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1953; The Demolished Man by Alfred Bester, Winner
Temeraire quite liked award shows. They were one of the few appealing things about living in the twentieth century; back in the day they’d had medal ceremonies, and of course there were still dubbings even in these modern times—Temeraire couldn’t get enough of a good dubbing—but award shows! The suspense, the surprise, the speeches! The women in their beautiful gowns, and all the lights of the cameras glittering! The drama! The—occasional—fistfight! The Academy Awards was his favorite night of the year, and he didn’t even like moving pictures very much.
The first Science Fiction Achievement Awards were not quite as exciting. There were very few women in dazzling dresses, and frankly very few women in general, and no cameras at all. But at least the speeches were quite tolerable, Asimov being an excellent toastmaster, and Bester had deserved the accolades, which was more than could be said of many another award show.
At the party afterwards, when they had all drunk tremendous amounts of whiskey, Temeraire managed to top off the night by throwing Asimov into the hotel pool for groping a waitress. He had demonstrated a great deal of self-restraint in the act, he thought, but they had security dragons escort him out of WorldCon anyway; but at least the award show had ended up being interesting.
1966; Dune by Frank Herbert, Winner
Temeraire rose high above the desert world, his wings cupping the burning wind, heavy with the smell of spice. He was absolute lord of this planet, this harsh dry place called Dune; home of the Fremen, source of the spice.
Suddenly the sand rippled below him. That was all the warning he received before the sandworm stretched into the air, ten thousand feet long or more; the mouth bigger than his entire body, and rows upon rows of crystal teeth reaching back into the dark pit of his body.
But he was the kwisatz haderach! The one who exists through time! And—
"Temeraire!"
He jolted awake.
“This is supposed to be your big return to WorldCon,” said his agent Bilius reproachfully. “You promised to be on your best behavior. What are you doing napping instead?”
Temeraire yawned; his wings, remembering their dream of flight, twitched against his back.
"I was not napping," he said with dignity. "And this is my best behavior.”
1972; Dragonquest by Anne McCaffrey, Nominee
“I don’t like her portrayal of dragons,” said Temeraire sulkily, as he had done several times since they had boarded the plane to Los Angeles, where the Hugo Awards were being held.
“No, of course you don’t,” said his agent, Bilius, under his breath. In a louder voice he said, "Come on, old fellow, they're aliens, so they're not really dragons—"
"Except that they're called dragons," flared Temeraire. "And are shaped like dragons, and can breathe fire—once again, an unreasonable favoritism towards fire-breathers! And I would like to know, why there are never books with humans that are obviously different from humans, but are called humans anyway, and have all sorts of unrecognizable changes to their society—"
"Sure there are," said Bilius. "Left Hand of Darkness, for one, that you loved two years ago. It's the same thing, when you think about it."
Temeraire paused, horror rising when he could not immediately think of a counterargument.
"But," he began, and then, "No, because—" and then was stymied again.
"Hey, you should do what the humans do. Broaden your horizons. Expand your understanding of dragonkind.”
“She is not a dragon!” said Temeraire wrathfully. “She has no right! And I will bring WorldCon down around her ears before she is honored along the likes of LeGuin and Bester and—”
“Which is why our flight is bound for Bali, not Los Angeles,” said Bilius complacently. “Enjoy your vacation.”
1975; A Song for Lya by George R. R. Martin, Winner, Best Novella
"My goodness, you're large," said the man, staring up at him, and Temeraire flared his ruff.
"I call that rude," he said. "I haven't commented on your size, and here I meant only to congratulate you."
"Oh, sorry bout that," said the man. "Back in Illinois our neighbors are mostly lightweights, or mids at most. You're quite something else."
Temeraire shook out his wings, rather mollified. "It is true they don't breed many heavyweights anymore," he acknowledged. "A shame, in my opinion."
"But they said you were only twenty tons," he said, goggling. "That can't be right—"
"Indeed not! That was my weight a century and a half ago; I imagine I have added at least four or five tons since then. We dragons," he explained, "never stop growing, you know, it is only that after the first year or so of life we grow extremely slowly."
The man seemed struck by the idea. "Really," he said, looking up as if to imagine Temeraire even larger. "Wow. You must have been a sight to see on the battlefield."
"Oh yes," Temeraire said wistfully. "The French used to call me le diable noir, which of course means—"
"The black dread," said the man suddenly. Temeraire put his ruff back in distaste. This—Martin, was it?—was inconceivably ill-mannered, and he began to regret coming over; he hadn't even read the novella the man had won for.
"Not at all," he said coldly. "It means devil.”
“Not if your world doesn’t have a Christian mythology,” said Martin musingly. “I wonder…”
Temeraire only snorted. “Oh, this is a writing exercise for you; I see. If you will excuse me, I believe I see some friends of mine."
1984, Startide Rising by David Brin, Winner
“Do you suppose humans uplifted dragons?” said Temeraire, nibbling thoughtfully at his hors d’oeuvres.
Bilius snorted. “Just as much as I suppose dragons uplifted humans. I find both scenarios equally likely.”
“But dragons have been bred, as we have breeds,” reasoned Temeraire. “So I think it might be fair to conclude that humans uplifted dragons; that is, if anyone uplifted anyone.” He imagined the first man to undertake the process of uplifting a dragon; he looked a little like Laurence.
"There’re plenty of dragons without a breed, and none of them are any less sentient," argued Bilius, who was himself only a generation removed from the ferals of Appalachia. “Anyway, I don’t think either one of us uplifted the other. Humans wouldn’t have thought to do it; and if dragons uplifted humans, I hope to think we would have done a better job of it.”
“I suppose that can’t be denied,” said Temeraire.
1990; Hyperion by Dan Simmons, Winner
“Keats was nothing like Johnny,” said Temeraire wistfully. “But I congratulate you nonetheless.”
Simmons looked up at him, nonplussed. “You knew Keats?”
“We spoke once,” said Temeraire, “and exchanged many letters. You didn’t capture half his quality, in my opinion; he reads like a poor reflection of himself that’s been cast in water.”
“But I suppose,” he continued later, to his agent, “that perhaps it could have been intentional. I suppose you can never really capture the essence of a person again, after he’s gone; not even someone like—Keats.” He was thinking of Laurence.
“If you say so,” said Bilius, disgruntled. “All I know is that I have to get Dan Simmons a gift basket because you insulted his writing in front of everyone at WorldCon.”
“That wasn’t as good as Keats either,” muttered Temeraire, to deaf ears.
2001; A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin, Nominee; Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling, Winner
"I should sue for libel," muttered Temeraire darkly.
"Uh-huh," said Elena, from the sofa. Suspicion at the unconcern in her voice made him raise his head.
"Elena!" he said in outrage. "You're reading it!"
"What? It's good." She flipped a page idly. "I hope Jon and Dany end up together."
“Well,” he said sullenly, settling down again, “I just hope Harry Potter wins.”
2005; Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke, Winner
"Now this is what I call a real novel," said Temeraire loudly, and Susanna Clarke looked up from her well-wishers, startled. "A setting and time that holds enough interest for anyone, and all the characters talking sensibly for once so that anyone can easily understand them; you are to be commended." The book had also contained more than a few mentions of him, as a prominent member of post-war Regency society, but Temeraire decided that mentioning it would be unnecessarily self-aggrandizing.
"Thank you," said Clarke faintly.
“I hope you are not very long about writing a sequel,” said Temeraire.
“Ah…”
2015
“I don’t think you want to go to the Hugos this year,” said Elena, over their internet connection. “It looks all sorts of weird.”
“If you say so,” said Temeraire sleepily. “What looks weird about it?”
Elena told him. Temeraire laughed until static came out of Elena’s headphones.
2016; Uprooted by Naomi Novik, Nominee
“Excuse me,” said Temeraire, puzzled. “Don’t I know you?”
The woman looked up at him, equally nonplussed.
“I think I’d remember you,” she said politely, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, no. You’re Temeraire, aren’t you?”
“So we’ve met before,” said Temeraire triumphantly. “I knew it!”
“No, but—” she hesitated. “I grew up on stories of you; you and the Baba Yaga and Tolkien; I always thought I’d recognize you, at once, but photographs don’t do you any justice at all.”
“Very little does,” said Temeraire with a sigh, thinking of the many injustices that had been visited upon him during his lifetime; Lord Byron and modern music and Tories and liver cancer and Anne McCaffrey. Temeraire was silent a little while, and then said, “Well, I suppose I’ve seen your face on an ancestor of yours, and that’s why you look so familiar; it’s happened before. Anyway, I meant to congratulate you. I’ve been told, by people who would know, that being nominated is nearly a great an honor as winning itself. I doubt it, personally—when I think of all the dreadful writers who’ve been nominated! But,” he added quickly, “I’m sure it is true, in your case, and anyway I did like your book.”
“Hearing that might actually be better than winning,” said Novik, after a stunned moment. “Next Professor Tolkien will rise from his grave to tell me he likes my glasses.”
Temeraire snorted, wrapping his tail around himself comfortably. He thought that he knew now why she’d seemed familiar to him; there was this sort of inexplicable feeling that they understood each other very well, without having to try to.
“Tell me,” said Temeraire, “have you ever considered writing about dragons?”