#netty

[ride-thedragon]

Daemon and Nettles

"Maidenpool was some kind of Bridgerton au they decided to have during an active war."

Synopsis of a quote. They wasted like 5 months in each other's company with no alternative plan.

[bohemian-nights]

People really are missing the point of a character like Nettles. Being the a non-Valyrian dragonrider is what makes her different(in every positive definition of that word) and helps to serve a larger purpose in this story.

Valyrian blood is not special. It’s not needed to do great things. No one is special because of what family they happen to be born into.

A non-Valyrian Nettles shows that we are more than the circumstances which we are born into. Our birth, our names, and our very blood does not define us. Our actions are what do. We can overcome so much and rise to become absolutely extraordinary with a little bit of determination, patience, and a dash of help along the way. Nettles exemplifies that to the fullest extent.

She's more than a Black Valryian. She doesn’t have to be Valyrian. She shouldn’t have to be Valyrian.

She’s a survivor. She’s a final girl. She’s a Black low-born girl likely without a drop of dragons blood that tames a wild dragon with patience that killed countless others who had dragons blood. She survived the Dance where others high and low alike fell and perished to become a firewitch to the Burned Men.

Her legacy is immortalized in the history books(and by the Burned Men cause they still worship her) as one of the last(if not the last) dragonrider(s) before Dany all without having any known Valyrian ancestry.

[roryintheir90s]

HAPPY EVO ANNIVERSARY!

Sadly, I only did 3 since GOSH trust I have no time to do all of the evolutionists

[daemonxnettles]

Maester Norren writes that "the prince and his bastard girl" supped together every night, broke their fast together every morning, slept in adjoining bedchambers, that the prince "doted upon the brown girl as a man might dote upon his daughter," instructing her in "common courtesies" and how to dress and sit and brush her hair, that he made gifts to her of "an ivory-handled hairbrush, a silvered looking glass, a cloak of rich brown velvet bordered in satin, a pair of riding boots of leather soft as butter." The prince taught the girl to wash, Norren says, and the maidservants who fetched their bath water said he oft shared a tub with her, "soaping her back or washing the dragon stink from her hair, both of them as naked as their namedays."

Fire & Blood🔥

[rosehearys]

“She was foul-mouthed, filthy, and fearless”.

Nettles.

[venusintheblindspots-blog]

More on the dynamic between Rhaenyra and Nettles…

One of my biggest qualms of ASOIAF, is the inherent racism displayed in the text, and the fandom, when discussing characters like Nettles, Elia, Baela, Laena and Rhaena.

My introduction to ASOIAF was House of the Dragon, and after watching, I was an avid team black supporter ( still am, Rhaenyra was Viserys’ heir).

After finishing the main series, and watching half of Game of Thrones, I reread Fire and Blood, focusing mainly of the Dance of Dragons.

Of all the interesting characters during the Dance of the Dragons, the one that caught my eye was Nettles, the first and last rider of Sheepstealer.

Her introduction alone was enough for me to fall in love with her :

“Unlikely dragon rider”, “the first and last rider of the dragon Sheepstealer”, “fearless”, “cunning”

Very little is known of Nettles’ upbringing, as the accounts of Eustace, Munkun and Mushroom are biased with racism, classism, misogyny and second hand information.

I’m not particularly sure if it was George’s intention, but the language used by Gyldayn and the a portion of the fandom is a prime example of how black girls are robbed of innocence and agency when being accused of ‘wrong’.

Going back to her relationship with Rhaenyra, the two women are not on equal footing. Rhaenyra was awarded privileges even other noble women in the realm could only dream of,(not that she lived without suffering, she still faced misogyny & sexual abuse), as opposed to Nettles, who lived as a commoner with nothing to do but survive.

Coming around to the Dance of Dragons, Nettles fights for Rhaenyra’s claim as the rider of Sheepstealer. She grieves Rhaenyra’s children, and the loss felt in war.

Daemon and Rhaenyra’s are implied to have an open marriage in Fire and Blood.

Mysaria is Rhaenyra’s Mistress of Whisperers during the Dance of the Dragons, with no implications of animosity between the two. Yet, upon the hearing of Daemon and Nettle’s rumored romance, Rhaenyra is angered?

Rhaenyra’s disdain for Nettles reminds me of another harmful dynamic in real world history,- a jealous white woman, and a young black girl being cut by the blade of her vengeance. Rhaenyra dehumanizes Nettles, going as far as to call her a creature and demanding a brutal death for Nettles, so that Daemon could be free from her ‘sorcery’. She cannot conceptualize how Daemon could be attracted to Nettles, so she accuses her of using magic to bound him to her.

Their dynamic reminds me of the relationships between wives of white slaver owners and the enslaved women that their husbands would abuse sexually. The blame is never casted on the husband. Whether or not Nettles and Daemon had a romantic relationship or a father-daughter one, she did not deserve the treatment Rhaenyra gave her.

To close this, I still like Rhaenyra as a character. She’s interesting in a sense where, regardless of what she’s done, she was the better option for the Iron Throne, especially if we are going off of her character in the show. However, she still reads to me as the epitome of white feminism. Her fight is for no one else but herself.

[solidailyty]

[DAY 48]

There haven't been a day were they werent missed

At this point I have so many asks (on both tumblr and twitter) but I plan to do them all so pls just be patient with me

[ladystarksneedle]

Some outfits I think Nettles would wear

[chrkrose]

Nettles

'In the end, the brown wild dragon Sheepstealer was brought to heel by the cunning and persistence of a “small brown girl” ' - Fire & Blood (George R. R. Martin)

Based on artwork by Hylora

[warmdragonstew]

but what if Baela the lesbian 🤔

[ride-thedragon]

Nettles isn't boring.

You are allowed to not like her, but to say she's boring is crazy.

Claims a Wild Dragon and is the only person to do so using a method similar to the dragonriders of old Valyria. He was also the dragon that killed more people than all the others combined during the sowing.

Fights in the Battle of the Gullet and lives, mourning a prince in a way that only parallels his base born brother.

Is the dragonrider chosen to fight alongside Prince Daemon Targaryen to find and kill Aemond and Vhagar.

Becomes such a close companion to said prince that he betrays his wife and queen to ensure her safety.

Starts a Religon in the Vale, creating the most dangerous tribe in it.

At a certain point, words have meaning. It's okay not to like her. Just don't get racist.....

[bohemian-nights]

The interpretation that Nettles’ story ends in tragedy instead of triumph is rather odd to me. She’s a lowborn Black girl who came from nothing. Who’s thought of as less than nothing because of her background. Yet despite being on the lowest wrung, of society, she survives the Dance.

She comes away with her life, her dragon, and her independence, and is eventually worshipped and respected by a group of people who are weary of outsiders, yet that is a tragic ending?

She lives where those who sought to destroy her perished yet she's the one who we should look on with pity?

Does she wind up queen, knighted, or the lady of some house great or small? No, but the assumption that her story had to end with her gaining a title within the larger Westerosi society for it to be a triumph and a tragedy is inaccurate and once again missing the point of her arc. Her story is one triumph and not a tragedy.

[daemonxnettles]

“God did not give me my life to throw away” -Jane Eyre📖

Nettles 🐑🐉

[prettymuchteddy]

Nettles Outfits Aesthetic

The dragonseed, Nettles, was known to favor boys' clothing rather than the lavish dresses at court and would wear some combination of muted fabrics or leather

[griantl]

I impulsively started working on a doodle based craftedmovie/evolution/thirdlife/hermitcraft PMV but I remembered there’s not a lot of general Evo art out there so I’d like to post this quick frame from the PMV to add more to the tags :]

[ladystarksneedle]

Dragons and Dreams

(This is my first attempt at writing something like a headcanon/ fic-let for Nettles. It's set just before the dance of the dragons where she's supposed to be around 16-17. Thank you all for reading!)

Word count: 2268

It was a peaceful day at the docks. The sunrays reflected brightly off the sea, giving it a warm glow and a cool breeze blew through the sails of all the ships lined up at the pier. You could even hear a few gulls chirping above. A good day for trade and a very good day for her too. People were much kinder on days like these. They’d be more willing to spare; a penny or a helping hand and less likely to make a fuss of things. They’d be in better spirits in the ale houses and taverns and across the markets. The alleyways were also less guarded. It was a good day for feasting, for the rich and poor alike.

That’s what she had assumed before embarking on her mission for the day. She’d been caught before and had subsquently suffered a slice to her nose. An open deterrent to all that saw her, visibly brandishing her a thief. She’d hated it, both the scar she possessed and the act of stealing itself, despite partaking in it more times than she could count. She had always been a quick learner. Sharper and faster than her peers, if you could call them that. Her ability to survive, to make do with whatever she had and pull through whatever circumstance she was put in, was what she was most proud of.

She’d grown up in Spicetown, in its alleyways and stables. Often holed up in small quarters when she was younger, when people gave her shelter out of pity. This was before she had her nose sliced. She mostly stuck to the streets now, to new homes she’d carved out on her own. One such place was below the 13th rickety plank on the pier. It was a small enclosure for hiding, a few paces from the last stall at the edge of the market, run by a bald, absent minded salesman.

She was a solitary creature by preference. Experience had taught her that it was easier that way, although she did enjoy company from time to time. When she was younger she had moved in groups, sometimes even as large as 15. The villagers used to call the lot of them all sorts of names back then, "alley rats", "unwashed mongrels", "the pests of Spicetown". Sometimes she wondered how they could come up with so many names for a band of children.

On the other hand, they had taken to calling themselves “The Motley Crew”, fashioned after a band of mummers who went by the same alias. She remembered how they'd gotten their name quite fondly. It had been a good night for them, brought all the way from Essos to perform for one of the feasts of the high lords. A few days before their main event , they'd decided to set up an impromptu performance for the villagers, out of altruism or to enhance their popularity, was a question reserved for those who had the time to think. The villagers had been all too pleased at the time. Too distracted by the show to notice their little crew and too drunk to chase after them when they’d been spotted.  It was only fitting to dedicate one of their most successful nights to the mummers who made it possible. Their venture had turned out to be altruistic indeed.

There were 5 of them left now, out of the 15 she’d started out with. Disease had claimed most of them. One of the many disadvantages of living in a port town was it’s quick propensity to succumb to illness.  Along with trade being brought to their shores, a new disease was almost always on the corner and the destitute would end up suffering the most. Some of the other members had fallen to violence, after being caught thieving or had just found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some of the girls been taken into brothels upon flowering, with a few going willingly to escape the harshness of the cold or the hunger that most often gnawed and rattled their bones. She knew some of the boys had scoffed at their choice of such a life, brandishing the girls they’d grown up with as whores. As if they ever truly had a choice in the matter. Everyday was a battle for them, a small one fought in their own way and she was not one to judge the techniques someone used to survive, no matter how unsavory they might seem.

She’d taken to avoiding the rest of her Motley crew after that, partly because she disliked their disdain but mostly for fear of being picked up by one of the brothel gangs themselves. They knew of her. Living on the streets for so long gave you a reputation even if you’d managed to live most of your life unnoticed, given that there were not many permanent residents in a trade town as such. She’d long since made up her mind that the brothel, no matter how desperate she was, was not a place she was going to end up in.

That’s how she’d found herself these last few days or had it been a month? She’d lost track of time, conserving her energy for scouring the pier instead. Trade had somehow improved in the recent days, with word on the street being that the war had been won in the Stepstones. A war that had been perpetually fought over the past two decades as far as she’d heard, with a new pirate or a king coming to claim that mantle of control every now and then. Lord Corlys Velaryon had been injured in the fighting this time. Some claimed he was already dead, while others held on to the strange belief that he still lived, with a deep cut to his neck, perpetually gasping like a fish out of water. Rumors like these were often far fetched but held some grain of truth to them, the trick was probing enough people to find out. The current talk of the town was more importantly about the very succession of the high seat of Driftmark when she entered one particular tavern. She’d found it amusing how people liked to talk about things they’d never have an impact on. To share their well thought out arguments  and gossip about situations as if they were the ones truly deciding on the matter. Lucky for her, their distraction posed an opportunity. She usually preferred picking something innocuous to pocket. Something that would not be immediately noticed by its owner, but the one sitting in front of her seemed so engrossed in conversation with someone who seemed like the patron of the tavern, that she could hardly help herself. Her victim was a pretty stout man, a merchant by the likes of it. He was clothed in all sorts of articles, most likely collected as a result of all his travels, making it appear as if he was wearing a mismatched carpet sown together. He was currently wholeheartedly engaging in an argument with the patron regarding the war and the consequences it had on his trade. Her assignment thus proved to be an easy one and she ended up collecting far more than what she usually took.

Satisfied with herself she slipped out the back gate, with her two pockets full of a couple of his belongings and a bit of leftover fish from one of the other tables and made her way down to her usual spot by the pier. It was midday and much of the crowd had filtered by now with a few merchants and helpers bustling about here and there which prompted her to go further along her path. It was a bit of a hassle, but entirely worth it during the day. Below one of the broken planks after swinging from one of the bars onto a small landing and crawling across a small distance, there was a ledge on which she liked to sit. This was difficult to accomplish at night, with less visibility and the increasing importance of being quiet lest you get caught. During the day, however, when the crowd had lessened, her little ledge was perfect for dangling on while she ate and watched the scenery above. Her view mostly comprised of ships sailing away with their captains shouting orders. She liked to imagine herself on one of them some day, as a novice learning the ropes, excited to travel the world. On days such as these though, her dreams were far bigger. She’d had a good catch and had also managed to catch a glimpse of Seasmoke hunting the waters. Dragons were mythical beings, oddities to the lives of folk like her, who’d gotten used to them, living so close to Driftmark. These strange beasts of red and grey had always been fascinating to her, so much so that she could now pinpoint exactly which one was flying above without even looking. Meleys, the Red queen, as they called her was fast. The wind seemed to whoosh behind her as she flew, if you had a keen ear. She had a deep throaty roar and gave the impression of being fierce and proud. Some said dragons often mimicked their riders or was it the other way around? They said they chose them as mirrors of themselves, which she seemed to agree on. In her mind the Red Queen symbolised Princess Rhaenys, “The queen who never was” or “The Queen who should have been” if she’d been asked.

Seasmoke, beautifully gray and daunting ,like the sea he flew over, resembled Ser Laenor Velaryon too. He seemed free and restless with a gentle disposition, if you could think that of dragons. They’d been hearing his mournful symphony routinely at dawn and dusk, ever since Ser Laenor was killed. It made her wonder what it was like for a dragon to part with its rider. Was it like losing a relative. Did it feel like a part of your flesh had been ripped, crippling you in a way you couldn’t explain? Did it feel as daunting to him to be riderless, in search of a new purpose as it was for her when she lost her mother? The grief of her loss still lingered. It came and went in waves, much like Seasmoke’s cresecendoing symphony , mostly at times when she’d been unsuccessful and had to go to sleep hungry.

She watched him glide for a distance and dive, like a seagull with his mouth full of fish and let out an involuntary cheer at the sight. She couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of how similarly she’d waded through the tavern herself this morn, to acquire her own meal . As silly as it sounded, she saw a part of herself in him, soaring through the skies above.

She thought of them both as hunters, aloof and grappling with loss , trying to survive and find meaning in their lives. This gave her the idea of following him, if only to see where he rested and to observe him from a distance. A part of her balked at the folly of this. Dragons were fickle and dangerous creatures and were known to either burn or devour people for disturbing them. She was no Targaryen, but her excitement from the morning hadn’t died down and she knew she wouldn’t find rest till she went ahead with what she had planned. So she got up from her ledge, with her new dagger in tow, and decided to follow him, keeping a good amount of distance between them. Though he wasn’t as fast as Meleys, Seasmoke sure was agile. She struggled to keep up, practically sprinting across the pier, as unsuspiciously as a running girl could , tracing his path back through the markets as he flew above, all the way to a small cliff below the castle of High tide. This was probably where he curled up for the evening she thought, far from her own home which she spotted in the distance.

As she hid in one of the shrubs, trying to calm her breathing, she wondered why he hadn’t noticed her or if he did why he hadn't paid her much thought. Was she just another harmless being to him, inconsequential like a bug was to her, or did he too feel a certain attachment to her and decided to let her be rather than make a meal of her.

She stood observing him for some time trying to decipher his thoughts , till she saw the sun setting in the distance and realised it was far too late for her to be away from the docks. Seasmoke hadn’t paid her the slightest bit of attention and had begun his roaring shortly, crushing her dreams of kindling an understanding with him. Sighing she began her trek back , humming in tune with him, letting the elation she felt quietly slip away with each note. At the end of their chorus, she was surprisingly greeted by applause. A lone observer at the bottom of the cliff, bleated his approval. She found it odd how Seasmoke, a little sheep and her were occupying this space together. It made her feel funny and warm inside ,somehow unable to understand what was truly happening. She wondered if there was a connection between the three of them as she walked back. If a good meal of fish got her that close to Seasmoke and the sheep was a metaphor, perhaps she’d search for mutton next time.