#Across the Road At the Brothel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

absurdthirst · 7 months

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Edible Flowers {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Mentions of brothels and sex work, use of the word 'whore', general bad attitude, threats of violence, voyeurism, mentions of masturbation, SEX POLLEN, uncontrollable lust, rough sex, unprotected sex, dub-con due to sex pollen.

Comments: After losing his coins and unable to join the others in your party at the brothel, Pero decides to bathe with you in the local river. Both of you unaware that the flowers that line the banks of the river will make your blood sing with lust.

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @storiesofthefandomlovers!!!!! I don't know where I would be without your friendship, Charlie. I love our conversations and our crazy thots. I hope you have the BEST day! 🎁🎊💝 I think it a tradition at this point that your birthday fic be sex pollen 😂

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

You ignore the grumbled curses from the foul smelling man next to you. Angrily searching bags and shoving them off to the side. Rolling your eyes at his odious manner, his stench and his overall unpleasant demeanor. It wasn’t your fault that you two were the only ones left at camp. He had no coins to spend, having squandered them on the last village by getting drunk and misplacing them. You were still here with the horses because you had no interest in visiting the brothel.

“You should just go.” You huff, smirking in amusement at the thought. “Perhaps they will tumble you just because of your charming demeanor.”

“Quit talking before I decide to test how sharp my blade is.” Pero Tovar hisses angrily, his dark eyes narrowed in frustration and unhappiness at being left behind. No one, not even that bastard William, would lend him the coin to get his dick wet. After nearly two weeks of hard riding and no privacy to pleasure himself, he wants a release that is in a tight, warm cunt. Not the palm of his axe calloused hand.

“I’d remove your balls before you ever touched my tongue.” You snort, reminding him of your own quick use of a blade. The last man who had tested you had his body stripped and left for the buzzards when he had thought to try to force his will on you. You like to think the other men you rode with walked a little more carefully around you after that.

He grunts, unwilling or unable to come back with another retort and starts to dig through his bags once again. Searching in vain for the pouch of coins that would apparently get him away from you.

Your own search of your bags is much more organized, searching for the precious sliver of soap you still had and a clean set of clothes. The river is just past the little copse of trees and you have plans for a long soak and a good scrub in the cool, clean waters. It’s been a dusty, dirty road and you want to feel clean again. Or at least, not as filthy.

Finding the soap, you take it out and sigh softly, inhaling the scene of the flowers that had been pressed into it. It’s your last little cake that you had made, representing the last piece of yourself that you had left behind when you had started on this journey. Leaving home and traveling with this brash, rough, uncouth bunch of mercenaries.

They had decided that having a woman among them was a good thing. You were better for distractions, getting tavern owners to allow you to bunk under their roofs, sometimes using your ‘feminine wiles’ to get jobs when necessary. Tovar had been the only one to keep his distance and his surly attitude around you.

“Fuck.” The curse is accompanied by the saddle bag being thrown across the camp clearing, making you bite back a grin at the Spaniard’s ire. Pissed that he should have to stay back and not partake in the drinking and whoring.

“There it is.” You snatch your clean bandage out of the bag and tie it closed. “Perhaps you can mend your armor.” You offer, standing with your change of clothes and your soap. Your money pouch is with you, not trusting him to keep his fingers out of your coins to go off and have his pleasure. “I would not even suggest a bath. I know you have no use for such a thing.” You smirk, enjoying the darkness of his scowl and the muttered curses under his breath as he glares at you.

“Where are you going?” He demands, motioning towards the camp. “We need to start a fire.”

“I am going to bathe, you can start the fire.” You tell him, watching him shake his head. “No. You stay and help.” He spits. “I am not sitting by and doing all the chores.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “I have made the fire every night for nearly two weeks.” You remind him. “I am not the camp whore. You want a fire? Start it.”

“Puta.” You glare at him when he calls you a bitch, but you don’t say anything, knowing it won’t do any good. Pero is not a man who claims to have manners. You’ve seen him fight with the locals over perceived insults or slights. Manners is not something that would ever cross his mind when it comes to his own actions.

Instead of spending time arguing with him, you simply walk out of the clearing with your things and make your way through the trees down to the edge of the river.

Pero growls again, glaring at your back as you walk away from him. Unsure why the fuck he lets you talk to him like that. Irritated that he had been left back, that his money was gone and he was unable to go find release in a hot cunt for a few coins.

Letting out a sigh, he rolls his head back, rubbing his shoulder and catching a whiff of himself. The acrid, sweaty scent of unwashed man makes him grimace and he hates to admit that you are right. He could do with a bath himself and cleaning his leathers. Sighing when he realizes that despite his best efforts, he would be doing what you wanted him to do.

It takes him a few moments before he smirks. You are down at the river. Naked. Washing. He grunts and despite himself, his cock twitches at the thought of seeing your body and stroking himself from the safety of the trees. Or perhaps he will outrage you by just diving into the water himself. He huffs a chuckle, imagining your glare and curses as you try to keep your eyes off him. You grumble and curse when any of the men pull their dick out to take a piss, you would hate it if he stripped down to the bare skin of his ass.

He lingers another moment, weighing his choices and blows out a huffed breath. Ambling slowly over to the bag he had thrown across the clearing towards the horses when he had been cursing his luck. Groaning slightly as he bends down to pick it up, he can’t help but think that a bath and a solid night of sleep might be better than a rowdy night in a brothel, drinking and whoring.

The waters are slow in this bend of the river, making it a good place to swim and wash. Maybe even catch some fresh fish if there is any. The village is nearly a quarter of a league away, the men preferring to keep their horses and belongings well away from the towns until they are ready to leave. Too many places would seek to steal from the mercenaries, as foolish as that might be.

It’s isolated here, no sign that anyone from the village ventures this way. Lucky for you, because the flowers blooming on the bank are sweet smelling and look edible, although you haven’t seen that variety before. There had been some rabbits eating them before you had scared them off. If you had your bow, you might have been having rabbit for dinner.

Now, you slowly peel off the clothes that are caked in dirt, sweat and blood. Groaning slightly when you start feeling light begins to give your muscles relief. Your breast band digs into your skin and you eagerly begin to unknot it so you can unwind it from your chest.

When it’s completely unwound, you groan again, reaching up and massaging your sore tits. Nipples aching as you slowly palm them. The feeling is incredible and it makes you close your eyes, missing the slight movement in the treeline to your left.

Pero’s eyes widen when he sees your tits. You’ve never even taken a piss in front of the men, preferring to go off behind a rock or some trees when the group has stopped. Now he’s unsure if the dark thatch of hair that covers your cunt is what is drawing his eyes or your hands roaming over your breasts like you are pleasuring yourself. The way you are groaning has his cock hardening like he is watching a show that some of the whores would use to make men pay more coin in the brothels. His mouth waters and he reaches for the laces of his breeches, eager to pull his cock out and stroke it until he spills on the ground.

Until he sees you turn around and carefully make your way into the water. Your ass swaying invitingly as you wade into the water and he watches you dunk your head under the water. It looks too refreshing to pass up and he wants to join you. He does need to wash.

The water is perfect, cool and clean, making your nipples harden even more and you lean back to float on the water for a moment. Relaxing and sighing at the way you already feel better, feel cleaner just by dunking yourself in the river. Once you scrub your clothes and body with the soap, you will feel positively luxurious. The only thing that could possibly feel even better would be to sink into a feather mattress to sleep.

The water surrounding you muffles the sounds from on shore. Your eyes closed keeping you from seeing the other mercenary strip down to his skin and start to wade into the water. His eyes on you as he manages to cover his already hard cock with water to his chest before you notice the movement beside you.

When your eyes open, they are wide, wrenched open from the slight shift of the water around you. Finding the dark eyes of the Spaniard fixed on you, making you shoot up, your feet slipping for a moment before finding your footing on the rocks and burying your body up to your neck in the water.

“What the hell are you doing!?” You shout, thankful that his own body is halfway underwater. You don’t know if you wanted to see how well endowed the man is. It wouldn’t help things and you are already trying to tear your gaze away from the muscle and scars that adorn his chest. Evidence from previous battles that show how he has survived. Your hands cover your breasts under the water and you quickly move away from him.

“Bathing.” Pero hisses back, rolling his eyes at you and smirking. Your mouth had dropped open like a fish and he enjoys the shock. Even if he had wanted to cum before he entered the water, he likes that you are surprised by his presence. “What are you doing?”

The fact that he plucks your soap off the nearby rock and starts to lather up his hands with it should make you take it back, but you find yourself just staring. Watching as he doesn’t move towards you, just sets the soap down and does exactly what he said he was doing. Bathing. His hands sliding over his skin and soaping himself up generously. Scrubbing the soap into his shorn off beard and into his hair. He had apparently hacked it off before coming into the water.

“I didn’t mean bathe with me.” You hiss, still submerged in the water. “How long have you been watching me?”

Pero smirks and arches his eyebrow at you. “You mean did I see where you like touching your tits?” He asks. “I did. You should unbind them more.”

Cursing under your breath, you huff and shoot him a killing glare. “Keep your eyes off my tits.” You mutter, but that only makes the Spaniard chuckle as he continues to scrub his body clean.

“Every woman has tits, yours aren’t special.” He lies knowing that he had been hard as a rock as he looked at them. Thought about sucking on them. You don’t know that, and his hard cock is under the water, out of sight.

Snorting angrily at his insult, you snatch the soap off the rock where he had returned it so you can bathe. Your relaxation is ruined by his presence and the last thing you want is to give him any more of an eyeful. He can stay here and you will leave.

Washing quickly, you scrub your clothes, painfully aware of his presence as he splashes and curses behind you. Trying to ignore him while you wring your clothes out and lay them on the stones to dry. Hating that you would have to expose yourself again to get out of the river and dress.

“I’m not looking.” Pero taunts, fully aware that he is watching you struggle to make a decision. The glimpses of your breasts and ass as you work have kept him hard and his hand squeezes his cock under the water.

Not looking back at him, you roll your eyes and stand up, walking out of the water to your pile of clean clothes. Rushing to put on your shirt, you don’t bother with a breast band, happy that the longer, larger shirt covers your ass as you wiggle into your breeches. “You may want to wash again.” You snort, turning to look at him still in the water. “I can still smell you.”

His eyes narrow and his mouth spits out another curse, but when you disappear into the trees to go back to the horses, Pero lifts his arm and sniffs. Wondering if you can smell him still, although all he can smell is the pretty soap you had. He grumbles to himself and starts to wash his own clothes.

****

By the time Pero returns, clothes damp and squeaky clean, you’ve started the fire and have cleaned out your bag that you use to gather berries. “The flowers next to the river are edible.” You tell him. “I’m going to get some. If you want to eat, come with me.” Already annoyed he hadn’t started a fire before bothering you, the last thing you are going to do is feed him.

You don’t want to see what he will say, just turning and stomping back to the water’s edge. In hindsight, perhaps you should have given him the coin to go with the other men. If only to keep him from annoying you. Finding his presence far more distracting than normal, when William is around to keep him occupied.

You ignore his grumbled curses as he follows you. Your stomach starts to growl and you know that there are plenty of the tender flowers to eat now and then save for later if you can gather enough. You’ve learned that despite the number of men in your party, foraging for food was often more successful for hunting. A few of the men were incapable of hunting silently without scaring off all the small game.

The small, pink flowers are pretty. The red pollen in the middle is eye-catching and you find yourself wondering why there are so many of them blooming at once despite watching numerous creatures feast on the tender buds. Reaching out, you pluck one flower from the stem and pop it into your mouth. Groaning quietly at the almost honey-like taste of it. Immediately picking another one to eat.

There are hundreds of them. Quickly starting to pick them in earnest. One for the bag, one for you to eat. Groaning everytime you let the flavor of the flower burst on your tongue. The taller Spaniard moves to the bush next to you and does the same, his own mouth shoved full of the edible flowers. Eating them as fast as he can. They are almost addictive.

It’s gradual. The way your body warms up and starts to tingle. Your skin is suddenly more sensitive than it normally is by the breeze coming off the water. Making gooseflesh rise and you shiver slightly.

Tovar grunts beside you, shifting and clearing his throat. Making you think that he had just swallowed wrong since he eats like an animal. Continuing to pick and eat the flowers until you feel like your stomach is going to burst from the local vegetation.

It’s only then that you realize how warm you are. Pulling your shirt away from your neck and humming quietly. Needing to almost take off your shirt as your nipples harden underneath the fabric. “Ohhhh.” You bite your lip and turn away from the bushes as you realize that you are feeling a certain kind of way.

You’re turned on. Stumbling back towards camp, you can feel the arousal starting pool between your thighs and you feel your cunt bottom out at the grunts of the man following you. “What the fuck is going on?” You choke out, dropping the bag onto the ground as you wrap your hands around your stomach.

Tovar nearly stumbles to his knees behind you, his cock harder than it has ever been in his life and he swears he need to pull his cock out and fuck his fist. “I- it burns.” He rasps, squeezing his eyes closed and ignores the soft whimpering sounds that are coming from you. Trying to suck in enough air to calm his racing blood.

“I don’t-” You moan again, making the mercenary to your left growl as you rush over to your saddle bags. “It- what is happening?” All you know is that you need to touch yourself. The need to find release building up like an infection under your skin. Your clit throbbing with every pounding beat of your heart. “I don’t fucking know.” Pero spits, dropping to his knees and his palm presses against his cock with a moan. “I need to cum.” He growls.

The raspy, rough sound of his voice sends a shiver down your spine and you feel your entire body light up at the thought of a thick, hard cock inside your aching cunt. Your broken whimper nearly a gasp. So close to giving in and begging Pero Tovar to touch you.

“Give me your coins.” Your eyes fly open at his demand, finding him dragging himself to his feet and lurching towards you like a drunkard. Eyes pitch black with need and lust as he comes closer.

“What?” You shake your head. “No. You are- you aren’t fucking a whore with my coins.” You hiss, making the man moan when you curse.

You don’t understand how desperate he is. Fumbling with his belt he tosses it away and reaches for the laces of his breeches. “I am begging you, hermosa.” He groans. “I need- fuck, I need to bury myself in a cunt.”

It’s your turn to moan, watching in surprise as the grumpy, harsh, uncouth man in front of you starts to unlace his breeches to pull his cock out. “This is- this is madness.” You whine, your own fingers starting to unlace your own pants. The thought of him fucking you is now buried in your head and it’s all you can think of. Him fucking you until the pain and need fade.

“Give me-” Pero chokes out another moan when his fingers wrap around his cock to pull it free. Unable to stop from stroking it aggressively, even though his palm is dry. “Please.” He begs, knowing that the need is overriding his good sense.

You never thought you would ever hear Pero Tovar beg for anything. Not even death when he was staring it down. Now he is begging for release and your own body reacts visceral to that plea. Your own breeches unlaced when you look up to see his cock in his hand as he pumps it furiously. Eyes closed and mouth opened on a moan as he tries to slack his lust. Your cunt gushes, bottoming out at the sight and you are pushing your breeches down in a rush as you try to kick off your boots at the same time. “Fuck me.” You demand, voice breaking as you stand on bedroll.

He’s dreaming. He’s in the middle of a fantasy because he swears he hears you beg him to fuck you. Knowing that would never happen, he opens his eyes and chokes out a sound when he sees you pulling your shirt over your head and standing naked in front of him. “Her-”

“Fuck me.” You beg again, dropping down to the blankets and spreading your legs. “I need it. I feel like I’m going to burn alive if you don’t fuck me.” Your arousal is coating your thighs and dripping down onto the rough blankets. Fingers already between your thighs to start rubbing your clit. Giving into your own body’s desires.

“Mother of God.” Pero curses, rushing forward and dropping to his knees between your thighs. Hand still wrapped around his cock and pumping it as he notches himself at your cunt. There’s no time to be gentle. Merely snapping his hips forward and burying his cock into with hot walls of your cunt with the loudest groan he’s ever made.

Air is pushed from your lung, giving you no time to think, to scream, as his thick length breaks you apart as he pushes inside you. Splitting you in two is an almost painful pleasure that has your nails digging into his arms and your body bucking under his. Needing more, you sob in relief when he feels the same way and starts to move immediately.

Your cunt is hot, tight around his cock. Making him grit his teeth together and bunch the blankets in his fists so he doesn’t leave bruises under your skin as he holds onto you. His hips slam forward, a rough little growl tearing out of his throat every time he reburies his length inside you.

Moaning, your nails start to rake down his back. At first it’s over the shirt he is still wearing as he fucks into you. His pants at his knees, still dressed while you are completely naked underneath him. Then your hands slide under his shirt, needing to feel his hot skin as you moan again. His cock hits deep, every thrust filling you perfectly.

Hissing, Pero grunts out a curse. “Shit.” He bites his lip and his next thrust is even rougher, pushing you up the blanket slightly. Your legs squeeze around his hips and you lift your body up to let him pound you back into the ground.

It’s overwhelming and still not enough. Every time his cock scrapes against your walls, it makes your body light up in pleasure, the pain and heat subsiding for a brief moment. Making you crave more every time the sensation comes back.

Your nails dig into his back but he doesn’t even pay attention. Too focused on the hot clutch of your cunt and how every time he rocks into you, those walls squeeze him like a vice. Groaning out curses in every language he knows, Pero feels like his entire body is being heated from the inside. “I- I’m gonna cum.” He chokes out, knowing that he won’t last more than a few thrusts.

You are right there with him, your body bowing and arching with every stroke of his cock deep within you. Pushing you closer to the edge and your eyes squeeze shut. “P-Pero-ooooo” Your back arches up, cunt locking down on his cock as your scream of pleasure rings out in the trees, making the horses startle and stamp.

Once you tighten around him, Pero is gone. Groaning out your name as he rocks forward one more time, staying just as deep as he can possibly get, relief and pleasure mixing together as he paints your walls with his seed.

You pant, trying to catch your breath even though the pain is still there, just beneath the surface. Able to relax for just a moment as your eyes close. Listening to Pero grunt as he works himself through his own pleasure and collapses on top of you.

“I-” he groans as he twitches. “Let me get my breath and I will fuck you again.” He promises, knowing that if he is still hard, you must also be feeling the effects of whatever has possessed the two of you.

“You better, Tovar.” You moan, squeezing him again as you bear down on him. Grinning when he curses again. “Mierda.”

“What the fuck is causing this?” He asks breathlessly.

“I don’t know.” You admit. “Maybe it’s- maybe it’s the flowers.”

He snorts, doubting that but he doesn’t argue with you. Knowing that whatever it is, it will have to work itself out of your system. At least this is more pleasurable than bad stew.

“More Pero.” You beg softly, starting to move under him again as the heat begins to build again in your core. His cock is still hard and you need that feeling again.

“Greedy.” He chuckles, looking down at you with dark eyes and for the first time he leans in to press his lips to yours, kissing you as he slowly starts to rock into you again.

Gasping in surprise, you cling to him, kissing him back as you stare up at him as you kiss. Wondering why his lips are so much softer than they had looked and his kiss is much gentler than you had expected. Not that you had expected him to kiss you at all.

Now that the first, brightest pain has passed, he can afford to be tender. To take a moment to make sure that there is more than just raw power in his thrusts. “I’ll give you more.” He promises. “I’ll give you everything you need, hermosa.”

****

The fire burns low, feet shuffling in the grass as men crowd around the sleeping pair on the ground. None of them believe that the Spaniard is wrapped around you, both of you obviously naked under the blankets. Your clothes are scattered on the ground around you.

“Do you think he fucked her?” The whispered question reaches William as he smirks down at his friend. Resisting the urge to poke him with his boot and wake the man from the obviously deep sleep.

“What do you think?” William turns his head and looks back at the other men.

“I think if you wake her, I will cut your tongues out.” Pero doesn’t even open his eyes as he growls his threat to the other men. Tugging you closer when you shift in your sleep until you relax against him. Your breathing evening out and slowing down again as you settle back into your dreamless sleep. Worn out from the multiple rounds you and Pero had the night before while the pollen from those flowers worked out of your bodies.

William grins, motioning for the others to quietly back away. “We’ll let them sleep a little longer.” He hums quietly. “Let's go down to the river and wash up.”

Pero grunts, knowing that he should warn them, but he’s not going to. The bastards left him here and he had to find out the hard way to stay away from the flowers. They could learn their own lessons. Smirking to himself as he presses his face into the back of your neck and inhales the scent of you. Maybe losing his coins wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he would warn William.

“Amigo…..”

#pedro pascal #pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar smut #pero tovar imagine #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar the great wall #tovar #tovar x reader #tovar x you #tovar x f!reader #tovar smut #tovar imagine #tovar fanfiction #tovar the great wall

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 months

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Chapter 2 (this is a fluff fic - and Ruhn is babysitting Nesta in chapter 3)

The thrill of a day off with no commitments fell flat when Hunt spent most of his night worrying that he’d find a blonde female floating in the Istros – if the sobeks hadn’t eaten her first. When it was socially acceptable to be out, he was already flying the short distance to the hotel that Ruhn Danaan had paid for to check on her.

His knuckles felt too heavy on the door as he knocked.

After the day Nesta had, he’d not blame her if she was still asleep.

The door was pulled back and she stood perfectly put together with no traces of sleep remaining. Her gorgeous burnished-gold hair was pinned up, hiding her ears. Hunt looked twice at her clothes – his clothes. They hung loose on her frame, but there was no missing the generous breasts that the material clung to. Midgard suited her.

‘Oh, good. You’re here.’

Well, it made a change for somebody to look forward to the Umbra Mortis arriving at their door even if her tone didn’t imply that.

‘I’ve made a list of things I don’t understand. This for instance,’ she said, switching the light on and off. ‘How have you harnessed faelights into that glass orb?’

‘A lightbulb. It’s firstlight.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘Another thing for the list.’

‘When you make the Drop, you give part of your firstlight to the city. That’s how we power everything,’ he explained. ‘You don’t make the Drop?’

‘The only drop I know is a short drop from the gallows, so no, Hunt.’

A piece of paper with neatly-written notes covering it was thrust into his face while she beckoned him into the room. Nesta had cracked open the windows, pulled the sheets tight over the bed and her leathers were folded onto the chair.

‘I didn’t think to bring you fresh clothes today.’

Nesta shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ve only just put these on.’

‘Did you sleep naked?’ The question shot out of his mouth before he could trap it.

She scowled, cheeks going pink. ‘I’m not answering that.’

That would be a yes.

When Nesta turned through the room, giving it a once-over, Hunt glimpsed a flash of black on her back through the slits of his top. A tattoo maybe. As she moved, it became evident to him that Nesta wore no bra. Hunt’s traitorous eyes kept gravitating towards the bounce of her breasts until he forced himself to give his undivided attention to the list.

‘Hey, let’s get you some clothes for the next few days plus breakfast and I’ll answer these questions.’

‘Fine,’ she replied.

‘And you have to answer some of my questions.’

‘Some of them.’

Lunathion began to wake with the commuters filling the paths. Those with wings flitted overhead to avoid the rush. Nesta had no concept of road safety; Hunt may as well have been walking alongside a toddler. Twice, she’d stepped into the road to clear space on the path without even looking. He’d had to haul her against him before a scooter mowed her down.

‘I can’t tell if people are staring at me or you,’ she said as a leopard shifted gasped and pulled out their cell to snap a photo of him.

‘Me,’ he replied flatly. ‘I’m the Um-’

Hunt cut himself off. Nesta did not know who he was. What he’d done. What he still did. For once, he could just be Hunt.

‘The Um?’ She teased. ‘Did you forget your name?’

‘I’m known in Lunathion for my work in the 33rd.’ He lay a hand on her shoulder, guiding Nesta across the road at a crossing towards a lingerie boutique – the kind of place the Umbra Mortis had never been caught dead in.

Everything was red. And velvet. With posters of females in push-up bras with the tagline “something extra special” or “for him”.

Nesta was just as bemused as he was. ‘Is this some kind of pleasure hall?’

‘Like a brothel? You have those in your world?’

Colour rose in her cheeks again – and damn if it wasn’t the prettiest thing.

‘I don’t frequent them.’

One of the workers, a deer shifter by the scent, offered a polite smile. ‘Do you need help?’

‘Uh,’ said Hunt, jerking his thumb towards Nesta. ‘She needs a bra.’

‘What’s a bra?’

Luna, help him.

The worker smiled again. ‘Do you know what size you are?’

‘All my clothes are tailormade,’ she replied.

‘I can do a fitting. This way.’

Nesta stared at him over her shoulder as she followed the female towards the fitting rooms. He tried not to pay much attention to the abundance of lace and satin and tassels. And definitely tried to steer his thoughts away from imagining that drop-dead gorgeous female wearing them.

After a while, the worker returned to the counter. Nesta popped her head out of the curtain.

‘Hunt,’ she hissed. ‘Hunt Athalar.’

Hunt shrugged at her.

‘Help me.’

Her bare back was offered at the gap in the heavy, velvet curtains. An eight-pointed star was tattooed in black ink across her spine. Did she have more?

‘How am I supposed to put this contraption on?’

Hunt reached for each end to pull them together. ‘My experience is usually in taking them off, not doing them up.’

‘I don’t wish to know about your conquests.’

The moment it was clasped, Nesta leapt away, drawing the curtain closed too – then her face emerged once more. ‘I presume you are paying to clothe me?’

‘I guess so,’ he grumbled.

He could always bill Ruhn Danaan and the bank of daddy.

‘Hunt?’

‘Nesta.’

‘I need underwear.’

For the blush that came again, Hunt would buy her whatever underwear she wanted. He held up a few across the store, her face growing redder each time. When he asked her if she was commando beneath his sweat pants, a confused look crossed her face.

‘Bareback,’ he clarified.

Nesta snatched the underwear – a black, lacy thong – from his hand and muttered something about males in every world being insufferable.

***

This city was vibrant and diverse in a way that Velaris wasn’t. Even if Hunt grew fed up of her pausing to admire their technology, he still let her grow roots on the spot so she could wonder how something worked before inevitably explaining it in a way she could understand. Every citizen was required to donate a portion of their magic to the city to ensure it continued working. It was a tithe of sorts.

It was difficult not to stare at the Vanir, as Hunt had called them, as they walked through the sunlit streets. Velaris had high fae. Other places she had visited had lesser fae. Here, Nesta saw people who could change at will into a variety of animals. Some, Hunt explained, were wolves and she was warned to steer clear of a Sabine and a Danika who patrolled the streets. Hunt’s species enforced the law set by the Asteri.

‘Supreme rulers whose word is law,’ he said.

Nesta snorted at that. ‘I’ve got one in my world. His name is Rhysand.’

‘He’s your king?’

‘Oh, he wishes. No. My sister’s mate. And a pain in my ass.’ Since this malakh had been so helpful in finding her underwear that constantly needed plucking from her backside, Nesta explained, ‘We have no kings. The land in which I live is divided into seven courts and each is ruled by a High Lord. Rhysand is the High Lord of the Night Court. Feyre is the High Lady.’

‘So, you’re fae royalty?’

‘Ha ha ha,’ she said, the sarcasm thick in her voice. ‘No. I am a problem. Nothing more.’

They took their drinks – black coffee for him and camomile tea for her – to a bench beside a park where children were running freely across the grass, throwing balls or playing games. There was such a freedom to Lunathion with species mixing readily.

‘How did you wind up here – off the record?’

‘We have a Prison for foul creatures from nightmares. I was searching for an object and found the Harp. It trapped me. The damn thing promised to let me out if I plucked a string then I was falling.’ Nesta ran a finger around the rim of the cup. ‘They have no idea what happened to me.’

And she doubted that they’d care either. The loss of the Harp would be their biggest gripe.

‘Ruhn Danaan has paid for that hotel for a week, so once Vik’s ran her tests, you can drift back off into the stars.’

Nesta smiled at that. ‘I could end up somewhere completely different.’

‘Like Hel.’

The angel explained that they knew of another world – one named Hel – where cruel princes ruled and demons leaked through into Midgard. It was his responsibility to identify them and track them down.

‘Which came first, the name or the profession?’

Hunt gave a wry grin. ‘Everybody calls me it. My mother named me Orion.’

‘Orion,’ she repeated. ‘I like it. Does your mother live in the city?’

His face fractured slightly then he extended a hand to her, signalling that they were to walk. ‘No. She’s not alive anymore.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Do you have other family or just a high lady sister?’

‘Two sisters. My mother died when I was young and my father died in the war.’

‘The war,’ he repeated. ‘When was it?’

It felt like an eternity and no time at all.

‘Just over a year ago.’

Hunt’s brows rose. ‘You fought in it?’

Not by choice, Nesta thought. Because the Cauldon cursed me with magic that made me into a weapon.

‘Yes. The king of Hybern used my father as a shield then killed him. My sister, Elain, stabbed the king.’

‘She killed him?’

‘No.’ But if it hadn’t been for Elain subduing him, Nesta and Cassian would both be dead. ‘I decapitated him.’

At that, Hunt grinned. ‘Bloodthirsty. What does your tattoo mean?’

Nesta blew out a long breath. She’d only seen snippets of it in the mirror at odd angles with her chin tucked onto her shoulder. ‘I wasn’t in a good place so my sister staged an intervention. Cassian – a friend – made a deal that if I trained then he’d give me a favour.’

‘That tattoo is magic?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Is yours?’

The urge to brush her fingers across the halo on his forehead was difficult to suppress. At the mention of it, Hunt touched it and winced.

‘It’s a slave brand. Witch ink.’ He lifted his hand to show her the letters stamped on his wrist. ‘The Asteri’s mark. I belong to them and Micah – an archangel.’

The words hung in the air between them turning the summer’s day cold. Hunt Athalar was a slave which explained why he spent his day off with her rather than friends or family. He had nobody else.

They walked alongside the river, the Istros, in silence.

‘If you want to be free, pluck the Harp. Come to Velaris.’

It was half an offer. From the bulk of his arms, Hunt could fight. Amren would rub her hands together at the sight of another weapon to be added to the Night Court’s arsenal. But maybe it offered a better life than slavery. Nesta didn’t know.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘No coffee there though.’

A furry creature wearing a yellow jacket scurried in front of them then leapt into the river. Its head bobbed above the current before the whole animal swooped below. Before Nesta could even ask, Hunt paused from his walking to point out another that was scrambling up the bank on the other side.

‘Messenger otters. They deliver letters to the mer.’

***

How long had it been since Hunt viewed the world with anything more than cynicism? It was hard not to fall into the same wonder as Nesta when she found delight in every little thing. Often, Hunt struggled to explain how things worked in a way that Nesta would understand because he’d never questioned it himself. It was a given that it worked. If there was time during the week, he’d take her to the library – and likely lose her in there.

After a day spent exploring every single avenue of Lunathion – except the Meat Market – they retreated back to her hotel room when a drizzle rolled in with the grey clouds. Even that didn’t stop her enthusiasm. Nesta made him coffee using the kettle in the room. She flipped the switches, waited in front of it as it began to boil then made a noise of triumph when the switch clicked itself off. She’d poured in three sachets of the crappy instant coffee that the hotel provided, but Hunt drank it because he couldn’t bear to take that joy from her expression.

Nesta had given him a lot to think about. For every eighteen questions he answered, Nesta would give up one of her own answers about her world. It sounded rudimentary in ways – their technology lacking massively – but their magic seemed more powerful. She remained coy about her own, claiming she had no magic. Nesta was hunting magical objects from a trove. If she was like him and could detect such things the way he could detect demons, Nesta Archeron was far from powerless.

His cell phone held all of her attention now.

While sprawled out on the firm hotel bed, he’d switched on the television. A crap chick-flick was on but it required no brain power to follow the plot. He’d surrendered his cell to her because there was nothing incriminating on it. Nesta lay beside him with the pillows wedged under her head. Her white tee rose up slightly exposing a strip of her stomach. The complaints about her tight jeans ebbed when she realised it was the fashion in Lunathion – but Hunt had no complaints whatsoever. The plain, dressed-down look suited her although none would dare call her plain.

‘You have no portraits,’ she commented.

‘Photos,’ he corrected.

‘Will you teach me how?’

Hunt leaned in towards her. ‘It’s tricky. See that button? Press it.’

The click of the capture button sounded and then she was off. Nesta strode around the room documenting everything, including him.

‘We must sit for hours in my world to have a portrait painted. How lovely that you can make a memory so easily.’

‘You sound ancient, Nesta.’

She knelt on the edge of the bed to take a close up of his face. ‘I’m twenty-five.’

Hunt groaned. ‘I’m older than you by a good two hundred years.’

‘Cassian is over five hundred years old.’

‘That’s twice you’ve mentioned that name.’

‘Keeping count?’

Hunt inclined his head, waiting for more. Nesta came to sit beside him again on her pile of pillows. She wiggled her toes which were in fluffy rabbit socks. ‘Cassian is… a somebody. We’re involved. Sometimes. I don’t know.’

‘Like a fae mate?’

Her nose wrinkled up. ‘No.’

‘A husband?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘A fuck buddy?’

Nesta raised her brows. ‘I don’t know what that is nor do I wish to know.’

‘You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure out.’

Nesta ignored him in favour of the phone. If she had a fae male waiting for her then Hunt probably shouldn’t be so close to her on the bed. Those fae pricks could be territorial when it came to females.

‘Hunt, it says there are busty fauns in my area who want to meet me.’

‘Don’t click!’ Hunt plucked the cell from her hands. In some ways, Nesta was like a toddler – in others, she was like a two-thousand-year-old enigma, especially when it came to technology.

The rain grew heavier, lashing against the window as they both watched the film. He’d asked her earlier what she did for fun in the Night Court and he’d received a sniped answer that her sort of fun had been taken from her then she’d amended her answer to reading and training. She definitely seemed to enjoy this – and he’d teased her about making heart-eyes at the male lead.

‘Ruhn will keep an eye on you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The fae prince.’

‘The prince of pricks?’

Hunt couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Don’t call him that or Micah will have my balls. I have to work but I can try and swing by at the end of my shift.’

‘I’ll have another list of questions for you to answer.’

‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,’ he replied. Hunt glanced at his phone. ‘Get ready for some real magic.’

Nesta’s lips parted, about to ask a question then the door knocked. He gave an encouraging nod to her to open it.

A male in a Food Drop uniform held out a bag of takeout for her. Hesitantly, Nesta took the bag then turned towards him.

‘What is it?’

‘Magic,’ he said, grinning. ‘Open it.’

Slowly, she moved towards the bed whilst plucking open the bag. ‘I don’t know what this is. We don’t have this in Velaris.’

‘Nesta Archeron, your life is about to change.’

They finished the film then found a re-run of Fangs and Bangs while Nesta lay on the bed practically moaning at the food. He’d gone simple but classic; hot cookie dough with vanilla ice cream. From the sheer delight on her face, Nesta had won the lottery.

‘You use that device and food appears?’

‘I order it,’ he clarified. ‘There are tons of places to choose from. You choose what you want, pay for it, and it arrives at your door.’

‘If I wanted cake, I could use that cell phone and a cake would come here?’

‘Modern technology.’

Nesta finished her cookie dough then Hunt gave her the rest of his.

‘Hunt Athalar, I am never going home.’

#hunt x nesta #hunt athalar #nesta archeron #acotar #crescent city

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mooncheese3 · 9 months

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the man called otto au, old man!sj and the luo family. he was not able to escape wyz in the iac bc wyz decided not to sneak into it, instead spending that week in a brothel to waste away a truly big bag of coin he was lucky enough to snatch.

cw // suicide attempts, suicidal thoughts

bc of this sj wasnt able to find out what happened to yq and cultivate,and so stayed a mortal. one day wyz comes across another kid, and tries to off sj since he'd outlived his usefulness. sj outsmarts him, so wyz just leaves with his new assistant, not finding sj enough of a risk to keep alive.

sj wanders, able to get by with money he'd acquired via the things wyz taught him--all very much illegal. one day he stays a bit longer in a town, and ends up staying the night in a brothel. apparently when you assist them in kicking out a horrible customer, they wouldnt mind it so much if you were to sleep in their storage room for free. (his pretty face also helped lmao. the only privelege sj has is pretty privelege, but even that doesnt come often). one night turns into a few days, and a few days turns into a week, and suddenly sj works there.

there he becomes friends with some of the prostitutes, and finds himself with a pseudo little sister with the name sisi

a few years pass; by this point hes a young adult. sj decides to travel around. he still hasnt accepted that yq could be dead (even if his head tells him its very likely yq is), so traveling would mean possibly getting closer to wherever yq may be. he moves in the general direction of cqms, as that was yq's destination. he goes through towns, cities, forests and roads, takes on odd jobs and errands but never begs--never again--yet despite all of that no hide nor hair of his older brother can be found. sj considers going to cqms directly, but if he were being honest...

yq tended to see the good in people. while not a bad thing in itself, it usually led to shitty things happening to people like them. added with the fact that yq was a runaway child slave with no money, wore clothes that kept the cold in rather than out, was illiterate and never learned how to mapread, had never traveled so far on his own with only a vague sense of where he was going, with unkown humans, demons, creatures and plants everywhere on his trek,,, the chances of sj finding his older brother decaying rather than breathing was too high

going to cang qiong and not finding yq there... to him, it would be as close to a confirmation that yq was dead. so he avoids it. (he doesnt stop himself from listening in on conversations about cang qiong, though)

thats how he spends most of his life, traveling and seeing the world, learning about all sorts of things on the way. he spends the freedom hed fought for in what he feels to be the fullest without being around people he doesnt already know. if yq really was dead, then hed be seeing the world for both of them while he could.

when days are too hard and the thought that he'd sent his qige to his death is too strong, sj feels the temptation to follow yq into the afterlife. the sword hed stolen and the dagger up his sleeve find themselves in his hands all too often on those nights, yet no injury ever appears on himself and he breathes just fine the following morning

one day he goes back to the brothel he used to work in, and discovers that sisi isnt there anymore. after catching up with his old friends he travels again, southward where the brothel theyd transferred some of their staff stood

eventually he and sisi reunite. she introduces him to her friend, meng shi, and her son, meng yao. hes appalled when he finds meng yao reading a fake cultivation manual, so he teaches meng yao how to tell a fake from a legitimate one. he also teaches him how to /get/ a legitimate one under a fair and affordable price. sisi wheedles sj into teaching meng yao more, so he does

sj goes back on the road, and somewhere along the way settles in a hut along the luo river. but even when he lives on the outskirts of the village, which was already a decent distance away from any cultivational sect, he still hears news of the head disciple of qiong ding peak's achievements in the defeat of tianlangjun. one thing leads to another and sj finds out that yqy is in fact his yq

a confrontation happens; yqy is beyond happy that sj is alive, if a little shocked and scared that all hes seeing is a ghost his mind conjured up. like canon sj asks why yqy didnt come back, and since yqy is a do or don't there is no try person (this mentality really fucks him up), yqy doesnt give any "excuse" as to why he was gone. he was a coward, incompetent and careless in his rush to go back to the qiu manor. the fact that he went back too late and /tried/ to save sj but found the estate in ashes didnt matter. to yqy, it is the end result that matters, not the effort and process it takes for him to get there. he didnt save sj, and that was that.

in the face of what sj went through, what he experienced was miniscule. look at them! while yqy was dressed in expensive fabrics with a face that looked no older than 20 bc of his high cultivation, sj was dressed in simple and cheap robes with signs of age, hardship, and days under the sun. what right did he have to stand here and make himself seem pitiful and sympathetic when he couldnt even save sj? in the end, all he says is a wretched "im sorry for not saving you."

(hc that yqy always had this mentality, it was just worsened by his shizun. yes hes totally downplaying everything he went through on his quest to try to save sj. yqy has serious self-worth issues)

sj refuses to go to cqms with yqy. hes far too old to cultivate so all he'll end up doing there is be a servant. in sj's view that was akin to returning to his old life, just under a different master in a far bigger "estate"

yqy visits often, leaving behind trinkets sj could pawn or sell and bags of money to keep himself fed and warm. he tries to reconnect with sj, but (like canon, just even worse) sj is not having it. to sj, these "gifts" are bribes for him to stay quiet to keep yqy's pristine reputation. sj drives yqy away, but always finds himself watching as yqy leaves. it seems that therell always be a small part of him that wants his older brother back.

as sj gets older he gets sicker, experiencing aches and pains and dreaded headaches.

yqy notices, and so starts to leave medicine as well.

the longer this goes on, the more yqy looks sad and regretful. the dark cloud that hangs above his head grows darker each time he arrives and is chased away

sj abruptly thinks that he should disappear. when he was gone, yqy was doing well. its only after he showed back up in his life that yqy seemed to start being more miserable.

it of course didnt help that sometimes one of yqy's martial siblings accompanied him on his visits. always staying on the outskirts of his property, but always with an odd and/or dissaproving look on their face. sometimes, sj would faintly hear them tell yqy that coming here wasnt worth it, or at least something similar to it (sj doesnt see the harsh and downright terrifying look yqy would then send that person)

the first time he seriously tries to end his life, it is unexpectedly cut short by a rapid knocking on his door

THIS IS WHERE THE LUO FAMILY COME IN!!! mme luo comes knocking on his door one day, carrying a small feverish toddler. she has no money to go to the nearest doctor (this particular doctor likes charging too high), and the closest neighbor that hasnt already ignored her pleas for help is sj

sj aggrievedly lets her in, giving mme luo an appropriate dose of medicine so she could be the one to coax the kid into ingesting it. the child ends up recovering fairly quickly, and as thanks mme luo leaves a delicious plate of fish in a woven basket for sj

sj returns the basket. mme luo fills it again with another dish, this time with a bowl of sweet and sour pork with bokchoy soup

following the movie, everytime sj (otto) tries to khs, his attempts are unkowingly thwarted by the people hes shown kindness to

at some point mengyao (now very newly named jgy!!) encounters sj again. jgy doesnt stay long, since he does have to return to the jin sect, but he helps around the house. he cooks sj breakfast, teaches binghe etiquette, and becomes an indulgent culinary student to a very eager to show off binghe

each time someone barges into his life, sj always tells them to fuck off. most times he lets them in anyway, but others he shuts them out.

he goes too far one day, so mme luo does her mom thing and somehow gets him to open up. shes always tried to get him to do that, but sj always closed himself from others. this one time, sj tells her about his past and explains why he acts the way he does

while it is indeed the only time hes done so, he begins to allow himself to grow closer with others and let them get to know him, just as much as he gets to know about them

eventually, very slowly, qijiu begin to reconcile. yqy finds the courage to tell sj that he was hasty and was trapped within the ling xi caves, that he did go back, just too late. while theyll never be like they were before, they still had each other in the end

it would be nice if, unlike canon, him helping people inadvertently gets him to live, yk? kindness spreads kindness, that sort of thing

#original shen qingqiu #shen jiu #yue qingyuan #mama luo #baby binghe #sisi #meng yao #the man named otto au #watch the movie im being for real rn #its so good and its so sad #found family is so HMMSNN #yqy sheds tears everytime he comes back and theres more grey hairs on sj's head #sj is all “qige stop crying its natural🙄🙄🙄”#binghe steals hearts everywhere he goes #he also punches jgs in the family jewels the one time he visits his yao-gege #yqy of course helps binghe deal with the political aftermath #ive been having a lot of thoughts about the antagonists of mxtx becoming a family #i just think itd be neat

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lady-ashfade · 1 year

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Vs Cunk. Pt.1

Kaz brekker vs Cunk!reader.

Alina Starkov vs Cunk!reader

Warnings: Sexual themes, cunk sense of humor, kaz being done, Paul, me just having a laugh.

Part one. Part two.

@wrapperpaper who gave me the idea. And @rorygilmoreclown who made one and had me laughing.

Y/n sitting in a chair across kaz who was forced to be there: Who are you?

Kaz: I thought you already knew? That’s the whole point of this “interview”

Y/n nods and cheeks off a box on the paper: Hmm, kaz right? They said you’re like a biting little dog.

Kaz: Little dog? Who says that, I’ll have you know I am the bastard of-

Y/n: I don’t care what your mother, it’s okay to be bedded out of wedlock. But that’s not why you’re here today.

Kaz tightens his jaw and clinched his hands together.

Y/n: So, you had the firepox?

Kaz tenses up: Yes. What does that matter?

Y/n: Is that why you cover up? How bad are the burns? I bet you’re glad they didn’t get your face.

Kaz confused: Burns- It’s not actually fire.

Y/n: Oh really? Interesting. Then why call it firepox? It’s like the chickenpox, what has that to do with chickens?

Kaz rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer.

Y/n: I can see you’re annoyed and the others told me you’re like that all the time. Is it because you can’t touch others and sleep with them?

Kaz titles his head: Are you asking about my ability to be intimate? I can tell you that’s not why, and don’t continue that road.

Y/n: My mate Paul can’t go a week without having a good wank, or to visit a brothel. I once walked in on him and I was scarred for life. I mean the sounds alone were like a demonic pig-

Kaz standing: This is over.

Y/n: I didn’t even finish- *Looks at the camera* He’s a charmer.

Y/n looking around and walking to the a room in the palace: I feel like I’ve died and ended up in a saints fever dream. *Takes a sit in front of alina* What are you?

Alina taken aback: I’m Alina starkov, the sun summoner.

Y/n nods with a impressed face: Well thank you for giving us the sun.

Alina: I didn’t give you the sun- I just have powers.

Y/n: Could you give me the sun? Who does it belong to now? What would I have to pay?

Alina shakes her head: I didn’t create the sun, that’s what they just call me.

Y/n disappointed: Oh..Then why are you where?

Aline: I was told this was a interview.

Y/n nods and go to more questions: What is “The summoner”

Alina: I have power of light, I can tear down the fold- I don’t know to explain it to you.

Y/n: So you’re a walking candlestick? Do you have to light yourself each time, or can you just turn it on?

Alina laughs nervously: It just happened, it’s within me. And I’m a little more then a candle.

Y/n hums: My mate Paul once lit himself on fire once, but it just burnt his feet off. I think he was trying to make a pretty show, not sure really.

Alina covers her mouth: I’m sorry to hear that.

Y/n: Yeah….*Stares at the floor in silence*

Alina confused and what is happen, she looks around the room.

Y/n snaps out of it: Are you more like a lamppost? Because that’s worth alot, would you be interested in working for me? I sometimes can’t see when I go outside at night.

Alina stunned.

Should I make more?

#kaz brekker x reader #alina starkov x reader #alina starvok #Cunk!reader #cunk on everything #shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #kaz brekker

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b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 3 months

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The Blue Eyed Bandit

When a wanna-be cowboy rides in all the way from Tennessee, he’s laughed out of town, but Y/N can see something in him that others can’t, especially when their town becomes the target of ruthless gang of bandits.

Johnny Knoxville X Fem!Reader

(Cowboy!Au, Angst, Fluff)

5.9k Words

Warnings: Extremely suggestive content, prostitution, flirting, drinking, bar fights, guns, stalking, blood, wound care, knives, makeouts, hickeys, description of injury, gun sucking, degredation, groping, (attempted) kidnapping

An: I’ve wanted to write a story about Johnny as a cowboy for a while XD This was inspired by a lot of things, but especially the Mexico episode of Viva la Bam! I specificly wrote this story to be set in the ‘1850s, though it’s not explicitly stated. I did more research for this fic than any other I’ve written before, on topics from wound care to desert fruits and breeds of horses! It was super fun to write so please let me know if you would be interested in something similar to this in the future!!

You were lucky. It’s odd to say that working as a prostitute in a parlor house would be the luckier of any number of options, but it was. Leaning against the dry, rotting wooden post that held up the roofed porch of Madame Evette’s Gentleman Parlor, your current place of board and employment, you rolled this idea of luck around your mind. There’s always worse options, like that brothel up the road that had half its staff wiped out in the last smallpox outbreak. Working here, you always had a hot meal, warm baths, proper living quarters, health insurance, and much more reputable clients. In fact, you had started to get familiar with your regulars because nobody new ever seemed to come there. Looking out at the high, sandy bluffs that framed the desolate, arid New Mexico landscape, you realized that this was a town that new people didn't want to come to, but whose citizens seemed to want to leave by any means.

Lost in thought, you hardly noticed when a man walked up to the creaky railing you were leaning against until he tipped his hat at you with a warm, half smile, “Howdy, ma’am.” It shocked you how cordial he acted to you of all people. Still, you met his eyes. “Hi.” You recognized him- one week ago, this wanna-be cowboy from out east rode into here of all places to pursue his wild west fantasy, and he was already the laughingstock of the town. Still, you humored him a little, “What can I do ya for?” While he was a little dorky, you recognized the charming air he had about him that none of your other clients seemed to possess as he made conversation, “Well, I was under the assumption that this is the place for a gentleman like myself to find some company and,” Holding out his palm flat to take yours, he spoke low and with an accent you couldn’t quite place, “I would be delighted to be graced with yours.” Part of you assumed this was some sort of cruel trick he was pulling, treating a woman like you as a common lady, but you gave him your hand anyways.

Just then, the Madame caught sight of this through the window and swiftly came storming outside with a broom, “Keep those dirty paws away from my girls!” The commotion seemed to draw a good deal of attention as some of the girls inside peered out the door in various states of undress to giggle at the spectacle going down on the porch, and then there was you, caught in the middle of all this. “This is a proper establishment! You can take those dusty boots of yours down to the whorehouse across the street!” She chased him out into the streets, and there went the cowboy, ducking down an alleyway, laughing to himself.

You and the rest of the girls spent the evening lounging about the well furnished parlor, drinking wine in your garters and stockings while you entertained tonight’s men. Despite what people may think, your interactions with patrons didn’t start in the bedroom- there’s some drinking and singing and fraternizing one would usually have to get past before the fun stuff started. But the whole time you were chatting up the fat cat town banker while he puffed away at his cigar, you couldn’t help but think back to your interaction with that cowboy from earlier. There was something different in the way he treated you- how he saw you compared to how the rest of the town did. Most of the men you tended to wouldn’t be caught dead in your presence outside of this place, but he felt no shame in the slightest to interact with you. In fact, he seemed to have taken a liking to you. The thought made your chest feel warm.

Then, out of the blue, there was this great commotion outside, loud enough to rattle the crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Oh. This couldn’t be an earthquake- earthquakes aren’t usually accompanied by the whip cracking sounds of gunfire. Oh. This had to be a saloon fight gone bad. You nearly fell to the ground as everyone in the parlor flooded out the front door for a chance to bear witness to this spectacle, and of course you followed shortly behind because while you were a lady, you were never one to miss a good fight. There was always something or other going on in this town, whether it be a shootout or a bank robbery, so most people were sort of desensitized to it at this point. Dashing out onto the dusty streets, all indigo from the night, so many people crowded into the little tavern next door that you would’ve thought the cheap wooden floors would’ve given out from sheer weight. The place was buzzing. You weaseled in, squirming past people. At first, all you could see over the heads of those in front of her was the town bartender Steve, the one with the shaved head, cautiously emerging from where he had ducked behind the counter, all pale under yellow lamplight. The bar in front of him was completely splintered and half of the bottles that sat behind it were shattered, sticky amber liquid draining down the walls and to the floor. The whole thing was pretty damn tragic- you knew Steve, and by extension knew how he had been busting his behind, having practically built this place from the ground up and kept it running with only a couple saloon girls for help. It was his way of fulfilling a passion you always found to be pretty selfless: making people happy. Albeit, it was through alcohol and cheap bar tricks, he still took it seriously, like it was his baby, and in one moment it was destroyed.

As you squirmed closer to the front of the crowd, that’s when you caught it. A blur of mauve then step on a chair, step on a table- crash! A man leapt out of a window with an armful of cash, green bills fluttering in the air with the sparkling shower of glass. Immediately, you recognized him, but anyone in town could with one look at that purple mink duster with the strange heart symbol on the back that hung from his shoulders or with a glance at that face that was just made for wanted posters. But just like that, he disappeared into the night. And there, on the floor at the feet of the people who had front row seats to all this, was the cowboy from earlier, and he did not look good. Well, he looked good, but he looked unwell, especially with the slowly growing red stain on his shirtfront. “My, my, my…you gotta deathwish, boy? Or are you just plain stupid?” A man standing at the front of the crowd glowered down at him like he was horseshit on his shoe, “Ana’body five miles round’d know not to mess with them bandits.” If it wasn't bad enough, he had picked a fight with the leader of the meanest gang of ruffians in the west, this ruthless fellow that went by the name Bam on account of all the chaos he caused wherever he set foot and that subtleness wasn't necessarily his style. Of course he didn’t know what he was getting into, but the bandit king was gone, and everyone had forgotten about the cowboy that was still bleeding on the hardwood, so you ran over to the bar for a wet towel. Still shaken up, Steve handed you the bar cloth he was unconsciously gripping and, as the townspeople filtered out, you went to tend to the man in the ground.

“Whats’re name, cowboy?” It was pity that urged you to help him, surely. As you peeled away the dark cloth that stuck to his skin, his chest rose with heavy breaths. He watched with half lidded eyes as you dabbed away the blood that was steadily trickling from where he was grazed with a bullet, swallowing as your hands ghosted over a faded tattoo of a woman’s name on his chest before he murmured in a voice still hoarse, “Johnny.” Smiling softly, you finished up cleaning his wound, “Well, what you did back there was mighty brave, Johnny.” Now that you got a look at him, you couldn’t deny that he was a pretty well shaped young man. Cracking an exhausted grin, he let out a labored chuckle, still polite despite the circumstances, “Well thank’y, ma’am.” Gazing up at you with those blood loss dazed eyes, Johnny murmured, a little embarrassed, “I’d invite you back to mine, but I don't think it’d be your style, considering. I, uh- I’ve been sleepin’ in the horse stables for the past week…” There was something undeniably endearing about that fact. You helped him to stand as you went to pull yourself up, “Well, what about tomorrow? We could have lunch together.” Stumbling to his feet, Johnny drawled, “That sounds like a fine idea.”

So you dressed up nice that Sunday in a dress you “borrowed” from one of the other girls that worked at the parlor with you- this vibrant pink dress, the color of ripe red pitaya fruit. The usually lively streets of the town were deserted on Sunday mornings, and since you avoided leaving the parlor during the day due to the looks you got on the street, Sundays were the only day you really went out for fresh air. Johnny was already waiting for you in front of the bar, still in the same clothes as yesterday, bloodstains and all. Seeing you fully dressed for the first time in a sort of ‘you clean up well’ moment, he looked you up and down before a smile crept onto his lips, “Why aren’t you at church?” You shrugged, “I ain’t exactly the churchgoing type, and if I was, they don’t take too well to my kind. You?” The two of you began to walk down the dusty streets, the midday sun beating down and warming your skin. Johnny walked in step with you, inching a little closer, “Well, neither am I.”

You ended up at this little oasis up on a hill at the outskirts of town- one of the few green places left in this god forsaken place. Sitting down on the grass under a Blue Jacaranda tree, you set your woven basket that you carried the food in down and you caught Johnny nearly drooling as you opened it. It was all food you found lying around the parlor- fluffy pink and white conchas, warm boiled esquites, and a package of salt pork wrapped in brown paper and twine. Handing him one of the pastries, he tore into it like a starved man. Noticing your surprise at his eagerness, Johnny stopped himself and added bashfully, “Sorry…In- In all truth, ma’am, I’ve been livin’ off’a bar peanuts for the past few days…” It was believable- that cowboy was looking mighty thin. Of course, he went right back to eating.

The two of you talked for a while. He told you all about the mishaps that happened to him on his journey there all the way from Tennessee, a part of the old Southwest territory, and about how before he realized he wanted to move out west to pursue his cowboy dreams, he was a writer for his town’s newspaper. There was no shortage of stories with this man, and you couldn’t complain because he spoke with this vividness to his words that just captivated you. Johnny asked you about what it’s like in your line of work. You told him that you grew up on a farm and came here for a better life, some life that turned out to be. But as long as you had a clean bed to sleep in and warm meals, you’d be pretty content.

“So,” You started after a silence, “How’s that wound healin’ up?” Swallowing what was in his mouth, Johnny loostend the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled the collar to the side over his bicep, exposing the half scabbed over pink flesh. Maybe it was just an excuse to touch his chest, the intimacy made more so that you were leaning over his body as he sat up on his elbows, looking down at you. Fighting back a blush from creeping onto your cheeks, you blinked and met his eyes, “It, uh…doesn’t look infected, no.” As you pulled away, your gaze lingered on his still open shirt, “Is that your woman’s name- on your chest?” Johnny glanced down at the name scrawled on his tan skin, “Nah. S’my daughter’s.” Never in your days could you imagine a man as young as him a father. Still, you couldn’t help but ask, “So she’s waitin’ for you with your lady back home?” Shaking his head, he smiled gently as if remembering something fondly, “Oh, no- my little girl’s all grown up. And my wife,” he wiped some crumbs off of the side of his mouth, his voice falling a little serious, “well, she left me ‘bout a year ago this November.” You asked for an inch and he gave you a mile. At this point, you couldn’t deny that you were interested in him, but you still maintained your stuff demeanor, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Glancing up at the sky, you shielded your eyes with your hand, “S’noon. Church should be letting out soon.”

Conversation was light as you walked back in town and he dropped you off at the parlor like a gentleman. You made a resolution that this would be routine- outcasts like you needed to stick together after all, or at least that was what Johnny said. It was cute, in a way, all this wisdom he had. As the two of you were chatting as you passed an alleyway, you saw something out of the corner of your eyes- this dark figure and a glint of something diamond blue that sent chills down your spine. But when you turned to take a second look, the shadow disappeared.

That next morning, you and some of the other girls were relaxing on the porch in your frilly underclothes and chatting because you had no clients and, in your line of work, that is what you call advertising. Every now and then a man passing by would whistle at you and you’d have to go up to the rail and flirt with them a little, standing just where you did on that day you first ran into Johnny. His plight still occupied your mind. Poor guy- his daughter left him and so did his wife. He’s probably a very lonely man. Before you could get to thinking about how you would be more than happy to help him out a little with that loneliness, your attention was drawn elsewhere. It seemed that you were too slow to notice the panicked looks and the people starting to make themselves scarce until a hush fell over the street and the air was so tense you could cut it with a knife. Just as you could’ve sworn you could hear yourself sweat, that’s when you saw him.

This hulking, dark mass looked like a vulture on the prowl as he sulked past a roadside fruit stand. There was no question who this was. Your blood ran cold at the dark chuckle that reverberated through the bandit king’s throat at the poor, shivering man who owned the stand as Bam snatched something out of one of the baskets full of fruit, not bothering to pay for it. He was subtle and silent there, something nobody had ever known him to be. Flicking his Bowie knife out of its leather sheath, the silver blade glimmered under the hot southwestern sun like sparkling hot oil as he wasted no time carving the skin off of that pitaya fruit. Though his eyes were concealed under the shadow of the brim of his hat, you felt Bam’s chilling gaze on you from that predatory grin he wore as sticky, red juices bubbled up around the Damascus steel, smearing across his blade and dribbling down his fingers. As if to emphasize a point, he dropped the now discarded peel to the ground and brought the knife to his lips, a serpent-like tongue flicking out to lap at the last traces of sweet nectar from the sharp, glinting edge.

And he smiled at you.

A cool wind blew through the air as you and Johnny sat down at the top of the hill that Sunday. “You know, ma’am,” Sitting with his legs out, cowhide boots stretched out in front of him on the grass, he turned to you, “I never caught your name- your real one, I mean.” Glancing up from the basket, you shook yourself from your thoughts of your encounter with Bam that last week, swallowing before you replied, “It’s, uh- it’s Y/N.” A warm smile spread across his face as you spoke, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “Y/N. That is a mighty beautiful name.” That warm feeling- that same feeling as before, swelled up in your chest as you stared out onto the golden desert that seemed to stretch on for miles in the early morning sun. “Johnny.” You cleared your throat, “Is this how you expected it to go? Life, I mean.” God knows that you didn’t. You came here looking for a better life. What a sham that was. It was rare that you really got to feeling sorry for yourself, but sometimes, and especially after what happened, it was hard. Feeling nauseated, you hadn’t touched a crumb of the food you brought for the both of you, while Johnny had eagerly gotten through more than half the basket by the time you spoke up. “If you’re askin’ me if I thought I’d end up a cowboy, traveling the land and rightin’ wrongs, I would say yes.” He added hurriedly, a little embarrassed, “But, so far in this town, that ain’t exactly what I’ve been doin’...”

“So, you’re not gonna stay?” Unconsciously, you had inched just a little closer to him, nearly laying your head on his shoulder as the two of you talked. This clearly didn’t pass under Johnny’s notice as his voice fell sweet like honey against your ears, “Well, I didn’t say that. What I mean is, “ He turned toward you slightly, so close to your face that his lips nearly brushed against your cheek as he spoke in a low, slow voice, “all I’d need is a reason to stay.” You only then just noticed how, with the way your face was tilted towards his, your lips were nearly, almost touching. And then they did. But it felt nice- different from the sloppy men who had stolen kisses from you before. It felt soft, and natural. Almost upon contact, Johnny sat back with wide eyes, surprised at his own impulsive actions, “O-Oh lord…” His voice got real quiet, nearly wavering, as he blushed softly, “That may’ve been the least gentlemanly thing I’ve ever done.“

You stopped him, placing a hand against the soft fabric of his dark, half unbuttoned shirt front and leaning back in to gently press your lips to his, your eyelashes fluttering shut. Johnny’s warm muscles were initially tense under your touch but as he relaxed into the kiss, so did his body, letting out a soft groan against your lips. You had never made a man blush before, much less react so earnestly. Reaching out to you, the cowboy’s hands found purchase in your clothing, calloused fingers tangling into your calico dress as he hurriedly undid the brass buttons. Your heart fluttered in your chest and your head swam from the passion and desert heat as you started to think that this was maybe what love was supposed to be. Johnny’s breath came out in hot pants against your newly exposed skin as he hungrily sucked mauve blotches onto your neck and chest, his facial scruff tickling a little as he practically devoured you. But he was gentle with it. So sweet and gentle.

Nothing could have pulled Johnny away from you then, not even the gunshot that cracked out loud in the town below while the two of you were still caught up in the heat of the moment, so you were the one who had to pull his face away from your bosom by his hair. You could feel his breath fanning out against your skin as you sat up to get a better look at the commotion. Howling and cackling like twin coyotes, off rode the bandit king away with his fair haired cohort, arms full of loot from their latest hit- the town general store. They had swiped a small fortune in gunpowder, dynamite, and tobacco. Of course, this drew the townspeople away from church early, especially when one of the two young men who owned the store ran out, shouting and brandishing a shotgun. He fired three or four shells in their general direction, but his shots didn’t come near the hides of the bay mustangs nor the bandits that rode away on them, kicking up dust.

Johnny went back to the horse stables that night and realized just how much everything was looking up for him. He had a roof over his head, the favor of a lovely woman he would quite frankly lay down his life for, and hot meals every night courtesy of the man who owned the stable, a fellow by the name of Chris who he had gotten to know pretty well. In fact, besides the town bartender Steve, he was his only friend, but it was hard to count Steve as a friend because he was always tacking extra tequila shots onto Johnny’s tab while he distracted him with some trick he picked up in the circus. Still, he could let that slide because business was business. Chris, on the other hand, was just a sweet guy who loved horses, and he had taken such a liking to Johnny’s horse, Noami, that he let him sleep in her horse stall there free of charge.

So that explained why he was in the stables in the middle of the night, laying back against her shiny, chestnut coat as she slept with her head against his chest, snoring softly. Funnily enough, it was the horse sleeping against him that woke up first when a dark figure hopped the front gates into the stables. Blinking awake after she stood up, Johnny sat up curiously to catch sight of the silhouette opening stall doors. He thought about Chris- all those nights of charity and companionship, just for him to let some two bit their run off with his buddy’s pride and joy? Oh, no way in hell he was going to let that happen. A flash of emotions went through his mind as he threw himself to his feet and stood up to block the front gate. Johnny’s voice was nearly a growl as he gazed across at the bandit who was currently trying to make off with Jezebel, Chris’ prized palomino mare. “Y’aint leavin’ with her.” Though he didn’t initially recognize him, Johnny put two and two together quickly.

Bam was dead quiet, only visible as the tombstone shape he made in the darkness as he got low, light glinting off of the silver spurs affixed to his heels. Then, all at once it was as if the cowboy had taken a steam engine to the solar plexus, while in actuality it was a black suede wrapped fist that had knocked the air from his lungs. Still, Johnny stayed on his feet, coughing hard and hitting him with a poorly placed uppercut that knocked that hat clean off of his head. Bam sputtered, his mouth now bloodied and dripping onto the sand as he ducked down, taking a step to the side as his right hand reached for the gun afixed to his hip. It was no wonder the bandit king would fight dirty. Before Johnny could duck away, cold steel collided with his orbital bone in a skillfully placed pistol whip and he was knocked out cold. As the cowboy’s body fell limp to the ground, Bam huffed and spun his trusty piece around a finger before slotting it back in its leather holster, shooting a look at the man below him that spelled out that his resistance would not go unpunished.

When Johnny woke up, the first person to come to his aid was the stable owner himself. Chris picked him up under the armpits, lugging his half awake self over to a wooden chair in a corner and leaving him there as he went to fetch some medical supplies from his home next door, leaving the door open as midday sun flooded in. Blinking awake, the first thing Johnny did was look around to see if maybe what had happened last night was a bad dream and that the horse was still waiting in her stable, which was especially hard given the purple swelling around his left eye, but her stall door was wide open from the previous night. As Chris returned with a leather medical bag, Johnny coughed, his voice gravelly, “He- he got away with Jezebel…” This was a low point for him. It seemed that no matter how or when he tried to intervene, there was nothing this cowboy could do, even for the man who had shown him such charity. Kneeling down and threading catgut sutures onto the curved needle, Chris seemed forlorn, yes, but there was an appreciative inflection to his voice as he stitched up the split in Johnny’s cheek, “But he could’ve gotten away with a lot more if you weren't here. I’d say that makes you a hero in my book!” Turning it over in his head, he decided that maybe he had a point with that, but he still wasn't going to tell Y/N. She didn’t need to know. As the needle pierced the cowboy’s skin, he winced, sucking a breath in through his teeth. As Johnny peered down at the dried blood that certainly wasn't his that still remained on his knuckles, he swallowed hard, his voice still tense and very grave, “I’ll get’re back for you. Promise.”

So you heard no word of the stolen horses the next morning and went about your day without a care in the world, tending to clients as usual. You were especially busy that night, feverishly going from man to man, doing your thing and racking up quite a sum in commissions from all the whiskey you pawned off. In fact, you were so focused that you nearly jumped when you heard your name, “Y/N.” Madame Evette tapped you on the shoulder, drawing your attention away from the client you were currently entertaining, “Room seven. There’s a gentleman waitin’ for you upstairs.” It struck you as odd because while men who wanted to skip all the fluff wasn't that uncommon, it didn’t happen every night. Apologizing to the fellow you were talking to with a red lipsticked kiss on the cheek, you turned to hurry up the creaky staircase, making clicky noises against the wood in your little heeled boots.

Wandering down the hall of rooms upstairs, you cracked open the door of room seven to darkness inside from a put out lantern. Oh, poor guy- he must be shy. That makes the whole no canoodling thing make more sense. As you closed the door behind you, you noticed that there was just enough light from the moon trickling in the open window that you could still see a general outline of the man sitting in the wooden chair at the far corner of the room with his knees about a mile apart as you approached him, doing your little flirty routine, “So, what can I do ya’ for, handsome?” Wordlessly, the figure gestured down with two fingers and you knew what he was asking for, especially after he shifted his hips to sit lower in the chair with a huff. Getting onto your knees, you positioned yourself between his thighs, the floor chilling the skin of your bare legs. Reaching out, you started to undo his pants, and while the downstairs parlor was consistently noisy, the soft metallic clinking of a belt buckle was the only noise in the otherwise silent room. Your lips fell open and your eyes suddenly went wide at the sudden, unmistakable ice cold feeling against your forehead.

It was the muzzle of a revolver. The voice that rumbled out of the man above you was nearly a snarl as he spoke through his teeth, “You make one peep an’ I swear to god,” he pressed the tip harder against your head for emphasis and you could swear you heard a smirk in his voice, “I’m puttin’ this bullet in your fuckin’ skull.” Your heartbeat pounded in your ribcage as you felt your head swim and you thought that this is what it feels like to be a jackrabbit caught in the jaws of a coyote. Quivering, your gaze nervously trailed up his body, and you could feel the color drain from your face when your sight fell upon his glinting, all too familiar vulture eyes, flickering like blue hot steel. Click. The bandit king slowly pulled back on the hammer, his hand so close to your face you could see his fingers curl around the mother of pearl handle and read the words etched into the barrel as he tightened his grip with his finger on the trigger. And he chuckled this deep, predatory laugh, grinning down at you with a mouth full of fangs as he spoke slow, deliberately, “Now you’re gonna stand up nice n’ slow with those hands b’hind yer back- and you are gonna be real quiet.” Frozen in fear, you couldn’t move under the shadow that looked over you even if you wanted to keep your brain inside your skull, which you really, really did. “Y’takin’ me fr’a fool, whore?” Bam’s thick accent deepened with agitation as he spit his words, nearly barking, “I said,”

“Stand. Up.” A gloved hand roughly tangled in your hair and yanked you up on shaky deer legs, forcing you to weakly comply much to his satisfaction with the gun still snugly pressed against your forehead. Standing maybe six inches away from you, you picked up on the distinct scent of alcohol and tobacco on his breath. With how his gaze lingered at your lips, you could tell he was getting an idea of something else he could do with that gun, but he just nodded, relenting just slightly at your compliance, “That’s it, girl. Now turn around.” Standing up after you, Bam jabbed the revolver between your shoulder blades making you arch your back as he harshly grabbed your wrists and deftly bound them with the red bandana he wore around his neck. Pulling the gun away from your spine for a second, a warning shot cracked out through the ceiling that made you jump, your eyes nearly bugging out of your skull in fear as you yelped. But your terror was funny- so damn funny to Bam as he pushed you along, the burning hot muzzle returning to where it once was.

The scene downstairs was absolute chaos after that bullet went through the ceiling. Startled patrons and half clothed women scrambled outside, flooding into the streets and attracting quite a bit of attention, especially from the cowboy that was lingering outside the horse stables before he was set to retire for the night. Even though every instinct in him told him to stay away based on the outcome of his previous heroic efforts, Johnny’s body lurched forward almost involuntarily, dashing towards the chaos that Madame Evette’s Gentleman Parlor had become. Pushing past frightened patrons, he stormed in right as Bam was walking you down the staircase as you stumbled in front of him. Your panic-stricken eyes met Johnny’s (or at least, the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut) as he stared at the scene in front of him, his tone stern but his fear giving way to a trace of vulnerability in his voice after he swallowed hard, “Let her go.” The man behind you tugged you back hard by your bound wrists as the gun relocated to your temple, wedging you in place between the weapon and where the bandit king rested his head on your shoulder, nuzzling against your cheek. “Oh, no way…” Bam held eye contact with Johnny as purred into your ear, speaking melodically as he taunted both you and him, “I gotch’re woman…an’ I don’t feel like givin’ her back.” Adding insult to injury, with his torso pressed snug against your back in a crude imitation of intimacy, his free hand, which was sitting on your hip, slid up your body posessively, reaching to roughly fondle your chest as he let out a low, predatory growl, his gaze challenging the cowboy across from him.

If you could’ve seen the white hot fury in Johnny’s eyes. Blinded by rage, he didn’t even consider using the pistol tucked into his holster, instead lunging to tackle Bam to the ground. You slipped out of his tight grasp just in time, clamoring to safety on your hands and knees on the hardwood floor as the cowboy just wailed on the guy. The struggle between the two was like watching two bighorn sheep with their horns locked in conflict, a blur of instinct and emotion, all rabid and teeth and fists. Letting out shuddering breaths, all you could do was watch the violent scene in front of you with your heart pounding out of your chest, not daring to move an inch. The only thing that could’ve pulled Johnny off of the man beneath him was when the town sheriff stormed in, grabbing him by the back of his shirt collar and throwing him off of the bandit king, or what was left of him as he lay limp on the ground. He was beaten to a pulp, almost literally- just a wheezing, bubbling mess of blood and bruising with a few teeth missing. Pulling Bam up by his sweat soaked black curls, Sheriff Tremaine held him to dangle in the air, glaring at the man in his hand with unadulterated disgust, “You’n you’re little gang’re goin’ away for a while.” There was no doubt that he had witnessed the brutality the cowboy inflicted, especially with the blood still dripping off of his still raw knuckles, but it seemed that he would let it slide this time, glancing to you and Johnny and tipping his hat, “We’re gonna get to roundin’ up the rest’a these bandits.”

Without a proper leader, the most fearsome gang of criminals in the west were left with nothing to hold them together, letting the sheriff's men easily pick them off and throw them in the slammer where they rightfully belonged. Life, for once in that godforsaken town, was peaceful. And Johnny? Well, after he was credited as the man who took down the bandits, he was hailed as the town hero, especially after he helped rebuild the bar and returned Jezebel to her stall at the town stables. Even Madame Evette had taken a liking to him, permitting him to come and go to the parlor whenever he felt the need to visit you- on the condition that he got a new pair of boots.

#jackass #bam margera #johnny knoxville #ryan dunn #chris pontius #steve o #ehren mcghehey #dave england #jeff tremaine #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #fluff #cowboy!au #angst #jackass x reader #johnny knoxville x reader #yes I know pitaya isn’t realisticly that juicy but for euphemism purposes #Spotify

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daenerystargaryen06 · 17 days

Text

Times Daenerys has Shown Compassion

A Game of Thrones:

"She brought back a haunch of goat and a basket of fruits and vegetables. Jhiqui roasted the meat with sweetgrass and firepods, basting it with honey as it cooked, and there were melons and pomegranates and plums and some queer eastern fruit Dany did not know. While her handmaids prepared the meal, Dany laid out the clothing she'd had made to her brother's measure: a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, leather sandals that laced up to the knee, a bronze medallion belt, a leather vest painted with fire-breathing dragons. The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon. She was arranging the last of his gifts—a sandsilk cloak, green as grass, with a pale grey border that would bring out the silver in his hair—when Viserys arrived, dragging Doreah by the arm. Her eye was red where he'd hit her. "How dare you send this whore to give me commands," he said. He shoved the handmaid roughly to the carpet. The anger took Dany utterly by surprise. "I only wanted … Doreah, what did you say?" [..] "Khaleesi, pardons, forgive me. I went to him, as you bid, and told him you commanded him to join you for supper." [..] "No one commands the dragon," Viserys snarled. "I am your king! I should have sent you back her head!" The Lysene girl quailed, but Dany calmed her with a touch. "Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. Sweet brother, please, forgive her, the girl misspoke herself, I told her to ask you to sup with me, if it pleases Your Grace." She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. "Look. These are for you." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IV

"Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men. I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate. "Most of Ogo's riders fled," Ser Jorah was saying. "Still, there may be as many as ten thousand captives." Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver's Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne. "I've told the khal he ought to make for Meereen," Ser Jorah said. "They'll pay a better price than he'd get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them." Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany's hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver's head. "Make them stop," she commanded Ser Jorah." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VII

"The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. "Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider's look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me." She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate. It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate. "You cannot claim them all, child," Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her. "I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon," Dany reminded him. "It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do." Across the city, a building collapsed in a great gout of fire and smoke, and she heard distant screams and the wailing of frightened children." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VII

"I will carry you, blood of my blood," Haggo offered. Khal Drogo waved him away. "I need no man's help," he said, in a voice proud and hard. He stood, unaided, towering over them all. A fresh wave of blood ran down his breast, from where Ogo's arakh had cut off his nipple. Dany moved quickly to his side. "I am no man," she whispered, "so you may lean on me." 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." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VII

"Mago seized her, who is Khal Jhaqo's bloodrider now," said Jhogo. "He mounted her high and low and gave her to his khal, and Jhaqo gave her to his other bloodriders. They were six. When they were done with her, they cut her throat." [..] "It was her fate, Khaleesi," said Aggo. If I look back I am lost. "It was a cruel fate," Dany said, "yet not so cruel as Mago's will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh." The Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances. "Khaleesi," the handmaid Irri explained, as if to a child, "Jhaqo is a khal now, with twenty thousand riders at his back." She lifted her head. "And I am Daenerys Stormborn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon's daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo." He was lying on the bare red earth, staring up at the sun." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX

A Clash of Kings:

"We follow the comet," Dany told her khalasar. Once it was said, no word was raised against it. They had been Drogo's people, but they were hers now. The Unburnt, they called her, and Mother of Dragons. Her word was their law. They rode by night, and by day took refuge from the sun beneath their tents. Soon enough Dany learned the truth of Doreah's words. This was no kindly country. They left a trail of dead and dying horses behind them as they went, for Pono, Jhaqo, and the others had seized the best of Drogo's herds, leaving to Dany the old and the scrawny, the sickly and the lame, the broken animals and the ill-tempered. It was the same with the people. They are not strong, she told herself, so I must be their strength. I must show no fear, no weakness, no doubt. However frightened my heart, when they look upon my face they must see only Drogo's queen. She felt older than her fourteen years. If ever she had truly been a girl, that time was done. Three days into the march, the first man died. A toothless oldster with cloudy blue eyes, he fell exhausted from his saddle and could not rise again. An hour later he was done. Blood flies swarmed about his corpse and carried his ill luck to the living. "His time was past," her handmaid Irri declared. "No man should live longer than his teeth." The others agreed. Dany bid them kill the weakest of their dying horses, so the dead man might go mounted into the night lands." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick, yet it was her dragons she feared for. Her father had been slain before she was born, and her splendid brother Rhaegar as well. Her mother had died bringing her into the world while the storm screamed outside. Gentle Ser Willem Darry, who must have loved her after a fashion, had been taken by a wasting sickness when she was very young. Her brother Viserys, Khal Drogo who was her sun-and-stars, even her unborn son, the gods had claimed them all. They will not have my dragons, Dany vowed. They will not." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"Yet even as her dragons prospered, her khalasar withered and died. Around them the land turned ever more desolate. Even devilgrass grew scant; horses dropped in their tracks, leaving so few that some of her people must trudge along on foot. Doreah took a fever and grew worse with every league they crossed. Her lips and hands broke with blood blisters, her hair came out in clumps, and one evenfall she lacked the strength to mount her horse. Jhogo said they must leave her or bind her to her saddle, but Dany remembered a night on the Dothraki sea, when the Lysene girl had taught her secrets so that Drogo might love her more. She gave Doreah water from her own skin, cooled her brow with a damp cloth, and held her hand until she died, shivering. Only then would she permit the khalasar to press on." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"They saw no sign of other travelers. The Dothraki began to mutter fearfully that the comet had led them to some hell. Dany went to Ser Jorah one morning as they made camp amidst a jumble of black wind-scoured stones. "Are we lost?" she asked him. "Does this waste have no end to it?" [..] "It has an end," he answered wearily. "I have seen the maps the traders draw, my queen. Few caravans come this way, that is so, yet there are great kingdoms to the east, and cities full of wonders. Yi Ti, Qarth, Asshai by the Shadow . . ." [..] "Will we live to see them?" [..] "I will not lie to you. The way is harder than I dared think." The knight's face was grey and exhausted. The wound he had taken to his hip the night he fought Khal Drogo's bloodriders had never fully healed; she could see how he grimaced when he mounted his horse, and he seemed to slump in his saddle as they rode. "Perhaps we are doomed if we press on . . . but I know for a certainty that we are doomed if we turn back." Dany kissed him lightly on the cheek. It heartened her to see him smile. I must be strong for him as well, she thought grimly. A knight he may be, but I am the blood of the dragon." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"Dany smiled. "Perhaps it's the camels you're smelling. The Qartheen themselves seem sweet enough to my nose." [..] "Sweet smells are sometimes used to cover foul ones." My great bear, Dany thought. I am his queen, but I will always be his cub as well, and he will always guard me. It made her feel safe, but sad as well. She wished she could love him better than she did. -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys II

A Storm of Swords:

"No," said Dany. Groleo watched them from the forecastle, and his crew was watching too. Whitebeard, her bloodriders, Jhiqui, every one had stopped what they were doing at the sound of the slap. "I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can't, can I? There are eight thousand brick eunuchs for sale, and I must find some way to buy them." And with that she left him, and went below. Behind the carved wooden door of the captain's cabin, her dragons were restless. Drogon raised his head and screamed, pale smoke venting from his nostrils, and Viserion flapped at her and tried to perch on her shoulder, as he had when he was smaller. "No," Dany said, trying to shrug him off gently. "You're too big for that now, sweetling." But the dragon coiled his white and gold tail around one arm and dug black claws into the fabric of her sleeve, clinging tightly. Helpless, she sank into Groleo's great leather chair, giggling." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"Dany's mouth surely twisted at that. Did he see, or is he blind as well as cruel? She turned away quickly, trying to keep her face a mask until she heard the translation. Only then did she allow herself to say, "Whose infants do they slay?" [..] "To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them." She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. "You take a babe from its mother's arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?" -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"None." Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? "They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don't even have names. So don't call them men, ser." [..] "Khaleesi," he said, taken aback by her fury, "the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—" [..] "I have heard all I care to of their training." Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done." Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. "The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs." [..] "Your Grace," said Jorah Mormont, "I saw King's Landing after the Sack. Babes were butchered that day as well, and old men, and children at play. More women were raped than you can count. There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Yet I have never heard of these Unsullied raping, nor putting a city to the sword, nor even plundering, save at the express command of those who lead them. Brick they may be, as you say, but if you buy them henceforth the only dogs they'll kill are those you want dead. And you do have some dogs you want dead, as I recall." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"Valar morghulis," said Missandei, in High Valyrian. "All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray." She leaned back on the pillows and took the girl's hand. "Are these Unsullied truly fearless?" [..] "Yes, Your Grace." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys III

"Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment lay close beyond her own; five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, this second camp had no ditches, no tents, no sentries, no horselines. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor. I gave them the city, and most of them were too frightened to take it. The raggle-taggle host of freedmen dwarfed her own, but they were more burden than benefit. Perhaps one in a hundred had a donkey, a camel, or an ox; most carried weapons looted from some slaver's armory, but only one in ten was strong enough to fight, and none was trained. They ate the land bare as they passed, like locusts in sandals. Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged. I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV

"The chant grew, spread, swelled. It swelled so loud that it frightened her horse, and the mare backed and shook her head and lashed her silver-grey tail. It swelled until it seemed to shake the yellow walls of Yunkai. More slaves were streaming from the gates every moment, and as they came they took up the call. They were running toward her now, pushing, stumbling, wanting to touch her hand, to stroke her horse's mane, to kiss her feet. Her poor bloodriders could not keep them all away, and even Strong Belwas grunted and growled in dismay. Ser Jorah urged her to go, but Dany remembered a dream she had dreamed in the House of the Undying. "They will not hurt me," she told him. "They are my children, Jorah." She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode to them, the bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her. "Mother," they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. "Mother," they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. "Mother, Mother, Mother!" -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV

"Ser Jorah looked unhappy. "We'll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There's no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we've had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march."[...] "Freedmen," Dany corrected. "They are slaves no longer." [..] "Slave or free, they are hungry and they'll soon be sick. The city is better provisioned than we are, and can be resupplied by water. Your three ships are not enough to deny them access to both the river and the sea." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys V

"It is known," Jhiqui agreed, as she poured. "Not to me." Dany set great store by Ser Jorah's counsel, but to leave Meereen untouched was more than she could stomach. She could not forget the children on their posts, the birds tearing at their entrails, their skinny arms pointing up the coast road. "Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?" [..] "You can't. I am sorry, Khaleesi. They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us." Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. "No," she said. "I will not march my people off to die." My children. "There must be some way into this city." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys V

"Children ran behind their horses, skipping and laughing. Instead of salutes, voices called to her on every side in a babble of tongues. Some of the freedmen greeted her as "Mother," while others begged for boons or favors. Some prayed for strange gods to bless her, and some asked her to bless them instead. She smiled at them, turning right and left, touching their hands when they raised them, letting those who knelt reach up to touch her stirrup or her leg. Many of the freedmen believed there was good fortune in her touch. If it helps give them courage, let them touch me, she thought. There are hard trials yet ahead." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys V

"Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely. Missandei had told her of the Lord of Harmony, worshiped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, her little scribe said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that dwelt upon them. Poor Lord of Harmony. Dany pitied him. It must be terrible to be alone for all time, attended by hordes of butterfly women you could make or unmake at a word. Westeros had seven gods at least, though Viserys had told her that some septons said the seven were only aspects of a single god, seven facets of a single crystal. That was just confusing. The red priests believed in two gods, she had heard, but two who were eternally at war. Dany liked that even less. She would not want to be eternally at war." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

"Dany was shocked. "They want to be slaves?" [..] "The ones who come are well spoken and gently born, sweet queen. Such slaves are prized. In the Free Cities they will be tutors, scribes, bed slaves, even healers and priests. They will sleep in soft beds, eat rich foods, and dwell in manses. Here they have lost all, and live in fear and squalor." [..] "I see." Perhaps it was not so shocking, if these tales of Astapor were true. Dany thought a moment. "Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman." She raised a hand. "But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

"Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves," said Daario Naharis. "You have brought freedom as well," Missandei pointed out. "Freedom to starve?" asked Dany sharply. "Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?" Am I mad? Do I have the taint?" -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

"A dragon," Ser Barristan said with certainty. "Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace." [..] "But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?" He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. "My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I've freed all over again." She turned back to look at their faces. "I will not march." [..] "What will you do then, Khaleesi?" asked Rakharo." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

A Dance with Dragons:

"She had not forgotten the slave children the Great Masters had nailed up along the road from Yunkai. They had numbered one hundred sixty-three, a child every mile, nailed to mileposts with one arm outstretched to point her way. After Meereen had fallen, Dany had nailed up a like number of Great Masters. Swarms of flies had attended their slow dying, and the stench had lingered long in the plaza. Yet some days she feared that she had not gone far enough. These Meereenese were a sly and stubborn people who resisted her at every turn. They had freed their slaves, yes … only to hire them back as servants at wages so meagre that most could scarce afford to eat. Those too old or young to be of use had been cast into the streets, along with the infirm and the crippled. And still the Great Masters gathered atop their lofty pyramids to complain of how the dragon queen had filled their noble city with hordes of unwashed beggars, thieves, and whores. To rule Meereen I must win the Meereenese, however much I may despise them. "I am ready," she told Irri." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys I

"If he proposes again that I wed King Cleon, I'll throw a slipper at his head, Dany thought, but for once the Astapori envoy made no mention of a royal marriage. Instead he said, "The time has come for Astapor and Meereen to end the savage reign of the Wise Masters of Yunkai, who are sworn foes to all those who live in freedom. Great Cleon bids me tell you that he and his new Unsullied will soon march." His new Unsullied are an obscene jape. "King Cleon would be wise to tend his own gardens and let the Yunkai'i tend theirs." It was not that Dany harbored any love for Yunkai. She was coming to regret leaving the Yellow City untaken after defeating its army in the field. The Wise Masters had returned to slaving as soon as she moved on, and were busy raising levies, hiring sellswords, and making alliances against her." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys I

"The noble Grazdan had once owned a slave woman who was a very fine weaver, it seemed; the fruits of her loom were greatly valued, not only in Meereen, but in New Ghis and Astapor and Qarth. When this woman had grown old, Grazdan had purchased half a dozen young girls and commanded the crone to instruct them in the secrets of her craft. The old woman was dead now. The young ones, freed, had opened a shop by the harbor wall to sell their weavings. Grazdan zo Galare asked that he be granted a portion of their earnings. "They owe their skill to me," he insisted. "I plucked them from the auction bloc and gave them to the loom." Dany listened quietly, her face still. When he was done, she said, "What was the name of the old weaver?" [..] "The slave?" Grazdan shifted his weight, frowning. "She was … Elza, it might have been. Or Ella. It was six years ago she died. I have owned so many slaves, Your Grace." [..] "Let us say Elza. Here is our ruling. From the girls, you shall have nothing. It was Elza who taught them weaving, not you. From you, the girls shall have a new loom, the finest coin can buy. That is for forgetting the name of the old woman." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys I

"Reznak wrung his hands. "N-nine, Magnificence. Foul work it was, and wicked. A dreadful night, dreadful." Nine. The word was a dagger in her heart. Every night the shadow war was waged anew beneath the stepped pyramids of Meereen. Every morn the sun rose upon fresh corpses, with harpies drawn in blood on the bricks beside them. Any freedman who became too prosperous or too outspoken was marked for death. Nine in one night, though … That frightened her. "Tell me." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys II

"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." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys II

"How else, to grow a soldier? Your Radiance enjoyed my dancers. Would it surprise you to know that they are slaves, bred and trained in Yunkai? They have been dancing since they were old enough to walk. How else to achieve such perfection?" He took a swallow of his wine. "They are expert in all the erotic arts as well. I had thought to make Your Grace a gift of them." [..] "By all means." Dany was unsurprised. "I shall free them." That made him wince. "And what would they do with freedom? As well give a fish a suit of mail. They were made to dance." [..] "Made by who? Their masters? Perhaps your dancers would sooner build or bake or farm. Have you asked them?" [..] "Perhaps your elephants would sooner be nightingales. Instead of sweet song, Meereen's nights would be filled with thunderous trumpetings, and your trees would shatter beneath the weight of great grey birds." Xaro sighed. "Daenerys, my delight, beneath that sweet young breast beats a tender heart … but take counsel from an older, wiser head. Things are not always as they seem. Much that may seem evil can be good. Consider rain." [..] "Rain?" Does he take me for a fool, or just a child? "We curse the rain when it falls upon our heads, yet without it we should starve. The world needs rain … and slaves. You make a face, but it is true. Consider Qarth. In art, music, magic, trade, all that makes us more than beasts, Qarth sits above the rest of mankind as you sit at the summit of this pyramid … but below, in place of bricks, the magnificence that is the Queen of Cities rests upon the backs of slaves. Ask yourself, if all men must grub in the dirt for food, how shall any man lift his eyes to contemplate the stars? If each of us must break his back to build a hovel, who shall raise the temples to glorify the gods? For some men to be great, others must be enslaved." He was too eloquent for her. Dany had no answer for him, only the raw feeling in her belly. "Slavery is not the same as rain," she insisted. "I have been rained on and I have been sold. It is not the same. No man wants to be owned." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys III

"I know that the Mother of Dragons will not abandon us in our hour of peril. Lend us your Unsullied to defend our walls." And if I do, who will defend my walls? "Many of my freedmen were slaves in Astapor. Perhaps some will wish to help defend your king. That is their choice, as free men. I gave Astapor its freedom. It is up to you to defend it." [..] "We are all dead, then. You gave us death, not freedom." Ghael leapt to his feet and spat into her face. Strong Belwas seized him by the shoulder and slammed him down onto the marble so hard that Dany heard Ghael's teeth crack. The Shavepate would have done worse, but she stopped him. "Enough," she said, dabbing at her cheek with the end of her tokar. "No one has ever died from spittle. Take him away." They dragged him out feet first, leaving several broken teeth and a trail of blood behind. Dany would gladly have sent the rest of the petitioners away … but she was still their queen, so she heard them out and did her best to give them justice." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys III

"It was all Dany could do not to laugh. "Not well. Last night three Qartheen galleys sailed up the Skahazadhan under the cover of darkness. The Mother's Men loosed flights of fire arrows at their sails and flung pots of burning pitch onto their decks, but the galleys slipped by quickly and suffered no lasting harm. The Qartheen mean to close the river to us, as they have closed the bay. And they are no longer alone. Three galleys from New Ghis have joined them, and a carrack out of Tolos." The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by proclaiming her a whore and demanding that she return Meereen to its Great Masters. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, which came by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled. "Perhaps your gods can help us. Ask them to send a gale and sweep the galleys from the bay." [..] "I shall pray and make sacrifice. Mayhaps the gods of Ghis will hear me." Galazza Galare sipped her wine, but her eyes did not leave Dany. "Storms rage within the walls as well as without. More freedmen died last night, or so I have been told." [..] "Three." Saying it left a bitter taste in her mouth. "The cowards broke in on some weavers, freedwomen who had done no harm to anyone. All they did was make beautiful things. I have a tapestry they gave me hanging over my bed. The Sons of the Harpy broke their loom and raped them before slitting their throats." [..] "This we have heard. And yet Your Radiance has found the courage to answer butchery with mercy. You have not harmed any of the noble children you hold as hostage." "Not as yet, no." Dany had grown fond of her young charges. Some were shy and some were bold, some sweet and some sullen, but all were innocent. "If I kill my cupbearers, who will pour my wine and serve my supper?" she said, trying to make light of it." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys IV

"The Astapori stumbled after them in a ghastly procession that grew longer with every yard they crossed. Some spoke tongues she did not understand. Others were beyond speaking. Many lifted their hands to Dany, or knelt as her silver went by. "Mother," they called to her, in the dialects of Astapor, Lys, and Old Volantis, in guttural Dothraki and the liquid syllables of Qarth, even in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "Mother, please … mother, help my sister, she is sick … give me food for my little ones … please, my old father … help him … help her … help me …" I have no more help to give, Dany thought, despairing. The Astapori had no place to go. Thousands remained outside Meereen's thick walls—men and women and children, old men and little girls and newborn babes. Many were sick, most were starved, and all were doomed to die. Daenerys dare not open her gates to let them in. She had tried to do what she could for them. She had sent them healers, Blue Graces and spell-singers and barber-surgeons, but some of those had sickened as well, and none of their arts had slowed the galloping progression of the flux that had come on the pale mare. Separating the healthy from the sick had proved impractical as well. Her Stalwart Shields had tried, pulling husbands away from wives and children from their mothers, even as the Astapori wept and kicked and pelted them with stones. A few days later, the sick were dead and the healthy ones were sick. Dividing the one from the other had accomplished nothing. Even feeding them had grown difficult. Every day she sent them what she could, but every day there were more of them and less food to give them. It was growing harder to find drivers willing to deliver the food as well. Too many of the men they had sent into the camp had been stricken by the flux themselves. Others had been attacked on the way back to the city. Yesterday a wagon had been overturned and two of her soldiers killed, so today the queen had determined that she would bring the food herself. Every one of her advisors had argued fervently against it, from Reznak and the Shavepate to Ser Barristan, but Daenerys would not be moved. "I will not turn away from them," she said stubbornly. "A queen must know the sufferings of her people." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys VI

"They're past cursing," said Symon Stripeback. Little children with swollen stomachs trailed after them, too weak or scared to beg. Gaunt men with sunken eyes squatted amidst sand and stones, shitting out their lives in stinking streams of brown and red. Many shat where they slept now, too feeble to crawl to the ditches she'd commanded them to dig. Two women fought over a charred bone. Nearby a boy of ten stood eating a rat. He ate one-handed, the other clutching a sharpened stick lest anyone try to wrest away his prize. Unburied dead lay everywhere. Dany saw one man sprawled in the dirt under a black cloak, but as she rode past his cloak dissolved into a thousand flies. Skeletal women sat upon the ground clutching dying infants. Their eyes followed her. Those who had the strength called out. "Mother … please, Mother … bless you, Mother …" Bless me, Dany thought bitterly. Your city is gone to ash and bone, your people are dying all around you. I have no shelter for you, no medicine, no hope. Only stale bread and wormy meat, hard cheese, a little milk. Bless me, bless me. What kind of mother has no milk to feed her children?" -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys VI

"Daenerys gave him a quizzical look. "Lions?" [..] "Three of them. The dwarfs will not expect them." She frowned. "The dwarfs have wooden swords. Wooden armor. How do you expect them to fight lions?" "Badly," said Hizdahr, "though perhaps they will surprise us. More like they will shriek and run about and try to climb out of the pit. That is what makes this a folly." Dany was not pleased. "I forbid it." [..] "Gentle queen. You do not want to disappoint your people." [..] "You swore to me that the fighters would be grown men who had freely consented to risk their lives for gold and honor. These dwarfs did not consent to battle lions with wooden swords. You will stop it. Now." The king's mouth tightened. For a heartbeat Dany thought she saw a flash of anger in those placid eyes. "As you command." Hizdahr beckoned to his pitmaster. "No lions," he said when the man trotted over, whip in hand." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys IX

"Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you. The voice was no more than a whisper, yet somehow Dany felt that he was walking just behind her. My bear, she thought, my old sweet bear, who loved me and betrayed me. She had missed him so. She wanted to see his ugly face, to wrap her arms around him and press herself against his chest, but she knew that if she turned around Ser Jorah would be gone. "I am dreaming," she said. "A waking dream, a walking dream. I am alone and lost." Lost, because you lingered, in a place that you were never meant to be, murmured Ser Jorah, as softly as the wind. Alone, because you sent me from your side." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys X

Many antis love to say that Dany is evil, a slave master, uncaring, etc. Yet here we see in her passages that she is compassionate, sympathetic, and has a high disdain for unnecessary violence.

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esther-dot · 10 months

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HELPPPP, I KNEW THAT DAENERYS STANS HATED MIRRI MAZ DUUR, BUT AT LEAST, I THOUGHT THEY DIDN’T HATED HER FOR KILLING DROGO. GUESS I WAS WRONG.

https://www.tumblr.com/swordsandarms/716956244482637824/ultimately-mirri-was-selfish-outside-of-how-it?source=share

I talked before about how Drogo didn’t follow Mirri’s instructions, so I’m not sure she can be blamed for his death (link) and of course, the same thing applies with Rhaego:

And, if Mirri did intentionally set out to kill Drogo, I support that, just as I would support Dany if she had determined to kill him. The man is a rapist and a slaver, if his victims chose to take him out, I’d have no complaints!

I don’t think OP’s statements about Mirri take the facts of Rhaego or Drogo’s deaths into account, and I certainly disagree with the whitewashing of Drogo. If we go back and read the set-up, I would argue we’re being guided to sympathize with Mirri—not him. I think that view/the Dany view is being undercut:

Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbingin a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men.

I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.

[…]

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver's Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

[…]

"I've told the khal he ought to make for Meereen," Ser Jorah said. "They'll pay a better price than he'd get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them."

[…]

"You heard my words," she said. "Stop them." She spoke to her khas in the harsh accents of Dothraki. "Jhogo, Quaro, you will aid Ser Jorah. I want no rape."

The warriors exchanged a baffled look.

Jorah Mormont spurred his horse closer. "Princess," he said, "you have a gentle heart, but you do not understand. This is how it has always been. Those men have shed blood for the khal. Now they claim their reward."

Across the road, the girl was still crying, her high singsong tongue strange to Dany's ears. The first man was done with her now, and a second had taken his place.

"She is a lamb girl," Quaro said in Dothraki. "She is nothing, Khaleesi. The riders do her honor. The Lamb Men lay with sheep, it is known."

"It is known," her handmaid Irri echoed.

"It is known," agreed Jhogo, astride the tall grey stallion that Drogo had given him. "If her wailing offends your ears, Khaleesi, Jhogo will bring you her tongue." He drew his arakh.

"I will not have her harmed," Dany said. "I claim her. Do as I command you, or Khal Drogo will know the reason why."

"Ai, Khaleesi," Jhogo replied, kicking his horse. Quaro and the others followed his lead, the bells in their hair chiming.

"Go with them," she commanded Ser Jorah.

"As you command." The knight gave her a curious look. "You are your brother's sister, in truth."

"Viserys?" She did not understand.

"No," he answered. "Rhaegar." He galloped off.

Dany heard Jhogo shout. The rapers laughed at him. One man shouted back. Jhogo's arakh flashed, and the man's head went tumbling from his shoulders. Laughter turned to curses as the horsemen reached for weapons, but by then Quaro and Aggo and Rakharo were there. She saw Aggo point across the road to where she sat upon her silver. The riders looked at her with cold black eyes. One spat. The others scattered to their mounts, muttering.

All the while the man atop the lamb girl continued to plunge in and out of her, so intent on his pleasure that he seemed unaware of what was going on around him. Ser Jorah dismounted and wrenched him off with a mailed hand. The Dothraki went sprawling in the mud, bounced up with a knife in hand, and died with Aggo's arrow through his throat. Mormont pulled the girl off the pile of corpses and wrapped her in his blood-spattered cloak. He led her across the road to Dany. "What do you want done with her?"

The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. "Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider's look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me." She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate.

It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate. (AGOT, Daenerys VII)

The author wants us to know how horrific this is. The author tells us how abused these women are. And then the author has a sly line about Dany which initially leads us to side with Dany, believe these women are unnecessarily worried about her intentions, but what eventually befalls Mirri?

"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. (AGOT, Daenerys X)

The fires swept over Mirri Maz Duur. Her song grew louder, shriller … than she gasped, again and again, and her song became a shuddering wail, thin and high and full of agony. (AGOT, Daenery X)

A malicious, painful death at Dany’s hand. I simply don’t think the point of any of those scenes is that Mirri is a baddie.

#anti daenerys #dot chat

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ramcharantitties · 9 months

Text

Raghuvan, Teri raah nihaare

chapter 6 here

Chapter 7

S/n: i have nothing to say in defense

Adikavya took a deep breath. No news have been received from Ram's house in past some days. Did he finally manage to call the wedding off? She slowed her steps down, didn't want to go home so soon. Her friends in college had nothing but sympathy for her when they got to know about the whole Ram and the brothel ordeal. Which was annoying- very annoying. Good thing college was ending soon, it was already hard enough for her to attend it with her family's permission. The more she stays away from the idea of marriage, the more she can study.

Adikavya huffed, turning the corner, almost knocking into someone. She looked up to find Akhtar there. Akhtar was a friend she made before college even started. He lived alone, away from his home in another state. Akhtar gave a long look to her and disappeared in the narrow street between two buildings. Adikavya sighed and followed him, knowing where they were heading to.

Akhtar was a tall man with curly head of hair and a beige kurta as his trademark. On a rather special moment, you might catch him wearing his septum ring. His demeanor was bold, strong, intimidating. But he was still as innocent and shy as a child. Although, he sure was a born leader.

Adikavya and Akhtar sat together, a boiled corn cob in their hands, swinging their legs as her anklets jingled in the eastern winds. "Why do you hate Ram?"

Adikavya looked at him in an awestruck confusion. This was way too out of ordinary.

"I don't"

"Don't lie"

"I don't hate him. I hate how it will be impossible to live my life how I want it to be if I get married to him"

"Why"

"Because first, I don't want to get married. And he is in love with someone else"

"Isn't that Sita from the mahal across the river?"

"Yeah"

"Wasn't she your friend?"

Adikavya froze on spot. She could feel the winds passing through her hair, her palms on the rough surface of the stone they sat on. She could feel the glowing fire in her heart of anxiety and hiding the truths. Akhtar promised to never utter this relationship in the world. Ever. Wordlessly, she got up and walked back home, leaving a hesitant Akhtar behind.

============================================

Ram remembered when Sita laid by the banks of Ganga, drinking her sorrow away. Her hair like strands of gold woven with leaves of tulsi. Eyes keen like wide leaves of peepal, her bindi brighter than the moon. Ram wanted to touch her white saree, her scent after she has just taken a bath. The voice of sita's ghungroo chiming through the courtyard, mingling with chirps of maina on the railing of balcony.

Ram slowly smiled at the faint memory of his time in Sita Mahal, the ends of his lips tugged up by string of sadness. It's been two days since he left the Sita Mahal but was still finding his way home. Did he even have a home at this point? The only golden palace to call his home was the shining sandalwood arms of sita. Why does all the pleasure comes to an end? But she was just not a pleasure anyways. Never was.

Ram struggled to stand on his own legs at this point. He has been searching for his Sita throughout the roads of Banaras, but always gets tired remembering she is nowhere but the place he will never step a foot again. He could make out the road that led to Adikavya's home. Adikavya. The woman never loved him, never wanted to marry him. But she had the need to escape her family, to find a chance good enough to leave everything behind. Ram also saw the terrace of his own- Babai's house from a distance in blurriness. It was quarter to twelve, the streets empty with warmth of streetlights being Ram's only comfort. He slumped down by the pole, the excess amount of alcohol finally getting to his head.

Adikavya hurried to close the windows in a hurry with all the mosquitos following the sweet scent in her house. It was way too late but she was desperate to get rid of them. The constant whirring and biting has been a disaster for her sleep.

In the distant streetlamp light, she could figure out an unconscious shadow by the pole. Must be a drunkard, she thought. Her bangles jingled lightly when she reached for the window gate. As she shut the wooden window gently as to not awaken anyone in the house, a fleeting thought of the drunkard being Ram passed her mind. It was true that no one knew where Ram had been from past two days. Although Adikavya and her family assumed that 'he must be lying in a ditch somewhere', she was, if not equally, but a little worried- for the sake of humanity.

Covering her face with a shawl, her hurried footsteps were the only sound of life in the dead street at night. Adikavya wished it was not Ram. That would be a lot less burden on her. Even if it was Ram, what would she do? Who would she call for help? And most importantly, why would she call anyone for help? Ram was no one related to her or was not going to be related to her anytime soon. Adikavya's steps only quicken at the sight of a body as muscular as Ram. If it was Ram, she would have to drag him his own house and leave him there. No other options.

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

tagging- @budugu @sabi5 @thewinchestergirl1208 @rambheemlove @ramayantika @bromance-minus-the-b @bishh-kanya @chaanv @nyotamalfoy @obsessedtoafault @phoenix666stuff @iam-siriuslysher-lokid @saanjh-sakhi @cursedcursives @hopelessdemonic @nerdreader @bitchy-bi-trash @vijayasena

#ghungru #ram charan #rrr #rrr movie #desi tag #ram charan rrr #ram #ram x reader #rambheem #raghuvan

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willowmvp · 10 months

Text

"You know, everyone always said the old castle was cursed."

The man working the inn sighed, shaking his head. "Everyone that's gone up there hasn't come back. You'd be wise to stay away." He slides the coins from the table, nodding once, and leaving you to your drink. You'd asked about it out of curiosity, a looming monolith of what once ruled these parts. What was once a bustling village, alive and thriving, was now just a stop on the road, an inn, a few townspeople too stubborn to leave, and a winding road through the center that forked off towards the sea.

No one stayed long. Fishermen had ships to get back to. People accompanied by their partners had days of travel ahead of them to get home. Adventurers turned up their noses at the sound of the curse and carried on down the road. Youngsters would dare one another to get closer to the abandoned castle and come running back, shouting about darkness or strange scrabbling noises in the halls.

But you? It'd been a few days since you'd found your way here. The innkeeper was more than happy to take your gold, filling your belly with food and drink, keeping a warm roof over your head. You'd heard about the curse on the first day. A child, no more than fourteen, had pulled you into an alley, warning you of the castle. "Don't go up there." They'd said, coughing. "My da went up and never came back. Ma just thinks he's run off, but it's the curse. It took him." Then a shout had come from a nearby home, and they ran off, leaving you with curiosity that couldn't be satisfied by a few glimpses of rugged stone bricks.

You pondered your options as you stared into the drink you'd been served. You could leave. You could get on a ship and go north, somewhere frozen with ice beasts to hunt and thick cuts of meat found in every tavern. Back east along the road you'd come from there had been a town with a very tempting brothel and a lovely woman who'd smelled of apple blossoms. Another ship could take you west across the sea, into much more treacherous waters where a curse was the least of your worries, and every one of the locals lied and cheated their way to riches.

But why leave when you were already here? A curse. You'd dealt with curses before. You'd dealt with a lot of things before. Besides, curses were never what they seemed. Loud shrieks from an old lighthouse were just the wind whistling through the broken walls, howls in the night came from stray wolves that just wanted a fresh meal. Everything had an explanation. You took a sip, and decided. A few nights had already been paid for anyways. You'd find out what this castle was hiding.

#willowmvp

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coochiequeens · 2 months

Text

Considering that three exploited women were killed in a brothel maybe the Austrian government can start dealing with violence against women by adopting the Nordic Model

Vienna, Austria's serene capital, renowned for its musical heritage and architectural beauty, was plunged into shock and mourning as authorities investigate the harrowing murders of four women and a 13-year-old girl in two separate, yet equally chilling incidents. In the heart of the Brigittenau district, a brothel became a crime scene with three women found brutally stabbed to death. Mere miles away, in an unassuming apartment, a mother and her young daughter were discovered lifeless, feared to have been strangled or choked. The Austrian capital's day of horror has not only ignited a fierce debate on femicide across the nation but also cast a glaring spotlight on Europe's battle with violence against women.

A Day of Despair and Questions

In the early hours, the tranquility of Vienna was shattered. Three young women, their dreams and aspirations cruelly ended, were found in a brothel, victims of fatal knife wounds. A 27-year-old man, arrested nearby with a knife believed to be the murder weapon, remains a suspect under tight scrutiny. The air was thick with unanswered questions and the pain of lives lost too soon. Meanwhile, not far from the first crime scene, a family tragedy unfolded in silence. A woman and her daughter, bound by blood and now by tragedy, were found dead in their home. The father, enveloped in suspicion, became a prime suspect in this grievous act. This series of homicides has not only left a city in mourning but has reignited conversations about femicide, the most extreme form of gender-based violence.

The Unseen War Against Women

This isn't an isolated narrative. Between 2010 and 2020, Austria recorded 319 women killed, the majority by partners or ex-partners, peaking at 43 victims in 2019. These numbers are not just statistics; they are mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends whose absence leaves an irreplaceable void. The outcry following these incidents has put pressure on the Austrian government, which has pledged to increase funding for victim support organizations. Yet, NGOs argue that while funding is crucial, preventative measures are vital to curb this escalating violence. Femicide, a term that encapsulates the killing of women and girls because of their gender, is a grotesque manifestation of ingrained societal inequities and prejudices that require more than just reactive policies.

Looking Forward: Action Beyond Words

The Austrian government's commitment to address this issue is a step in the right direction, yet the road ahead is long and fraught with challenges. Legislation, education, and societal change must work hand in hand to dismantle the patriarchal structures that perpetuate violence against women. The recent horrific events in Vienna serve as a grim reminder of the urgency with which we must act to protect and empower women, ensuring that safety and equality aren't just ideals, but realities. As Vienna mourns, the collective call for action against femicide grows louder, echoing across Austria and beyond, urging societies to confront and eradicate this pervasive violence.

#austria #vienna #Femicide #Violence against women #Violence against sexually exploited women #Domestic violence #Male violence #A man killing his daughter

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sairee · 9 months

Text

I like your name (Ghost x Soap)

Ghost doesn't like his name very much. Soap disagrees.

Chapter 12 excerpt of Don't Let Me Go on ao3.

They were still a little ways out from their target location as they made progress towards the town. The past day and a half had been hectic as they solely focused on researching as many leads as they could with haste, more often than not resulting in a dead end.

Taking a moment to rest, Ghost enjoyed the cool breeze on his face and breathed in the fresh smell of earthy air as it had just finished raining in this area not too long ago. The remaining water droplets on the ground were kicked up by the turning wheels, leaving a flittering spray trail behind them.

The headlights of the truck cut through the pitch black of the empty country roads. It felt as though Ghost was surrounded in nothingness except for the brilliant glimmer of millions of stars in the vast night sky.

Even in these moments of peace, Ghost couldn’t stop thinking about one particular thing he’d heard over the comms while Soap was in the brothel.

Across from him in the bed of the truck, Soap was looking up at the sky. Ghost cautiously flicked his eyes over to see Rudy and Alejandro leaning up against the rear window, both their eyes closed. He turned back to Soap.

“Why did you give her your real name?”

Soap looked down and met his eyes. He was confused for a brief second before the question seemed to register in his mind.

“I needed to get Zoya to trust me,” Soap replied without hesitation, understanding what Ghost meant. “Being truthful makes that easier.”

“You don’t think that’s risky?” Ghost asked. He was mindful not to sound as though he was reprimanding Soap. That wasn’t what this was about.

Unexpectedly, Soap chuckled. “You know how many John’s there are in the world?” he said humorously. “Zoya herself said it sounded fake.” He shrugged. “I’m not concerned. It’s like trying to find someone with the last name Lee.”

A weird expression crossed over Soap’s face as if deep in thought. He suddenly dropped his head and laughed, trying to cover his mouth with his hand. He looked back up at Ghost with a smile.

“This team is 33% John right now,” Soap joked, vaguely gesturing toward the cabin of the truck.

Ghost could feel a tug at the corner of his mouth.

After a few more breathy chuckles, the smile slowly melted off Soap’s face as he became more serious.

“And anyway, in my experience, people are more intuitive than you might think. There’s a connection with someone’s name that comes across as… genuine, I could say. Almost like letting someone in… or letting your guard down.” Soap dropped his head and picked at something unseen on his pants. “I don’t know...”

It was an interesting thought. Unfortunately for Ghost, this wasn’t his experience. He wished he could share the same mentality as Soap.

“Not everyone feels connected to their name in the same way,” Ghost murmured, carefully keeping his voice level.

“You don’t like your name?” Soap said softly, still picking at something on his pants.

Ghost didn’t respond. Soap pursed his lips for a second before looking up at Ghost again.

“I like your name,” he stated casually, as if it were the most obvious thing.

“Which one?” Ghost asked.

“Both.”

Ghost remained silent again and turned his attention towards the empty night road behind them. After a few seconds, he figured the conversation was over. That was until Soap spoke up again.

“Simon,” he whispered teasingly.

“Stop,” Ghost ordered, although it came out without much conviction.

“What?” Soap said incredulously. “You can call me Johnny all the time, but I can’t call you Simon?”

“No… no it’s-it’s not that,” Ghost tried responding, but the words fumbled over themselves. “It’s just… not now.” His eyes betrayed him as he quickly glanced over to where Rudy and Alejandro were still sleeping. Soap looked Ghost up and down as if he could see right through him.

“Okay…” he said quietly, seeming to understand.

Ghost let very few people in his life call him Simon. He barely let himself use that name. Whenever it came out of his own mouth, it sounded awkward, invasive, broken. But the way that Soap had just said his name echoed in his mind over and over again.

It didn’t sound broken when Soap said it.

A gnawing ache at the back of his head wanted to hear him say it again.

Full chapter on a03.

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istumpysk · 1 year

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Tyrion VII (Chapter 27)

They were moving again, through the gate and beneath the city's massive walls. "You speak my tongue. Can I sway you with promises, or are you determined to buy a lordship with my head?"

"I was a lord, by right of birth. I want no hollow titles."

If Jorah Mormont wants Bear Island or his father's sword back, I'll skin him myself.

I'm convinced Maege thinks he's a bum.

+.+.+

Mighty Volantis, grandest and most populous of the Nine Free Cities. Ancient wars had depopulated much of the city, however, and large areas of Volantis had begun to sink back into the mud on which it stood. Beautiful Volantis, city of fountains and flowers. But half the fountains were dry, half the pools cracked and stagnant. Flowering vines sent up creepers from every crack in the wall or pavement, and young trees had taken root in the walls of abandoned shops and roofless temples.

You think it needs work now? Wait until Daenerys visits.

+.+.+

With whores, the young ones smell much better, but the old ones know more tricks."

"You would know more of that than I do."

"Ah, of course. That brothel where we met, did you take it for a sept? Was that your virgin sister squirming in your lap?"

Highly inappropriate behaviour with a virgin sister.

+.+.+

That made him scowl. "Give that tongue of yours a rest unless you'd rather I tied it in a knot."

Don't.

+.+.+

That much he'd learned on the road from Selhorys. His thoughts went to his boot, to the mushrooms in the toe. His captor had not searched him quite as thoroughly as he might have. There is always that escape. Cersei will not have me alive, at least.

Love when Lannisters consume poison so they're not taken alive.

+.+.+

Tyrion eyed the passing throngs. Nine men of every ten bore slave marks on their cheeks. "So many slaves … where are they all going?"

"The red priests light their nightfires at sunset. The High Priest will be speaking. I would avoid it if I could, but to reach the Long Bridge we must pass the red temple."

Almost the entire population of Volantis is drunk on R'hllor.

This will end well.

+.+.+

Seven save me, that's got to be three times the size of the Great Sept of Baelor. An enormity of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers flowing into one another as if they had all been chiseled from one collossal rock, the Temple of the Lord of Light loomed like Aegon's High Hill. A hundred hues of red, yellow, gold, and orange met and melded in the temple walls, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset. Its slender towers twisted ever upward, frozen flames dancing as they reached for the sky. Fire turned to stone.

And stone turned to fire equals dragons. In more ways than one.

Everything in Essos feels more grandiose. I can't wait for the Dragonstone disappointment.

+.+.+

Benerro's high voice carried well. Tall and thin, he had a drawn face and skin white as milk. Flames had been tattooed across his cheeks and chin and shaven head to make a bright red mask that crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth. "Is that a slave tattoo?" asked Tyrion.

The knight nodded. "The red temple buys them as children and makes them priests or temple prostitutes or warriors. Look there." He pointed at the steps, where a line of men in ornate armor and orange cloaks stood before the temple's doors, clasping spears with points like writhing flames. "The Fiery Hand. The Lord of Light's sacred soldiers, defenders of the temple."

Fire knights. "And how many fingers does this hand have, pray?"

"One thousand. Never more, and never less. A new flame is kindled for every one that gutters out."

Entirely possible Melisandre's glamor is hiding a tattoo.

One thousand sacred soldiers? Sounds like the Faith Militant!

This will end well.

+.+.+

Benerro jabbed a finger at the moon, made a fist, spread his hands wide. When his voice rose in a crescendo, flames leapt from his fingers with a sudden whoosh and made the crowd gasp.

Are we playing charades?

Dragons came from the moon, final answer.

+.+.+

Shouts erupted from the crowd. Women were weeping and men were shaking their fists. I have a bad feeling about this. The dwarf was reminded of the day Myrcella sailed for Dorne and the riot that boiled up as they made their way back to the Red Keep.

You and me both. Every paragraph the fate of Volantis becomes more clear.

Listen, I support any uprising of enslaved people, but I think it would be fair to say there's some red (god) flags.

+.+.+

Haldon Halfmaester had spoken of using the red priest to Young Griff's advantage, Tyrion recalled. Now that he had seen and heard the man himself, that struck him as a very bad idea. He hoped that Griff had better sense. Some allies are more dangerous than enemies. But Lord Connington will need to puzzle that one out for himself. I am like to be a head on a spike.

Haldon the Halfmaester is on a nasty losing streak. I have to agree with Tyrion again (ew), don't get into bed with religious fanatics.

Tyrion might be advising Daenerys in the near future, but I don't think he can stop R'hllor from getting his hands on her.

Some allies are more dangerous than enemies.

Servants of R'hllor, lions, krakens, shavepates . . . really, you could apply this to the whole entourage.

+.+.+

The priest was pointing at the Black Wall behind the temple, gesturing up at its parapets, where a handful of armored guardsmen stood gazing down. "What is he saying?" Tyrion asked the knight.

"That Daenerys stands in peril. The dark eye has fallen upon her, and the minions of night are plotting her destruction, praying to their false gods in temples of deceit … conspiring at betrayal with godless outlanders …"

The hairs on the back of Tyrion's neck began to prickle. Prince Aegon will find no friend here.

Can't wait for this guy to be enabling Daenerys. It's done wonders for Stannis.

+.+.+

The red priest spoke of ancient prophecy, a prophecy that foretold the coming of a hero to deliver the world from darkness. One hero. Not two. Daenerys has dragons, Aegon does not. The dwarf did not need to be a prophet himself to foresee how Benerro and his followers might react to a second Targaryen. Griff will see that too, surely, he thought, surprised to find how much he cared.

Strangely enough, I also don't need to be a prophet to foresee how Daenerys will react to a second Targaryen with a better claim.

surprised to find how much he cared.

Regarding Tyrion's eventual betrayal, I'm guessing Daenerys fire bombing Aegon will be one of the first dominoes to fall.

+.+.+

For a while Tyrion could still hear Benerro's voice growing fainter at their back and the roars his words provoked, sudden as thunder.

No kidding.

+.+.+

"It's your mouth that concerns me, not your legs. In fetters, you're a slave. No one will listen to a word you say, not even those who speak the tongue of Westeros."

"There's no need for this," Tyrion protested. "I will be a good little prisoner, I will, I will."

"Prove it, then, and shut your mouth."

So he bowed his head and bit his tongue as the chains were fixed, wrist to wrist, wrist to ankle, ankle to ankle. These bloody things weigh more than I do. Still, at least he drew breath. His captor could just as easily have cut his head off.

Jorah Mormont probably feels right at home putting a man in fetters.

There's something about Tyrion wearing chains, but being thankful he still has his head that's making me itch. I'm trying to ignore the tongue biting.

+.+.+

The oldest, richest part of the city was east of the river, but sellswords, barbarians, and other uncouth outlanders were not welcome there, so they must needs cross over to the west.

I'm sure the Dothraki will love all the wealth being east of the river.

Alone amongst the major river towns, Selhorys stood upon the eastern bank of the Rhoyne, making it much more vulnerable to the horselords than its sister towns across the river. Even so, it is a small prize. If I were khal, I would feint at Selhorys, let the Volantenes rush to defend it, then swing south and ride hard for Volantis itself. - Tyrion VI, ADWD

I can't tell if the Dothraki will take the demon road to Volantis or travel by ship. I know which one they would prefer.

+.+.+

Three heads were on display as well—two men and a woman, their crimes scrawled on tablets underneath them.

[...]

"What did they do?" Tyrion inquired innocently.

The knight glanced at the inscriptions. "The woman was a slave who raised her hand to her mistress. The older man was accused of fomenting rebellion and spying for the dragon queen."

"And the young one?"

"Killed his father."

Is this something? I can't spot a theme.

The woman was a slave who raised her hand to her mistress. Mirri Maz Duur? Potentially Irri? Might be nothing more than evidence of slave rebellion.

The older man was accused of fomenting rebellion and spying for the dragon queen. I think of Varys or Jorah when I see the word spy. Might be nothing more than evidence of slave rebellion.

"Killed his father." Tyrion? Ramsay?

+.+.+

Farther on, the knight paused briefly to consider a jeweled tiara displayed upon a bed of purple velvet. He passed that by, but a few steps on he stopped again to haggle over a pair of gloves at a leatherworker's stall.

He's picking out a gift for a woman they'll meet towards the end of the chapter.

I couldn't tell you the significance of him skipping the tiara for the gloves. Maybe he refuses to crown another woman? Dork ass loser.

+.+.+

"Is this some holy day?"

"Third day of their elections. They last for ten. Ten days of madness. Torchlight marches, speeches, mummers and minstrels and dancers, bravos fighting death duels for the honor of their candidates, elephants with the names of would-be triarchs painted on their sides. Those jugglers are performing for Methyso."

Current triarchs:

Malaquo Maegyr, a tiger

Doniphos Paenymion, an elephant

Nyessos Vhassar, an elephant

Doniphos is the one who will lose.

"Malaquo may be old and toothless, but he is a tiger still, and Doniphos will not be returned as triarch. The city thirsts for war." - Tyrion VI, ADWD

We're never explicitly told the results of the election, but it's implied the tigers won the extra seat.

"Grey skies and strong winds," Moqorro said. "No rain. Behind come the tigers. Ahead awaits your dragon." - Victarion I, ADWD

Volantis will go to war (with itself).

+.+.+

"And this goes on for ten days?" Tyrion laughed. "I might enjoy that, though three kings is two too many. I am trying to imagine ruling the Seven Kingdoms with my sweet sister and brave brother beside me. One of us would kill the other two inside a year. I am surprised these triarchs don't do the same."

"A few have tried. Might be the Volantenes are the clever ones and us Westerosi the fools. Volantis has known her share of follies, but she's never suffered a boy triarch. Whenever a madman's been elected, his colleagues restrain him until his year has run its course. Think of the dead who might still live if Mad Aerys only had two fellow kings to share the rule."

Seems to be hinting at Bran not having absolute uncontested power.

Volantis has known her share of follies, but she's never suffered a boy triarch.

They're not all bad.

+.+.+

"I spent the best part of a year here." The knight sloshed the dregs at the bottom of his tankard. "When Stark drove me into exile, I fled to Lys with my second wife. Braavos would have suited me better, but Lynesse wanted someplace warm.

Please send him someplace cold.

+.+.+

By the time I got back to Lys, she had taken a lover, who told me cheerfully that I would be enslaved for debt unless I gave her up and left the city.

Lol, cucked. Before you get to Meereen, I've got some bad news to share.

This might not be the last we hear of Lynesse Hightower.

Baelor's building galleys, Gunthor has charge of the harbor, Garth is training new recruits, and Humfrey's gone to Lys to hire sellsails. If he can winkle a proper fleet out of his whore of a sister, we can start paying back the ironmen with some of their own coin. - Samwell V, ADWD

Imagine Lynesse and Jorah on opposite sides of the war. Fun!

+.+.+

The knight drained the last of his ale. "On the morrow I'll find us a ship. The bed is mine. You can have whatever piece of floor your chains will let you reach. Sleep if you can. If not, count your crimes. That should see you through till the morning."

You have your crimes to answer for, Jorah Mormont, the dwarf thought, but it seemed wiser to keep that thought to himself.

It's almost like the author is reassuring me.

+.+.+

"Last night the talk here was all of Westeros. Some exiled lord has hired the Golden Company to win back his lands for him. Half the captains in Volantis are racing upriver to Volon Therys to offer him their ships."

Tyrion had just swallowed another locust. He almost choked on it. Is he mocking me? How much could he know of Griff and Aegon? "Bugger," he said. "I meant to hire the Golden Company myself, to win me Casterly Rock." Could this be some ploy of Griff's, false reports deliberately spread? Unless … Could the pretty princeling have swallowed the bait? Turned them west instead of east, abandoning his hopes of wedding Queen Daenerys? Abandoning the dragons … would Griff allow that? "I'll gladly hire you as well, ser. My father's seat is mine by rights. Swear me your sword, and once I win it back I'll drown you in gold."

Bait? You'd be with them!

Last week Tyrion told us turning west would improve Aegon's chances of marrying Daenerys.

+.+.+

"The widow of the waterfront. East of the Rhoyne they still call her Vogarro's whore, though never to her face."

The dwarf was not enlightened. "And Vogarro was …?"

"An elephant, seven times a triarch, very rich, a power on the docks. Whilst other men built the ships and sailed them, he built piers and storehouses, brokered cargoes, changed money, insured shipowners against the hazards of the sea. He dealt in slaves as well. When he grew besotted with one of them, a bedslave trained at Yunkai in the way of seven sighs, it was a great scandal … and a greater scandal when he freed her and took her for his wife. After he died, she carried on his ventures. No freedman may dwell within the Black Wall, so she was compelled to sell Vogarro's manse. She took up residence at the Merchant's House. That was thirty-two years ago, and she remains here to this day. That's her behind you, back by the courtyard, holding court at her customary table. No, don't look. There's someone with her now. When he's done, it will be our turn."

I bet there's no feelings of resentment.

+.+.+

"A dwarf," she purred, in a voice as sinister as it was soft. She spoke the Common Tongue with only a trace of accent. "Volantis has been overrun with dwarfs of late, it seems. Does this one do tricks?"

Yes, Tyrion wanted to say. Give me a crossbow, and I'll show you my favorite. "No," Ser Jorah answered.

"A pity. I once had a monkey who could perform all sorts of clever tricks. Your dwarf reminds me of him. Is he a gift?"

I have no idea what's going on. The monkey stuff is beyond excessive, and excessive usually means foreshadowing.

Maybe we'll figure it out when we get to Vicky's monkey chapter.

+.+.+

"No. I brought you these." Ser Jorah produced his pair of gloves, and slapped them down on the table beside the other gifts the widow had received this morning: a silver goblet, an ornate fan carved of jade leaves so thin they were translucent, and an ancient bronze dagger marked with runes. Beside such treasures the gloves looked cheap and tawdry.

"Gloves for my poor old wrinkled hands. How nice." The widow made no move to touch them.

"I bought them on the Long Bridge."

"A man can buy most anything on the Long Bridge. Gloves, slaves, monkeys."

Please no more monkey.

How predictable, the gloves bombed hard. If this was meant to show me how dopey Jorah Mormont is, it was unnecessary.

+.+.+

One word. Meereen, he said Meereen, he's taking me to Meereen. Meereen meant life. Or hope for life, at least.

[...]

Deliver me to the queen, he says. Aye, but which queen? He isn't selling me to Cersei. He's giving me to Daenerys Targaryen. That's why he hasn't hacked my head off. We're going east, and Griff and his prince are going west, the bloody fools.

Oh, it was all too much. Plots within plots, but all roads lead down the dragon's gullet. A guffaw burst from his lips, and suddenly Tyrion could not stop laughing.

You would have been going east with them?

all roads lead down the dragon's gullet.

I wish I was that lucky.

+.+.+

"All the other exiles are sailing west, or so these old ears have heard. And all those captains in my debt are falling over one another to take them there and leach a little gold from the coffers of the Golden Company. Our noble triarchs have pledged a dozen warships to the cause, to see the fleet safely as far as the Stepstones. Even old Doniphos has given his assent. Such a glorious adventure. And yet you would go the other way, ser."

Seems unlikely the triarchs would part with their warships right before going to war with Meereen, but I understand the story requires the Golden Company to get to Westeros.

+.+.+

"I am no lady, but even Vogarro's whore knows the taste of falsehood. This much is true, though … the dragon queen has enemies … Yunkai, New Ghis, Tolos, Qarth … aye, and Volantis, soon enough. You would travel to Meereen? Just wait a while, ser. Swords will be wanted soon enough, when the warships bend their oars eastward to bring down the silver queen. Tigers love to bare their claws, and even elephants will kill if threatened. Malaquo hungers for a taste of glory, and Nyessos owes much of his wealth to the slave trade. Let Alios or Parquello or Belicho gain the triarchy, and the fleets will sail."

A fleet carrying slave soldiers, and those slaves have mutiny on the mind.

It could be as many as five hundred ships.

The storms would have scattered and delayed the Volantenes, even as they had his own ships. If fortune smiled, many of their warships might have sunk or run aground. But not all. No god was that good, and those green galleys that survived by now could well have sailed around Valyria. They will be sweeping north toward Meereen and Yunkai, great dromonds of war teeming with slave soldiers. If the Storm God spared them, by now they could be in the Gulf of Grief. Three hundred ships, perhaps as many as five hundred. - The Iron Suitor, ADWD

+.+.+

Tyrion twisted around for a look, hoping against hope that it was Duck and Haldon he was hearing. Instead he saw two strangers … and the dwarf, who was standing a few feet away staring at him intently. He seemed somehow familiar.

Five seconds ago he was thrilled to be going to Meereen. Now he's hoping Duck and Haldon show up.

If the author could be a little more clear on what Tyrion's goal is, that would be fantastic.

+.+.+

The widow sipped daintily at her wine. "Some of the first elephants were women," she said, "the ones who brought the tigers down and ended the old wars. Trianna was returned four times. That was three hundred years ago, alas. Volantis has had no female triarch since, though some women have the vote. Women of good birth who dwell in ancient palaces behind the Black Walls, not creatures such as me. The Old Blood will have their dogs and children voting before any freedman.

I bet there's no feelings of resentment.

Loving the idea of a woman (or an 11-year-old girl) taking down a tiger.

+.+.+

"Oh, I think it will be war as well, but not the war they want." The old woman leaned forward, her black eyes gleaming. "I think that red R'hllor has more worshipers in this city than all the other gods together. Have you heard Benerro preach?"

"Last night."

"Benerro can see the morrow in his flames," the widow said. "Triarch Malaquo tried to hire the Golden Company, did you know? He meant to clean out the red temple and put Benerro to the sword. He dare not use tiger cloaks. Half of them worship the Lord of Light as well. Oh, these are dire days in Old Volantis, even for wrinkled old widows. But not half so dire as in Meereen, I think. So tell me, ser … why do you seek the silver queen?"

Benerro has half the Tiger cloaks (the city guard), one thousand Lord of Light sacred soldiers, and there's five slaves for every freeborn within the city.

The writing is on the wall.

+.+.+

"Keep your silver. I have gold. And spare me your black looks, ser. I am too old to be frightened of a scowl. You are a hard man, I see, and no doubt skilled with that long sword at your side, but this is my realm. Let me crook a finger and you may find yourself traveling to Meereen chained to an oar in the belly of a galley." She lifted her jade fan and opened it. There was a rustle of leaves, and a man slid from the overgrown archway to her left. His face was a mass of scars, and in one hand he held a sword, short and heavy as a cleaver. "Seek the widow of the waterfront, someone told you, but they should have also warned you, beware the widow's sons. It is such a sweet morning, though, I shall ask again. Why would you seek Daenerys Targaryen, whom half the world wants dead?"

Beware the widow's sons. The Widow's Sons. We've got an old woman armed with sons.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm starting to think Galazza Galare might be the Harpy.

+.+.+

Jorah Mormont's face was dark with anger, but he answered. "To serve her. Defend her. Die for her, if need be."

He's not allowed to die for Daenerys. He must live and be miserable.

Want to know how to make Tyrion more bearable? Put Jorah Mormont in his chapters.

+.+.+

"—I know who the dwarf is, and what he is." Her black eyes turned to Tyrion, hard as stone. "Kinslayer, kingslayer, murderer, turncloak. Lannister." She made the last a curse. "What do you plan to offer the dragon queen, little man?"

My hate, Tyrion wanted to say. Instead he spread his hands as far as the fetters would allow. "Whatever she would have of me. Sage counsel, savage wit, a bit of tumbling. My cock, if she desires it. My tongue, if she does not. I will lead her armies or rub her feet, as she desires. And the only reward I ask is I might be allowed to rape and kill my sister."

+.+.+

Then seven hells broke out at once.

Ser Jorah started to rise, the widow snapped her fan closed, her scarred man slid out of the shadows … and behind them a girl screamed. Tyrion spun just in time to see the dwarf rushing toward him. She's a girl, he realized all at once, a girl dressed up in man's clothes. And she means to gut me with that knife.

[...]

… and suddenly she was rising off the floor, legs kicking wildly as she struggled in Ser Jorah's grasp. "No!" she wailed, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "Let go!" Tyrion heard her tunic rip as she fought to free herself.… and suddenly she was rising off the floor, legs kicking wildly as she struggled in Ser Jorah's grasp. "No!" she wailed, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "Let go!" Tyrion heard her tunic rip as she fought to free herself.

Penny is Game of Thrones' true hero.

+.+.+

Tyrion blinked up at the dripping girl twisting in the air. "Why?" he demanded. "What did I ever do to you?"

"They killed him." All the fight went out of her at that. She hung limply in Mormont's grasp as her eyes filled with tears. "My brother. They took him and they killed him."

"Who killed him?" asked Mormont.

"Sailors. Sailors from the Seven Kingdoms. There were five of them, drunk. They saw us jousting in the square and followed us. When they realized I was a girl they let me go, but they took my brother and killed him. They cut his head off."

How many people have to die because of Tyrion? (Half a million.)

Do you like how I blamed Tyrion instead of Cersei? Call me Davos.

+.+.+

Tyrion felt a sudden shock of recognition. They saw us jousting in the square. He knew who the girl was then. "Did you ride the pig?" he asked her. "Or the dog?"

"The dog," she sobbed. "Oppo always rode the pig."

The dwarfs from Joffrey's wedding.

Loving all these reunions. Apparently Essos is the smallest place on earth.

+.+.+

When they were gone, the widow studied Tyrion, her black eyes shining. "Monsters should be larger, it seems to me. You are worth a lordship back in Westeros, little man. Here, I fear, your worth is somewhat less. But I think I had best help you after all. Volantis is no safe place for dwarfs, it seems."

Jorah failed hard, but thank god Tyrion's here with his wit and charm to save the day.

+.+.+

"How generous. But I have worn iron in my time, and now I find that I prefer gold and silver. And sad to say, this is Volantis, where fetters and chains are cheaper than day-old bread and it is forbidden to help a slave escape."

"I'm no slave."

"Every man ever taken by slavers sings that same sad song. I dare not help you … here."

Psst, old woman. Apply this to her freedmen.

+.+.+

She leaned forward again. "Two days from now, the cog Selaesori Qhoran will set sail for Qarth by way of New Ghis, carrying tin and iron, bales of wool and lace, fifty Myrish carpets, a corpse pickled in brine, twenty jars of dragon peppers, and a red priest. Be on her when she sails."

[...]

"She will never reach Qarth. Benerro has seen it in his fires." The crone smiled a vulpine smile.

Oops, oops. What's on that ship?

a corpse pickled in brine

A corpse is on the ship? Preserved in brine? A corpse pickled in brine is on a ship travelling to Daenerys?

RISE UP SAMWELL TARLY AND RUM AEMON.

Save us from kings who abandon the north to be envoys! Help us fight nonsensical storylines! Free us from oppressive television adaptions! Destroy the darkness that is Game of Thrones!

+.+.+

"If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you'd have my vote for triarch, my lady."

"I am no lady," the widow replied, "just Vogarro's whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis." She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. "Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon."

Apparently I forgot how obvious it is that Daenerys will go to Volantis.

A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. - Daenerys IV, ADWD

I know this is in Volantis. I know it in my soul.

Final thoughts:

Beware the perfumed seneschal.

↓↓↓

Two days from now, the cog Selaesori Qhoran will set sail for Qarth by way of New Ghis [...] "She will never reach Qarth. Benerro has seen it in his fires."

↓↓↓

The red priest chuckled. "Neither. Qhoran is … not a ruler, but one who serves and counsels such, and helps conduct his business. You of Westeros might say steward or magister."

King's Hand? That amused him. "And selaesori?"

Moqorro touched his nose. "Imbued with a pleasant aroma. Fragrant, would you say? Flowery?"

"So Selaesori Qhoran means Stinky Steward, more or less?"

"Fragrant Steward, rather."

Tyrion gave a crooked grin. "I believe I will stay with Stinky. But I do thank you for the lesson."

↓↓↓

Three of the mates and more than three-quarters of the crew were fervent worshipers of the Lord of Light. Tyrion was less certain about the captain, who always emerged for the evening prayers but took no other part in them. But Moqorro was the true master of the Selaesori Qhoran, at least for this voyage.

[...]

"Dragons," Moqorro said in the Common Tongue of Westeros. He spoke it very well, with hardly a trace of accent. No doubt that was one reason the high priest Benerro had chosen him to bring the faith of R'hllor to Daenerys Targaryen.

↓↓↓

Beware the perfumed seneschal. . . is this not a warning about the ship? The ship that's carrying R'hllor and religious fanaticism to her doorstep, courtesy of Benerro? Not to mention the lion and dark flame.

42 down, 7 to go. :(

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#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #tyrion vii

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