#like i cannot overstate it. its like a night and day difference

[janederscore]

i finally got a chance to try using mezcal in a pasta sauce tonight btw and hoooly fuck. good lord. this shit rules

[mynesr]

Elevate Your Comfort and Style: Discover the Perfect Lounge Dress and Boots

In an era where fashion meets comfort, the significance of versatile clothing cannot be overstated. The modern wardrobe demands pieces that seamlessly transition between casual outings and cozy weekends. In this context, the Lace Detail Slit V-Neck Lounge Dress USA stands out as a quintessential staple, blending elegance and relaxation. This article will delve into how this remarkable dress pairs beautifully with the stylish Lace-Up Block Heel Boots USA, creating an effortless yet chic ensemble suitable for various occasions.

The Allure of the Lounge Dress

Lounge dresses are having their moment in fashion, embodying a sense of relaxed sophistication. The Lace Detail Slit V-Neck Lounge Dress USA captures this essence brilliantly. The clever design elements, such as the slits and intricate lace detailing, elevate a traditionally casual garment into something fit for social gatherings and casual outings alike. The versatile nature of the dress allows it to be dressed up with statement jewelry or kept understated for a laid-back brunch with friends. Its flattering silhouette hugs the right curves while providing comfort, making it a favorite among fashion enthusiasts.

Moreover, this dress celebrates the beauty of simplicity. The V-neck creates an elongated look, while the lace detail adds a layer of texture and finesse. It’s a versatile piece, easily adaptable to different body types, showcasing the wearer’s unique style. Whether paired with sandals for a warm day out or boots for a brisk evening, this lounge dress remains a crowd-pleaser, embodying the balance between comfort and aesthetics. Indeed, it's this mastery of balance that positions the dress as an essential part of any wardrobe looking to blend leisure with style effectively.

Styling the Lounge Dress for Every Occasion

Dressing up or down depends on choice, and the Lace Detail Slit V-Neck Lounge Dress USA offers a blank canvas for that very purpose. Pairing it with chic accessories can transform the outfit, taking it from day to night. A simple leather jacket can add an edgy flair, while subtle jewelry can enhance its elegance without overwhelming the design. The dress’s foundational color and stylish cut mean it can easily fit into a more festive ambiance when paired with the right pieces.

Footwear plays a crucial role in completing this look. To achieve a polished appearance, there’s nothing that does the trick quite like the Lace-Up Block Heel Boots USA. These boots are not only trendy but also provide the comfort needed for a day spent on one’s feet. The block heel offers stability while still ensuring a fashionable stance. These boots complement a variety of styles; their versatility means they can also be paired with jeans or casual skirts, making them a must-have accessory alongside the lounge dress.

Exploring Footwear Fashion: Lace-Up Block Heel Boots

When discussing footwear that merges elegance with practicality, the Lace-Up Block Heel Boots USA steal the limelight. These boots marry function and aesthetic, boasting a design that caters to the modern individual’s needs for comfort and style. With a focus on supportive round or block heels, these boots offer comfort for everyday wear, making them ideal for those busy days filled with errands or casual meetings.

The lace-up detail not only adds texture but also enables customization to fit different ankle sizes comfortably. The sturdy material ensures durability and a polished look, great for both casual and semi-formal events. The boots are often available in various colors, allowing individuals to express their unique styles effortlessly. Whether the goal is to ground an outfit or elevate a more casual look, the Lace-Up Block Heel Boots USA serve as the perfect addition, echoing sophistication while remaining practical.

Balance Comfort and Fashion with Accessories

Accessories are pivotal in tying together any outfit, especially when it comes to enhancing the beauty of the Lace Detail Slit V-Neck Lounge Dress USA. Simple yet effective, selecting the right handbag or statement necklace can dramatically elevate the overall aesthetic. A stylish crossbody bag can keep essentials close while allowing for free movements, making it suitable for day outings. Alternatively, a clutch can be a stylish addition for evening events, balancing elegance with the dress's relaxed nature.

Hats can also serve as a stunning accessory to this look, offering both sun protection and a dash of personality. Whether it’s a wide-brimmed hat for a sunny day or a beanie for chillier months, the right headgear can pull the entire look together. Footwear remains crucial in this equation, with the Lace-Up Block Heel Boots USA ensuring that every component of the outfit is harmonious without compromising comfort. This thoughtful attention to detail underscores the ability to blend style and function seamlessly.

[technorail-blog]

where do i get best wine lehenga suit online ?

When it comes to selecting the perfect outfit for a special occasion, the elegance of a wine color lehenga or a wine colour suit cannot be overstated. These rich, deep hues of red bring a regal and sophisticated vibe, making them a popular choice for weddings and festive events. If you're on the lookout for the best wine-colored ethnic wear online, here are some recommendations and tips to help you make the perfect choice. For those who dream of a grand bridal look, a wine color lehenga bridal design can be the showstopper. Websites like Utsav Fashion, Manyavar, and Kalki Fashion offer a plethora of options that blend traditional craftsmanship with modern aesthetics. These platforms ensure that every bride finds her dream lehenga, embellished with intricate handiwork such as zari, sequins, and stone work, which shimmer stunningly under the light. If you're attending a wedding and need something slightly less opulent yet equally stylish, consider a wine color lehenga for wedding guests. Online stores like Mirraw, Aza Fashions, and Lehenga House specialize in lehengas that balance glamour with comfort. They often feature lighter fabrics and less embroidery, making them ideal for dancing the night away or enjoying the ceremonies without the burden of heavy attire. For those seeking a more versatile piece that carries the same luxurious feel but offers more flexibility, a wine color lehenga salwari could be the ideal choice. This outfit combines the traditional silhouette of a lehenga with the practicality of a salwar suit, providing a modern twist to classic attire. Websites like IndiaMART and Snapdeal offer diverse collections where you can explore various styles from different regions of India. Lastly, whether you are the bride, a bridesmaid, or a guest, a wine colour suit remains a timeless choice. With its deep hues that suit any complexion and its ability to adapt to various styles, this outfit stands out in every wardrobe. For the best selections, explore platforms like Peachmode and Biba, which cater extensively to contemporary women’s fashion, emphasizing both style and comfort. In conclusion, shopping online for a wine-colored lehenga or suit gives you the flexibility to compare styles, prices, and fabrics from the comfort of your home. Ensure you check size charts, return policies, and customer reviews to make your online shopping experience seamless and satisfying. Whether it’s a bridal piece or a festive ensemble, these outfits are sure to make you feel extraordinary on your special day.

[manifcst]

"THAT'S WHAT I SAID, GALAHAD," and of course he knows how impossible it is but the inconvenience of its location cannot be overstated. Sometimes a man simply needs to air his grievances, gosh darnit, even if he can barely hear himself think over the fella's dog ( he's 0-for-2 when it comes to the dogs in this city, which is a crying shame like no other ).

He's not all too concerned about it otherwise, of course - the dog, that is. Its down there and he's up here, relatively unbothered in the way he tilts his head at the critter. He's a plastic toy in a museum that routinely fails to close the display cases during the day. Getting slobbered on happens once a month.

"Hold on now, I ain't lost." The sheer audacity of the implication earns him a squint when Jedediah looks back up to the man he's trying to converse with. The dichotomy of their existence means that he is both fully aware that the memories in his head aren't his at all - aren't even real, just part of some story that sprung to life the same night he did - and yet entirely dead-set on clinging to them. He's a cartographer, for as far as he's concerned. A trailblazer. "Ol Jedediah ain't been lost a day in his life. I live just thataway," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, vaguely in the direction of the far wall. "Right on over there. This homestead of yours just gets in the way of gettin' to it every now and again."

He's often in a hurry to get there, after all. The sun sets a mean deadline.

The offer is one he has to consider deeply. He doesn't need to eat, hasn't ever felt hunger, though he knows it's something they can do. Jed doesn't typically bother, but that's mostly a case of not trusting a single thing Larry brings in. But, y'know, the stuff in the vending machines - now that's a different story entirely. And, heck, he's got time to kill and nothing particularly to lose. He's here already, isn't he? Jed shrugs a shoulder.

"Don't get hungry much but I ain't gonna say no. Wha'd'you feed that thing, anyway?" He jerks his chin towards the dog - Birdie, evidently. "Size of a dang horse, she is!"

Cullen isn't sure what (who?) he's staring at on his countertop in his kitchen.

Breakfast. He's supposed to be making breakfast for himself and Birdie, his mabari, who's barking up a storm behind Cullen's legs, trying to get at whatever—no, whoever—is speaking to him.

"You want me to...move the house?" The ridiculousness of that scenario breaks through his confusion. Sure, Thedas has a race smaller than humans, dwarves, as well as tales of mythical creatures which are rumored to be smaller than dwarves. But this? This tiny person looks like one of the toy soldiers he and his brother used to play with when they were children, albeit the outfit doesn't match any Thedosian culture he's aware of.

The lasso, however, looks like the sort of tool he grew up seeing at his family's farm.

"Fourth time? Are you lost? Do you need me to take you somewhere?" Using his body to shield this poor, tiny man away from Birdie's maw (to slobber on him, no doubt) won't work forever, so he might as well get on with what he's meant to do while figuring this mystery. "Are you hungry? I, uh, have to feed her and myself anyways." So might as well be the gracious host his mother taught him to be. "I'm Cullen, by the way. And this is Birdie."

[spoiler1001]

LOS Maria fic Chapter 2

The grand plan that was 500 years in the making worked with very minor hitches. Satan and Zobek had fallen, destroyed. For good. The plan only faced near failure when Alucard was possessed. Truly something he should have accounted for but the past cannot be changed. In his musings, Alucard watched humanity from the shadow he hid from. The mortals traveled with a lightness that could only come from the bliss of ignorance. It inspired envy in the safety it provided. 

The technology that humanity created, inspired by their creativity was limitless. Truly spanned as far as they could push the concept of possibility. Magic was pushed to the side, yet, or because of it life flourished by creating impossibilities. 

The Belmont duo settled in a town a far distance away from the castle and the city within. The town was built on the burned remains of a small village, once consumed by illness, then fire, and nature after that. The city was small to the one on the castle foundations but no less lively. The unnatural lights colored the night sky and hid the stars at night but light meant safety. The lively nature of humanity brought a smile to Alucard’s face. 

As is the case with every day, night soon followed. The moon shone in its full glory. 

Alucard lacked his father’s ability to travel in broad daylight, and necessity made him travel and wonder under the stars and moon. The freedom was all-consuming and worth more than any jewel he might see.

The town, given its historical and woeful history, had statues and memorials of those who helped the ill and pained. All of them were from different times in the town’s history, and the details of what they looked like became distorted. Too many bore the torches in their visages, hinting at the truth about fires. The names and the dates were written on placards next to them, but Alucard paid them no mind. He may have met them in his time of wandering the earth, but it was irrelevant. They were remembered for the fires. The moon’s light made it easier for him to see around him, and the calmness allowed him to sense if an enemy was approaching to ambush him.

Alucard found himself in front of a bronze statue, nearing two centuries old at this point. The dates carved into the statue told of a woman nearing her third decade, dying in 1800, yet the statue had her looking barely old enough to marry. There was a softness in her hair and face, and her hands folded in a prayer stance. Her build was thin, and frail, wearing a dress made of cloth, the bronze molded to be blowing in a wind that only the artist could see, and perfectly curly hair poking out of her hood. Her eyes were serenely closed. 

Alucard placed a hand over the placard, the words on it telling of a sweet person, who saw the best in everyone, staying with the ill and dying. He smiled wistfully. The sound of cooing doves caught his attention. It was rather strange to see a daylight creature singing at night. He looked towards the sound and saw a feminine figure wrapped in white cloth, with doves on either side of her. Blued steel covered her knees and shoulders, as well as the boning in a waspie, which was gold in color, matching a mental face covering, hiding her nose and mouth. Her hood was pulled over her head, her main cloth was white with black trim, and feathers etched into the cloth. She was perched on the roof overlooking the statue, too far away to see her eyes under her hood. The two figures looked at each other for a moment before she stood up and walked out of eyeshot for him. 

“There are many heroes memorialized here, and yet I find you at the feet of a saint.” The dragon, Dracula, Gabriel Belmont, said, breaking the silence. 

“I met her before the statue was built. The statue and sweet words written about her leave out her temper and how headstrong she was.” Alucard took his hand off the placard. “Her kindness could never be overstated.” 

“Then tell me what they won’t” Dracula smiled. “You’ll honor her better than that will.”

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Title: The Invention of Hugo Cabret

Author: John Le Carré

Rating: 5/5 stars

Very Good, but not great

I found this book really interesting, though I couldn't put a finger on why. It's a story about people who are very smart and successful at what they do, but who struggle with their own humanity and self-perception, a struggle that is not always visible to the outsider -- for them, there can be no doubt that they are "smart and successful and human." In the first chapter, we're given the first hints that perhaps the world they have built is not all it seems: one character has a history of "disappearing," and he is later revealed to have been a police officer in the 19th century who got caught spying on a political rival, the other is a world-renowned violinist. In other words, people who have built a great success, a great machine, a "machine" that seems to transcend human feeling, do not necessarily have the kind of feelings that make them good at doing what they do, that make them "smart" or "successful."

I don't think this was ever really established in the book, but that makes me suspect it's a bit too simple an idea. The story takes place over the course of four days, and at the end of each day one of the characters explains the logic behind what he has done, and why he did it. In essence, this is just a narrative version of the "how-pioneers-invented-machines" genre, right? But the main difference -- the main reason I liked this book so much -- is that these characters seem to be flawed. "They have built this machine, and they seem to use it, and we must assume they would not have been so successful if they weren't good at it," but we get the sense that these characters are flawed in ways that may not show up in their work, or in their personal lives. (The guy who spies on his rival is also a spy, and his wife has doubts about his "success" even though he says she "never seems to think of him at all.") I thought this was a good and subtle choice, and it definitely made the book feel more real, more "adult" than the genre would otherwise be, but I wouldn't want to overstate the effect.

The characters have very little time to interact with each other: the events of the book all take place over the course of four days, separated by very brief "rest periods." A number of scenes take place inside the automaton showroom, which is only visible from inside the automaton room. This does a very good job of creating a sense of claustrophobia, which works on two levels. First, there is a claustrophobia of "space," the sense that "the world is very large, and the automaton showroom is merely the size of a room in that world, and is thus not a "big deal." But there's also a claustrophobia of the human mind, the fact that these people will never see the automaton showroom in any other form than the one they built for themselves, that in the end there really isn't any way to make a machine that you're "good at" and "good with" and that "you would have built if you weren't being coerced by this other force in your life." That part of the world is so far away that we're allowed to imagine that our protagonist might be the only person who truly understands it -- he's a genius mechanic, after all. He can't possibly understand the emotions of his wife and of the people he hired to do his job.

The book does its best to make this world interesting, to make it feel real even though it is so constrained by time. For one thing, the four days are given very clear temporal structures: there is an official "workday" inside the showroom, which we're supposed to think of as the same from morning to evening, but at night they all take a break. But it also becomes very funny, because everyone is supposed to know what the showroom does, and how it works, but the characters themselves have no idea. After a very long period of work in the showroom on day one, it becomes clear that the machines cannot actually perform the "miracles" they make people think they can; the real trick is all in the show.

Another reason this book stuck with me: it really conveys the sense of the "invention" of the automaton. "How can you be so smart and yet still not understand?" the characters cry, over and over again. But the question isn't about how smart the characters are: the question is about their own self-perception, their own worldview, the view they get from inside their own bubble. What they "don't see" is not a problem about machine design, but about the people whose lives have been transformed by their machines, or about the way they themselves have changed, or about their own sense of self and self-worth. The sense that things are not "supposed" to be as they seem in this world can make a world-weary reader sympathize with people who seem naive and/or confused in their own lives -- if these people can't tell something is "wrong," then what chance have I got? This isn't necessarily a message most novels are all about. But it's definitely one that comes up a lot in Le Carré's other fiction.

[eloarei]

A little rambling: on grief; and grieving a dog, a cat, an unborn child, and pieces of me that got hurt along the way. 

2300 words under the cut. 

It’s a very gloomy day today. I don’t usually mind; I like rain. But on a bad day, or a bad week, it only seems to insulate me in my own dark thoughts. That’s what today seems to be. I’ll work on fixing it later-- getting some exercise, sunlight if the clouds clear, making some tea. Should’ve done that already, but I forgot. Ate half a banana, at least. 

As I’ve complained about a few times lately, I’ve just not been doing especially well. When and why did it all start? It’s hard to say, but this ‘unwellness’ spell seems most potent starting April 11th (my anniversary, unfortunately, which is why I can remember it), when I came down with a gruesome stomach bug. Really haven’t been feeling right since. I’m really bad about being sick; it scares me and I handle it badly. I assume that’s part of what has messed me up. 

But grief is the other part, I think. Grief, and my being scared and worried that what caused it could strike again at any minute. Look, I’m... 32 now, and I’m sure that most people by this age have experienced profound loss. I’m probably not unusual, and I’m certainly not alone, but I think all the loss I’ve experienced is just piling up on me now, like there wasn’t enough time to process the new fresh ones before newer fresher ones came on, and so now even the old tough scars are aching. 

When I was a teenager, my parents died. They were old, and it was health problems. It was not a surprise, but that didn’t make it easier to deal with in freshman year of high school. (What made it easier to deal with? Rabidly cleaning out the fridge and watching Lord of the Rings tapes the neighbors lent me. That’s all I did for three days after my mom died.) It’s been a long time-- more than half my life ago-- and I do feel like I’m ‘over it’, but sometimes it just wells up, tears from nowhere. Maybe that’s just how grief is. 

A certainly had a good decade of my 20′s. I got married at 19, and had a pretty uneventful set of years. That felt normal to me. I do think, though, that the loss of my parents haunted me in that time, quietly. It influenced everything I did; it probably still does, if only because it changed the person I have become. But other than that, things were good, I think.  My dog Roxy died two years ago, when I was 30, not long after I got back from seeing my siblings for the first time in ages. She was violently ill, and died right in front of us as we were getting ready to take her to the vet. I think I’ve written about it. In fact, the next day I wrote a depressing fanfic piece, certainly as a coping mechanism. (It made people cry, so, mission accomplished, I guess.) I think that helped a lot. A few months later, my in-laws’ dog died too, while mom-in-law was on vacation, and that was rough as well. I wrote another sad fanfic about death. I really like both of these pieces, because they mean something, and they’re very raw. Furthermore, I’ll always have them, as tokens for Roxy, Ginger, and the little pieces of me they crushed when they died. I don’t know if the exchange is worth it, but it’s what I have. 

My grief over Roxy was gentle, as time went on. It didn’t bother me. I think I’d processed it well. I’d written out my feelings. I held her body in numb arms as my husband dug her grave. It was okay. 

In early 2020, basically on my 31st birthday (and right as Covid was happening), I found I was pregnant. Long story short, those were the densest two months of my life, where everything seemed to change so quickly. My thoughts and feelings could fill so very many pages; this is not the place I’ll leave them. The point of this particular story is that it didn’t work out. The baby ‘died’ not terribly unlike Roxy had-- violently ill, in front of me, with far too much blood. I passed out three times-- the real start of this current fearful nature, because I cannot overstate how very much I felt like I was going to die. I went to the ER; it was miserable, an ordeal I could say quite a lot about. I won’t, though. I have before, and I likely will again, elsewhere. 

This... This grief... I think I still don’t know what to do with it. I don’t think I ever will. Months later, I started writing a fic to deal with my feelings, though it took 90k words and many months before I got to the part where I could really delve into my trauma. And it has helped, I’m sure. I’m really sure. And I care about this fic so much, because like the others it is raw and real and it’s something I’d never have if not for my experience. Again, it may not be a fair trade, but it’s what I have. 

I don’t grieve for the baby. It didn’t make it far enough to even have a heartbeat. It doesn’t have a name, a gender. It doesn’t have a grave. We let the hospital take care of it. But I still grieve. I’m sad. Wrecked. I grieve what it could have been. I grieve the hope that was spent and lost on it, a precious resource that will take a long time to grow back, if ever. I grieve over not only my own disappointment, but my husband’s, and my in-laws. They’ve never pressured us to have kids, but they’re in their 60′s now, with no grandchildren. I think they feel... lacking, in a way. I understand. I feel the same (though different). I wanted to give them that. I wanted to have that. 

I still....?

I can’t say. I don’t know what I want. The event complicated my already complex emotions. I’m still waiting for them to simplify. Maybe they will, or maybe they won’t. 

I was alright for a while. Stressed enough because of Covid and family’s declining health. Then in early April 2021, just a year after the miscarriage, I got badly sick. Gross, but not what most people would call a real issue. But only a year after the miscarriage, when my body betrayed me and I was at its horrid mercy, this felt like too much. Again I felt like I was going to die. A week of near delirious fever and nausea; I’d have handled it badly enough in any other circumstance. 

As expected, I got through it. A horrible week, but just a week (or so). And then my dog Tobi died, just days later. 

This is it. This is the one I... I’m speechless about. The one I... maybe haven’t processed enough. I was just back from the edge of being badly, violently ill. I didn’t have the energy to write, physically or emotionally. And that just made it worse. I love writing. It’s my outlet (surprising, I’m sure). I wanted to write. I thought I ought to write. I needed to write. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t muster the words. I still... can’t. 

Tobi was... my baby. Not literally, of course. I didn’t conflate him with my lost child or anything. Tobi was 14. I’d had him since I graduated high school and got an apartment. Adopting him was one of the first things my husband and I did as an established adult couple, before we were even married. He was there, at my wedding. The photographer took a cute picture of me holding him before the ceremony. He was 11 months old at the time. Still had all his brown spots before they turned tan, then later white. He was there; he was always there. He was my entire adult life. And now I’ve lost him, the pup I had longer than my marriage (though soon we will outlast him). He was the big brother to all my other pets. He practically raised all the cats, and they adored him. (Tobi was a chihuahua, so they might have thought he was just another cat.) 

He was a sweet boy, who loved his mom and dad first and foremost. When he was little, he was scared of everyone else. Eventually he warmed up to strangers and friends, and in his old age he mostly liked to nap somewhere on his own. He was silly and playful; he always chased the cats when they wanted to be chased. It was a game they all loved. 

The vet... well, we took him in when he started to cough badly. He’d had a cough for a few months, but it wasn’t constant and didn’t seem to be affecting his quality of life much. But that day it was bad, so we took him. (We can’t afford frequent vet visits, so this was clearly desperate.) The vet took him and put him on oxygen. We had to stay in the car because they weren’t open for human guests. Then she came and told us a scan had revealed cancer, marbled through his lungs. He was suffocating. In fact, he wouldn’t likely even make it home, not even the two mile drive. We had to put him down. My husband and I cried like babies. We’d never put an animal down before. Generally speaking, we don’t really ‘believe in it’, if that makes sense. But faced with this situation, we had no choice. 

I didn’t see him again. I think that’s the worst part, though it would have been equally bad to see him, I think. And it was all so sudden. He was playing and chasing the cats the day before. Begging for treats of human food. Barking at the Roomba. And then I had to pay hundreds of dollars to say goodbye to him. It felt so unfair. I cried all day. My husband and I, we just went home and laid down and wept. 

But I still haven’t written about it, not in the way that I wrote about the others. For all that I wrote here, it doesn’t begin to encompass my deeper feelings on what it means that he is gone, and how I felt to have to make that decision. I have ideas. I think I know what I would write, if I could, but writing... still mostly eludes me. I may try. I probably should. 

I take a deep breath. I know I should sum this up and take care of myself, but there’s yet a little more to say. 

I think Tobi’s death is a large part of what affects me still, but several weeks ago I had what I could only call a panic attack. In the middle of the night I awoke, my heart beating rapidly, a horrible feeling of dread like certainty that all I could possibly do was die. It took over two days for me to feel mostly normal again, and then I still felt vaguely nauseous for two weeks. Then, just a few days ago, it happened again, but this time before bed. I could feel it rising in me, this indescribable sickness. It took several days ago before I felt normal. And this is where I am now. 

Sadly, a little while after the first panic attack, my husband and I failed to save a malnourished feral kitten. It was not a surprise, but yet one more reminder of the fragility of life, and how little I can do to keep death away from those I care about. This poor thing, it was so desperate to live, but nothing we could do could save it. I could have poured all my time into trying, could have scrounged up money to take it to the vet (when I should take my own cats, who all have colds), but I know better. I know... so much of the time, there’s nothing you can do. And now I’m trying to help what might be its siblings, a few cute feral kittens nearby. My favorite seems... a little lethargic, and not very interested in eating the wet food and meat scraps I sometimes bring by. I don’t think there’s anything I can do, if it ends up being sick, if it ends up being malnourished. I can’t bring it inside when it could infect my own cats. I have to care for them first. 

But knowing that it could die... it bothers me. 

And knowing that I could die. I could die. I’m too aware of that, on top of everything else. I hate doctors, so I never go. (Also I’m poor.) This toothache? Could be a terrible abscess. My brother went to the ER for sepsis from an abscess tooth recently! That’s probably what caused the panic, to be honest. But then... why have I felt so week? Is there a problem with my blood? Am I sicker than I know? Do I have breast cancer? My grandma did, and I know I should get it checked out, but it’s just ONE MORE THING. It’s always like that. 

And that’s... how I feel right now. Covered in ‘one more thing’s on rainy days and night-work schedules. Trying to take care of myself but not always knowing what that means. Lacking the inspiration to do the things I know I enjoy, because worry and apathy holds me back from everything. 

I’m okay. Really. No day of mine is ever entirely without merit, and I have plans to do most of the things that should keep me healthy. But the day is short when my needs and long, and the day is long when I’m paralyzed by apathy. 

So. I’ll just take it a moment at a time. And when I can, I’ll try to keep writing. 

[ohayohimawari]

On Tumblr-ing

I used the most recent Self-promotion Sunday to experiment with sharing my works on Tumblr. As everyone knows, this site is difficult to get a handle on.

Is it worth it to play nice with this site, so my posts show up in tags?

That’s the question that I wanted the answer to and why I chose to fill my queue with all of my original works for one day but posted them in a way that I hadn’t before. I’m not an expert on Tumblr, but I’ll share what I’ve learned from it. However, my observations aren’t going to be helpful to all.

The situation: I create fanfics and podfics. I don’t typically create for popular ships or tropes. I fall in the category of content creators that are no longer new but aren’t battle-hardened fandom veterans.

If any/all of the above applies to you, and you’ve experienced frustration with having your work ‘seen’ on Tumblr, and you’d rather read about someone else’s experiment with this site than do one yourself, keep reading.

First, realistically consider what content you share and how it appears to someone scrolling through the site. For example: sharing fanfic and sharing fanart on Tumblr are two totally different beasts. I cannot overstate the importance of this fact. Be fair to yourself and don’t compare your stats as a writer to those of an artist.

Another thing to remember about sharing your written works to Tumblr is that you’re asking someone to click a link to view/read it. It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is.

Imagine a member of your target audience laying in bed in the morning, waiting for the need for breakfast or coffee to be great enough to coax them out from under their blankets. In the meantime, they’re scrolling down their dash (and what appears is dependent upon how they filter posts, but that’s a whole other box I’m not going to unpack here). They’re laughing at memes, getting riled up over politics or social issues, gasping at celebrity controversies, wishing for the days before Tumblr purged the naughty stuff, cute baby animal videos, etc. It’s so easy for a text post to get lost in all of that. It’s too easy for a text post to be overlooked in all of that.

It’s important for posts to show up in tags because sometimes, people don’t just scroll through their dash. Sometimes, they search tags for something specific, and when they find it, they’re more inclined to click on that link to check out your stuff.

I’m going to reel it back to myself and explain why I played with posts and tags. I run a fandom server, and I see folks (mostly new to fandom) who feel bad because their works don’t get many notes on Tumblr. During my first year in fandom, I felt invisible, and it was awful. I want to give advice and encouragement, so I experimented with making my posts visible in tags to see what kind of difference it would make, or not make. I’m going to be the first to say that if I created for popular ships, or popular tropes, or a hot and thriving new fandom, or were a BNF, I probably would’ve seen a huge difference. While what I experienced wasn’t an immediate tidal wave of new admirers of my work, I see how this could increase my readers and listeners over time.

Tumblr, in its infinite wisdom (???), hides posts that have linked works within them. So how do you share a link to your work and have it show up in tags? AO3 has a handy ‘share’ button at the top of your individual works (if you don’t see the magical ‘share’ button, check your account settings to confirm that it’s on). You can share your work directly to Tumblr or Twitter (an even worse site for promoting fanfic) and add bells and whistles to the post, and customize it with what tags you think should be assigned to it.

When it comes to tagging, start with the biggest first, and put the most important in the first five tags. For example: Fandom, pairing, characters, and genre tags should be listed first. Do create a unique tag for yourself to tack on at the end (more on this later). Don’t add tags for popular characters, genres, pairings, etc., that don’t appear in your work.

For the purpose of my experiment, I didn’t add any snazzy images or gifs to my posts. I simply shared the post from AO3 and added tags. I shared all different pairings, genres, and content of various ratings. They appeared utterly unremarkable to me. They were boring, and exactly like something that I, myself, would scroll past. However, I did it that way because the more you add to a post, the more you risk using a word or image that Tumblr doesn’t like. And if it doesn’t like it, your post simply won’t show up in tags. Then you’re left with dissecting your post and editing editing editing until you figure out which word or image was the offender.

At the end of the experiment, I had to conclude that I receive more immediate activity on posts that I draft on this site that include links to my work, even though those don’t show up in tags. I’m going to assume that’s because those original posts are more attractive. However, most of the slight interaction that I saw with my experimental posts were from new-to-me Tumblr users, and I earned some new followers from it. The fact that those posts now reside in tags means that I can expect more of that in small doses, in the future.

Will this change how I post new works going forward? Yes. Typically, I draft an original post linking my work, then reblog it for my followers in different time zones. Now, I’ll share that same work from AO3 in a new original post instead of reblogging the initial one. But I’m going to try to make them look more interesting, and hope they still show up in tags.

I learned from this, but I want to stress something to content creators who feel invisible and get down on themselves for it. There are a million reasons why posts don’t get traction on Tumblr, and they are not because people don’t like your work. Basing your work’s worth on statistics is incredibly unfair to yourself. However difficult that is to ignore, don’t do that to yourselves.

I once shared something that I was proud of writing. Then, I cried for three days straight and ate my entire ice cream supply because it received fewer hits than I have fingers, never mind kudos or comments. Then I realized that I shared it on the same night as the GoT finale. Facepalm.

The joy that comes from creating something new is (or should be) the reason you do it. Congratulate yourself on being so incredibly clever to come up with your work and brave enough to share it on the wilds of the internet where it will remain for someone to find and love. And when your gem of a work is found, make sure you’ve added a unique tag that is all your own to it, so that others can search that tag and binge on all the beauty you’ve made.

[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.

[littlesailorinthesun]

manifesto no. 790: why nikki/bobo is the best ship

(Author’s note: The title is in jest. It’s just for fun!)

In this essay I will explore the appeal of why Nikki/Bobo is actually the most narratively interesting ship you could choose for Nikki and for Bobo. Note that I don't intend to bash other ships or cause ship wars, because if you know me, you know that I am a multishipper and I support and enjoy ships like Nikkimi. I just want to explain why I personally like Nikbo and why it is the most interesting one to me as it exists in canon. Also note that because of the way I experience "ships", romantic ships and platonic ships have a very blurred and sometimes nonexistent line for me. 

Shared Experiences

Not only do Nikki and Bobo first meet at the very beginning of the story, they spend nearly 100% of Volume 1 together, and all of Nikki's moments in Miraland as she learns about the world and forms impressions are spent with Bobo. Because of this shared time together at the beginning of the game, a lot of base game items and early events also have interaction between them, outside of what you see in the main story. By and large, they spend their happiest moments together. (There are way too many of these moments to list! Thank you, writers, for all the wonderful interactions.)

Of course, they also go through low points together. The rebellion in Chapter 12 was one of the few times they were separated before Bobo's eventual departure, and Nikki refused to leave Royal City with Ace until both Bobo and Momo were back with her. Bobo went from uncontrollable crying in V1:12-2 to feeling entirely certain that Nikki would be able to get them out of the mess by V1:12-7. (After all, she's Nikki's biggest fangirl!) The opposite happens in V1:15-9, when it's Nikki who's crying and Bobo giving her the strength to get up and fight. Despite that this was likely part of Bobo's mission, she makes sure to ask if Nikki's okay after Nidhogg defeats her for the first time. Neither situation actually involves much comforting, but they are both there for each other during those moments. 

Relationship Arc

To me this is what makes the ship very interesting. Nikki and Bobo do not have a static relationship. It's something that morphs and changes and develops as the story goes on. We all know the feeling of discovering that Bobo and Nikki's meeting was not a coincidence at all and that she was actually ordered to befriend Nikki! But beyond this we also know that Bobo realized quickly into her mission that she actually really did like Nikki, which is a driving force in Bobo's storyline. Without her genuine affection for Nikki, I think her story would have actually been very different.

On Nikki's side of things, she had her faith in Bobo tested in V1:19-5 when it was suggested that Bobo might have been putting Nikki in danger on purpose. Of course, this wasn't far from the truth given Bobo's mission, though we don't know if every instance brought up (like Bobo tripping in the League Till outpost) was on purpose. But Nikki is so loyal to Bobo that she refuses to believe that she could have done anything like that. Reflecting on the matter in her dreamweaver The Girl's Decision, she says to herself, "Maybe you have your own difficulties, but I have always believed in you. You are my best friend on the Miraland. Your sincere wishes and dear heart, I have never doubted them." She also realizes then that she did not know how much she would miss Bobo until she was gone, which I think is important for contextualizing some of the earlier chapters.

We see their "low point" in the relationship at the end of Sunflower in Long Night, when the True King, who has been successfully manipulating Bobo for what seems like a while, forbids her from reuniting with Nikki who is actively searching her out. Paralyzed, she listens as Nikki leaves, and wonders to herself if that was the last chance she'd get, to which the True King responds, in the most ominous and chilling line to end a Dreamweaver ever, "You're right. There's no turning back." 

Nikki does eventually find out the truth in Brave New World, but by then she's seen the turmoil Bobo's been going through, and assures her that even if her goals were false, their time together was not, and that her memories were proof of their true and real connection. Their bond of shared experiences was so true that even the lies could not break it - even if it could shake it.

Personally, I just find it more interesting when the ships have, like, literally anything that might stand between them. The deception in this - even if it's a double layered deception where Bobo was only deceiving Nikki because she herself was being deceived - is a fun dynamic to me. They formed their relationship despite the factors that worked against them, Bobo's conflicting motivations and Nikki's being kept in the dark. In a story where many of Nikki's relationships just happen because she ran into them on the street, this is a really refreshing relationship: a dynamic story underlied by a beautifully simple bond.

Mutual Desire to Protect

Both characters are marked by their overwhelming desire to protect each other. It is natural that Nikki wants to protect Bobo. Nikki sees her at her absolute weakest, disappearing right before her eyes in the Cloud Realm due to her uncertain status in the real world. Of course, that's what prompts Nikki to make that promise that the writers will totally make her follow through on, because they would never ignore a plot detail involving a major character: "Bobo... I will find you... I won't leave you anymore, I will face everything with you. Wait for me."

But it's also very important that Bobo wants to protect Nikki just as much. Immediately after leaving Nikki, she's already worried about her, thinking: "Nikki, how are you doing? Are you safe now? Have you found any new clues? I'm sorry I didn't protect you." (This actually reminds me a lot of how Orlando will address Flynn while talking to himself.) She's put in an even more precarious situation because she was meant to involve Nikki in the disputes of the world, which inevitably meant that Nikki was put into danger, over and over.

In my point of view, I think this is why Bobo left. It's canon, as stated in Daymare Fairy Tale, that the gun was what caused her to leave, because it caused her to "wake from her dream" (presumably referring to the good times with Nikki). However, the specifics of this are where I lean into theoryville. I think Bobo did mean to trip in V1:19-4 and that's what caused her to realize her actions crossed a line. A gun was pointed at her - and, presumably, at the nearby Nikki - and she realized she could not protect Nikki and involve her in disputes at the same time. She could not complete her mission. There's another more personal reason she could have decided to leave, and that would be that the sight of a gun pointed at her brought up the trauma from the events surrounding the death of her father. Regardless, I don't think either interpretation - that it was related to endangering Nikki or that it was related to her personal trauma - is wrong, but rather, it is easy to read more into it than what's stated so I thought it was worth mentioning.

Their desire to protect each other continues into Brave New World, both the day and the night sections. Really, these two are basically in an endless "no let me protect u" battle. Bobo breaks through the possession of the True King twice, once in Day and once in Night. Both times, she tells Nikki to run, to leave Miraland and herself, so that at least she can be safe. Both times, Nikki responds by telling her she isn't going anywhere: "No matter what you want to do, I will be with you. [...] I choose to stay here to protect the Miraland and keep everyone's dreams and future, to also keep our precious memories. I will not let you face this all alone. Trust me!" Eventually Bobo does accept this and tells Nikki that she trusts her to protect her. I can't wait for Nikki to make good on that promise and find her!

Personalities, Compatibility, and Character Analysis

I realize I have not touched on why their personalities work together, so here are some thoughts on them as individuals. (I will lean into hypotheticals and headcanons here.)

I see Bobo as someone who indulges too much in escapism. She likes to pretend things are okay when they really, really aren't. We see a bit of this when she refuses to believe Nidhogg could have betrayed Lilith in Chapter 12, and of course it's sort of... the entire thing about why she spends so much time gallivanting around with Nikki. After this she's pretty much forced to understand and accept the realities of the world all at once, and I think this is a major component of her character development. Nikki is both a source of her escapism and the entire reason why it comes crashing down. I think, in a hypothetical post-canon context, Nikki could still be that type of person who could help distract Bobo from things for a while (because god knows that girl needs some comfort).

At the same time, just due to Nikki's nature, she wouldn't let Bobo wallow too much in the past. Nikki believes strongly in moving on and becoming the best version of herself. This is a theme mentioned in her most recent birthday suit, Sparkling Cupcake. More personally, she reflects on it in her dreamweaver. She recognizes that she used to be a passive person and vows to change that in order to better protect the people she loves. So I know she would also do her best to help Bobo, because that's just who Nikki is.

As I think about Nikki's main goals and motivations beyond this, I keep seeing one theme pop up over and over: she places a strong value on happy memories. (Really, I cannot overstate this - she talks about it all the time.) She treasures her memories of Miraland more than anything, so much that she is willing to face its impending destruction, because they mean so much to her. These memories are something crucial she and Bobo already share. It's why I think she would find true happiness with Bobo.

(I will also touch on the obvious things here, albeit briefly: they have shared interests, like cuteness, the color pink, and romance, and they... uh... quite obviously get along.)

Comparison to Nikkimi

Really, like I said, this is not an attempt to bash or put down any ship. Nikkimi is great (and canon), but there are a few things that frustrate me:

Their relationship is largely focused on Kimi, not Nikki. Nikki is the one who comforts and supports Kimi on her journey, and Kimi is not there for most of Nikki's moments of weakness, nor does she accompany her on her journey. Kimi doesn't even know Nikki isn't from Miraland until... the very last stage of Volume 1, 19-SS3.

They get together quickly and stay together with no major interpersonal challenges. While yes, this is definitely ideal in real life, it's just not that narratively interesting.

Concluding Thoughts

If there is anything that marks the earlier chapters, it's Bobo's sadness over still being single. Yet, I love the trope of when someone didn't realize the person they were looking for... was with them the whole time!

Bobo has so many countless lines where she is fangirling over Nikki that it is very easy to read more into that. I think people ship her and Kaja for this reason but oh my god there are just as many if not more where she is Nikki's cheerleader, constantly complimenting her and hyping her up to the people she meets (just open Dreamweaver for this).

And even if you still prefer Nikkimi, Bobo having unrequited feelings for Nikki is also pretty fun.

[bmaxwell]

Number 1: Darkest Dungeon

Ruin...has come to our family.

Every so often a game comes along that feels like it was made specifically for you. So it was with Darkest Dungeon. First off, the game’s art style is breathtaking, I’d never seen a game look quite like it. The heavy shading on the characters gives everyone a severe, mysterious look. The combat is turn-based, with the twist that skills and abilities are based on where the characters are standing in a formation. It invokes HP Lovecraft* and makes the emotional stresses of being sent into dangerous places to battle horrors and abominations into a gameplay mechanism. The music is great. There’s a cool, spooky narrator. There are a bunch of different classes, and a town hub to upgrade. Darkest Dungeon ticks...all of my boxes? Almost. Make the adventurers high schoolers who attend classes, form social bonds, and manage relationships during the day before fighting monsters at night and you’d have it. 

I’ve played several hundred hours of Darkest Dungeon, and I still rarely skip the intro video when I launch the game. 

The first time I saw the above video, I was immediately reminded of two things:

- Eternal Darkness, a Gameube game about exploring mansion of your recently-deceased uncle and discovering an evil book that has been passed down through the generations.

- Lurker at the Threshold, which was my first HP Lovecraft story.**

This is my kind of horror. I dislike blood and guts slasher horror, but I love cosmic horror. This is very difficult for most games to capture, a lot of Lovecraft-inspired games tend to be about fighting tentacle monsters with tommy guns. And Darkest Dungeon is about fighting cool scary monsters, but Red Hook implemented a system in which your characters will have to deal with the psychological toll that living through life-threatening encounters with unspeakable horrors would take on a person. 

It’s easy to boil this down to just another meter to manage. “Oh, this monster monster used an ability which inflicted 6 points of stress on my Crusader, he is only 13 stress points away from his limit.” Most games can be boiled down to their mathematical skeletons. This is where the game’s incredible writing, art direction, and voice acting come through. Combat actions are often accompanied by a line of dialogue written over a character’s head and/or a line from the narrator (the excellent Wayne June). 

For example, you encounter an enemy called a Madman - a fairly disturbed fellow in a loose straightjacket. One of his attacks his one of your party members, inflicting stress and a debuff. How this looks in practice is like this: this dude in an unbuckled straight jacket who has been holding his head in his hands suddenly points and screams something muffled with one hand over his mouth. One of your party member’s screams “I-I don’t want to die here!” and the narrator says “Gasping...reeling...taken over the edge into madness!” The imagination doesn’t have to wander far to picture this distraught man suddenly pointing at you and screaming something he can’t possibly know about you. This marriage of theme and mechanisms is something that makes video games special. 

As someone who has always enjoyed the math puzzle-like nature of turn-based combat, Darkest Dungeon managed to somehow feel both familiar and innovative. Having combatants lined up from left to right seems like such a simple thing, but it brings into a play a whole layer of strategic considerations. There are abilities that can only be used from certain positions, or can only hit specific ranks on the enemy side; there are abilities that push and pull, that lunge forward or fall back. On any given delve, you are choosing a party of four from 17 classes, each of which has an assortment of abilities to choose from. Early in the game you can kind of get by with whatever party you choose, but as the difficulty ramps up you have to really think about your party makeup before setting out.

Darkest Dungeon’s late game features a fairly brutal difficulty spike. Most of my plays of the game are me having a laid back good time with the game until I get my ass handed to me in a few Champion dungeons, then putting the game down for months before starting a new save. This understandably turns a lot of players away from the game. Shit can go wrong in a hurry. Shit WILL go wrong in a hurry. If the enemies focus on a specific character and/or get a couple of critical hits in succession, you can lose party members permanently, and those setbacks can be deflating. You can’t avoid bad luck, but you can mitigate it and plan for it. And overcoming an “unfair” challenge is exhilarating. 

One of the things the game does brilliantly is give you those hopeless situations and occasionally offer a beacon of hope. This is by way of the game’s stress and affliction mechanism. When a hero’s stress level reaches 100, they will either become afflicted with a negative trait such as Paranoid or Abusive, or they will become virtuous, gaining a trait such as Stalwart or Focused. This seems to be tilted in favor of affliction about 70/30. Either way, this event is accompanied by a line of text from the character, and a callout by the narrator. 

In the case of an affliction, things go from bad to worse. Characters will change positions on their own (a fearful character will move back in the formation, or a masochistic one might move toward the front) or skip their turn altogether (if they’re hopeless). Afflicted characters will stress the rest of the party out as well whether it’s by being mopey, or verbally abusive - a paranoid arbalest who misses a shot will say “WHICH ONE OF YOU BUMPED MY ARM!?” and so on. On the other hand, sometimes when hope seems lost a character will become virtuous. They will shout encouragement, grant buffs and healing and the such. 

The game’s other big source of drama comes from its death’s door mechanism. When a character reaches zero health, they do not die. Instead they are in a state called death’s door, which means that any damage they take while at zero health could kill them. This leads to every attack being accompanied by held breath and a tightly clenched asshole. The game’s design lends it so much personality and breeds so many memorable stories. 

As impressive as the game’s design is, it is matched by the game’s sound design. Stuart Chatwood did an incredible job with the score. The music is deeply unsettling, a low thrum while you make your way through poorly lit dungeons where traps lie in wait and horrors potentially lie around every corner. Distant howls and screams  help set the stage. The battles themselves are against pounding drums and upsettingly realistic sounds of blows landing and gasps and chokes. 

Wayne June’s contribution as the narrator cannot be overstated. He is the heart and soul of Darkest Dungeon. Hs voicework captures the game’s dark humor, hope, despair, triumph and everything between. I cannot envision this game without him, and was thrilled to learn that he has signed on for Darkest Dungeon II.

It’s a game of long odds, despair, determination, and triumph. As someone who lives with depression, the game probably means more to me and hits me differently than most. The idea of throwing yourself headlong into a situation that seems hopeless, falling into despair, then getting back up and going again means something to me. The game brought tears to my eyes the first time, when a hero hit their stress limit and became Stalwart rather than afflicted, I heard Wayne June deliver the line “Many fall in the face of chaos. But not this one. Not today.” 

Darkest Dungeon isn’t the best game ever made by any metric, but it’s my favorite. 

*I’ve managed to make peace with enjoying Lovecraft’s fiction while being aware of what a racist, xenophobic shit stain he was

**Technically more August Derleth than HP Lovecraft I know.

[mst3kproject]

Cat-Women of the Moon

That doesn’t sound like a real title, does it? It sounds like something somebody made up to make fun of dumb old science fiction movies, or at best like it should belong to a parody of such.  And yet, despite the snarky tone of its Wikipedia article (which reads like I could have written it), as far as I can tell Cat-Women of the Moon is totally in earnest.  It was produced by Al Zimbalist and scored by Elmer Bernstein, both of whom did the same jobs on Robot Monster.

A cartoon rocket blasts off for the moon, carrying – as per 50’s Movie Regulations – three or four lumpy middle-aged men and one pretty girl.  After a couple of the obligatory narrow escapes on the way, they manage to land successfully, and a mysterious cave leads them into an underground city where they are taken prisoner by telepathic cat-women!  The cat-women have trapped them by controlling the mind of Helen the navigator, and plan to steal the rocket ship and conquer the Earth.  Our manly heroes are immune to the mind control, but not to feminine wiles or the promise of caves full of gold.  The world’s only hope is that at least one of them can keep his head about him and save the day.

Cat-Women of the Moon is one of the movies that I suspect was considered for MST3K but ultimately rejected because it was too similar to another feature – in this case, to Fire Maidens of Outer Space. Besides having similarly ridiculous titles, both movies are about astronauts encountering the last survivors of an all-female advanced civilization, who want to use them as breeding stock. In both, the evil plan is undone when one of the alien women falls in love with one of the oafish Earthlings, and both contain a gratuitous dance sequence that does nothing but fill time.  Cat-Women of the Moon is actually slightly more interesting than Fire Maidens of Outer Space, mostly on account of an absolutely hilarious giant spider puppet, but it’s still two thirds over before we ever see a Cat-Woman.

It is impossible to overstate how cheap and shoddy this movie is.  There are moments when the sets almost fall apart as people move around on them – one astronaut almost knocks a piece of equipment over and just leaves it sitting there at an odd angle.  The rocket has roomy high ceilings and corrugated metal walls, with ham radio equipment sitting around on wooden tables and canvas space suits (with helmets that don’t match) stored in lockers that appear to have been stolen from a high school hallway.  The city of the Cat-Women appears to be made of bits and pieces stolen from five different Maciste movies, and a couple of those ‘Family Tree’ decorations you used to be able to buy at Hallmark.

And oh, man, that spider puppet.  My favourite thing is that it’s full-sized so that it can drop on Helen from above with all its totally limp limbs flailing.  I love it so much.  We never even find out what it’s doing there, either – it’s just a giant moon spider, because why the hell not?

About the only visual that works in the movie is the matte paintings, which are very nice, even when they don’t look very real. Some of the lunar landscapes are very realistic and the black and white photography adds to the verisimilitude.  Sadly, that’s about the only thing Cat-Women of the Moon gets right scientifically. There’s a weird moment where one guy uses a cigarette (yes, they brought cigarettes to the moon) to demonstrate… something.  Possibly the temperature difference between the day and night side of the moon.  When placed in the light, it bursts into flame, which is obviously impossible in a vacuum.  As if to drive the point home, not five minutes later they light a match (if you’re bringing cigarettes to the moon you obviously have to bring matches) to check if there’s oxygen!

The characters also note that there’s a difference in gravity between the surface of the moon, where they have to wear weighted boots, and the Cat-Women habitat.  But why would Lunar Cat-Women, who have supposedly lived on the Moon for two million years, want artificial Earth gravity?  What makes even less sense is that the Cat-Women, who have telepathic powers, resort to slap-fighting each other when they’re mad!  These women can teleport… surely if they want to kill somebody they can just make their heads explode by thinking at them too hard, no slapping or stabbing needed.

That brings us to the biggest and most obvious thing going on in this movie.  I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now – Cat-Women of the Moon absolutely despises women and it’s not even shy about it.

We’ve got Helen, who brushes her hair and does her makeup in orbit, and stands there screaming while the men beat the shit out of the giant spider with their fists.  She’s supposed to be a brilliant navigator but it turns out that was just the Cat-Women working through her.  The Cat-Women’s mind control powers work on women but not on men, and when Helen is in the arms of a man she truly loves, they lose control of her, too – as in The She-Creature, it is his male mine rather than her female one that is able to resist.

The man in question is of course not the Captain, who actually respects Helen, but the gun-toting jerk Kip.  There’s a bit where he manhandles her and tells her to stop complaining because “I’m not hurting you that much.”  The others aren’t much better, as one of them tells a Cat-Women, “you’re too smart for me, Baby – I like ‘em stupid.”  At least that guy dies.

The Cat-Women themselves are scheming bitches, except for sweet, innocent little Lambda, who decides to betray her entire civilization because she’s got a crush on Doug the radio operator.  This has been happening in stories since the Greek myth about Scylla, who betrayed her city after falling in love with the commander of an attacking army, and it’s been stupid for at least that long.  The men aren’t any better, either.  Kip and the Captain are fighting over Helen when the fate of the world is at stake.  When they manage to interrogate her while she’s not under Cat-Woman control, one of the first things they want to know is which of them she’s in love with!

The movie hates cats, too.  The inhabitants of the moon are Cat-Women not because they have tails and whiskers, but because they are cunning and underhanded, purring in your lap one moment and scratching your face off the next.  They say they want to be friends, but really they just want to use and discard you.

I guess stories like this represent men being afraid that women will realize they can do without them, and like Horrors of Spider-Island, it perhaps inadvertently implies that this is true. The Cat-Women were doing just fine at maintaining a peaceful civilization before these jerks from Earth showed up. Maybe we’re meant to think this is because the men can resist their telepathy – which is built on another nasty stereotype about women, the idea that they’re some kind of hive mind.  How many times have you heard somebody say ‘Women Think X’ or ‘Girls Like Y’, as if it’s genetic?  The Cat-Women, all in telepathic communication with each other, cannot help but agree about everything – and one she’s made contact with them, Helen becomes part of this collective mind whether she likes it or not.

Cat-Queen Alpha’s control over Helen is probably the most effective part of the story.  We know we can’t trust anything Helen says or even anything she thinks, and once the men realize this Alpha is able to use even their mistrust to her advantage.  Helen cannot even trust herself, as she observes when she realizes she should care if her crew-mates live or die, but does not. Not that it wouldn’t work way better if the cure for it weren’t twu wuv, but it’s a good idea as far as it goes.

Up to the last few minutes of the movie we’ve been building suspense, sometimes in fits and starts, but we do feel like something’s going to happen.  Alpha, Beta, and Helen have run off with the group’s space-suits, and the men are trying to catch up with them.  We’re expecting a fight for control of the rocket ship – and then Kip just pulls his gun and shoots Alpha and Beta off-screen, while Lambda dies tragically and Doug cradles her body.  It’s an anticlimax that just leaves the audience sitting there going, “that’s it?”  And yeah, the next thing that happens is the remaining guys and Helen get back on their rocket and head home, so that is it.

Cat-Women of the Moon is sort of lukewarm entertaining.  The shitty sets and stupid spider puppet are good for some laughs, but the movie’s sexual politics are obnoxious and its ending a huge disappointment.  I can’t recommend it to watch on its own, but it makes for good DIY riff material.  I’m sure Mike and the bots could have had great fun with it.

[voicesfromthelight]

My Dance Guru Pays Me A  Visit from Spirit

In connection with my post on astral party-crashers, I recently gave an example or two of how Spirit can use social media to let us know they are with us, or convey messages through synchronicity. Last night, I was blessed with a very special instance of this, and would like to share it with you to show how portentous these little nudges from Spirit can be, if we keep our feelers out and our eyes open.

To fully convey the emotional impact of this experience, I will need to frame this story with a little bit about my background.

For many years of my early life, starting around the age of five, I developed an inexplicably intense fascination with Indian and Hindu culture. This was accompanied by a feeling of longing so deep, I felt like I belonged there, and had been born in the wrong place - as if I had been there in a past life, and was still somewhat stuck in that previous identity.

One of the outlets I eventually found for this longing was through studying the classical Indian dance form, Bharata Natyam, starting at the age of eight. I was lucky enough to be instructed by a woman named Indrani Rahman - whom I knew simply as Indrani. The reverence I felt for Indrani cannot be overstated. She was my guru. Her mother, known as Ragini Devi, American by birth, had been one of the pioneers of classical Indian dance in the West, and had also helped to revive the art form in India itself during her lifetime. Years later, I was to learn that Indrani, in addition to being a highly respected dancer, had also been crowned Miss India in 1952, but my childhood self could hardly have been more in awe of her had she been the actual Hindu goddess whose name she bore.

The way in which I parted ways with Indrani left a profound mark on me. Throughout the year that I studied with her, in between dancing, Indrani would hint at the cultural stringencies inherent in the teacher-disciple relationship in classical Indian traditions. The comment that always stayed with me was this: “You know, Emily, in India, if you insult your guru, and they throw you out, you can come back crawling on your hands and knees, and they won’t have you back.” Little did I know what it foreshadowed.

After a year of studying with her in New York City, my mother and I were about to move to Finland. I had one last lesson left. Bharata Natyam is a dance form that incorporates pantomime into its storytelling, and I was in the process of learning a dance about a woman who asks a parrot to deliver a love letter to Kartikeya, son of Shiva and Parvati. At the end of the second-to-last lesson I was to have, my mother, Indrani, and I were on our way out of the dance studio we had been working in, in an elevator. I was anxious to learn the end of the dance we had been working on before leaving, and expressed to my mother how urgently I wanted to learn it. My mother responded something to the effect of “Don’t be too impatient,” and I, with my child’s impetuousness, retorted with something silly along the lines of “Why are you always criticizing me?!”. My mother and I laughed it off. Indrani said nothing.

The next evening, the phone rang. My mother was in the other room, and I picked it up. It was Indrani. In a calm, deliberate tone, she expressed to me how horrified she had been with how disrespectfully I had spoken to my mother the previous night, and unceremoniously announced that she was canceling the last lesson. I was blindsided, and utterly mortified. On my subsequent trips back to the US, Indrani refused to teach me, referring me, through my parents, to a younger teacher (whom I would also come to adore.) We didn’t speak again for almost ten years, and I would break down sobbing every time the subject came up, for years to come. We never spoke of her rejection of me. It was one of the most painful experiences of my childhood. 

The sting eventually dulled, and I drifted away from the world of classical Indian art, but never completely forgot my experiences with Indrani. In all the years I spent moving back and forth between Finland and the U.S, I never lost my first set of ankle bells, which she had brought me from a trip to India during the year I had studied with her. They remained with me, a relic of what felt like a past life in an almost literal sense.

Indrani passed away in 1999.

Dance remained an important part of my life, albeit one that felt like a passionate but unrequited love. I continued studying Bharata Natyam for a total of six years, but when my new teacher, Arundhati, moved back to India, I never found anyone to replace her. I loved ballet, but didn’t have the build of a ballet dancer. I fell into an obsession with Argentine tango at 16, and danced it on and off in an amateur capacity for decades, but always felt a bit like an outsider. I always had my finger in many different kinds of artistic pies, and eventually, it was music and film-making that won out as my main forms of professional, artistic expression.

That is, until last spring.

Last April, I took up Argentine tango again in a serious way, dancing for hours on end, nearly daily, within a matter of weeks of returning to it. Around this time, my usual work in the film industry had become somewhat harder to find than before, and my spirit guides went so far as to straight up ask me if I was sure I was in the right career. Wouldn’t a musical setting be better for me? Working through an emotional healing process after losing a fiancé, I found myself unmotivated to do much else than dance tango and give psychic readings. Things started getting tight, financially, and I eventually asked to be sent a new spirit guide to help me find the right job. The guide presented itself the next day, and my spiritual team informed me that they were cooking up something good.

In July, after a year-long wait, I had a chance to get a reading from one of the best psychic mediums I have ever had the pleasure of working with, Medium Fleur, from Los Angeles. As she looked into my energy field, she expressed concern about my finances, but said that she saw me being offered a job, working in an office environment, part-time, receiving a salary from a corporation, through people who had known me for a while. Having been a freelancer all my life, this seemed like a huge departure from anything I had done before. However, knowing the accuracy of her second sight, I trusted her.

Around mid-September, the following popped up in a channeling session with my spirit guides: “Your professional life is predicted to grow very busy. Everyone will benefit better from your work when you have the energy to give back to the things you love. Don’t grow poor! Desire a job. Give a grand reception in which you teach messages of inspiration to your community." A couple of weeks later, a new friend of mine from the tango community - a professional ballroom dancer and Argentine tango champion - asked me to event-manage a pair of big fundraising galas he was putting together for his non-profit organization, which teaches ballroom dancing to underserved school children around the country. Applying my film-producing skills to the events, I managed to pull off the feat with a week to spare, and the evening was deemed a great success. Seeing the children perform at the galas, and the respect with which they treated each other, inspired by the dance, I was moved to tears of happiness.

A couple of days after the galas, I was rummaging through a bag of items my father had passed on to me during a move to his new apartment. There, I found a small bronze statue I hadn’t looked at for years: A figure of Shiva Nataraja - the Hindu god, Shiva, in his creative form, as Lord of The Dance. We had acquired this statue around the time I had been studying with Indrani, and the very first dance I had learned with her had been “Natanam Adinar” - a dance that brought the image engraved in that statue to life. As much as my spiritual proclivities had changed since that time in my childhood, placing the statue of Shiva Nataraja, Lord of The Dance, near a window, next to my houseplants, felt reassuring, like a small piece of my soul had been reclaimed.

Yesterday, the organization for which I had event-managed the fundraising galas officially hired me on an on-going, part-time basis, to work for them in an administrative capacity. I was thrilled to be offered a job working with friends to further a mission that brought healing to so many young people through the joy of dance. I was also thrilled that both Fleur’s and my guides’ predictions were coming true.

My new boss and I celebrated by dancing a few tangos at an event put on by another friend. I arrived home late at night, tired but content. As I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, my phone suddenly flashed. I looked down, and saw that it was exactly 1:11AM.  I’ve found myself intuitively checking the time at repetitive “angel number” times quite a bit, of late, but this particular one felt more significant than usual. I sent a mental “Hello and thank you!” to my guides.

My feet ached badly from dancing, and I decided I needed to put on a pair of silicone toe-spreaders for the night. I had lost them a week earlier, and had to push myself to muster up the energy to look for them.

Rummaging through a desk drawer in my tiny work room, my eyes were suddenly drawn to something familiar. A lone ankle bell. My gift from Indrani. I had never really noticed it there before, but I felt a strange emotional pull to it. In that moment, I had a fleeting thought: “It still hurts a little bit to think about Indrani, but see, she loved me enough to give me those ankle bells, when I was just a little girl, as a symbol of passing on her tradition, and her dance, to me. Their significance is profound.” I closed the drawer.

A few minutes later, having mercifully located my toe-spreaders on  a night-stand, I climbed into bed, and out of habit, checked Facebook one last time.

And all at once, there it was: Indrani’s beautiful face, smiling at me.

About 40 minutes earlier, Indrani’s son, Ram, whom I have never met in my life, and am not linked up with on social media, had posted a photo of his mother as a young woman, clothed in a white sari, standing next to the illustrious sitar player, Ravi Shankar.  For reasons that were not readily apparent, he had tagged Arundhati, my other teacher, in the photo, which was why I could see it.

I truly feel that Indrani was looking down on me at that moment, letting me know that for all the pain I associated with our parting, she was proud of me for contributing to the world through dance in a positive way. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had lent my guides a hand in putting me on my current path! I also feel that in the afterlife, perhaps in her life review, she may have realized how deep an effect the harshness of her disposition had had on me, and this was her way of showing up for me one more time, as my dance guru again, in a kind of reconciliation. I feel an immense sense of healing from this moment.

Have your departed loved ones ever shown up for you at important moments, communicating through synchronicities? How did it happen? How did you feel? Let me know!

[douxreviews]

Legends of Tomorrow - ‘The Eggplant, The Witch, and The Wardrobe’ Review

“Mikey! Mikey, Stop!”

Legends continues to ramp up the action as it moves into the final phases of its too short fourth season, and on the way makes the most important statement about relationships that's ever been uttered on genre television.

Have I mentioned how much I love this show?

One of the most consistently impressive things about the way Legends of Tomorrow tells its stories is the way that they're able to take what should be standard, if not cliched, plot set-ups and somehow turn them into something unexpectedly fantastic. Last year, Zari's turn at reliving Groundhog Day gave us the amazing 'Here I Go Again'. This week we get that thing that genre shows love to do wherein one character physically enters another character's mind in order to 'save' them from whatever has caused them to fall unresponsive, and therein finds a world built almost entirely of visual metaphors that help them work through a bit of character development before we get back to the season's larger plot.

So, yes. It's essentially Sara Lance as Willow Rosenberg in 'Weight of the World'. With the small difference that Ava, our Buffy-surrogate in the set-up, is actually able and willing to have a profoundly frank and adult discussion with her inside the, for lack of a better term, 'dreamscape'.

And really, I know that this gets mentioned in these pages a lot, but that's the greatest strength that Legends of Tomorrow has; the way that all of the characters are allowed to behave like rational and emotionally available adults, despite also being time travelling superheroes. It's sure as hell that none of us saw that coming, back in the Vandal Savage days.

Case in point, look at the way that they completely skated past the obvious 'everyone but Ray blames Nora for Hank's death' plotline here. That was obviously what we were being set up for back at the end of 'The Getaway', and yet within the first couple of scenes this week we have the Legends find out that Nora is on the Waverider, she says 'I swear I didn't kill Hank', and Constantine essentially responds, 'Yeah, we totally already figured that out. It was actually fairly obvious, and just the tiniest amount of follow-up on our part established what was really going on. We're totes good, Nora.' And everyone immediately gets on the same page on the issue, because they're all behaving like reasonable adults. That is huge. That just doesn't happen on television.

Even Nate only needs to take the smallest of moments questioning whether or not Nora is guilty before he processes what he's being told and accepts it, and that's the one instance in which they could have legitimately gotten away with a character responding in a destructive way because he was responding emotionally to his father's loss. But they didn't go there, and it cannot be overstated what a positive and refreshing example that is to see.

It's particularly clever of them, because of the way that they pulled the rug out from under us at least twice this week regarding the heavily foreshadowed Nate/Ray schism that we were all bracing ourselves for. Nate finds out that Ray has been harboring the woman he thinks killed his dad, and he responds by listening to what his friend is telling him, accepting what he's being told, and reaffirms their friendship. A little later on we see him accidentally punch Ray in what we assume is going to be the beginning of their 'Civil War' style breakup, only to immediately get ahold of himself, apologize, and embrace his friend. An apology that Ray accepts without hesitation, I might add, because Nate's actions were both completely understandable under the circumstances and immediately apologized for.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the world's greatest ever example of positive male friendship. I'm starting to believe that if we can just get enough people to watch this show, we might actually find a way to counter toxic masculinity. Wouldn't that be nice?

All of which is a roundabout way for me to get to the point that I've been growing to realize that it's really the character relationships that make this show. Witness, for example, the curious level of kindness that Constantine shows to Gary when he wants to hold vigil for Ava. Gary, by rights, should be pure dorky comic relief. Constantine, as a character type, exists almost solely to deflate that kind of comic relief character. And yet when push comes to shove, John goes to Gary's D&D nights. John cares about Gary. That's a nice detail. Similarly, it's notable the way that Mick is willing to help out Zari in something as trivial as crafting sexy text messages to Nate. Mick of even two years ago would absolutely not have been doing that.

Which brings me back to my initial point as regards that important statement about relationships. After a truly enjoyable series of sequences in the 'evil purgatory Ikea', Ava and Sara have some incredibly frank and direct talk about their relationship. And during that talk, they're both so amazingly emotionally available to one another and so willing to be vulnerable with one another. I honestly cannot think of a healthier relationship on television, ever. Not in the sense that they don't have problems, because they clearly do, but in the way tat they're willing to acknowledge them, and admit when they're in the wrong. It's messy, and it's real, and I love every second of it. And just when I think it can't get any better, Ava says;

"Let’s be honest, neither of us needs anybody. But you are who I want."

Yes. That. A million times, that. Can we amplify that message about a billion times, until it drowns out all the rom-com 'I need you to complete me' bullshit? Because that would be wonderful.

Be more like Nate and Ray, people

So what have we learned today?

To stop including this section in the reviews, because trying to condense a logically consistent universal rulebook of how timeline changes work in this fictional universe is absolutely nothing compared to what we should be learning from the character relationships. Also, clearly no one involved in the show is worrying about it.

Everybody remember where we parked.

This week the Waverider pretty much stayed where it was in Washington D.C., 2019. At least, it logically must have been sine Zari could send texts to that year, and Ray bounced back and forth between the ship and the Time Bureau.

Sara, meanwhile, went to actual literal purgatory to rescue Ava's soul. Purgatory, in this case, being an obvious Ikea knock-off called 'Megastor', complete with umlaut.

Quotes:

Ray: "Hey Sara! Great news. Hank was killed by a demon!" Nora: "'Great' was not the word he was looking for."

Ray: "She’s not a liability. She’s a survivor."

Sara: "You two are with me. (To Zari) Woman the ship."

Gary: "Conspiracies, embezzling, paper trails. I feel like Julia Roberts in Erin Brockovich."

Nate: "If this is my dad’s mistress I’m gonna jump out a window."

Sara: "Ava, if you check out, you die." Ava: "Well that’s kinda on the nose, isn’t it?"

Charlie: "Being honest, wind powers- just not that scary." Mick: "Yeah, you’re like a magical hair dryer."

Nate: "Yeah, hi. We’re looking for Mr. Uh… Mr… T."

Zari: "I don’t even know why I’m talking to you two about it. You don’t even date humans." Mick: "Love’s love."

Nora: "I know how hard it is to watch someone you love become a demon." John: "Yeah, well too bad there aren’t any Beebo’s around to hug it to death."

Mick: "Here. Use words. It’s erotic, but vulnerable."

Bits and pieces:

-- Yes, I realize that they were actually in purgatory, where her soul was currently stuck, but all the semiotic rules at play here clearly were working on the understanding of 'dreamscape'.

-- So apparently Neron wanted Ava's body to host somebody called Tabitha, I assume she's his demon girlfriend.

-- The trope of the bad guy having a favorite whistle-tune so that we can identify what body he's jumped into later is super clichéd and tired. I still didn't see it coming that he'd end up in Ray though.

-- You should absolutely never pay less than $800 for a mattress. Under any circumstances.

-- It's not clear what actually happened to Nora in that ritual. Are she and Ray going to end up as Tabitha and Neron? I'd be down for that.

-- Absolutely nothing about Hank's magical creature zoo makes sense, and he certainly wouldn't have needed a demon's help to set it up. I hate everything about that plotline, with the exception of Mikey T, who is awesome.

-- Zari, Charlie and Mona giggling about texting boys shouldn't have been charming, but was completely 100% adorable.

-- Dirty secret time, I adore assembling flatpack furniture. Honestly, it's my favorite thing in the whole world. I'm not kidding.

-- The effect of aging and de-aging as the sat on the mattress was really nicely done. A very clean low tech solution which worked well.

-- I'm actually really surprised at how quickly Mona has begun feeling like a natural part of the team.

A really good episode with a lot of really positive things to say about adult relationships, both romantic and otherwise. I just wish it hadn't involved the stupid magical creatures zoo plot, because it's stupid and muddies the waters as to what Neron actually wants to accomplish.

Three out of four flatpack dressers.

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water.

[saiyanhajime]

DBS: Broly - Review

I was excited to see “Dragon Ball Super: Broly”, obviously… It’s Dragon Ball! But I wasn’t expecting to be as blown away by it as I have been, to fall in love with it. For me, Dragon Ball has always been more about the fandom than the official media. When I first formed a love for the franchise, it was elusive and unattainable, so I had to get my kicks elsewhere.

I think DBS Broly might be my favourite piece of DB media, ever. It’s everything I ever wanted and everything I didn’t realise I needed from this franchise. I haven’t loved a piece of media like this in a long, loooong time.

Worth noting that, at the time of writing, I have only seen the English dub. I’ll wait for home release to see the subtitled Japanese audio version as I struggle to keep up with text and visuals at the same time!

The Cinema Experience

My first viewing was a small, packed screen on opening night here in the UK. The audience seemed to be mostly around 25-30 year olds, almost entirely fellow guys (my friend was one of maybe 5 women - seriously, where are you all??). But the ethnic diversity of Dragon Ball’s audience is something most movies could only dream of attracting. It was a great time, with people audibly laughing out loud and clapping at the end. The movie is genuinely so brilliantly funny, a surprise in itself.

My second viewing, the following night, alone, was a larger screening. Roughly the same audience demographics, but this time, the audience erupted into cheering with each transformation… It was so fucking incredible to be a part of. I was grinning the entire time. It’s hard to overstate just how important the social aspect of enjoying this movie in the cinema was.

It’s incredible to finally be living Dragon Ball “up to date” like this and the excitement shows.

Spoilers incoming...

Story Isn’t King

That's coming from someone who has always wished for more depth to DB, but what I've realised recently is that the level of storytelling the community plugs into this franchise is not something that belongs in the official media. We do it better, because we do it free of constraints the official releases require to be Dragon Ball, that it requires to be so widely popular. The official text is a framework, not a rulebook. I think one of the things that contributes to Dragon Ball’s insane popularity and ability to speak to so many people in so many cultures is how vague it can be. The snippets of depth are there for us to draw our own conclusions. DB doesn’t need canon absolutes in backstory.

Overall, I prefer the old “Bardock - The Father of Goku” telling of the prequel events that set up the Broly movie, though man it's been an age since I saw that. I wonder how much of my preference is just nostalgia? How much is knowing that Bardock: Father of Goku wasn’t “canon”, and so didn’t really matter? That is liberating. Now Dragon Ball Minus and DBS: Broly seem to demand that this is the way it actually happened with no room for headcanon and I feel a little turned off. There is plenty to like with this retelling. Gine is a delight, more of the saiyan homeworld is welcomed and just look at small details like Bardock actually moving his tail in this scene rather than it constantly being wrapped around their waists ready for combat. Ideally, I would like a perfect blend of the best elements from both tellings. And ya know what? That's the beauty of fandom... I can have that.

It is so obvious that huge chunks of story are missing here, yet it already drags for me a little... I’m not sure what the solution is, really. I’ve seen people suggesting it should have been two movies, but I’m not sure I agree.

Once the movie skips forward to present day, the storytelling revolving around the discovery of Broly, Paragus and their recruiting into the Freeza force is entertaining and I’m way more invested. So maybe it is just apathy for a prequel story retold a slightly different way…

But when the insane 30-40 minute non-stop action starts in the latter half, that’s when the movie comes into its own for me. This is Dragon Ball.

Overall, the narrative does something new for the series. It sets up, foreshadows and references back in a more conventional pattern than ever before. It feels, I dunno. It feels… Westernised? It feels, both narratively and in overall quality, more like a movie and not just a tacked on side-story. There’s no unnecessary inclusion of side characters irrelevant to the plot making cameos. Everyone is here for a reason.

Character Personalities

The characters behave like themselves again, and not just through exposition dumping monologues the series is famous for, but through visual storytelling! There is so much not said, so much told through the fight, through their expressions and movements.

From the moment Vegeta’s playful spar with Goku ends at Bulma’s vacation house, you get a very different Vegeta to the one we’ve seen through Super. His turn to listen to Goku and Whis's conversation is full of character. He's so on edge about something. And proceeds to tell us why with a humorous but genuinely livid jab at Goku for wishing Freeza back to life. Vegeta is worried. In the scene where Bulma is reviewing the CCTV footage of the Dragon Ball theft, Vegeta double takes and glares at Goku when it becomes obvious the thieves are Freeza’s men. They say nothing. It’s all character acting. It tells us so much.

Vegeta's anxiety continues on, affecting his fight with Broly… He barely has a chance to enjoy the fight at all. We get so little cocky Vegeta enjoying a battle and instead a very serious Vegeta who feels the need to to end this threat right now. What I take from all this is an example of quality character development - instead of Vegeta simply becoming more friendly, his personality that we all love is still there, but his morals have changed. His entertainment isn’t as important as protecting his family. And having witnessed Goku’ recklessly endanger their friends and families in throughout DB Super, Vegeta is not prepared to take any chances here, attempting to deliver a finishing blow very early on.

And Goku, who’s characterisation in Super felt so utterly insulting at times, is back on form here. His idiotic moments don’t feel so absurdly stupid that they’re unbelievable, but instead come across as cute and heartwarming. Moments like his talk with Broly mid fight, with Piccolo when he’s lying on the ground battered and bruised and when he’s simply watching Broly transform into a super saiyan for the first time convey Goku’s ability to be serious and regretful. It was so refreshing to see Goku back on form. The first half of his fight with Broly is incredible - going from excitement, to confidence that he could talk Broly round, to being put firmly in his place, on the ground. People who criticise the series for having no stakes fail to understand that the stakes are truly nestled in the characters personalities and their pride. The stakes are whether they will be able to overcome their flaws, both metaphorically through transformations, and literally.

Voice Acting (Dub)

Whilst on the subject of the characters, the voice acting is unbelievably good… Chris Ayres as Freeza steals the show, but the others are brilliant also.The line delivery is one thing, the ability to so brilliantly match that to the mouth flaps another, but the writing for a Western, English speaking audience is just superb. I cannot wait to see what differs in the original Japanese - I’ve heard that Freeza’s “Hello Monkeys!” line was a dub change from “Greetings!” for example, which in my opinion is so appropriate and elicits an uncomfortable, awkward laugh from the aforementioned ethnically diverse audience in the west in a such good way. Freeza as a tyrannical, racist, piece of shit, is an important character trait to a Western audience. The jokes that ride on line delivery alone are so numerous - one personal highlight for me is Whis’ ever-so-gay coded “Oh my…” when Gogeta bursts in. Took the words right out of my mouth, Whis. The voice acting is on a whole different level to anything before now from the American team. The scene I’ve already mentioned where Goku is contacted by Piccolo, Schemmel really sells the pain Goku’s in. And lets not forget Broly himself, played by Vic Mignogna, whose line delivery really conveys him as this Tarzan-like character in his sane scenes… But really shines in moments of mania when he’s flailing, yelling, crying as a cornered, manic, rabid ape who cannot control his emotions or immense strength. The scene where he’s just making noises at Goku, copying his fighting stance before he launches at him - wow. Even new side characters like Lemo have an outstanding quality to their voice acting that blows any previous English speaking Dragon Ball performance so far out of the water it’s insane.

Broly

Having a Dragon Ball story focus on so many characters who aren’t Goku is refreshing for a franchise that’s been so heavily criticised for being The Goku Show… For years we’ve wanted to see other characters step into the limelight. I still haven’t forgiven the last movie, Resurrection F, for stealing the win out from under Vegeta.

Vegeta still doesn’t get the long awaited limelight here… But this “new” saiyan, Broly, is something rather special. I wasn’t a fan of the original Broly. Loved the idea, but never liked the execution. His visual design I found personally off-putting, but more importantly it failed to convey his character very well. He looked so prestigious?  And the idea of being so affected by Goku crying as a baby next to him, that it sent him into uncontrollable rage whenever he heard the same “Kakarot” is so laughably stupid. I’m glad that’s not here.

The cool concept of the legendary super saiyan, though... I think most people dig that. Here that’s kind of gone too - but the idea of a freakishly strong saiyan from birth who is the embodiment of their animalistic heritage and rage-induced potential is beautifully executed. The great ape form, or rather Broly having found a way of accessing that power without transforming, is referenced more than once throughout the story. There’s this sense that the way Goku and Vegeta have learnt to control themselves has perhaps potentially hindered them. That maybe the ultra-instinct forms Whis has foreshadowed for so long is related, or could be used to tap into the natural potential of saiyans. Huh.

With a visually pleasing design to boot, Broly is absolutely awesome as the star in his own movie as a tragic menace. So much is done to sell this as Broly’s movie, from his sheer amount of screen time and characterisation in both his placid and manic states, to that awesome first person perspective part of his fight - incredible.

Animation and Aesthetics

You don’t need me to tell you this film looks gorgeous and I’ve already mentioned some scenes where the characters convey so much through movement alone. This looks like Dragon Ball never has. It feels nostalgic, but refreshing. It’s stylistically so unique and fluid and choreographed and magical. Impacts hit with such full-force conviction, the characters gracefully zooming around each other in dueling harmony, the electrifying ki beams piercing through the bleak environments with their vibrant colour and form. For once you really believe just how powerful and fast these superhumans are… Perhaps one of the reasons why the first half of the film is so much weaker for me is simply because there's less of this beautiful action. But the entire film is steeped in impressively bold and emotive colour pallets that sell the mood of each location so well.

But there’s a great big elephant in the room… The cgi.

It would seem I have a different opinion to most on this subject. I don’t mind the environmental cgi, but the character animation is jarring and I hate it. It is a blemish on an otherwise gorgeous piece of art. Now, I’m really funny about “bad” cgi. I also don’t know dick about animation. I just know when something looks really, really wrong. It’s as if the cgi characters have no squash and stretch applied that keeps them fluid. They’re stiff. There’s no elasticity, no umph. They move like someone just put strobe lights on. Their joints like that of action figures. I’ve seen so many people say it’s not bad or they even like these parts and I’m really glad it didn’t ruin it for most people, but my god does it ruin those scenes for me. Just look at the awkward mouth flaps and dead eyes, especially on Goky, in the Kamehameha/Galick Gun combo scene. Yuck.

Soundtrack

I love the score.

Before I saw the movie, I heard a lot of people talking about the chanting and how weird it was - but the second it started my first thought was how much it reminded me of Akira. And yeah, it’s kinda weird. And I love it. It hypes up this epic match and I don’t find it cheesy at all. I love it both in context and even when listened to in isolation.

The entire score is all over the place yet manages to feel whole as it attempts, and succeeds, to convey the atmosphere and emotion of each location, narrative beat and every swing of a fist or blast of ki. The only track I’m not keen on is the rendition of Chala Head Chala. I think it’s a pretty pants rendition of the song and is immensely distracting in an otherwise moving soundtrack. The movie totally needs a rendition of Head Chala right there, but not this rendition. I just don’t like it. The weird boingy sound is awful.

Final Thoughts

The success of Dragon Ball Super: Broly, especially in the west, is a joyful reminder what this 30 year old franchise means to so many people. Very few non-fans are going to have set foot in a cinema to see this movie, and yet the current total earnings at the time of writing on January 29th 2019 is $98,584,176 according to Box Office Mojo.

That is truly insane.

It feels like this movie was made especially for me and for that I am eternally grateful. Speaking to fellow fans and reading their reviews, it’s so clear that everyone has different things to love about this movie. There’s so much content here for every fan to find something they love. I cannot wait to get hold of a home release and I cannot wait to see what’s to come, ho-ly shit! What a time to be a Dragon Ball fan.

[michael-radi-the-glamorous-life]

Love Is Alive And Well On Broadway

This past Monday night I was honored and overjoyed to attend the 4th annual Arts For Autism Broadway benefit concert!

For those of you who have not yet heard about this event, please allow me to tell you about the magic that is late June evening each year.

There’s Nothing Like It

Arts For Autism is an annual concert held at the Gershwin Theater (yes, on the set of Wicked!) to raise awareness and funds for Autism Speaks. 3 of the 4 years the event has been hosted by none other than Broadway royalty Kelli O’Hara, who has a particular connection with the cause - the third year was hosted by Christopher Jackson, who is also connected personally with the cause.

The entire evening is filled with love and joy and support as students of music, theatre, and dance from across the country (Colorado, Texas, and New Jersey to name a few) perform in their Broadway debuts alongside current Broadway performers.

Additionally, the line-up always includes various Broadway stars - Stephanie J. Block, Betsy Wolfe, Teal Wicks, Christopher Jackson, and many more - performing solos and/or speaking as to why they chose to support this wonderful event.

It’s a star-studded evening with one of the most inclusive and loving audiences I’ve ever been a part of, and it’s all put on by Believe NYC - headed by incredible Artistic Director (and one of my best friends) Jacque Carnahan - and Educational Travel Adventures, spearheaded by the brilliant and generous Michael Holzer.

Without the vision, drive, and giving spirit of these two wonderful individuals, this event could not occur.

And this is the type of event that we need. It’s inclusive. It’s positive. Its’s inspiring. And it’s filled with love.

Dedication

Each year the concert has been dedicated to specific groups of people who are associated with or affected by the cause.

The second year - my first time involved with the concert - the dedication was to the parents. Hearing directly from the parents of children with autism of greatly varying degrees was incredibly moving.

They spoke about their struggles and loneliness, but also about the joys and wonders of their children. They spoke about community and how that has helped them throughout the years. And they spoke about how the arts has been a wonderful and unexpectedly useful tool in helping their children succeed both in communication and life in general.

Last year was dedicated to the siblings. Again we heard about the joys and the struggles, but in completely different ways. The love that pours from these families is undeniable proof that we need more understanding, awareness, and inclusion, and these messages are nothing short of inspirational.

On a personal note, I was immensely proud that in each of those two years a student of mine (and parent!) spoke during the concert. These students were involved as performers in the concert as well, but the pride I felt watching them stand before a packed audience at the Gershwin Theater and tell their stories can not be overstated. This is a magic that I will never forget.

This year’s dedication was to the teachers. This one got me, and got me deep.

My immediate thought and expectation was that this dedication was speaking directly to those who work with these students daily and in very specific situations - in schools, one-on-one care, home needs, etc.

Oh how foolish and shortsighted I was!

I was not prepared to feel included in this category, but it struck me during the speeches that people like myself are included. And how silly of me to forget!

The studio where I teach is an inclusive one, but I tend to forget that this is unfortunately not the norm.

I cannot tell you precisely how many places - studios, camps, programs - I have applied to, visited, or seen that do not include students with autism. And this is both depressing and wrong, in so many ways.

Not only does this fail to enrich the lives of those potential students - for there is zero doubt in my mind that the arts are an enriching tool - but it fails to enrich the lives of everyone at these places.

Inclusion is community. Community is enrichment. Enrichment is education. Education is joy. And joy is love.

I am lucky, and I forget that I am. Some of my students have autism, and the fact that I get to work with them at all is a fantastically positive influence on my life. And hopefully I’m a positive influence on their lives as well.

That’s what we celebrated on Monday. And it was a beautiful night.

Their Broadway Debut!

I would be utterly remiss if I didn’t speak about the incredible, unique, and inspiring experience that this event is for the participating students!

The previous two years I was lucky enough to be involved directly in this concert, having students of mine from Long Island as performers and having had three orchestrations of mine included last year. I have seen firsthand how this experience can change the lives of young people. I have watched them grow over a three-day whirlwind, and come out the other side as both better performers and better humans.

There’s nothing like it.

Students from all over the country travel to New York City the weekend before the concert and experience an entire vacation and rehearsal process in less than three full days.

Pre-NYC

In the months prior to making the trip, each group puts together a number to perform for the concert. They keep in communication with Jacque about what they would like to perform, the content of the number, and how it connects with the cause of the concert.

They then spend weeks and weeks rehearsing these numbers to perfection, with only one in-person visit from the Artistic Director, and also determine where to leave space in their number for whichever Broadway performer will be joining them onstage.

Day 1

On the first day in the city, the student groups each do a workshop at one of the major rehearsal studios in midtown. These workshops are to make certain their numbers are as tight and ready to perform as possible, and they are headed by Broadway performers and the concert’s Musical Director (this year Meg Zervoulis of The Prom).

Then, that evening, all student groups gather together for the first time to watch Jacque’s gloriously heart-felt and inspirational one-woman show, based entirely on her theatrical career (thus far!). It’s a beautiful night watching these young people come together in awe and inspiration at Jacque’s beautiful story - not to mention her killer voice!

Day 2

On the second day, the students all gather to rehearse/work through the entire show with the director - the lovely David Alpert. This is the first time the students get to perform for one another, as well as see/meet some of the insane Broadway talent. It’s a long but rewarding process!

That evening the groups are set to see Wicked at the very theater where, the following day, they will themselves be performing!

Day 3

And finally, the big day three!

This long day consists of one gigantic tech process for that evening’s concert - at the Gershwin Theater - where the students hang out all day, warm up, get to walk the stage, put together their spacing for the opening and closing, space their own numbers, add the Boradway guest performers, and watch the magic of Broadway unfold before their eyes. I’ve sat through this process twice now, and it’s a blast!

And then, at long last, the concert itself. Pure magic and joy.

I wish I could describe how this affects these students, because I’ve never seen anything like it.

Pure, unadulterated joy.

Get Those Tickets!

If you’ve missed any of these concerts, then let me tell you that you have missed something you cannot and will not get anywhere else.

The first 4 years have been beautiful and wonderful, and I can guarantee that year 5 will be just as special, if not more so!

All I can say is that I hope - sincerely hope - that I will see you in the audience with me next June. <3