Iron Throne) Bc of this, the whole North follows now Daenerys. Clinton leaves Nest and goes to Dragonstone, with some hunderts archers. The two spend some time together, become rather close, until they are lovers. They don’t let anybody know for a long time. When the time came, and Daenerys wants to attack Cersei, Jon Snow visits with Robb Stark. They talk about the Army of Death and Clinton wants to bang his head against a wall. Of course something bad needed to happen. 

The whole fight with the Night King hapoens, Clinton is a proud dad™, when Arya kills him. Then they go at war with Cersei, totally win, bc one of Clinton birds who kills Cersei, while she fucks Jamie. Naturally everybody knows and is disgusted as fuck. Daenerys becomes the Queen, Clinton her Queen’s Consort. 

Happy ending? You wish. After 20 years he came to Westeros, he slowly starts to remember. He’s torn, he has a family on earth, but here too, he loves Laura and Daenerys, he’s an agent but also a Lord. How should he even go back? Well, either, he slowly becomes depressed, but hides it or the Avengers come to his rescue. I don’t know and I’m really torn, since Clinton loves Daenerys dearly as well his children in this world, but still Laura and his other family.

So, if anyone wants to write a story or a HC, please tag me, so I can read and reblog it :)

Masterlist

[the-big-nope]

Mighty Nein vs. Ripley Swap

Soldiering on through the Vox Machina rewatch, and thanks to @damienchickenspawn, I’ve spent the entirety of “Cloak and Dagger” taking notes for another Party-swap What-If comparison, with the Mighty Nein vs. the Ripley encounter this time. Same rules apply: setting the M9 at an equivalent level (15), ignoring the variability of dice rolls, and accounting for the fact that they had time to prepare spells in advance of the encounter, although less was known about the situation this time, so the spell choice couldn’t be as specific as it was with the Kevdak fight. Fair warning: it gets very long under the cut. Ready? Let’s go.

First off, I have to admit this encounter comparison is much harder to map, because it had two minor combat sections leading up to it (sinking Ripley’s ship and the air elementals on the Glintshore beach). I’m going to assume a similar outcome in combat time and hit points lost, but the resources spent on them is harder to predict due to the differences in characters. At the very least, I’ll assume either Jester, Caduceus, or Caleb has spent their eighth level slot to cast Control Weather like Keyleth did to speed up the airship’s travel, and since they wouldn’t have access to the Keyteor option, the M9 might have just left it up to the airship and basic ranged attacks (maybe a Fireball or two) to take out the boat. However, I will note that following these encounters, since Caduceus often has Prayer of Healing prepped, the M9 would have been able to get a quick bit of healing in with only ten minutes spent. If they aren’t in an immediate chase scenario, this is what they often do between a chain of encounters. 

Now, the meat of this episode is the skirmish with Ripley and her crew on the island. From what I remembered of this fight from the first time I watched it, I recall it being messy as hell and very rough, especially with the giant burst of damage at the start and Ripley popping in and out of combat for most of it. That memory wasn’t incorrect, and I’d forgotten a few elements, like the high level wizard henchman and Orthax joining the fight near the end. With VM, BY FAR the biggest MVPs in this fight were Keyleth and Scanlan. They were the most able to spread damage across multiple targets, Keyleth did some significant damage to the enemy wizard, Scanlan fucked up the whole enemy side with a Reverse Gravity, and they were responsible for keeping their teammates awake and in the fight. The DPSers did their best, but they weren’t focusing fire enough to whittle the numbers down, and Ripley was off the field the majority of the battle and so couldn’t be taken out in order to break the ranks like with Kevdak. Keeping that in mind, let’s first take a look at what the M9 would bring to this encounter as a 15th level party, ranked in order of “Here To Fuck Up Anna Ripley’s Shit.”

1) HOLY SHIT Y’ALL, THE CLERICS. If VM had had their cleric available, it probably would have meant a significant tide turn. The M9 have two, and at 15th level they have so much available to them. At their level, Battle Mercy Jester has access to some wicked damage spells like Blade Barrier, Harm, and Fire Storm, and they both have access to some very powerful support spells: Heal, Heroes’ Feast, Antimagic Field, and (this one I think is particularly up Caduceus/Taliesin’s alley, since it provides major buff and debuff benefits, as well as being one of those spells that would particularly piss off the DM) Holy Aura. Advantage on all saving throws to party members, disadvantage on all attacks against affected party members, and if any fiend or undead (like say, Orthax) hits an affected target, they have to make a Con save or be blinded until the spell ends. Yikes. Even if it was one of the clerics who expended their eighth level slot for Control Weather, they still have a spare who can pull out some powerful tricks along with everything else they already have access to, and thus would probably end up carrying this fight the most.

2) Caleb. While not quite as pivotal as the clerics in terms of MVPing this battle, ol’ Widogast is still scraping in at only two levels below archmage at this point, and he could have some nasty shit available to him, depending on what he takes. 15th level wizards could pick such beauties as Delayed Blast Fireball, Crown of Stars, Prismatic Spray, Reverse Gravity, Forcecage, Antimagic Field, Feeblemind, and Sunburst. Again, accounting for those possible options alongside everything else he already has access to, he could do some absolutely monstrous damage to the enemy team. Of course, aside from all of the fancy new toys, the other part that puts Caleb at second place in terms of enemy hazard is the good old classic, Counterspell. I’ll get into more detail below, but that’s a big one. 

3) Fjord. Our sailor boy will be nine levels into warlock and six levels into paladin at this point, with a paladin oath picked out, Aura of Protection (both Fjord and any ally within 10 feet automatically gains a bonus to a saving throw equal to Fjord’s CHA modifier, which would be a big help against that gunpowder trap at the start), and access to second level paladin spells. Like I said in my last party-swap, Fjord’s just super unpredictable as a fighter. He’s got melee capabilities, arcane spells from both himself and Star Razor, and now a fair reserve of divine casting as well. He’ll have a good bit more Lay on Hands to spread around (30 hp!) as a backup to the clerics, as well as proper healing spells if needed, AND he’ll have access to two Channel Divinity options once he picks an oath. He’s going to have a lot of tools at his disposal to attack or support in whatever way is needed.

4) While the spellcasters really were the pillars of this battle for VM and that would probably hold true for the M9, our DPS girls still deserve some love. Veth would be dealing a Fireball’s worth of sneak attack damage, would have access to 3rd level spells, and could use her mage hand to give herself advantage against a target (if Sam remembers it XD). Beau will have proficiency in ALL saving throws and will likely have bumped up her WIS to boost her Stunning Strike DC. And at this point, Yasha will basically be unkillable; with access to Relentless Rage, Persistent Rage, and Rage Beyond Death, she would need to take her hit point maximum worth of damage in a single hit to be killed outright even at 0 hp. If it’s true that she has recently won her wings back as well, Yasha is going to be a terrifying Valkyrie of unstoppable force.

So, with that summed up, let’s take all that and measure it against the primary factors that made this fight so challenging and memorable for Vox Machina. 

The Gunpowder Trap

Before initiative even started, VM took a big chunk of damage from the gunpowder trap, which I don’t think the M9 would have been able to see coming either. Alarm spells were set up so there would have been no surprising them except on the off chance Caduceus popped a Detect Magic on approach and noticed them; possible, but unlikely. So odds are placed on the M9 taking the initial damage as well. Beau and Nott have a good chance of escaping with no damage, since they have Evasion, Caleb can automatically halve damage with his Ring of Evasion, and Yasha has advantage on Dex saves so she has a better chance as well. However, Fjord, Jester, and Caduceus have no benefits in this situation and aren’t particularly dextrous, so they’re likely taking full damage at the outset. Fjord has Aura of Protection which would give him a +5 bonus to any save, as well as any allies within 10ft, but this trio is still the most likely to get hit hardest. Luckily, they’re on the upper half of the M9′s hardiness scale, so while the damage isn’t small, it doesn’t put them in danger yet. Then combat begins properly.

Ripley

Probably the most problematic feature of this combat was Ripley’s Blink spell and VM’s inability to pin her down or figure out what was going on with her. Her crew were mercenaries, so if Ripley had gone down they likely wouldn’t have continued to fight, but as long as she was up, the fight continued. Watching the episode again, it seems like Matt lingered over the moment where Ripley cast the spell, as if waiting to see if someone was going to counter it. Scanlan was the only one capable of doing it in VM, and whether Sam was distracted, Scanlan didn’t want to burn the spell slot, or some other reason, he didn’t counter it. I feel like the M9 is more trigger happy with the counterspells; they can afford to be, since both Caleb and Fjord can do it, and potentially even Veth if she takes it as one of her 3rd level spells, making the chance of the Blink getting countered much higher. However, even if Ripley had managed to get it off, the M9 have knowledge VM didn’t. Both Jester and Fjord can cast Blink themselves and might be able to recognize it much sooner. That would mean fewer turns wasted hunting for an invisible Ripley and more time concentrating on her allies, or else clustering up near where she would reappear and holding actions ala the Inevitable End fight. Still a difficult element to work around, but better for their action economy and it makes Ripley more predictable. She does have Cabal’s Ruin (the awakened version I think), so she would be able to halve damage on one spell and boost her damage, but that’s only once per short rest. She could manage one huge damage burst if she used her turn, action surge, and the cloak charges all in one go, which could be pretty bad for a single party member. 

The Adds

There aren’t nearly as many mooks involved in this fight as in the Kevdak one, but they pack plenty of punch to make up for it. The mage was by far the biggest threat out of all of them, being capable of casting up to 7th level spells. Both his Prismatic Spray and Chain Lightning did significant damage to Scanlan, Percy, and Keyleth, making the situation more frantic with VM constantly trying to stay on top of their low HP. The Goliath fighter ended up being a non-entity because she didn’t even get a hit off. The gunners did their share of damage, but were probably the lowest threat on the field. As with the Kevdak fight, Caleb would be highly beneficial in doing collective damage to groups at a time (Fireball, Web of Fire, maybe a high level spell like Prismatic Spray or Delayed Blast Fireball if he wanted to clear them quick), similar to how Scanlan used his wand of fireballs to hit the gunners. The ability to counterspell or otherwise incapacitate the mage is also vital, since he dealt out a good portion of the damage, so I could see Caleb’s attention being split there. The big damage spells the mage dished out did require Dex saves though, so the same likelihood of success rules from the gunpowder trap still apply. Like Grog, I could see Yasha focusing on the goliath fighter, while Beau and Nott could get up on the gunners. How well this all goes depends on how well they can shrink the damage from the mage, while making sure the clerics are up and in the right position to heal and support.

Kynan

Kynan is a unique but significant factor in this fight. He did a fair bit of damage, knocked out Keyleth once, and kept Vax distracted for a number of rounds trying to talk to him. In the big picture, I question whether Kynan would have become a factor at all if this was the M9. He ended up with Ripley because Vox Machina, or primarily Vax, rejected him, a little harshly but not maliciously or without reason. The M9 can be blunt and even rude with NPCs, but I don’t see any of them taking a similar approach in that situation. They toted baby Kiri around with them through several dangerous locations and gave her a knife. They had Calianna sign a gag waiver and said they weren’t responsible for her dying if she tagged along with them, and generally they’re inclined to make friends at the drop of a hat. Even if someone like Kynan did approach them, they probably wouldn’t respond in the same way Vax did. However, since I’m using the battle scenario as it happened, we’ll say Kynan is there regardless. Of all the M9, Caleb or Jester seem like the most likely people to pause and try to talk him down. On the one hand, Caleb has a higher charisma than Vax and Jester is Jester, so they’re more likely to persuade him sooner to stand down. On the other hand, they’re also less likely to sacrifice their whole turns to devote their attention to him, so that might hurt their chances. If they fail, he plays the same role in the fight, with perhaps a higher chance of being more ruthlessly targeted by Yasha and Fjord, who don’t think favorably of betrayal. 

The Terrain

This was a relatively minor factor in comparison to those above, but the rough terrain, the big crater, and the damage taken from the glass did eat through movement and HP. Unavoidable in most cases, but can be mitigated by most of the members to whom it would matter. Beau’s a zippy girl, so she can reach any point on the battlefield at the cost of some HP. If Yasha has her wings, it becomes almost a non-factor for her. Poor Veth is the only one really stuck with it, but she’s ranged, so even then it wouldn’t hamper her too much. 

Orthax

Funnily enough, Orthax was probably the least significant factor in this fight, at least on a broad scale. He came out a few rounds in, the sunlight lowered his AC and put his attacks at disadvantage, and he didn’t get many shots in at VM. He has the ability to cause PCs to attack each other, but it’s a rechargeable ability, seems to only affect melee attacks, and doesn’t sustain. He did take two death saves off of Percy and made him waste his last bullet on friendly fire that might otherwise have gone to Ripley, but in a macro scale he wasn’t much of a threat. Against a party with two clerics and a padlock, he’d probably have an even harder time. Just flick a Banishment his way, or a solid 5th level divine smite, and he ceases to be a problem. 

Conclusion

I think the most important factor of the M9 coming off well in this fight would be the ability to focus fire in the right places, ensure the mage can’t deal major group damage, and to protect their clerics. They’ve shown a reasonable ability to pull that off if they’re on a straight battlefield and all together, and as long as their rolls for saves and counters aren’t abysmal, I could again see the M9 coming out of this encounter much more smoothly than VM, their higher percentage of spellcasters being the biggest factor in tipping the scales. Not to mention, even if someone dies, the M9 are almost always ready for that situation. VM had just come from Ank’Harel, a large city, and the M9 make it a point to get stocked on diamonds whenever they have some downtime. Plus, at this level, they would have three party members capable of resurrecting a fallen teammate, with Caleb using his 14th level Transmuter’s Stone ability. The fight against Ripley and her crew would definitely require more brainpower, and depending on their luck could be just as difficult if not more so than it was for VM, but with the right rolls on their side, their wide variety of unpredictable tools, and plenty of healing available to keep the team up, the M9 would probably have this fight in the bag too. 

(Side note: I wonder if the outcomes of these two party-swaps I’ve done have more to do with the players being more experienced and accustomed to working as a unit after all their time playing together, or if it has to do with party composition and how Matt constructs the encounters to challenge them personally. I’m sure both factor in at least a little, but I might have to do VM in one of the M9′s fights at some point just to see. There’s a lot fewer to pick from, since the M9 are still just catching up to the levels we met VM in, and projecting forward is easier than taking levels off of the characters, but I guess we’ll see. If you read through this chonk, I hope it was worth it!)

[semperintrepida]

A Cut, Quick and Painless

While Kassandra knew that nothing awaited her in Kyra’s private chamber except for conversation, she’d be damned by the gods if she said she wasn’t hoping for something more. She’d even made a token protest, arguing that discussions of strategy could wait until they’d both recovered from their whirlwind excursion to Delos; but Kyra had dismissed it, saying, “Podarkes will be furious once he finds out we burned his precious weapons, and I want to have a plan in place before he makes his next move.”

Which is how Kassandra found herself sitting at a table in Kyra’s chamber, trying to keep her eyes away from the bed while Kyra used a lamp to light other lamps around the room. As the illumination grew, Kassandra could see that the room was small and roughly circular, with the bed shoved against the stone wall on one side and rough-hewn wooden shelves against the other. The table at which she sat was in the center, and to her left was the hanging cloth that covered the doorway.

The table before her was covered with scrolls. The shelves were stacked with scrolls. Even the bed that Kassandra was trying so decorously to avoid looking at had a scroll peeking out from between its pillows and its brightly colored blankets.

Kyra swept the scrolls from the table and into her arms before she headed for the shelves, but one escaped and fell to the floor at Kassandra’s feet. Kassandra picked it up and read its title. “Antigone.”

Kyra looked over from stacking scrolls into piles. “Surprised to see high art in such a low place?” There was an undercurrent of bitterness beneath those words. Seemed she still expected Kassandra to think the least of her when it came to her skills.

“No. I already know you’re well-educated.” Kassandra handed her the scroll and answered the question already forming on her face. “I don’t get many letters with the word ‘insatiable’ in them.”

“But you understood it.” Kyra placed the scroll with the others, then came and sat across from Kassandra at the table.

“A misthios only needs to know enough to read a bounty and count up the drachmae.”

“And yet: insatiable. Did you learn that word in Sparta too?” She was fishing now, casting her line in search of information.

“My mother taught me to read and write.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned her.”

“Surprised I have one?”

She looked amused at that. “Turnabout is fair play,” she said, to no one in particular. “Perhaps I’m just glad you didn’t spring fully formed from the forehead of Ares.”

“I learned my many skills the hard way.” They traded grins, and Kassandra decided she’d rather trade information than fish for it. “And who taught you how to wield a pen?”

“You don’t know? Not even a guess?”

Kassandra shrugged.

“I learned from mercenaries like you. I was living in the streets. I had nothing. But I realized pretty damn quickly that no one can steal the alphabet from you, so I did whatever I could to get it.” The memory rekindled a determined fire in her eyes. “Letters, words, poems in memory. Then much later, after we found this place, came the scrolls.”

Kyra had rebuilt her life from barren earth, without the head start Kassandra had been given in hers. She looked at Kyra again. The fires were still there in her eyes, hinting at the focus on survival that had consumed her. “You’re far beyond me in such things,” Kassandra said, gesturing at the shelves. “I can’t tell you who wrote that play—”

“Sophokles.”

“—or what the Pythagorean Theorem is about—”

“The relationship between the lengths of the sides of a right triangle.”

Kassandra absorbed that for a moment, then began to laugh. “And you can still hit a target from fifty paces with a bow.”

“Don’t get too down on yourself. You can lift heavy stuff and reach things that are too high for everyone else.”

“And serve as bait for a bear, don’t forget that.” Enough time had passed after yesterday’s excitement that Kassandra could joke about it now.

But instead of smiling, Kyra frowned. “How’s your back?”

Kassandra instinctively twisted around to look at her armor, where the beast’s massive paw had slammed into her and sent her flying across the beach. “A little sore, but tomorrow’s when I’m really going to feel it.”

“That bear was… I’ve never seen a monster like him.” Kyra traced the grain of the tabletop with her finger. “I was actually afraid for a moment there, after I’d gone through half my arrows and he still kept coming after you.”

If that was true, she hadn’t shown it. She’d stood on the broken deck of the beached ship and fired arrow after arrow into the behemoth, seeking the one, vital hit that would bring him down.

“And then he got you with his paw — I thought he was going to kill you.” Her finger drew circles on the woodgrain like a leaf trapped in an eddy.

“He didn’t. And I have you to thank for that.” In hindsight, Kassandra had been overconfident and ill prepared. She should have taken a javelin instead of her sword. She should have scouted the ship from afar instead of running straight for it. She didn’t want to think of what might have happened if Kyra hadn’t been there.

“I just wish we could’ve done something other than kill him.”

“He was a mighty beast. But he did not belong on Delos.”

“Because someone stole him from his home and brought him there! He had no say in the matter.”

“If you believe in the Fates, none of us ever have a say. Everything has been decided for us.”

A long pause. “And is that what you believe, Kassandra?”

“No, I don’t believe my fate is a thread already woven. But there are times when the strand hangs at the mercy of winds outside my control.”

“So if you were a bear, blown onto a strange island by a storm of someone else’s making, what would you do?”

She’d come closer to Kassandra’s truth than she knew. “I’d do exactly what that bear did,” Kassandra said. “Fight until something killed me.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Kyra asked, but then she waved the question away before Kassandra could open her mouth. “No, don’t answer that. I shouldn’t pry, though every time you answer one question it makes me want to ask ten more.”

“What would you do if you were that bear?” Kassandra asked. Trading information.

“I’d eat all the smugglers and savor the taste of revenge. And then I’d run to the hills and try to find some peace and quiet.” Her finger stilled on the tabletop. “I may not know what I want to do after Podarkes is gone, but when I dream, I dream of peace.”

“A worthy goal.”

“You think so?” Kyra’s gaze shifted from the table to Kassandra. “Would you ever put down your spear?”

Kassandra considered the question. There were so many people left for her to kill that the idea seemed impossible. “And what would I do? Raise goats?” She rested both hands palm up on the table. “Fighting is all I know.”

“A clever leader wouldn’t need to throw you at the front lines.” Kyra said it like a fact, full of confidence. “They’d ask you questions like this: what will Podarkes do without any spare weapons at hand?”

“He’ll beg Athens for another shipment and double up the guards at all the outposts. But the bigger question is, how long do we have before he starts killing civilians?”

“Knowing his cruelty, not very.”

“Then we should strike him quickly where it’ll hurt him most.”

“Are you saying…” Kyra didn’t finish, instead reaching under the table and pulling a large scroll from a basket. She unrolled it across the table’s surface. “This is Miltiades Fort, where the treasury for the Silver Islands is kept.”

“If we find it and steal it, the soldiers go unpaid, unfed, and unarmed.”

“Leaving Podarkes all alone with no one to defend him.” Kyra smiled. “I like this plan. I’ll have Praxos gather the troops.”

“Wait. It’s best if it’s just you and I. Save your fighters for when we attack Podarkes directly.”

“And here I was hoping you just wanted me all to yourself.”

Kassandra didn’t move, despite her accelerating heartbeat, despite her stomach becoming a bottomless cavern. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to rein herself in would have been too obvious. “I do,” she said eventually, carefully. “I want you up on the ramparts of Miltiades Fort—” ignoring the upward creep of Kyra’s brows “—because I can’t pull this heist off without you.”

“It’s so good to be desired,” Kyra said. “Now, what do you need me to do?”

“I need you to find us some sulfur, false-silver, and quicklime.” Ingredients for a dirty mercenary trick that would make it possible for the two of them to take on an entire fort.

“Oh, is that all?”

“I’m just getting started,” Kassandra said with a smile. “How do you feel about heights?”

.oOo.

Together they’d come up with a plan, and when the flaming tongues of the lamps around them began to sputter, starved of oil, Kassandra realized she’d lost all sense of time. It hadn’t seemed that long, sitting there side by side, Kassandra feeling the heat from Kyra’s leg against her own as they pored over the map and discussed how they’d spirit away the treasury without anyone raising an alarm.

“So it’s settled, then.” Kyra patted the map with her palm, then stood and stretched before she wandered across the room and began refilling the lamps with a small jug of oil.

Kassandra heard footsteps outside the chamber, and Kyra must have also, for she paused between pours, the graceful line of her arm caught in silhouette against the wall. Kassandra tilted her ear towards the doorway, heard the soft clink of armor, and wasn’t surprised when the cloth swept aside to reveal Thaletas.

“I’m glad you're—” He stopped abruptly, looking at Kassandra. “Ah, misthios. Taking a break from causing mayhem?”

“Podarkes won’t execute himself.”

Kyra turned, lifting her chin towards him. “I thought you were waiting on the beach,” she said coolly.

Kassandra didn’t wait for him to answer, and she pushed her seat back from the table and stood. “It’s about time I got going.”

He held up a hand. “Before you leave, Kassandra, there’s a matter I could use your help with — no, not now. Come find me at my camp.”

She nodded very well to him and farewell to Kyra, then walked out of the chamber, and as she heard the faint murmur of their voices beginning to intermingle, she cursed herself for wishing she could listen in on the conversation she’d left behind.

.oOo.

Miltiades Fort squatted above dark, wind-swept cliffs, hunched over like an old guardsman sitting with his back to the sea. Moonlight sheened the rocks with silver, and the air was warm and heavy with the smell of saltwater and smoke. Kassandra jammed her hand inside a crevice in the rocks and canted her body out over empty space, smiling into a breeze that carried with it the distant sound of waves pounding the stones far below. She drank the air in like wine. It was a fine evening for thievery.

But the feeling faded the moment Kyra came into view below her, washed out by a vague unease that grew the longer she watched Kyra ascend. She turned back to the cliff face, adjusted the bundle slung on her back, and resumed climbing, taking extra care not to knock any stones loose with Kyra down below.

The moon was bright and the handholds plentiful, and when she reached the top, she carefully lifted herself past the edge. It wouldn’t do to spill the precious cargo she carried. Along with the bundle, she had her spear, slung in its sheath on a leather shoulder harness she wore over her chiton. No armor. Trading protection for silence and ease of movement had been a deliberate choice — taking on an entire fort’s worth of soldiers in combat was not part of their plan.

She’d lifted herself onto a narrow shelf of rock, a false top to the cliff. To reach the fort, they’d have to clamber over a chest-high lip of more rock, then cross a strip of grass dotted with bushes and wind-stunted trees. They’d be able to stay out of sight of the guards as long as they kept their heads down. On this side, closest to the cliffs, the fort was less a set of walls than a collection of collapsing ruins. With any luck, Podarkes’s lack of spending on upkeep would mean more silver in the treasury.

A short while later, Kyra’s head popped up at the edge, and Kassandra held out a hand and helped Kyra climb up next to her. They crouched there, looking at each other, Kyra’s skin glistening with sweat as she caught her breath, her eyes and hair gleaming silver with Artemis’s gift of moonlight.

Kassandra felt a faint tremor pass through Kyra’s hand, and as it disappeared into warmth and stillness where their skin touched, a matching warmth bloomed deep in her belly. Then Kassandra looked away, looked up at the fort, and reluctantly let Kyra’s hand go.

At their feet, only the bravest of grasses and wildflowers scratched out a living on the exposed stone. Kyra knelt among the tufts and tiny blossoms, untied the bundle slung across her shoulder, set it down carefully, and muttered, “Glad to be done with that climb.”

“I thought you said you weren’t afraid of heights,” Kassandra said, her voice just above a whisper. She untied her own bundle and placed it next to Kyra’s.

“I said that if we had to climb, I would do it. Didn’t mean I’d enjoy it.” Kyra opened her bundle and began pulling out its contents: shawls made from dun-colored fabric, and a few soft-sided flasks sewn from leather. “Of course you turned out to be part mountain goat.” She handed Kassandra one of the shawls. “I guess climbing’s easy when you know a fall won’t kill you.”

“How do you—”

“Did you actually think I didn’t see you jump from the top of the Temple of Artemis the other day?”

They’d had a conversation right after, and Kyra hadn’t given a single sign that she’d just witnessed Kassandra do the impossible. It took skill to hide something like that so deeply. It reminded Kassandra of another woman with the same skill, Aspasia. To convince someone in this house, even your eyes must tell a lie.

“I thought you were going to kill yourself,” Kyra said, “and then you jumped and it… didn’t.” She sat back on her haunches. “I’m just glad I hired you before Podarkes offered you the contract on my head.”

“I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“Are you sure, misthios?” She waited a beat. “Oh, don’t look so serious. I was raised by your kind, remember?”

Kassandra tried to ignore the pang that shot across her chest, and she realized she was twisting the shawl in her hands. Kyra’s image of her was incomplete, but even a fragment still held some truth in it. She couldn’t deny that she’d taken plenty of contracts from vile people.

Kyra’s dark eyes were studying her intently. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me what you need all that drachmae for.”

Now wasn’t the time, and Kassandra didn’t answer. Instead, she flipped the shawl over her shoulder and opened her own bundle, adding the flasks she’d brought with her to Kyra’s collection and sorting them into groups. Four flasks held a mixture of powdered sulfur and false-silver, four held quicklime, and the last flask was filled with water.

Kyra’s eyes never left her. “You look different without armor.”

“Oh?”

“I won’t say you look softer, because you might get offended.”

“But you just… did?”

Kyra grinned. “Are you offended?”

“No.”

“Good.” Kyra reached up and gathered her hair, pulling it off her shoulders and tying it into a loose knot. It exposed the lines of her neck, the hollow under her jaw curving up to her ear…

Kassandra’s mouth went dry.

Kyra pulled a shawl around her shoulders. “How do I look?” she asked.

Beautiful, Kassandra wanted to say, but what came out of her mouth was, “You fit the part.” With her plain, rough-spun chiton and lack of jewelry, Kyra could pass as a servant. She had to pass as a servant, for all their hopes rested on her ability to travel the fort unnoticed.

Kyra collected all the flasks into one large bundle. “I’m ready.”

Kassandra lifted herself up enough to look over the edge. To the left, a guard walked the closest wall, headed away from them. To the far right, two more guards watched the side of the hill that sloped gently down from the fort. Kyra wouldn’t even come close to their sightlines. The path was clear.

Kassandra’s heart squeezed within her chest, cranked tight, as if it were a heavy load being hoisted at the docks, something pulling its ropes, pulling it in perfect tension. “Kyra,” she said. “Stay safe.”

A nod. Kyra’s warmth brushing past and fading quickly. An indentation in the grass where she’d been. Kassandra peered over the edge, intending to watch Kyra pass inside the ruined walls, but what she saw was a transformation: Kyra’s shoulders drooping inwards, her confident gait slowing, her steps dragging. By the time she disappeared between broken heaps of stone, she’d become exactly what anyone in the fort expected to see, another servant girl struggling under the weight of a heavy load.

Still, Kassandra was uneasy. The tightness remained in her chest, a foreign feeling, especially now in the middle of a job, where she expected her heart to beat as steadily as the oarmaster’s drum on a trireme and her breath to come and go as smoothly as the sweep of its oars.

She had asked Kyra to do so much. It was Kyra who would locate the treasury, Kyra who would set the distractions, all because there was no way Kassandra could pass as the kind of servant this job required, the ones who existed in the background, seeing everything, ever present but utterly anonymous. And Kyra would have to do it alone and unarmed, surrounded by a fort full of soldiers.

Kyra had jumped at the chance, despite all the dangers. I said that if we had to climb, I would do it.

Suddenly, Kassandra knew why she was uneasy; why her heart felt tight in her chest; why this feeling felt so foreign. She was afraid. Not for herself, but for Kyra. She could count on one hand the number of times she had truly been afraid in her life, and now her fears had somehow become entwined with this woman she was just beginning to know. The realization made her rock back on her heels.

And now, all she could do was sit in the company of this discovery, and wait.

.oOo.

A quarter hour. A half hour.

The always-turning wagon plodded in the sky overhead.

Three quarters of an hour.

Silence from the fort, and no sign of Kyra.

An hour. More.

Kassandra could deviate from the plan. She could sneak past the guards. She could get inside the walls. She could find—

A rustle of leaves. Grass parted by footsteps. She reached back and wrapped her fingers around the handle of her spear, just in case, but then Kyra was lowering herself gracefully into place beside her.

“Done and done,” Kyra said, with a satisfied smile.

Kassandra’s heart beat freely again.

“I don’t know how long we have before the quicklime ignites. I tried to measure the water out, but— Are you all right?”

Kassandra didn’t answer that question, but another. “It’ll be soon.” Then the sulfur and false-silver would start to burn, producing thick smoke and choking gas and, eventually, fire. “Where’s the treasury?”

Kyra motioned Kassandra beside her, and together they looked at the fort. She pointed to the wall to their left. “That wall. Follow it until it turns a corner to the right. Keep going until it ends at a staircase. The building above you will have the treasury on the second floor.”

“Where will you meet me?”

“At the northeast corner.”

Kassandra adjusted the shawl over her shoulders, making sure it covered her spear. She just needed to be convincing enough to look like a servant from a distance. “Let’s go.”

“Kassandra, wait.” Kyra put her hand on Kassandra’s forearm. “If things look bad, get out of there.”

“You got us this far. I’ll not waste it.”

“No.” Kyra’s fingers dug into her arm. “This drachmae isn’t worth your life.”

She wasn’t going to let the matter drop until Kassandra gave her what she wanted. “Very well.”

Kyra released her grip, and Kassandra lifted herself up and over the edge.

“Look,” Kyra said, pointing towards the fort. There was a plume of stark white smoke to the southwest, and the sound of far-off shouting.

Kassandra looked at Kyra, smiling faintly. “See you soon,” she said, and then she crouched and moved away, through the tall grass and past the trees and bushes. No guards in sight. The shouting was louder now, and there was more of it, and the white column of smoke was sullied by dark streaks — a sign that the fire had grown beyond the powders Kyra had planted and into flammables like wood.

She moved to the wall Kyra had shown her. At this end, it had collapsed into a rough series of steps. She climbed swiftly, and when she reached the top, she was rewarded with the sight of the watchtower on the far side of the fort being attacked by flames.

She picked up her pace, not even bothering to crouch. The wall turned hard to the right, and brought her across the top of the fort’s entrance. She looked down into the courtyard and saw the stables, the horses and wagons, the servants trying to flee and the soldiers trying to stop them. That’s where Kyra was headed, where she’d wait for a chance to steal a wagon.

The wall ended just as Kyra had said it would, at a set of stairs to the left with a large building looming overhead, framed by a second plume of smoke billowing into the sky. She couldn’t tell if the treasury building was on fire, or one of its neighbors.

“Hey! You!” A soldier’s voice, far to her right.

She pretended not to hear him, turned, and hurried up the steps. They brought her to the fort’s upper level, a labyrinth of rooftops and wooden walkways between buildings. Dirty grey smoke hung in the air, acrid and heavy with sulfur, and orange tongues of fire licked out the windows of the building next to the treasury. She ran towards the fire while everyone else was running to get down below, where she could see soldiers and servants crowding the paths. Some carried buckets of water while others milled about in confusion and fear.

The walkway dumped her into the third floor of the treasury, where the smoke wasn’t yet as thick as it was outside. She threw off her shawl, drew her spear, and looked for the way down to the floor below.

She found the hatchway and ladder in the far corner, a portal down into an orange-tinted haze. She couldn’t risk sticking her head through to take a look, so she listened instead and heard movement. A cough. Footsteps. But the noise from the chaos outside was too great for her to be certain of numbers. If she dropped through, she could be facing one soldier — or ten.

She dropped through.

Three. No, four. There were four, and she launched herself at the first, braced her forearm against his chestplate and pushed him back as she stabbed him in the gut with her spear. Everything slowed down, Chronos smiling upon her as he always did in a fight. She grabbed the man in her hands by his armor, spun him around, and hurled him into the next soldier, one who stood there holding a torch. Both went sprawling. The torch flew to the floor, and the room and its smoky haze darkened within its diminished light.

She caught the third man before he’d even finished drawing his sword, whipped her elbow up through his jaw, turned and slid past the thrusting sword of the last soldier, took the arm it belonged to and pulled the body off-balance so she could drive her knee into a groin. Another kick sent him straight into the wall. His body slumped to the floor, unmoving.

Footsteps slapped on wooden planks, a soldier running away, scrabbling up the ladder and out of sight. Then nothing moved, except the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

The treasury awaited, a heavy wooden box banded with iron. She lifted its lid, reached in, and pulled out a heavy bag, untying it and looking inside just to be sure. Drachmae. Four bags in total, containing thousands of coins.

This was going to be one Hades of a load, and she didn’t want to make the trip more than once. The smoke was growing thicker every moment she delayed. She glanced around and spotted a set of scales resting in a bronze tray on a nearby table. She swept the scales aside and took the tray, then picked up two of the bags and headed for the ladder. Climbed high enough to toss them up to the next floor, followed by the tray. Then back down for the last two.

She piled everything onto the tray, squatted and lifted, the muscles in her arms and back and legs pulling tight as anchorlines as they held the weight.

She emerged into heat and smoke so thick she could only see a few paces in front of her. The building next door was a pyre, the lower floors engulfed with flame, and it was only a matter of time before it spread to the rooftops, devouring everything in its path and leaving only scorched stone behind. Its light helped her find her bearings, and she turned to the right, taking lumbering steps across the walkway to the top of the fort’s stone walls, heading to the northeast.

By the time she reached the agreed-upon corner, the smoke had thinned, and she looked over the side of the wall and saw Kyra sitting on the seat of a small wagon, its bed filled with a load of hay. Kassandra whistled a greeting, then began pitching the bags over the side, each one landing in the wagon with a loud bang. Behind her, she heard shouting from somewhere in the smoke. It was time to go.

She swung herself over the side and began climbing down, but at the half-way point she pushed away from the wall and leapt down to the ground. She popped up next to the wagon. From here, she could see the fort’s entrance, and a line of soldiers trying to hold a large crowd of servants back from fleeing.

“None of that blood better be yours,” Kyra said, taking up the reins as Kassandra climbed into the seat beside her. “Ela!”

The wagon lurched into motion.

“It’s not. But it could complicate things if we run into any soldiers.” And there would be soldiers, for she knew that if she turned around, she would see the fort wearing a wreath of fire. Every Athenian camp on Mykonos would know that the fort burned soon enough.

Kyra drove the horses at a steady, unhurried pace. Galloping off at speed would only attract attention. “What do you want to do, then?” she asked.

“Take us to those trees.” Kassandra pointed to a small copse of pines by the road at the foot of the hill.

They drove on in silence.

Then they heard hoofbeats behind them, gaining fast. Men shouting “Make way! Clear the road!” Would they notice the spear on her back? Notice the blood on her hands and chiton?

Kassandra’s fingers twitched, but she kept her hands at her sides and didn’t turn around. Her seat rocked gently as Kyra slowed the horses and pulled the wagon to the side of the road, and moments later, two soldiers on horseback blew past them. Probably off to tell Podarkes the bad news. Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

A short while later, Kyra brought the wagon to a halt just outside the stand of trees. Kassandra hopped off the seat. “Meet me at the overlook outside the Temple of Artemis.”

Kyra nodded. “Don’t take too long,” she said. Then she lifted the reins and drove off, headed for the drop-off point where she’d hand the wagon over to a small group of waiting rebels while a few others secured the loot and brought it back to the hideout.

Kassandra stood by the road for several moments, listening to the sound of the wagon’s wheels crunching on the dirt, then she turned, stepped into the trees, and began to run.

.oOo.

Kassandra found Kyra waiting for her at the overlook. She’d cleaned up and changed clothes, just as Kassandra had, and she stood still and quiet in the moonlight, seeming more a carving of ivory than a living being. But at Kassandra’s approach, she turned and was alive again, her eyes gleaming, her lips curving into a smile.

“The treasury is ours,” she said. “Praxos is guarding it personally.”

“How much drachmae was there?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “A lot. But I’ll count it later.” Her eyes settled on Kassandra. “I imagine you’ll be wanting your cut soon enough.”

“I’m in no hurry.” The words slid out before Kassandra had even thought them through. She was supposed to be in a hurry. She was supposed to be searching for her mother, supposed to be hunting down the Cult. All those supposed tos had kept her busy, and busy kept her from facing a truth about her nature that she hadn’t yet figured out how to handle: she was so very good at killing people because she enjoyed it, and she enjoyed it so much she was beginning to crave it. That is, until she’d arrived on Mykonos.

Now she killed without feeling anything at all, and she needed to know why, even if the implications scared her enough that she could no longer say she could count the number of times she’d felt fear in her life on one hand. Now she needed two…

“Chaire, Kassandra.” Kyra’s hand was waving in front of her eyes. “Should I be worried by that look on your face?”

“No. It’s nothing. What matters is that we took Podarkes’s treasury from him, and once the people here realize he’s lost every coin, they’re going to rip him to pieces.”

“He’ll never recover from this,” Kyra said. The realization of what they’d done hit her then, pouring into her like the fabled nectar of the gods, filling her with strength and possibility. She glowed with it, shimmered in the moonlight. Artemis’s favorite.

Kassandra stayed silent, letting Kyra enjoy the moment.

“I burned that fort to the ground.” Her smile was brilliant.

“You did.”

“Surely even Athens will want to be rid of him now. I’m so happy, I could kiss you.”

Kassandra knew Kyra was exaggerating, that she’d said it without meaning it. But Kassandra had never shied away from asking for what she wanted, and Kyra had set her up with a gift on a silver platter. “I don’t see anything holding you back,” she said, holding out her arms to gesture around them. “Hades could take us both tomorrow.”

Kyra’s smile faded. “You breathe life into me,” she said, and Kassandra instantly knew what was coming next: But… She looked away, unwilling to meet Kassandra’s eyes. “If only you’d come here before Thaletas.”

Kassandra had read the situation correctly, but it still hit her like a punch to the heart. And now she had to say something. She considered her words, ran them through her head, and found it easier to play dumb. “You and Thaletas? I didn’t realize.”

“He’s stubborn, arrogant, and hot-headed.” That could describe nearly every Spartan, Kassandra included. “We don’t always agree. But behind all the bronze and brawn, there’s a good man I could see by my side when this is all over. If we survive.”

So Kyra loved him after all. Kassandra would retreat gracefully, then. “The two of you fighting Athenians on the beach sounds romantic. I’d hate to interfere.” But why did it feel like her chest was being crushed in the jaws of some great beast?

Kyra’s face was unreadable, but then she leaned forward, closer and closer, and then Kyra’s hands gently grasped her arms, and Kyra’s breath brushed her ear, and Kyra’s lips touched her cheek.

The kiss lasted just a moment, and like a cut from a sharp knife it had been quick and painless, but what damage it had left behind: gods, she wanted Kyra. It was a terrible, terrible thing, to want someone this much while knowing she couldn’t have them. Another feeling as foreign to her as fear.

Kyra studied her at arm’s length. “Would you even recognize me in the Underworld, I wonder.”

“You introduced yourself by throwing a dagger at my head. You’ll be damn hard to forget.” She smiled, made it look open and affable. No hard feelings here. She’d cope with the bruising longing on her own. She had to.

Kyra stepped back, letting Kassandra go. “I’ve never properly thanked you for coming here. You’ve brought me hope where there was none.”

“Glad to be of service.” Thanks and drachmae would be her consolation prize.

“Come with me to the hideout? I’m sure someone’s cracked open the wine by now.”

She was tempted, bruises and all. She was. “Sounds fun, but I really ought to get back to the Adrestia.” Where she had a bunk and her own stash of wine, as much as she hated drinking alone.

Kyra didn’t push it, a small mercy that Kassandra appreciated as they traded good nights. Then she watched Kyra walk away, Kyra with moonlight in her eyes, moonlight in her hair, walking up the path, disappearing into darkness; and then Kassandra turned, stared out over a city oblivious with slumber, and let her go.

Part of the Elegiad. Go back to the previous story, or on to the next...

[harry-potter-safe-space]

Godric Gryffindor

"You hold him on some sort of pedestal, the ultimate good guy, a man who could do no wrong. You have no idea how amusing it is for us - how amusing it would be for him.

Godric... was a warrior. He came from pureblood family of a low nobility. It's all a bit complicated. His father was a mercenary, later knighted by king Uther. He married a young girl of noble blood - her family disowned her for that. Yeah, the Gryffindor family would be recognised as nobility only after Godric took the headship well into the wizarding revolution.

I don't want to talk about the revolution - it is not a dinnertime topic. Let me just say this, it had nothing to do with the blood status of wizards. It was a conflict between the wizarding part of country and the mundane- sorry, muggle - king. It ended in a civil war.

Back to Godric. Well, he grew up in a small castle down in England along with his sisters. He was always a bit too hot-headed, a bit too rushed. And he was trained to be a soldier from a very young age. It took a lot of his childhood away - this training. His father taught him all about war and fight, made him a great strategist. From what Godric told us, his father taught by example - even when teaching how to kill someone. He never liked talking about it.

I'm not sure how he met the other "founders", they've told us so many different versions of the story I have no clue which one is actually true. If I were to guess I'd say he met Salazar when he was still a teenager at one of the "parties" the nobles threw every now and then. As for the ladies, I think Rovena is a child of the guy he bought his horse from, but that might be a lie. Helga - I believe it was Salazar who had introduced the two of them As to where those two met, I have no idea.

So they founded a school, got a blessing from both the king and the council and all that. Everything went smoothly. And then the revolution came.

It was hard during that time, but most of all on these four. They had to protect the children from everyone and everything - the muggles, the wizards, the creatures. Later even getting the children to school became a problem. Godric had destroyed many houses to get the kids out safe; had burned many churches down. Many had died back then.

The argument with Salazar didn't make things easier. Salazar left, yes, but not because of the argument; that was merely a convenient excuse.

The muggleborns were unfortunate to get caught between two sides of the civil war and many wizards were... more than distrustful towards them. Godric, from what I know, didn't dislike them like many others did at the time, but he certainly did not trust them.

The civil war went on for years. Hogwarts got attacked more than once. Godric kept being called upon to help out in the battlefields. Many villages were burned down. Many people murdered. Don't think for a second that Godric wasn't part of this - he very much was, having planned and executed many of these actions himself.

Then the war ended. A peace came. Godric returned to school that was torn apart by it.

Rovena was dying, Helga suffering from burn out and Salazar was buried so deep in his own problems and responsibilities he had no time left for maintaining friendship, let alone running a school. This left Godric alone to run the school, to be a headmaster.

Soon after, Rovena died. Salazar was busy trying to pull the country together, along with the king and the council. Helga pulled through and got herself together. Everything went back to normal, as normal as the school could be with only two "founders".

And then one day, during summer break, Helga was found dead. Poisoned. Soon afterwards someone attempted to murder Godric. They didn't get far, he'd killed them at the spot.

But the word got out. "Someone's trying to murder founders of Hogwarts!" It got blamed on the muggles. To prevent the war, the king shifted the blame. They didn't do it, they don't have access to such potions. Soon after a conclusion was drawn - muggleborns did it.

That's where the hatred started. It is where the word "mudblood" first appeared. A word Godric had full power to stop. Yet he didn't. Just as he didn't stop the other wizards from burning entire villages down. Just like he didn't stop his fellow wizards from declaring a civil war. And Salazar never had the time to look at the school too closely anymore.

Godric was always a fighter, a soldier. He lived for fight, even after he gave up the war. He did not hold grudges against muggleborns, he did not hate them. But he did nothing to stop those who did. No one did at the time.

He's not holy, he had his fair share of faults, just like anyone else. He made mistakes, just like anyone else. However, having so much power over the children of our time, his mistakes were greater than anyone would have thought."

- an excerpt from History as we know it by Vitus Sanguini

[cienie-isengardu]

Darth Vader and the violence against imperial low-ranking soldiers (Old Trilogy)

I have habit of re-reading star wars comics & books, mainly focusing on Darth Vader. I have quite clear idea of his character, shaped by various sources AND my own thinking & analyzing made over the years.

One of the things that never sit well with me is idea of Vader using violence against low-ranking soldiers for no fair reason.

Don’t get me wrong, Vader killed a lot of imperial soldiers, there is no deny of that. Either he sent them on very dangerous - sometimes simple suicide - missions without regard for their life or because “there was no mercy for failure among the Imperial military”. Vader was the ultimate executor of those who either betrayed Empire or were incompetent. Looking how the whole Imperial Army became corrupted, how so many people put their own ambitions and gains over the welfare of the Empire, Vader’s ruthless presence was essential to keep the whole military in check.

And Dark Lord of the Sith was effective at his job, to the point that some characters - like bounty hunter Dengar - thought about him as a really busy man, who “had his own political agenda, men to command, an Empire to run“.

As much as Vader lacked patience for fools and tolerance for failures - what usually resulted in someone’s death or at least force-choking - in the movies alone he never punished or threatened imperial low-ranking soldiers. All the verbal & physical violence was directed at officers, especially those with high status. At admiral Motti, for being disrespectful for Vader’s belief about Force, at admiral Ozzel for incompetence, at captain Needa, for too hasty reporting success (catching Millennium Falcon) that turned out to be failure, at just-promoted-to-admiral Piett - if he failed him again. At Director of the Advanced Weapons Research, Orson Krennic, for being more focused at competing with Tarkin rather than performing a recommended task. But common troopers? Nope.

Frankly, the Old Trilogy gave us very noticeable contrast in Vader’s behaviour that always depended on with whom he worked. The undertone of famous scene during Imperial Meeting in ANH was much different than, let say, boarding Leia’s ship. For better analyze, here a short summary.

In A NEW HOPE:

After stormtroopers took over the rebel ship, the first thing Vader did was looking for enough alive rebeliant to interrogate. The few who fell in the first phase of imperial attack were dead, Vader didn’t say anything, just moved on. Stormtroopers went with him.

Next scene, Vader personally interrogated Antilles after his trooper reported that “The Death Star plans are not in the main computer”. Not satisfied with rebel’s lack of cooperation, Vader ordered “Commander, tear this ship apart until you've found those plans, and bring me the passengers! I want them alive!” He sounded angry (then again, the man can’t say a word without being terrifying) but there was no threat what will happen to stormtroopers if they will not find the plans. They didn’t, as far as we know, no imperial soldier died in result.

Stormtrooper captured instead Leia, Vader had no patience for her lies and imprisoned her. Commander Daine Jir* pointed out flaws in Sith’s plan. No violence against him or against commander Praji*, who reported “Lord Vader, the battle station plans are not aboard this ship, and no transmissions were made. An escape pod was jettisoned during the fighting, but no life-forms were aboard.”  Vader’s final words in that scene, “There'll be no one to stop us this time” sounds not only confident about the future; the use of “us” is an interesting choice of words. No stop “me” or “Emperor’s plans” or Empire as a whole. Us. Vader referred to himself AND his troopers who hunted those rebels (and plans of Death Star) for a while.

During meeting with the most important Imperials on Death Star, minute or two after showing up with Tarkin, Vader was force choking Motti while saying the famous “I find your lack of faith disturbing”. If Motti didn’t act so arrogant, Vader wouldn’t feel obligated to prove him wrong. There is visible contrast between Vader on battlefield (surrounded by his own soldiers) and Vader surrounded by high-ranking officers. The Dark Lord of the Sith is one of the most powerful being in Empire yet he is “outsider” during the meeting. There is no place at table for him, he isn’t part of military nor government the way Motti, Tagge or Tarkin were.

During battle of Yavin, Lieutenant Tanbris* informed “We count 30 rebel ships, Lord Vader, but they're so small, they're evading our turbolasers.” Vader’s reaction? “We'll have to destroy them ship to ship. Get the crews to their fighters.” Once again, Vader used plural “we”; he was going to join his troopers in fight against rebels. [Side note, since Tanbris is part of Vader’s own crew, it makes sense he went straight to his boss, not to any official commander of Death Star. Then again, the 501st Legion wasn’t personally responsible for protecting battle station but Vader involved himself in fight on his own because no imperial high ranking officer - be it Tarkin or Motti - either didn’t think about using TIE fighters or were too arrogant to believe rebel attack may be dangerous to them]

Vader met two imperial pilots on his way to his personal TIE. He calmly told them “Several fighters have broken off from the main group. Come with me.” Not much emotions, no threats what will happen if they fail him. During fight, he only told them to cover him while he is dealing with rebels.

So, in ANH we have one a bit force-choked admiral, no threats against low ranking stormtroopers or imperial pilots. Vader doesn’t have patience for Motti’s arrogance & bullshit, but he doesn’t mind Jir’s insight and is one of few imperial high-ranking officers who takes part in dangerous fights against enemy. Vader doesn’t speak much with other high-ranked officers (beside Tarkin) and in final battle he doesn’t just sent people on front line - he personally take action to secure Empire’s victory (and if not for Han Solo, he could succeed) while Tarkin, underestimating enemy, put faith in superiority of the Death Star.

In The Empire Strikes Back, Vader’s status in imperial army changed. Until now he operated outside of military hierarchy and though he was always the second-in-command of Empire, now he was officially titled as Supreme Commander. Also, Vader already knew Luke is his son and became obsessed with finding / capturing him. The idea of having son at his side, made Vader closer to idea of overthrowing his master and thus “tread on thin ice”. Because of the “promotion” to official Supreme Commander, for understable reasons, we see Vader more around officers than stormtroopers. Still in TESB:

the first man killed by Darth Vader was admiral Ozzel. Reason? Incompetence. Even then Vader’s line “you failed me for the last time” indicates that it wasn’t the first mistake that Ozzel made. Unfortunately for the imperial officer - due to his obsession with finding Luke - Vader lost patience more quickly than usual. (General Veers tried excused admiral’s mistake but Vader didn’t punish him in any way for speaking on behalf of another officer who clearly never was favored by Sith Lord; captain Piett get promotion)

The Rebel Base was under attack; though in the movie alone we didn’t see Vader in battle action (not like in Star Wars Battlefront), it’s clear he joined troopers at some point and went into  Rebel Base before that was secured.

Later, Vader sent pilots after Millennium Falcon that hides in asteroid field which is like, the most(?) obviously cruel thing he did to common troopers, as far as movies showed. Then again, ANH already proved how high ranking Imperials do not care for people in general and Vader lack of care for wellbeing of subordinates does not stand out that much from “imperial norm”. What I mean, we still did not see him tormenting troopers for fun or act out anger by hurting them but using available forces in military operation that was important to Empire (and Vader’s wish to save find son). This does not excuse the callousness of Vader’s decisions but there is no malice towards troopers per se. He is doing what imperial officers would do - use troopers to archive victory for the glory of Empire.

Still, Vader does not mind use bounty hunters and mercenaries to do the dangerous job. Something that does not always sits well with imperial officers (Piett). If Vader could hear or feel in the Force admiral’s complain, he did not show any anger or care for it.

Captain Needa was second victim of Vader. This one death seems like unnecessary violence, especially since the officer was presented quite as honorable man (willing to take all blame on himself). But Needa reported capturing enemy’s ship that turned out to be not truth and was killed in result. No mercy for failure, after all. Still, no man under his command was put in harm way, as far as we know.

Later Vader was busy on Bespin, with the torturing Han Solo and fight with son. When once again Millennium Falcon run away (and the supposed ), the face of admiral Piett makes it clear, the man was painfully aware he failed. Yet Vader did not kill  nor threaten him in any way. Maybe Piett was to some degree liked by Darth Vader (he chose him after all) or maybe Piett was truly lucky man cause the Sith was too busy with his emotional/family conflict to care. Piett survived and was once again seen in RotJ.

Return of the Jedi puts once again Vader in different perspective. This time the focus on Sith does not involve much military matters, now his story resolve about personal conflicts; duty vs desire, master vs son and so on. Of course, we still can see Vader working well with admiral Piett or warning / threatening Moff about delays in construction of Death Star but he had no chance to take active part in combat like in previous movies.

So, in the Old Trilogy there is not much hints Vader used physical or verbal violence against low-ranking soldiers. He was willing to sacrifice their life for “greater good” of Empire (or his own plans) but as far as movies shows, he did not force choke them for mistakes or talking back, like he did to Motti or director Krennic in Rogue One. And this shapes a lot of my thoughts about Vader, his relationship with other imperials and how he fit - or not - the imperial norms.

Of course, comics and books presents the matter in various ways but this is something for another meta(s). A meta(s) I hope to write in nearest future. For now, remember that the higher in rank someone is, the more critical, judgmental and strict Vader became.

* the names of imperial soldiers comes from additonal sources.