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melrosing · 2 years

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JAIME IN THE RIVERLANDS I: Exploring the 'Limits of Redemption'

Or: I HATE YOUR JAIME META AND HERE'S WHY

[Note: So this long fucking post is actually only the intro to what is (I think) a three/four part essay; the other parts are in editing stages at the moment but I figured if I don't post the first part now it'll be a WIP forever. Hopefully the rest will follow relatively soon as I'm literally sitting around with covid rn doing approx. nothing else but whatever watch this space I guess. anyway]

“I want there to be a possibility of redemption for us, because we all do terrible things. We should be able to be forgiven. Because if there is no possibility of redemption, what’s the answer then?” George R. R. Martin (!!!)

‘Redemption’ is broadly considered to be the most significant theme in Jaime Lannister’s narrative, with most arguing that the conclusion of his story must reach one verdict or another in terms of whether he has achieved it. For those that believe he won’t, Jaime’s chapters in AFFC and ADWD are most commonly used as evidence.

However, Jaime’s Riverlands arc (which I will here distinguish as beginning in Jaime III AFFC, and ending in Jaime I ADWD) is one I think is too often broken down and compartmentalised, with few takes managing to consider it holistically. Scenes are often isolated from their context and from the preceding and succeeding chapters, with fans nonetheless reaching their verdict on Jaime’s broader story based on this limited analysis. So the arguments go, here’s Jaime doing bad things and fighting for the wrong side after all he went through in ASOS: after choosing to change, and then failing to do so. If Jaime truly wanted redemption, why is he still fighting for the Lannister regime? Why are all his efforts for good so pitifully small-scale?

Here I want to consider this arc not just through isolated scenes, but within the broader narrative of Jaime’s story. For, as with everything else, GRRM is rarely interested in presenting a straightforward story of its type: Jaime’s struggle for redemption in the Riverlands is treated with as much complexity as other arcs in the story, such as Dany’s governance in Meereen, or Jon’s on the Wall. Characters are often trapped by circumstance, forced to compromise or made to contradict their own ideals in an effort to achieve their goals. The result can be ugliness and strife where a reader expects catharsis. In a series with two volumes to go, this is not to say that catharsis won’t come for Jaime’s story, but its delayed arrival has seen fans frequently contrast it with another POV: Theon’s.

Theon is another character for whom redemption is a guiding theme, though his is often favoured above Jaime’s owing to the more straightforward catharsis it affords. When we last see Theon in ADWD, he has fought sizable demons (both internal and otherwise) to escape Winterfell and save Jeyne Poole in the process. From here, a reader anticipates Theon will continue to fight for the right causes, and carve out a new identity separate from that as Balon’s heir, or Ned Stark’s hostage. No reader expects that Theon will turn around in TWOW to return to his old ways, because he has no cause to look back: the work is done, his old trappings gone, and the only direction left to him is forwards into something new.

Theon’s arc begins slightly ahead of Jaime’s, kicking off in the second volume where Jaime’s gathers pace in the third, but even accounting for this variance in pacing, the differences between their two redemption stories are notable. Theon begins the series as a relatively isolated character, estranged from his family and superimposed into one where the patriarch might take his head at any moment. For the most part, it doesn’t seem as though anyone even likes Theon all that much, apart from the mother he has largely forgotten about. It’s unsurprising, then, that over the course of several conflicts in ACOK we see Theon’s ties and allies diminished to practically nothing: he’s abandoned by his own house, becomes an enemy of the Starks, and is kept hostage by the Boltons who view him as a useful piece of dirt.

Theon is ultimately removed from grander disputes besides as a pawn, too afraid to claim his autonomy for fears of painful consequences from Ramsay. He remembers his wrongs, but feels helpless to atone for them, left instead to ruminate in Winterfell. Theon’s redemption is then pursued through courage and reclamation of identity: a growing irrelevance to the new powers of the plot, his story is to reclaim his name and autonomy in the background, acting not for any house or name, but on his own renewed instincts for right and wrong. No family or political cause is left to rely on him, and so Theon ironically has the freedom to act on a purely individual basis, fighting instead for the single person who does need him now: Jeyne Poole. His act of heroism at the end of ADWD carves a checkpoint viewed by most readers as a decisive move towards redemption.

Jaime’s arc and Theon’s have more in common whilst Jaime is imprisoned by the Bloody Mummers in ASOS, where he too relies largely on instincts and courage, and develops the desire to change through tormented self-reflection. But the crucial difference is the scope each are afforded from here on. As discussed, Theon, on point of reflection, is essentially alone. The only choices he can make are those he makes for himself, and indeed he has nothing to lose but his life, for even his name has been stripped from him.

This is not so in Jaime’s case. Far from Theon’s reduced existence, halfway through ASOS Jaime has returned to all his old trappings, as well as new positions of power he never asked for. He’s now in a position to make choices that were never his before, whether they concern the makeup of the Kingsguard or the safety of his house, and each choice has a domino effect that can ripple throughout the realm. Indeed, rather than estranged from his family, Jaime is inserted directly into the midst of their affairs - at precisely the time when the threat to their house proves existential. This is not a character who can look only to his own personal hopes, ambitions and wellbeing for guidance - rather, this is someone in a prime seat of governance. Ironically, this sees Jaime’s personal autonomy greatly diminished as a result.

Not all of this is new, of course. Jaime has been born with stakes in these institutions - or acquired them at 15, in the case of the Kingsguard. The fate of House Lannister has always mattered to Jaime because the Lannisters are his own family, and owing to the precarious position Tywin has left them in, that same family are now in mortal danger. Plenty of words are shed amongst the Lannisters on the importance of maintaining Tywin’s legacy in keeping the security of their House, and unfortunately, Jaime has inherited this legacy at precisely the time he has hoped to escape it. Though he emerges from ASOS with personal ambitions to rescue Sansa, become a knight like Brienne, reclaim his fatherhood to his children and restore peace in the realm, what he wants has to be balanced alongside the security of the Lannisters collectively, and the delicate regency that sustains them.

As Ned tells Cersei as early as AGOT, there is no safe escape for House Lannister now: Robert would’ve hounded them to the ends of the world if he knew the truth, and certainly by AFFC both highborn and smallfolk alike long for their downfall. It is here that Jaime finds himself upon his return to King’s Landing. So from ASOS onwards, we see Jaime attempting to continue the arc he began with Brienne, and struggling to do so within the confines of his new elevated roles, risking undermining his family even as they undermine him at every turn. What deeds he does manage, such as instigating rescues for both Tyrion and Sansa, need to be done covertly, whilst everything he does in the public sphere is subject to Cersei’s whims.

By Jaime III AFFC, Cersei declares that Jaime’s role now is to restore peace in the Riverlands (that is, to quash the Tullys), and Jaime, reluctantly, gathers his men and goes. So begins a balancing act between his private ambition and public persona, where he knows the slightest misstep might be the downfall of his family.

(Of course, the grim truth is that the fate of House Lannister was sealed by Tywin long ago.)

JAIME AND THE LANNISTER LEGACY

As mentioned, readers often simplify all this to argue that Jaime is simply fighting for ‘the Lannister regime’ in AFFC; that he is flying the colours for his family because that’s the easier thing to do than pursue redemption and the greater good. I’d disagree.

Firstly, we should note that Jaime has always had a healthy disregard for Lannister rhetoric and his father’s view of the world. This is not to say Jaime is not aware of the power his name holds, and that like his brother Tyrion, he won’t use it occasionally as a crutch, performance or excuse:

"White is for Starks. I'll drink red like a good Lannister." [JAIME V, ASOS]

"If you know me, Urswyck, you know you'll have your reward. A Lannister always pays his debts.” [JAIME III, ASOS]

He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; no sellsword would make him scream. [JAIME III, ASOS]

That would show the realm that the Lannisters are above their laws, like gods and Targaryens. [JAIME III, ASOS]

“The Father Above has more time than I do. Do you know who I am?" [JAIME IV, AFFC]

And to say the least, Jaime is no stranger to a gold plate armour. Simply put, this is a character quite capable of talking the talk and walking the walk when it suits him, but his broader POV shows one far more sceptical than Tywin or Cersei.

To start with, Jaime actually shirked his lead role in House Lannister at fifteen, giving up Casterly Rock and the propagation of his house for the promise of his sister’s love. He declines Tywin’s offer to restore him to this position in ASOS (even despite his disillusionment with Cersei) and immediately sets about undermining both his father and sister by rescuing Tyrion and Sansa. Jaime has also from a young age rejected Tywin’s diatribes on his brother, spending his life regretting the one instance he aligned himself to them (see: Tysha). As a young Kingsguard he does not advocate allowing Tywin into the city, even knowing his father would win decisively, does not join his father at the last minute either - and in fact did not even raise Tywin as King given ample opportunity:

"Shall I proclaim a new king as well?" Crakehall asked, and Jaime read the question plain: Shall it be your father [...]?”

[...]"Proclaim who you bloody well like," he told Crakehall. Then he climbed the Iron Throne and seated himself with his sword across his knees, to see who would come to claim the kingdom. [JAIME II, ASOS]

At this crucial moment, Jaime adopts a neutral stance, leaving the politicking to other men - and this is a stance that comes to define him up to AGOT: given all he has seen, Jaime no longer has faith in the rights of Kings nor the honour of good men, and so retreats inward where the only rules are his own. Ultimately Jaime’s natural inclination is to stand as an individual: for his own values, rather than as a representative for his house or any institution.

And his general disdain for his father’s doings and teachings is seen everywhere in his POV - or occasionally, by omission. Whilst Cersei and even Tyrion frequently reflect on Tywin’s methodry and lessons, Jaime, the key subject of those lessons, seldom considers them - except with resentment or reluctance:

"Father," he told the corpse, "it was you who told me that tears were a mark of weakness in a man, so you cannot expect that I should cry for you." [JAIME I, AFFC]

Indeed, in much of AFFC we see Jaime wandering the Riverlands, disturbed by the ruins his father’s campaigns have left behind. This is a character reiterated throughout his POV as one who runs on passion: he entered the war for Cersei and Tyrion, albeit recklessly and in the midst of a conflict of his own making. Meanwhile, Tywin’s work is cold-blooded, calculated and brutal, and reminds Jaime of his enemies rather than his allies.

In fact, the only aspect of House Lannister that Jaime seems especially concerned with seem to be his loved ones within it. In the beginning this appears largely limited to Cersei and Tyrion, the two he asks after when seeking news from Catelyn. News of a distant uncle and his losses at war are dismissed out of hand, and Tywin himself is asked after as essentially an afterthought:

"It's Cersei and Tyrion who concern me. As well as my lord father." [CATELYN VII, ACOK]

Later, of course, we encounter family like Genna and Daven representing Jaime's broader emotional stakes within his house, and his growing cares for his children make him more intent on its survival. But his remote affection (or entire lack of it) for his own father never seems to waver.

When Tywin does die, we see Jaime holding vigil beside his corpse out of a sense of obligation as Tywin’s son, but after spending much of it scowling at Tywin’s corpse and thinking ill of him, he abandons the vigil early to chase after a distraught Tommen. In the same scene, we even see Jaime attempting to counsel his son differently to how his father did him: where Tywin taught Jaime a man does not cry and should never show weakness, Jaime does not ridicule his son’s distress (as Cersei notably does), but tries to offer him support (albeit with only a sad coping mechanism of his own):

"A man can bear most anything, if he must," Jaime told his son. I have smelled a man roasting, as King Aerys cooked him in his own armour. "The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing . . . go away inside." [JAIME I, AFFC]

In short, Jaime has no apparent interest in upholding his father’s teachings or values, and all signs point to a man who hopes to raise his son differently, to undo cycles of tyranny, and to begin anew. This is all sadly compounded by the inheritance Tywin has left behind.

TYWIN'S LEGACY

Jaime’s nobler intentions unfortunately have little place for manoeuvre in the preservation of House Lannister. In fact, the family are essentially left with two options: they can sustain the 'Lannister regime', or they can vanish completely - and the latter isn’t altogether realistic for the most famous family in Westeros, in a narrative that always strives to be.

So for the Lannisters to maintain their security, they are left with largely the former - maintaining the outward appearance of power that Tywin has fostered for his house. The trouble is that maintaining that appearance, when it was previously sustained by the severity of the actions one man was willing to take.

Since he rose to the head of his family, Tywin has ruled by fear: he has made enemies of powerful people, false friends of others, and they only cower because of the ultimate threat that Tywin has showed more than once that he can act upon - given cause, he will demolish a house completely. Tywin’s method essentially runs opposite to his father’s: where Tytos offered lenience, Tywin determines to offer none: you are with him, or you are nothing.

Whilst this has been effective in removing smaller targets such as the Reynes and Tarbecks, it has done outsized damage in ruining the good faith and trust that others might have in House Lannister: certainly a Lannister will pay his debts, but what it takes to accrue one is the fear that Tywin rules with.

Tywin’s demolition method was attempted on House Stark in ASOS, and by AFFC, it may seem to have been successful on the surface level. The northern forces are in pieces, the Lannisters are allied to the Tyrells, and there is a new Lannister king on the throne. The threats from overseas seem vague and obscure, and Tommen holds tomorrow.

But of course, this is not actually the case. Sansa is not dead, nor Arya, nor Bran and Rickon. They’ve survived through their parents’ memory and teachings, and their father’s vassals are already conspiring the Starks’ return to the north. It goes without saying that the power of Winterfell is sustained through security and loyalty, not fear, and that fear is infinitely more fragile, with a great deal more work required in sustaining it.

Of course, Tywin's reasons for ruling with fear are, despite his pretences, rooted in his own feelings of inadequacy rather than political practicality: this is a man who has grown up feeling humiliated and undermined by his own father, and is desperate to regain the power and respect he believes he's entitled to - by any means necessary. Still, such is the state of the legacy he leaves behind for his own son: an unsustainable campaign of fear, with no-one left to uphold it:

Tywin was big even when he was little." She gave a sigh. "Who will protect us now?"

Jaime kissed her cheek. "He left a son."

"Aye, he did. That is what I fear the most, in truth."

That was a queer remark. "Why should you fear?"

"Jaime," she said, tugging on his ear, "sweetling, I have known you since you were a babe at Joanna's breast. You smile like Gerion and fight like Tyg, and there's some of Kevan in you, else you would not wear that cloak . . . but Tyrion is Tywin's son, not you." [JAIME V, AFFC]

Ironically, what is here identified by Genna as a weakness of Jaime’s is really a weakness of Tywin’s. He has an heir who might have carried the torch forward for House Lannister, might just have managed to build enough bridges for whichever Lannister came next… but Tywin’s view of the world is such that that heir is an abused, embittered man more interested in their downfall. The force that might have once sustained them will now be turned against them as Tyrion joins with Daenerys Targaryen - and regardless, whatever progress and good faith Tyrion fostered for House Lannister in ACOK was quickly undone by Tywin in ASOS with the Red Wedding.

So what’s left is only a hopeless, toxic mess: House Lannister has no true friends and no true allies. They have only a host of enemies, small and large, who desire the utter demolition of a house that sought the same of others. And the man left to carry the torch is one without conviction in anything it stands for.

Nonetheless, the torch still rests with Jaime, with the stakes high as they’ve ever been for he and his loved ones. In AFFC, GRRM shows Jaime attempting a performance as Tywin’s heir, all whilst giving away vital ground, leading without conviction and resenting his role. By the end of ADWD, Jaime will have all but abandoned the Lannister cause for the pursuit of redemption, and the collapse of his house will enter overdrive.

[PART TWO: Bluffs, Bargaining & Baby Trebuchets - Why Jaime Can't Win in the Riverlands]

#jaime lannister #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #long post #this is probably preaching to the choir for most of my followers but I think like #at this point I've read too many riverlands essays that I feel miss the point entirely so might as well make my own

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daenerystargaryen06 · 1 year

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Just a sudden and odd thought I had, but I am dabbling in the idea of- what if when the dragonhorn is used to attempt at binding Daenerys' dragons, Victarion has a fate similar to Quentyn? It is in hindsight a mere speculation, and likely won't happen in the books however G.R.R.M is writing them out, but it is fun to speculate on.

My thought is that Daenerys' dragons are inherently different from the other Targaryen dragons with the information we've gotten about them. Unlike the other Targaryen dragons, Daenerys' bond to her dragons is much different- she sees her dragons as her children, and they bond to her as a child would a mother. She is their mother. Their bond (imo) is stronger than that of any other we've seen from the old Targs and their dragons. Daenerys doesn't see her dragons are mere tools to help her in war, nor as pets. She sees them as her legitimate children, and has even fed them at her breast. When Quentyn goes to attempt to claim Viserion as his, he notices that Viserion is actively looking for Daenerys. He wants his mother.

There are various ways the dragonhorn event could play out-

When the dragonhorn is used, it could not even work at all. Daenerys' dragons (imo) appear almost integrally intertwined with magic (their fast growth rate, and the very fact that they could be Lightbringer themselves). It makes a good speculation point that their magic could cause the dragonhorn to not work at all against them, and Victarion would end in failure. Or even the fact that their bond to Daenerys is so strong, the dragonhorn would fail, as Daenerys is their mother.

If it is used, it could likely claim Viserion or Rhaegal (but I have a small skeptism towards this. Many speculate that Viserion or Rhaegal under the effect of the horn would destroy KL, but I can't see this happening. I believe KL will be destroyed by Wildfire during the battle of fAegon v. Cersei.) If it does wind up taking one of Dany's children, though, it would be an interesting plot point to where Dany is conflicted in having another person taking her child away from her, and wanting her child back, and what actions she would take upon this event.

My speculation- it could wind up as a Quentyn situation for Victarion.

I speculate this merely for fun, but it could be a twist on the narrative and story point if Victarion tried to use the dragonhorn to take one of Dany's dragons, only to fail, and wind up killed because of it. When Quentyn tried claiming Viserion, he didn't account that Rhaegal would kill him. Rhaegal is described by Ser Barristan as being more dangerous than Viserion. While Viserion is sweet and affectionate, Rhaegal has more of a wild temper, and will likely kill anyone who tries to do what Quentyn did with Viserion.

My imagined scenario is when Victarion attempts to use the dragonhorn, he will likely attempt it with Viserion, and won't account for Rhaegal being the more dangerous one out of the two. When Rhaegal sees what Victarion is doing, he'd kill whoever is attempting to harm/take his brother as he did with Quentyn. It would create a potential plot point for Dany to return to Meereen, find out what had happened, and discover the danger of a dragonhorn- leaving her more cautious and protective over her children.

It would also play out Quaithe's warning to Dany.

Victarion would be attempting to tame one of Dany's children, and make her his wife, but lose his life in the process (paralleling Quentyn as wanting to claim Viserion and take Dany as his wife as well). We already saw it happen once- who's to say it can't happen again? Victarion's plan could be entirely fumbled on the accounting of him attempting to use the dragonhorn on Viserion, but have his life ended by Rhaegal, proving Rhaegal to be just as protective and warrior-like as he is shown in the books; alike to what Dany viewed Rhaegar as.

This is mere speculation and a fun thought... don't take it seriously lol. I just wanted to dabble in a potential plot point for the books.

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tru-neutral03 · 2 years

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To the people who defend the slave trade and demonize Daenerys for trying to end it, I have this to say. The slave trade has been around for over five thousand years since the days of the Old Empire of Ghis. They spread their influence over their colonized lands in Slaver's Bay and Sothoryos, enslaving everyone they find along the way. When the Valyrian Freehold conquered them, they convinced them to practice slavery, further spreading their trade. Tyroshi slavers even sail far north beyond the wall to enslave wildlings. We know for a fact that most of the free cities are bigger than any city in Westeros and some are inhabited by well over a million people. Volantis and Meereen are far larger than all of the cities in Westeros and most likely have slave populations that number in the hundreds of thousands. Across the known world, there are millions of slaves, for thousands of years they've captured, broken, and trained people to fit their need for slave servants, soldiers, and bed slaves, simply because they think they're entitled to it. How many hundred million, maybe over a billion, have had their lives taken from them in that time? While you defend the slavers and their practices, traditions, culture, economy, and freedoms. Who's defending the people whose lives they've destroyed? Daenerys is, she tried to make peace with them at great cost to herself, and now that she'll take a more decisive stance against slavery and the masters and answer them with fire and blood you all try to paint her out as a mad tyrant while she's seeking to overthrow the real tyrants who've spread their terror as far south as the Summer Isles, as far north as Hardhome, and as far east as Qarth. You want others to have her dragons (Euron, Faegon, Jon, etc) because you believe that they're entitled to them even though they'll use them for their own selfish needs (destroying Old Town, taking the Iron Throne, taking back Winterfell) while Daenerys is using them to smash a slave trade that has ruined the lives of millions every day for the past five thousand years! You all think she's a spoiled narcissistic tyrant even though she grew up poorer than any of the other POVs and knows what it's like to be bought, sold, and raped (It does not matter that she later came to care for Drogo). She's done nothing but try to help others with the power she gains for herself and while she dreams of going to Westeros she decides to stay exactly where she is in Meereen to ensure the freedom of the people she liberated. Would any other character we've seen thus far put aside their own selfish ambitions in this magnitude? Slavery is a practice that needs to be destroyed by any means necessary and when she returns with Drogon and the Dothraki and finally shows them the meaning of fire and blood I will be cheering her on while you all bitch and moan about the poor slave owners.

#daenerys targaryen #asoiaf #daenerys stormborn #a song of ice and fire #house targaryen #breaker of chains #mother of dragons #fire and blood #kill the masters #anti slavery #revolutions are never a clean

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istumpysk · 2 years

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Queen's Hand (Barristan IV) [Chapter 70]

Long ass chapter for no good reason.

The Dornish prince was three days dying.

He took his last shuddering breath in the bleak black dawn, as cold rain hissed from a dark sky to turn the brick streets of the old city into rivers. The rain had drowned the worst of the fires, but wisps of smoke still rose from the smoldering ruin that had been the pyramid of Hazkar, and the great black pyramid of Yherizan where Rhaegal had made his lair hulked in the gloom like a fat woman bedecked with glowing orange jewels.

Perhaps the gods are not deaf after all, Ser Barristan Selmy reflected as he watched those distant embers. If not for the rain, the fires might have consumed all of Meereen by now.

+.+.+

He saw no sign of dragons, but he had not expected to. The dragons did not like the rain.

We already know they hate the cold, and don't do well in the north, but not liking rain seems to be a new development. At least for me.

"I knew it would rain," he said in a gloomy tone. "My bones were aching last night. They always ache before it rains. The dragons won't like this. Fire and water don't mix, and that's a fact. You get a good cookfire lit, blazing away nice, then it starts to piss down rain and next thing your wood is sodden and your flames are dead."

Gerris chuckled. "Dragons are not made of wood, Arch."

"Some are. That old King Aegon, the randy one, he built wooden dragons to conquer us. That ended bad, though." - The Dragontamer, ADWD

+.+.+

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. Ser Barristan had asked some of the queen's cupbearers to help, but the sight of the burned man was too much for even the boldest of them. And the Blue Graces had never come, though he'd sent for them four times. Perhaps the last of them had been carried off by the pale mare by now.

It seems little Missandei can stomach some pretty gruesome things. Reminds me of another little girl in this story.

I'm going to pretend the Blue Graces aren't helping because they hate him.

+.+.+

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. "Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles."

Dornish gods?

+.+.+

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. "Cover him."

Says the Targaryen loyalist.

+.+.+

"I'll see that he's returned to Dorne." But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We'll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling.

Something tells me House Martell won't be enjoying this skull as much as the last one.

+.+.+

"You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed."

"If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through."

How does she know that?

+.+.+

Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

If there is any justice in this world, Barristan Selmy falls down a flight of stairs. Make it old man shit.

+.+.+

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at Quentyn Martell's face, or what remained of it. So much of the prince's flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. His eyes were pools of pus. He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons.

Misleading. Remember everyone, the dance won't actually involve dragons, Daenerys or any other real Targaryen.

+.+.+

And with the sun arrived the Shavepate. Skahaz was clad in his familiar garb of pleated black skirt, greaves, and muscled breastplate. The brazen mask beneath his arm was new—a wolf's head with lolling tongue.

LMAO.

Two for three! If this guy is in a rat mask at the start of TWOW, I'm going to lose my mind.

Can someone do me a favour and ask a Targ if it's a good thing when the poisoner dresses like a wolf?

+.+.+

"They await the Hand's pleasure below."

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen's protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate.

You realize you didn't have to do anything, you stupid jackass.

+.+.+

There are two hundred highborn gathered in the square, standing in the rain in their tokars and howling for audience. They want Hizdahr free and me dead, and they want you to slay these dragons. Someone told them knights were good at that.

Personally, my money's on cripples, bastards, and broken things. And Samwell.

+.+.+

Men are still pulling corpses from the pyramid of Hazkar. The Great Masters of Yherizan and Uhlez have abandoned their own pyramids to the dragons.

You find any lions under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"Nine-and-twenty?" That was far worse than he could ever have imagined. The Sons of the Harpy had resumed their shadow war two days ago. Three murders the first night, nine the second. But to go from nine to nine-and-twenty in a single night …

Sounds like the perfect time to go to war, Barry.

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, "I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

+.+.+

Why do you look so grey, old man? What did you expect? The Harpy wants Hizdahr free, so he has sent his sons back into the streets with knives in hand.

Both of these men thought Hizdahr was the Harpy.

+.+.+

The sign of the Harpy was left beside the bodies, chalked on the pavement or scratched into a wall. There were messages as well. 'Dragons must die,' they wrote, and 'Harghaz the Hero.' 'Death to Daenerys' was seen as well, before the rain washed out the words."

Damn, they forgot my favourite.

+.+.+

"Twenty-nine hundred pieces of gold from each pyramid, aye," Skahaz grumbled. "It will be collected … but the loss of a few coins will never stay the Harpy's hand. Only blood can do that."

"So you say." The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. "I heard you the first hundred times. No."

He can deny him all he'd like, the blood is still on Barristan's hands if these kids die. He's the one who committed treason, and empowered this maniac.

+.+.+

Hizdahr's grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan's command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

The audacity of this man.

+.+.+

They rose when Ser Barristan came down the marble steps, Skahaz Shavepate at his side.

[...]

"Whitebeard." Belwas smiled. "Where is liver and onions? Strong Belwas is not so strong as before, he must eat, get big again. They made Strong Belwas sick. Someone must die."

Someone will. Many someones, like as not.

You can only laugh. I'm sure Skahaz is.

+.+.+

Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt.

Wanna bet the same thing happens if she is mounted on his back?

+.+.+

Thus far both dragons seemed to have a taste for mutton, returning to Daznak's whenever they grew hungry. If either one was hunting man, inside or outside the city, Ser Barristan had yet to hear of it. The only Meereenese the dragons had slain since Harghaz the Hero had been the slavers foolish enough to object when Rhaegal attempted to make his lair atop the pyramid of Hazkar.

Uh, no actually, that's not accurate at all.

The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. - The Queensguard, ADWD

Convenient to forget something like that. I bet Barristan is going to be forgetting a lot of things in the future.

+.+.+

"We have more pressing matters to discuss. I have sent the Green Grace to the Yunkishmen to make arrangements for the release of our hostages. I expect her back by midday with their answer."

Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to go negotiate with Yunkai is the most Barristan Selmy thing he could have done.

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate slammed his fist upon the table. "The Green Grace will accomplish nothing. She may be conspiring with the Yunkai'i even as we sit here. Arrangements, did you say? Make arrangements? What sort of arrangements?"

"Ransom," said Ser Barristan. "Each man's weight in gold."

Of course the Shavepate would be the one to correctly suspect treachery.

+.+.+

"Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings." Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King's Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger's domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown's enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them.

Hm, it's usually Arya. This is the first time Missandei has given off older sister vibes.

+.+.+

"They will refuse, even so," insisted Symon Stripeback. "They will say they want the dragons dead, the king restored."

"I pray that you are wrong." And fear that you are right.

Reasonable demand.

214 people dead.

+.+.+

"Your gods are far away, Ser Grandfather," said the Widower. "I do not think they hear your prayers. And when the Yunkai'i send back the old woman to spit in your eye, what then?"

"Fire and blood," said Barristan Selmy, softly, softly.

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate stared through the eyes of his wolf's head mask and said, "You would break King Hizdahr's peace, old man?"

"I would shatter it." Once, long ago, a prince had named him Barristan the Bold. A part of that boy was in him still. "We have built a beacon atop the pyramid where once the Harpy stood. Dry wood soaked with oil, covered to keep the rain off. Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon. The flames will be your signal to pour out of our gates and attack. Every man of you will have a part to play, so every man must be in readiness at all times, day or night. We will destroy our foes or be destroyed ourselves." He raised a hand to signal to his waiting squires. "I have had some maps prepared to show the dispositions of our foes, their camps and siege lines and trebuchets. If we can break the slavers, their sellswords will abandon them. I know you will have concerns and questions. Voice them here. By the time we leave this table, all of us must be of a single mind, with a single purpose."

Horse shit, this is exactly what he's wanted from the beginning.

"You mean to take the field?" The Shavepate's voice was thick with disbelief. "That would be folly. Our walls are taller and thicker than the walls of Astapor, and our defenders are more valiant. The Yunkai'i will not take this city easily."

Ser Barristan disagreed. "I do not think we should allow them to invest us. Theirs is a patchwork host at best. These slavers are no soldiers. If we take them unawares …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

The queen sighed. "What do you counsel, ser?"

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

Ahem.

Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning."

"Knights know only one way to solve a problem. They couch their lances and charge. A dwarf has a different way of looking at the world. What of you, though? You are a clever man yourself." - Tyrion II, ADWD

I'm dying at the author giving the Daenerys side a beacon. I'm used to Stannis copying her.

+.+.+

And when all that had been discussed, debated, and decided, Symon Stripeback raised one final point. "As a slave in Yunkai I helped my master bargain with the free companies and saw to the payment of their wages. I know sellswords, and I know that the Yunkai'i cannot pay them near enough to face dragonflame. So I ask you … if the peace should fail and this battle should be joined, will the dragons come? Will they join the fight?"

They will come, Ser Barristan might have said. The noise will bring them, the shouts and screams, the scent of blood. That will draw them to the battlefield, just as the roar from Daznak's Pit drew Drogon to the scarlet sands. But when they come, will they know one side from the other? Somehow he did not think so.

A little friendly fire. No biggie.

I wonder which ally is getting smoked.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan took two of his new-made knights with him down into the dungeons.

Ego always wins in the end.

As he watched them at their drills, Ser Barristan pondered raising Tumco and Larraq to knighthood then and there, and mayhaps the Red Lamb too. It required a knight to make a knight, and if something should go awry tonight, dawn might find him dead or in a dungeon. Who would dub his squires then? On the other hand, a young knight's repute derived at least in part from the honor of the man who conferred knighthood on him. It would do his lads no good at all if it was known that they were given their spurs by a traitor, and might well land them in the dungeon next to him. They deserve better, Ser Barristan decided. Better a long life as a squire than a short one as a soiled knight. - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Gerris punched a wall. "I told him it was folly. I begged him to go home. Your bitch of a queen had no use for him, any man could see that. He crossed the world to offer her his love and fealty, and she laughed in his face."

"She never laughed," said Selmy. "If you knew her, you would know that."

"She spurned him. He offered her his heart, and she threw it back at him and went off to fuck her sellsword."

"You had best guard that tongue, ser." Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. "Prince Quentyn's death was his own doing, and yours."

This will be the man who tells Dorne what happened. I couldn't be happier.

She did laugh, and she did influence him.

+.+.+

Barristan Selmy could not dispute the truth of that. He had spent the best part of his own life obeying the commands of drunkards and madmen.

Sounds like another king I know.

Jon laughed, laughed like a drunk or a madman, and his men laughed with him. - Jon VIII, ASOS

+.+.+

To Ser Barristan the big knight said, "No need to come and talk if you meant to hang us. So it's not that, is it?"

"No." This one may not be as slow-witted as he seems.

You can't be serious.

This POV is unbearable, I can't believe I have one more to get through.

+.+.+

Ser Archibald grimaced. "Why is it always ships? Someone needs to take Quent home, though. What do you ask of us, ser?"

"Your swords."

"You have thousands of swords."

"The queen's freedmen are as yet unblooded. The sellswords I do not trust. Unsullied are brave soldiers … but not warriors. Not knights." He paused. "What happened when you tried to take the dragons? Tell me."

Even 11-year-old Sansa wasn't this deluded about knights.

+.+.+

The chains … there were bits of broken chain everywhere, big chains, links the size of your head mixed in with all these cracked and splintered bones. And Quent, Seven save him, he looked like he was going to shit his smallclothes. Caggo and Meris weren't blind, they saw it too. Then one of the crossbowmen let fly. Maybe they meant to kill the dragons all along and were only using us to get to them. You never know with Tatters.

What a weird thing to write.

+.+.+

"Ah, what did you expect, Drink? A cat will kill a mouse, a pig will wallow in shit, and a sellsword will run off when he's needed most. Can't be blamed. Just the nature of the beast."

Still holding out hope this isn't only about Brown Ben Plumm.

+.+.+

"What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?"

He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.

"Pentos," said Ser Barristan. "He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now."

"Aye," said Ser Archibald unhappily. "It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them."

There is a chance here.

If you thought Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to Yunkai was the dumbest thing he would do in this chapter, I've got some news for you.

"Pentos?" Her eyes narrowed. "How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away."

"He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros."

And if I never march for Westeros? "Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No."

Ser Barristan inclined his head. "Your Grace is wise." - Daenerys IX, ADWD

+.+.+

"I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen's voice. Tell him that we'll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole."

Yup that's right, Barristan Selmy promised to give Pentos to a sellsword. PENTOS.

There are no words.

+.+.+

"Why not? The task is simple enough." Compared to stealing dragons. "I once brought the queen's father out of Duskendale."

Past your prime, peaked in high school energy.

+.+.+

The simple part, at least, thought Barristan Selmy, as he made the long climb back to the summit of the pyramid. The hard part he'd left in Dornish hands. His grandfather would have been aghast. The Dornishmen were knights, at least in name, though only Yronwood impressed him as having the true steel. Drinkwater had a pretty face, a glib tongue, and a fine head of hair.

God, shut up.

He would have a thin blue line bumper sticker, I know it.

Edit: Necessary addition.

+.+.+

By the time the old knight returned to the queen's rooms atop the pyramid, Prince Quentyn's corpse had been removed. Six of the young cupbearers were playing some child's game as he entered, sitting in a circle on the floor as they took turns spinning a dagger.

Uhh, that doesn't feel like a good omen.

+.+.+

Far off to the east, beyond the city walls, he saw pale wings moving above a distant line of hills. Viserion. Hunting, mayhaps, or flying just to fly. He wondered where Rhaegal was. Thus far the green dragon had shown himself to be more dangerous than the white.

He sure is!

+.+.+

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this.

NO YOU CLOWN.

I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+.+

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

That's all the Harpy confirmation I need.

It's not clear what Pink Graces do. I am reminded of House of Pahl.

+.+.+

"I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place."

"He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom."

"I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand," the Green Grace said. "If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne."

"Only the queen can do that."

But you can arrest the king, start a war with Yunkai, and give away Pentos?

+.+.+

The pyramid of Hazkar has collapsed into a smoking ruin, and many of that ancient line lie dead beneath its blackened stones.

How about twins? Any set of twins under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"And murder. The Sons of the Harpy slew thirty in the night."

"I grieve to hear this. All the more reason to free the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, who stopped such killings once."

And how did he accomplish that, unless he is himself the Harpy?

+.+.+

"Her Grace gave her hand to Hizdahr zo Loraq, made him her king and consort, restored the mortal art as he beseeched her. In return he gave her poisoned locusts."

"In return he gave her peace. Do not cast it away, ser, I beg you. Peace is the pearl beyond price. Hizdahr is of Loraq. Never would he soil his hands with poison. He is innocent."

"How can you be certain?" Unless you know the poisoner.

If he would take one fucking second to listen to the words pouring out of his dumb idiotic mouth, he might realize there's no motive here.

+.+.+

"They did. No amount of gold will buy your people back, I was told. Only the blood of dragons may set them free again."

It was the answer Ser Barristan had expected, if not the one that he had hoped for. His mouth tightened.

Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon.

+.+.+

"I know these were not the words you wished to hear," said Galazza Galare. "Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon's wroth."

"Dragons," Aemon whispered. "The grief and glory of my House, they were." - Samwell III, AFFC

+.+.+

Ser Barristan was on his feet at once. "What is it?"

"The trebuchets," the Shavepate growled. "All six."

Galazza Galare rose. "Thus does Yunkai make reply to your offers, ser. I warned you that you would not like their answer."

They choose war, then. So be it. Ser Barristan felt oddly relieved. War he understood. "If they think they will break Meereen by throwing stones—"

"Not stones." The old woman's voice was full of grief, of fear. "Corpses."

Yeah no shit, I would also feel relief if I manipulated the system for a specific outcome, then got exactly what I wanted.

I wish him well. Barristan Selmy is not allowed to die in Meereen with a sword in his hand.

Final thoughts:

Live look at me trying to get through the last three chapters.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #the queen's hand #barristan iv

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idreamofmagik · 2 years

Text

The Summer Dragon: Chapter 1

Pairings: [Daemon Targaryen X Original (fem) Character X Original (ma) Character] [Daemon Targaryen X Rhaenyra Targaryen] [Daemon Targaryen X Leana Velaryon] [Original (fem) Character X Original (ma) Character]

Chapter warnings: N/A

Later Chapter Warnings: Violence, Nsfw (18+) Graphic sexual content

|A Princess of the Summer Isles dragged into Dance of Dragons.|

Alsaedys Targaryen is the daughter of Vaegon, and cousin to the current King Visery I...but she has never set foot on Westerosi soil. Raised by her mother in the Summer Ilse or on her pirate ship, The Jelmāzma, she is used to a diferent way of life. Alsaedys returns to Westeros to claim her and her sibling's birthrights...but is caught up in a vicious dance for the Iron Throne.

Chapter 1 - Targaryen Blood

The Summer isles had never been a place worth speaking much of for the people of Essos and Westeros alike—and certainly not an ally or aggressor to the seven kingdoms of Westeros.

Alsaedys’ mother had told her as much as they sailed and passed the many ports specked down the west banks of the Narrow Sea. Some might say her mother was a pirate in those days, and Alsaedys might agree, but never in front of her mother herself.

Today though, Alsaedys felt all the pirate her mother had been.

Today, she walked into a castle nearly the size of The Great Pyramids in Meereen to steal an even greater prize than her mother had ever dared to in her youth.

She marched across the polished floors, down halls of the Red Keep, a city guard, a ‘gold cloak’ as they were called, and a younger-looking Kingsgaurd at either side. Her Targaryen-style regalia—rings, and bracelets, earrings, and necklaces clinked with her every swaying step.

Silks and stains were not unfamiliar to her, she had traded with all the most notable silks and satin weavers in Westeros, and the continent alike. Crushed velvet, the softest cured leathers and muslin, and furs when they sailed up the cooler northern end of the narrow sea too…but that had always been a necessity or costume. The summer Isles, where she was born, had no need for cold weather clothing.

This Targaryen Regalia did not feel the same as those random expensive silks though. It weighed heavier and came with the threat of a ball and chain that she had often contemplated in her childhood whenever they ever dared to port in Westeros.

False names; always, to avoid being dragged to her Targaryen family.

Her father, Prince Vaegon, had always said falling for Alsaedys mother was ‘the most exciting thing he’d ever done’, according to his siblings, and that even Princess Alyssa, the sister that disdained him the most, had approved of her mother. Not that he had cared—the dour ass he was and still is; but that was all long ago.

Alyssa was the mother of the current King’s, King Viserys, and her funeral had been the last time Alsaedys’s mother, Ambraxi, had visited Westeros.

…And that was long before Alsaedys’s birth. Her mother and Princess Alyssa had been quite close, and Prince Baelon, Alyssa’s husband had invited her mother back multiple times after her passing, and the news of Ambraxi’s secret marriage to their brother Vaegon had reached his ear.

Vaegon, Alyssa , and Baelon’s father, King Jaecarys attempted to force the matter too when she heard of her sisters Daedra’s birth…but a royal summons means little to someone not within your kingdom. Specially to a foreign Queen as her mother Ambraxi was.

Years past, and after all King Jaecarys many heirs died, Baelon included, he summoned again; to show face for The Great Council, that was to take place due to choose an heir to the iron throne.

And To have Alsaedys bend knee to whatever ruler they chose.

But Alsaedys’s mother didn’t trust them.

“Nine is old enough for those Westerosi to keep you and use you for breeding stock for their Valyrian sons. You’re legitimate and you have got enough dragon blood for it so—they wouldn’t waste a womb like yours. If you go, you won’t come back.”

So when her father ask her later that night to come with him; her mother having been heavily pregnant herself and unable to risk laboring on the ship to Westeros, Alsaedys had shaken her head so vehemently it had nearly spun off her shoulders.

She’d watched her father sail away from the Summer beaches for the last time. Though in the days following, she often imagined him sitting adjacent to his father, the King, looking miserable as her father always did; those great Westerosi halls towering around him. As curious as she was about her father’s homeland—nothing could have convinced her to go because anything was better than the possibility her mother had described.

…And yet here she was all of a half-decade later—the same fears as they drew waited to announce her name to at the grand doors of the throne room; and Her father, Prince Vaegon, uncle to the current King of the Targaryen dynasty, Viserys I, was not at her side.

His transport had been delayed from Oldtown, where he had returned to nearly seven years prior. She had only been notified when her ship docked, and a horseman road up and placed a small letter in her hand—She recognized her father’s writing, always clean and precise, despite him not having signed it.

‘Storm delayed transport—will not arrive in time to announce you at court. Wrote to his majesty of your arrival. No need for my coming now. Write if I am needed.

Short and curt, as her father’s letters always were. She had never wondered why her mother said his siblings never liked him. It’s had always been an obvious.

She fixed the black and gold satin of her gown and her short capped sleeves, it was a mild summer for Westeros, winter for the Summer Isles.

The herald met her eyes, and she nodded; the doors of the grand pillar-lined throne room swinging open loudly.

“Presenting Princess Alsaedys of House Targaryen, Princess of Walanto, daughter of Prince Vaegon of house Targaryen and Queen Ambraxi of Walanto and Omboru of the Summer Isles.”

She stood in the massive archway of the doors as he announced her, and the entirety of the court turned to stare.

The court of King Viserys I was not a small one, and all the many courtiers were dressed in their finery. A hundred people, no-less, various vigils hung from several tunics, some she even recognized, but none large and more imposing than that positioned on either side of her cousin’s throne.

Black slashes of fine-dyed cloth embroidered with the massive red three-headed dragon of her father’s house; the symbol of her ancestor—Aegon the Conquerer and his Queens, Rhaenys and Visenya. She knew the Westerosii liked their sigils—it was no less like The Summer Ilse houses and Feather Flags, but for the Westerosii… their sigils were more like…an homage to the glory of old, and none demanded such praise on Westerosii soil as Aegon I.

The massive throne, was all her father had described, a veritable blanket of swords. She tried to think of the practical uses of such a masterpiece of intimidation…but only came up with the possibility king impaling disrespectful courtiers onto it when he was bored.

From some of the courtiers faces as they appraised her—one might think he did, and that she had just interrupted their bloodsport.

The walk towards the Dias was long and rife with giddy-eyed onlookers whispering and gawking as she passed—‘The long lost princess’ some said, ‘The Princess of the Summer Whores, ' said others…’The summer pretenders’…the most daring whispered.

She ignored them, and kept her eye front and forward as she neared the Throne. Her eyes on her… surprisingly kindly-looking cousin.

She stopped at the base of the stair to his pedastal, his Kingsgaurd and their white cloaks flanking him, well-trained hands on their hilts; three others stood near his dias facing her. Two Plantum-haired royals; a man, handsome and mildly bored looking, and a young girl beside him, equally bored looking. And on the right, a tall brown-haired middle-aged man with deep, calculating eyes.

King Viserys stood, and all the whispers came to a halt, waiting on the cue to which of their whispers would become truth after nineteen years of wait.

The king’s arms swung open, “Cousin,” he greeted kindly, gold threaded sleeves gleaming above, the sharp-bladed throne in a welcoming gesture, “How glad I am that you arrived safely.”

She felt her entire soul sigh in relief; she had been prepared to fight for her legitimacy. ‘Cousin’ though, thank the gods, all worry over legitimacy had vanished with a single welcoming familial title.

“King Viserys,” Alsaedys greeted back, “I kindly accept your welcome, and thank you for your warm, greeting. I am sorry that my father, Prince Vaegon, was unable to join me.”

It is an unnecessary reminder after his greeting, but reiterating their bond as many times before the court as possible, couldn’t hurt.

“Yes, he wrote of the flooding of the roads in The Reach, it seems my uncle, will not join be joining us at all. He has always preferred his studies to court—I cannot say I was surprised that the gods intervened for him.”

She chuckled and he smiled back, but the King did not seem truly disappointed. No one liked her father, just another miserable scholarly man haunting their halls.

And since his letter had reached the King there was no real need for him—she had only written him on the slight chance that her and her sibling’s legitimacy would be questioned.

“I admit—it is good to finally meet you. I did not believe I ever would.”

A small bout of laughter burbled up from the court—their audience at her back, but they were silenced quickly by the sharp stare of the tall young man a few steps down from the King.

He was clearly Targaryen, dressed in similar royal Targaryen back regalia to the king, with his long, pale satiny hair and cool violet eyes. Her father had been the only Targaryen she had known, but her mother had often described his family to her, the beautiful, feisty Alyssa and her Handsome brother…and husband, young Prince Baelon.

This man looked just how her mother had described the man…and from his position, she could easily extrapolate that this was the infamous Prince Daemon; her cousin, and the late Prince Baelon’s rogue son.

The King’s brother.

He stared her up and down—his appraisal heavier than the Targaryen costume she wore, “yes, many whispers about the Summer IlseTargaryens in the south,” The Rogue Prince said, looking more interested now.

“My siblings and I could not disengage ourselvesfrom our duties; my mother recently took the Omboru. And we have taken care in solidifying our hold these last years decades. We have not had the chance to…visit.”

Viserys nodded, smiling pleasantly enough at her reasoning.

“Have you come to bend the knee, then?” Prince Daemon inquired.

Alsaedys paused, turning slowly back to the Prince and away from the King.

The brown hair man’s on his other side, clenched his fist next to the prince, the hand of the king, she gathered from his pin.

Alsaedys met The Princes’s eyes, resisting the scoff that threatened to bubble up her throat. At thirteen, she had not yet been named her mother’s heir, and being summoned to swear fealty to her father’s family was not yet considered an insult, but that was not the case any longer. The summer Ilse named two heirs. At the age of maturity, fifteen. And though her older sister was the eldest, Alsaedys was still considered heir apparent as her equal until Daedra sister ascended the Swan Throne.

“I was a child when the court summoned me; but King Jaecerys had the embodiment of my …oath to Westeros assured when my father, Prince Vaegon, bent the knee to the council’s chosen King. I am my mother’s heir and a future queen of Walanto and Ombolu, my knee will not bend to a Westerosii King.”

A sly smile quirked the rogue prince’s mouth at her response, a mere teasing joke then, but no less of an insult. Viserys sent his brother a sharp, scolding stare—the rogue prince did not seem to notice.

“Yes, of course, Princess,” Viserys cut in through the thick silence, “We are always grateful for our open trade with the Walanto since your parents’ marriage. Lord CorlysVelyaron is also very appreciative of the swan ships your mother sent to offer aid in our recent…tousles in the Step Stones. No ships are of greater craftsmanship. None are faster.”

It might be flattery for the princes’ insult—if it wasn’t simply fact.

“We are glad to be of aid,” Alsaedysresonded easily, fixing a pleasant smile back on her face to match the genuine benevolence in the Kings eyes.

And for a moment, she wondered that no man with such pleasant continence could remain on that bladed throne.

“I must be plain though, Your Majesty.”

He nodded still smiling warmly, “of course. I would prefer it.”

She wasn’t sure that was true, it wasn’t for most—despite what they said, but she continued anyway, “I have come on behalf of my siblings. And their rights as children of a Prince of House Targaryen.”

The King raised his brows, “What rights have they been denied? Tell me, and it will be rectified.”

“Dragons. Your Highness,” the court audibly gasped, and the King went still in his seat. “We are children of the Royal line, legally, and unquestionably…but in, what can only be an oversight on both our parts and the vast distance between us, we were not sent our dragon eggs for our cradles.”

The King blinked back at her, the hand who had seemed solemn and uninterested before was now tense and alert. His eyes snapped between herself and Viserys.

“I have come to ask for my sibling’s birthrights. As members of our great house, Your Highness,” she nodded her head, the only bow a foreign princess could offer in respect.

If someone had dropped a coin in the throne room, it may have echoed for days in the silence that followed, as if all persons had simultaneously sucked in the gasp. Waiting for some cue to release it.

Viserys seemed genuine in his uncertainty, frozen into statued stillness, to the point that she felt the keen sense that the King himself was waiting for someone else to answer for him. Clearly, her father had not written to make him aware; of her request. The hand stepped forward a second later, but then before he could speak, someone else cut in.

“Not for yourself—Princess?” The rogue prince spoke through the silent room.

Daemon shifted in his stance, rolling his broad shoulders, “Do you fear riding such great… beasts?” He went on.

Alsaedys straightened, meeting the Princes’ eyes taking obvious measure of the man, as he had done so to her. The Valyrian steel sword—DarkSister at his hip, his palm constantly gracing it’s enigmatic pummel. He smiled under her appraisal.

He was likely just under a decade older than her… and the young Princess next to him, who Alsaedys had only noticed then; interested now, at the mention of dragons was likely just under a decade of her.

She nodded to the Princess, and the girl seemed surprised at her acknowledgment. Nodding back thoughtlessly before Alsaedys spoke.

“Prior to our arrival we were set upon by a large grey ‘beast’, I believe it had likely made a home in the cliffs of the Stormlands and caught wind of a fishing boat we had passed shortly prior. I claimed the beast before it could tare our hull to shreds in search of food; my dragon is circling a few small Ilse off the coast—”

There were more gasps from their audience. And the hand straightened more, gaze sharp, wise…and distrustful.

“You claimed him?” The young Princess cut in wide-eyed, stepping forwards forward from the Dias, “You claimed the Grey Ghost? A wild dragon.”

“Her,” Alsaedys corrected, and at that, all the Valyrian’s perked at the notion of a she-dragon, A woman at the corner of her eye, Valyrian-blond hair piled high on her head like a pseudo crown, “and no, I don’t believe her to be the Grey Ghost. I have seen that dragon in passing before… Jaedos’s scales are a sky blue, and she is more akin to Meleys build than Grey Ghost.”

The Girl nodded, The Crown Princess Rhaenyra, Alsaedys was certain now, “What have you named her?”

“Jaedos.”

“Ah… a true Summer Dragon, then,” Prince Daemon hummed, his long bone-coloured blond hair slipping over his crushed-velvet-clad shoulder.

He seemed intrigued at her dragon’s Valyrian name, and she suspected the prince preferred speaking Valyrian from the small grin it put on his face, but from the way his eyes drew over her again, making her ears heat and her heart quicken she suspected he may have been referring to…someone else too.

She did not feel in need of her father’s family’s acceptance, but there was something satisfying in being referred to as a ‘dragon’ by the rogue dragon prince himself.

His grin widened. Teeth gleamed along with the sharpness in his eyes, as they peeked from between his lips.

She turned away, all pride and heated satisfaction, and gazed back at the King—whose eyes also held a weary interest now.

“The claiming of a wild dragon is an impressive feat. No one can deny that,” he shifted on the throne, flinching and frowning a moment at a catch of his cloak on one of the wayward blades, he sighed, turning back to her, “a female dragon, at that…”

“Yes, and upon my first ride, she brought me to what could only be a she-dragons nest. She is likely to lay her own clutch sometime.” Alsaedys added smoothly, knowing he was dancing around the statement, “and though I have no doubt she will, my older sister and younger brother, are not children anymore. And as it may yet be years before she lays her first clutch. I would refer the eggs they are owed…and I am certain we could agree over …a trade for two eggs from inevitable Jaedos’ future clutch.”

The King sat back on his throne, “That seems an overly fair proposition.”

The Hand bristled at his side, and her eyes narrowed at the man. Not even a Targaryen himself—bothered by her request.

The king seemed to catch the man’s subtle disapproval also and cleared his throat.

“We shall discuss your proposition, Princess Alsaedys. As I am sure you are aware, the dragon keepers are the ones who gauge the wellness of a clutch’s haul, and I have not yet spoken to them of our most recent clutches.”

She suspect that was the truth, from the frown on The Hand’s morose face, and from the rumour of the King’s lack of interest in dragons themselves, since his mount, the Black Dread, had passed on nye fifteen years prior.

“Of course King Viserys, I am grateful for your consideration in this oversight, and I am more than happy to spend this time getting better acquainted with our family.”

He stood arms open in welcome once more after the breif interlude of uncertainty.

“We shall make a grand feast of it, and have a joust,” He smiled, “It is not every day a long-lost Princess returns.”

She supposed it wasn’t after so few of her grandfather’s children had survived.

Alsaedys nodded, “You honour me, cousin.”

**My work is not Beta-read**

MasterList

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witchqueenvisenya · 2 years

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i am not good at writing meta so i will just talk about this plainly. this was again about the old rehashed argument about daenerys being a slaver for imposing tax in meereen, and the claim that she uses this tax money for her own campaign to westeros. again, it has been some time since i have gone back to her chapters, so i do not remember the minutiae, but i remember her characterisation and motivations starkly so i think i am right when i claim that the money from this tax is being used to rebuild and reinforce meereen's shattered economy. besides, it is just insiduous to claim that daenerys would re-direct these funds to her war as opposed to helping out the city that she stays in after putting a pause on her war for the iron throne because she recognizes her mistakes in astapor and yunkai. that some of the former slaves wish to sell themselves back into slavery is a shock to her, but she still respects their autonomy enough to allow this while making sure to discourage more slaveowners from future slave trade. these slaves are selling themselves back into slavery precisely because they find their new free lifestyle to be lacking in certain comforts that they were used to. these people are not a monolith in themselves. they have differing opinions about this new liftestyle that many of them have probably never experienced. being coldly logical here, but to bolster the city's economy is also a way of giving some comforts back to the people, thus healing the city quicker and making dany's return to westeros more easy and swift.

#daenerys targaryen #*v

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westerosoliviapope · 1 year

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Auntie Dany & Prince Eggy

From the cutting board of an old story, as promised for @spookyscaryfox:

“Can I interest you in a mimosa, Auntie? A jay, perhaps?”

Princess Daenerys turns away from the white clouds rippling beneath the plane wing like a banner in the wind to eye her nephew warily. He’s the last person she wants to be trapped on a plane with right now, but Elia wanted them to return from their respective international trips together.

From Volantis to Pentos, Daenerys appreciated blessed silence as her traveling staff gave her the space to process her loss privately before having to do so in public.

Then, after an hour-long wait on a Pentoshi airfield, Aegon arrived.

“We aren’t going to brunch, Eggy; my mother is dead. And you’re not smoking on my plane.”

“You’re right. Grandmother did love a good vodka tonic,” he says, retrieving a small plastic baggy full of gummy bears from a vintage leather duffle bag monogrammed with a stately “A.T. VI” before pressing the intercom. “We’d like two vodka tonics, please.”

“You carry your drugs in a monogrammed bag?”

He blinks at her with eyes like Rhaegar’s—deep indigo opposed to the light violet of her own—with none of his seriousness. “What? They’re only illegal in Westeros.”

Maybe vodka isn’t a bad idea.

“How old were you when Grandmother let you have your first tonic?” Aegon asks, looking wistfully at the clear liquid in his glass.

Dany smiles, remembering her mother’s summons in the wee hours after her fifteenth birthday party. It was a bit of a tradition in the family that when she summoned you to the Queen’s personal sitting room for a drink, she thought of you as an adult.

“So,” her mother said in her gentle voice. “Tell me what you want to do with your life, my dear.”

To go to college—away from Westeros. To see the world and learn about life outside of palaces and stuffy old traditions. To contribute more to the world than smiling and hugging children for photo opportunities.

She’d managed all of the above, with her mother’s ardent support every step of the way. Through six years at Sealord’s College in Braavos where she earned dual undergraduate degrees in international studies and economics, then a postgraduate degree in human rights. “Diplomacy” missions across Essos and as far east as Asshai while she raised funds to start The Mhysa Foundation, which advocated against labor-related human rights abuses all over the world. Her fervent lobbying against archaic labor laws in Astapor, Yuncai, Meereen, and Volantis that were little more than thinly-veiled slavery.

And on the rare occasion Daenerys ended up in the tabloids for one silly thing or another (namely her weakness for the private company of tattooed Essosi futbol players), Rhaella never reprimanded her, even when Rhaegar and Elia expressed disapproval.

Gods, she missed her mother so much already.

“Fifteen,” she finally answered Aegon. “You were a bit older, right?”

Aegon nodded. “Nineteen. Not everyone was as wise beyond their years as you were, Auntie. Though,” he shrugs. “It could have been worse. I don’t think she had a drink with Uncle Viserys until he was twenty-one.”

That was certainly on-brand for her middle brother. “Do you remember what she said to you?”

Her nephew cleared his throat and did his best impersonation of Rhaella’s prim, melodic voice. “‘You come from the stock of rulers and rogues, on both sides. Gods be good, you’ll be neither.’” Casting a look at the red-haired Royal Guardsman seated with the rest of the detail near the back of the plane, he smiles a wicked grin. “She was right. I much prefer to take after the women in my family.”

Careful not to stare too hard at the older gentleman—Connington, if she’s not mistaken—Dany rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Aegon. He’s your father’s age.”

Aegon motions for a refill. “That’s the point, Auntie. Don’t tell me you’ve never indulged in a little ‘daddy’ play? That enforcer from the Dothraki futbol team looked like the type.”

Ordinarily, she’d indulge his need to dish; especially since it seems like he wants a distraction from his grief. But she’s in no mood to discuss her exes, least of all the one whose “sun and stars” tattoo she only recently removed from her hip bone.

“How long has this been going on?” If the man had touched her nephew when he was underage, she’d personally have him gelded.

“Before you start breathing fire,” Aegon held up his hand. “It’s only been since my twenty-third birthday. And I seduced him.”

“If Rhaegar ever finds out…”

For the first time since he boarded the plane, Dany sees darkness cloud his carefree expression. “His precious heir has just given him adorable twin grandchildren. And he has a throne to ascend. Who shares my bed is the least of Father’s concerns.”

Unfortunately, with Rhaegar and Elia on the throne, Dany has a feeling that the dating lives of all the unmarried Targaryens are about to be at the top of the list of the crown’s concerns.

"I’m going to try to get some rest. There’s a proper mourning suit for you to change into before we land. A preview from Prada’s spring line.”

With a smile, Aegon rises from his seat. “Princess Daenerys, Holder of Degrees, Khaleesi of Essosi Futbol Cocks, Mhysa of the Downtrodden, Procurer of Fine Fabrics for Her Favorite Nephew. Long may you reign.”

“You’re only my favorite until little Baelon is old enough to have a Vodka tonic with his Great-Aunt.”

Flipping her the bird, he retreats to one of the suites, leaving Dany once more in blessed silence.

____

A/N: I forgot how observant Aegon is on the low. Him saying he "takes after the women" in his family messing around with his bodyguard meant that he knew about Rhaella/Barristan and Elia/Arthur. lol

#scandal westeros #modern westeros au #modern westeros #modern targaryens #modern targaryen monarchy #daenerys targaryen #aegon vi targaryen

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rosaluxembae · 2 years

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Meereenese guilds are broadly seen as part of the old order but it didn't have to be that way. They come into conflict with the freedmen/the new Daenerys regime because the freedmen are undercutting their "ancient rights and customs" but it's not actually an entirely new phenomenon. I mean it's implied by the fact that there are all these former slaves who know professional crafts but we also have it explicitly:

"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."

Not only were the Great Masters undercutting demand from the guilds by making their slaves produce the things they consumed, they were selling them in Meereen and exporting them too, undercutting supply.

Now this shouldn't be too surprising, by definition a ruling class needs to make money by extracting surplus value from those under them, so of course a slave society is going to make money off slave production but this shows something important: the existence of class conflict in Meereenese society, not just between master and slave but also between master and guild artisan.

Now this brings me back to the original dispute with the guilds, Daenerys *almost* has the right idea:

"The freedmen work cheaply because they are hungry," Dany pointed out. "If I forbid them to carve stone or lay bricks, the chandlers, the weavers, and the goldsmiths will soon be at my gates asking that they be excluded from those trades as well." She considered a moment. "Let it be written that henceforth only guild members shall be permitted to name themselves journeymen or masters … provided the guilds open their rolls to any freedman who can demonstrate the requisite skills."

In essence she's giving concessions to the guilds in return for granting freedmen membership but this ends up being a sort of compromise where no one is really happy, when a class alliance is actually possible. She should have gone further in actually upholding the guild monopoly and fully regulate all the trades (including the chandlers, the weavers and the goldsmiths) through the guild system, channeling the freedmen through there. And this probably should have been done as part of the immediate restructuring following the conquest.

Pushing them into swapping grand masters for guild masters might be a little uncomfortable not no more so than letting them sell themselves into slavery or reopening the fighting pits. (Besides they're not going to complain if that what it takes to be no longer considered property) And it would turn the situation from trying to balance irreconcilable class interests into one of replacing one mode of production with another: ie truly revolutionary. You can't just tear down the old society, you need a vision of a new society to build.

Ofc Daenerys doesn't do this because she's a) a 16 year old pretty much winging it b) not class conscious (also understandable given her situation) but if she had it would have given a real social base for her rule.

#my brand now is shoehorning historical materialism into ASOIAF as much as possible #asoiaf #adwd #daenerys targaryen #meereen #Slaver's Bay

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samieree · 8 months

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Born in Flames || Game of Thrones

OC x ?😏

-> Chapter XIX ''A dance''

Chapter XX ''A necklace and a clasp''

She was hoping for a quiet morning right after Daario left. She told him that she would like him to go with the Second Sons to Yunkai and retake the city from the Masters. Then she thought she would have time for herself, she didn't tie her hair up, she just put on a red dress.

She liked this color, perhaps because she could never wear it. Although at the same time she often dressed in white, which surprisingly matched her silver hair and fair skin. Besides, she also looked good in blue and light pink, but she didn't want to see these colors on her, they only reminded her of being under the rule of the Lannisters.

Coming back, the morning was quiet until she heard someone enter her room. She stepped down from the balcony and back to the table where the maps were spread out, and met Arthur's eyes.

"I didn't expect you so early, ser." she admitted, sitting on a chair at the table.

For a moment he wondered whether to comment on who he bumped into at the door. He would have bitten his tongue if they knew this boy better, but they didn't.

"Some people managed to beat me to it anyway."

"I take it you don't approve of this?" she asked, but she didn't seem offended in any way. She rather understood his lack of confidence in this relationship, but that didn't mean she was going to listen to any advice.

"I just don't understand how you can trust him."

"He would have killed me a long time ago if he wanted to. I don't have to trust him to know he won't hurt me." she pointed out, looking at the place where the flowers stood in the vase. "Anyway..." she cleared her throat. "I sent Daario and the Second Sons to Yunkai to retake the city."

"I'm afraid that as soon as they leave the city, Masters will capture it again. It's a vicious circle."

"That's why I told him to tell them that if they rise up against me again, they all will lose their heads. And Hizdahr zo Loraq - as my ambassador - will tell them that I was also kind in Meereen and the city and the Masters do not suffer at all due to the lack of slavery." she explained slowly, in a confident voice. "They get one last chance. It's none of my business whether they use it or not."

"It looks like you're starting to find your way to rule."

He smiled at her gently. For a brief moment, he feared that perhaps she had already ordered the execution of each of them, and then she would be no better than them. He also knew that the world was brutal and that many people - like Tywin Lannister - would do just that, but it was the easiest way to make dozens of enemies.

Some enjoyed ruling through fear, but in the end they always ended up like their defeated enemies. There will always be someone who eventually will make you pay for your crimes. Even someone like Tywin Lannister.

"I'm trying to be just." she smiled back. She rose from her chair and gazed on the map, focusing on Essos. "When the situation calms down, we also have to go to Volantis and Lys, slavery is still common there. If I want it to never come back, I have to get rid of it everywhere." she emphasized the last word. "And then to Westeros..."

"Are you afraid of this?" he asked, sensing the uncertainty in her voice when she mentioned returning to Westeros.

"I lived there for seventeen years, and yet I don't know much about these lands, I haven't seen most of the country I want to rule in the future." she sighed quietly. "I'm afraid this fight won't be that easy, no matter how big army I gather. Tywin would rather kill himself than bend the knee to me. My escape humiliated him."

"The old lion isn't so scary in the eyes of the Lords of Westeros anymore, that's only a plus. Dorne will surely support you, for your mother was their princess."

She had no doubts about that, in fact she imagined that uncle Oberyn must be proud of her. He certainly didn't expect that such a future awaited her...

"And others?" she replied with a question. |There's still no peace there. Stannis has already attacked the capital and is as proud as Tywin, he will not bend the knee, especially before a woman. The Lords may support him for this reason... Unless they change their minds when they see dragons, although I wouldn't want to rule just because people are scared of them."

"But on the other hand, they are a great advantage, especially if the enemy had a numerical advantage."

"I can't control them." she admitted, shifting her gaze from the map to him. "Recently they killed a whole herd of goats, I'm afraid of what will happen next. In addition, no one knows where Drogon and Maelia are, they flew away and were never heard from again."

"They will be found." he wished he could give her some advice, but he had nothing to say on the matter.

Visenya only nodded and for a long moment there was silence between them, which only she decided to break.

"There is also a listening to people problems today... How many of them are already waiting at the entrance?" she asked a question, although she probably didn't want to know the answer...

"Three hundred and fifty-six, Your Grace."

She nodded. Even more than yesterday... The sooner it starts, the better. But she dreads to think how many people will gather if she is forced to listen at most twice a week due to the workload, since from day to day there are three hundred and fifty-six of them...

No, I don't want to think about it.

* * *

The days passed quite pleasantly, she even got used to long hours of sitting with her back straight. This was the first time since her time in Westeros that she had worn dresses for an extended period of time. When traveling constantly, pants were much more practical and she even liked wearing them and high boots. She still dressed like that sometimes. Although it was the dresses that added royalty to her image. Women in Meereen tried to follow her fashion and she liked the fact that she was a role model.

It was now a lovely, sunny morning, and although her thoughts were on other things, she was talking to Missandei about Grey Worm, who was watching her as she washed her clothes.

"Was he spying on you?" Vis asked bluntly, braiding some of Missandei's hair. At least it took her mind off the dream, or more precisely, the rest of it.

"No, he wasn't spying, but..." she paused, looking for the right word. "He was just watching."

"Are you sure? I thought the Unsullied weren't interested in what was hidden under our clothes, after all..." she didn't say it, but they both knew what she meant.

"He was interested. I think so." she said it so confidently that Visenya didn't dare question it. But... Why would he be interested in this?

She couldn't help but ask:

"Do they cut everything off during castration? You know..." she paused for a moment, wondering how to put it so as not to say it directly. "The pillar and the stones, or just one of the two?" she asked gently, feeling awkward at that moment.

"I don't know." she admitted after a short moment of silence.

"Haven't you ever thought about it?" this question hung in the air, Vis wondered for a moment whether she had scared Missandei, but then she heard her voice.

"I have."

They didn't say another word on the subject, and Visenya finished tying her hair. In fact, she now began to wonder whether the Unsullied were fully castrated or only partially... Besides, a dream that she couldn't understand - even though she wanted to - was still going through her head.

She needed to think about something else, so she started another topic, even though she had already finished her work.

"Can we have another dothraki lesson today? I think I've finally found the right tone of voice for this language." she sat down next to Missandei on a long stool and smiled gently. She saw that her friend was also relieved that they had changed the subject.

"Of course... And indeed, your Dothraki is slowly starting to sound good." Vis rolled her eyes at the fact that the tongue in her mouth was just starting to sound like it should. She had to admit that Missandei was right, it's not an easy language to learn, especially with it's pronunciation. "Where's your necklace?" she asked unexpectedly, looking at Visenya's cleavage.

"I can't find it since this morning..." she began, rising from the stool to go to the dressing table, "...but I have this." she took in her hand a beautiful, silver clasp that probably used to keep someone's coat in place until now. "You'll probably think I'm crazy, but... It was a dream. Different from the ones I usually have. This one can't be the one that come true."

* * *

He couldn't say he felt better - mentally speaking - but at least he could keep himself occupied, take his mind off the constant self-blame and mourning. And if he had to die when the Wildlings attacked Castle Black, then it was supposed to be that way, although surprisingly he doubted it would happen.

Robb was sitting with Sam and Maester Aemon in the library, where Sam was reading about some horrors he didn't even want to hear about.His thoughts wandered as he twirled the silver necklace between his fingers under the table, necklace, he had in his hands when he woke up.

But he couldn't find his clasp anywhere. Anyhere. Sink like a stone.

He remembered this necklace from today's dream. The silver-haired girl he was dancing with was wearing it. He didn't know why he was dreaming such things now, when he was mourning his wife. He believed that love would never set his heart on fire again, unless it was love for his family. He promised himself that he wouldn't replace Talisa with any other woman, but those purple eyes wandered through his thoughts even now.

That an ordinary dream can be so confusing...

Ordinary? It is really ordinary? Never had any dream been so real to him. Everything was clear in his memory, he could have sworn he even remembered what flowers she smelled like... Her body felt good in his hands as he led her through the dance, his eyes never leaving hers. For that brief moment, he felt his heart reaching out to her, how she made it come alive again.

And then he scolded himself for even having such a thought cross his mind.

"Love is the death of duty." he woke up from his thoughts just as the Maester spoke these words. "I told that your friend Jon once. He didn't listen, and neither did you."

He may have said it to Sam, but it really suited him too... It's a pity that in his case, his decision resulted in the death of hundreds, if not thousands.

He tuned out again for a moment, trying to make sense of the silver necklace, but the decorative pendant reminded him of nothing, pointed to nothing. He couldn't explain it, but he had a feeling he would meet this woman someday. That's why he was convinced that he wouldn't die now. Although the idea of such a meeting was not pleasant for him at all.

He didn't want comfort, he didn't want to look at a beautiful face that would only remind him of his lost family. If he should do anything in life now, it would be to take the North back from the Boltons, but he has no idea for that yet.

His attitude, however, does not indicate that he intends to get rid of this necklace that somehow ended up in his hands... On the contrary, he will wait, perhaps he will give it back to its owner one day.

And then he will be able to forget about her forever.

"We could tell stories of lost love until morning. Nothing brings back memories like the specter of inevitable death." he didn't even realize when Maester Aemon finished his monologue, because he only half-listened to it and it didn't lift his spirits at all. "Go to sleep." with that, he extinguished the candle and slowly left the room, leaving them alone in the darkness in the library.

"Is it possible to love again?" at first he didn't want to say anything, but then he spoke, catching the attention of Sam, who was about to leave.

There was silence for a moment while young Tarly considered his answer, especially since he had already learned Robb's story.

"Why not?" he finally replied, surprisingly even with a hint of optimism in his voice. "In love, you care most about the other person's happiness, so when someone dies... At least I think so... he wouldn't want his loved one to suffer until the end of his days."

"Wouldn't that be treason?" he finally looked up from the necklace and moved his gaze to Samwell.

Unfortunately, he didn't know how to answer that.

-> Chapter XXI ''Gentle heart'' -> general masterlist -> Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon masterlist

#robb stark #robb stark survived because he deserved that #arthur dayne #he also deserved to survive #all of them need therapy #especially robb #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf #got

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goodqueenaly · 2 years

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Here’s me never realizing how perfect (in a perfectly twisted way) the Lannister origin myth clashes with that of the Casterlys.

In the Casterly legend, the key theme is mercy. Corlos son of Caster had every reason to kill the lions that dwelled in what would become Casterly Rock; not only was he “a huntsman” by trade, but this lion (and presumably its mate too) had been “preying upon the village's sheep”, a danger to the survival of the community (since not only would the villagers presumably rely on the sheep for wool and possibly food, but a predator attacking a flock could just as well go after the shepherd tending it). Yet while Corlos could easily have recognized the same about the lion’s cubs (and probably did), and enjoyed a temporary physical advantage over them, he nevertheless refused to kill them too. Corlos would not sentence these cubs to death for the sins of their parents, even if their very nature suggested they would pose a danger to his community; the moral good of showing mercy to the innocent outweighed the practical, even legal good of eliminating a threat to the larger world. This choice is the source of the Casterlys’ divine reward, mercy confirmed as literally more precious in the eyes of the (specifically old) gods than a mountain of gold.

Yet in the Lannister legend (no matter which version), Lann succeeds not from a higher good superseding right but from apparently purely selfish desire violating right. Lann takes Casterly Rock not because of any reported tyranny or evil committed by the Casterlys, or out of any reported sense of personal justice; indeed, Lann is specifically noted to be an outsider to the Westerlands (either as some proto-Andal or a grandson of Garth Greenhand), someone with neither investment in nor claim to rule of the Westerlands. Likewise, in every iteration of the Lann myth, Lann succeeds out of a violation of the natural and/or right order. In sneaking into the Rock (thereby consciously avoiding the mutually protective mandates of guest right) to set the Casterlys against one another, Lann disturbs and upends family unity. In introducing vermin or lions into the Rock, Lann injects wildness into what was by then a human, domestic sphere. (Importantly, in the case of the lions, Lann does not do so to return the place to its former animal occupants, but to secure his own seizure of the Rock; where once Corlos had used lions to demonstrate his mercy to the innocent in spite of their deadly pedigree and his own (and his community’s) potential danger from it, Lann uses lions specifically because of that menacing character against the apparently innocent Casterlys.) In raping the Casterly daughters, Lann very obviously violates (in every sense of the word) the young girls involved, using crime (either in the clear sense of the rapes themselves or the patriarchal, needless to say no less disturbing Westerosi sense of stealing Lord Casterly’s right to sell his daughters’ virginity as he pleased) to insert himself into the ruling dynasty.

This contract becomes especially interesting in the context of the modern Lannisters, especially in the conflict between Ned and Cersei in AGOT. Ned is certainly not the only character who has prioritized mercy to the innocent (see, say, Davos and his argument that the life of one boy is worth “everything” against the fate of a kingdom, or Daenerys and her refusal to kill the child hostages of Meereen even in the face of the terrorist attacks of the Sons of the Harpy). However, that Ned himself consistently makes this choice is evident; his protection of baby Jon, his dilemma with the direwolf pups (itself a neat zoological parallel to Corlos’ decision with the lion cubs), and his stalwart refusal to condone the assassination of young Daenerys all speak to this point. This facet of Ned’s character is at the heart of his warning Cersei to flee before he revealed the truth of the incest to Robert. As Corlos was willing to slay the adult lions for the threat they genuinely posed to his village, so Ned’s sense of justice and loyalty to Robert compelled him to reveal Cersei’s (and Jaime’s) actions to him. Yet as Corlos stopped short of killing the cubs out of recognition of their innocence, so Ned decided to give Cersei (and, more specifically, her children) the chance to escape Robert’s wrath. Ned had every reason to believe that Robert, once presented with this (true) accusation against Cersei, would quickly and violently rid himself not just of the wife he despised (and regularly abused and raped) but also the children who would be no more to him (and the rest of the realm) than than spawns of incest. Even though these children might well cause political trouble for him and/or the realm later - they as (illegitimate) pretenders in exile, he as the man who treasonously let them go - he makes the choice, as Corlos did, because they are innocent lives and thus worth saving, not guilty for whatever crimes their parents may have committed.

Cersei, in turn, reflects her mythical ancestor in this conflict. As Lann had had no right whatsoever to the Rock before deciding to seize it, so Cersei and her children had no legal right whatsoever to the Iron Throne; she knew more than anyone else that these were her extramarital children by her Kingsguard brother, at best in the eyes of the law bastards with no inheritance claims and at worst abominations to be destroyed. Yet as Lann twisted natural order in order to put himself on top (literally, as master of the Casterly Rock mountain, as well as politically), even stooping to crime to realize his ambition, so Cersei uses unnatural, indeed illegal methods to secure her seizure of power. Cersei upset the expected loyalty and service from squire to the knight he serves by having Lancel assist in Robert’s murder, turning the king’s trust in this relationship against him. (That Lancel was a Lannister like herself may itself create a parallel between Lann loosing a lion on the Casterlys and Cersei loosing a Lannister lion on Robert.) It was Ned who enjoyed, as both regent and Hand, the power to rule in the immediate aftermath of the king’s death, and consequently it was Cersei who orchestrated an illegal military coup to name her legally illegitimate son king. While Cersei certainly did not know about beforehand, or in the moment condone, the murder of Ned at Baelor’s Sept (that was Joffrey’s doing, influenced by Littlefinger), moreover, the crime was nevertheless a gross violation - the murder of a man previously promised clemency, on the sacred ground of the center of the Faith - whose repercussions Cersei is still feeling in the story now.

#asoiaf meta #casterly rock #Lann the clever #house lannister #house casterly #eddard stark #cersei lannister

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springdandelixn · 2 years

Text

Lobelia Siphilitica

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40504407

Jorah x F!Reader

Summary: Jorah Mormont comes back home to Bear Island after Daenerys banishes him from Meereen.

Blue Lobelias, is a specie of flower that only grows at the highest point of Bear Island. They can be found at the edge of a cliff, where waterfalls are present for they thrive and bloom beautifully in the cold.

Because of the place it grows, the Blue Lobelias are the hardest flowers to harvest. It is said that when a man gifts his woman a bushel of the lobelias, he truly and undeniably loves her for he would look death in the face just to get even a single stem.

💐

The sound of loud murmurs and footsteps outside your door is what takes your attention away from peeling the potatoes your Aunt Eden asked you to do in preparation for supper. With the knife and spud in hand, you look out the window and can’t help but grow curious as to why so many of the smallfolk are heading towards Mormont Keep.

Did Lady Mormont call for a gathering you didn’t know of?

Placing both the knife and potato on the table, you wipe your hands on the apron over your skirt and make your way towards the front door, grabbing your cloak and walking out of your home to lock the door.

Annabel’s voice then fills your ears, making you look to your side and catch her running towards you. A smile on her face and her bear cloak floating in the breeze. Her arm immediately wraps around yours and drags you along with her, both of you merging in with the crowd.

“Hurry up!” She says out loud with excitement. “We’re going to miss it!”

“Miss what?” You ask, your eyes trailing forward and meeting the massive doors of the keep where the carving of the woman draped in a bear pelt, a babe to her breast in one hand and in the other, a battle ax, the symbol of strength in Bear Island staring back at you.

“Didn’t you hear?” Annabel looks at you as if you grew a second head. “The exiled Lord of Bear Island has returned.”

Jorah Mormont has returned.

You knew of Jorah Mormont. The son of the late Jeor Mormont. Knew who he was and what it was that he did that had him flee the island with his Southern wife through stories from your aunt and uncle, as well as from the fishwives that frequented the market down by the docks. You were but a child then, unknown to the mishap that befell your homeland. But as you grew, you heard the tales that constantly left the smallfolk’s lips and you couldn’t help but sympathize with the exiled lord. Couldn’t help your frown when you hear some of the older folks curse his name and wish for his demise.

The whispers around the keep continue to grow louder as the air thickens with tension, the crowd anticipating seeing their past lord once again. Others begin to throw nasty looks your way as Annabel pushes through the throng of people to find a spot closer to the keep for her to get a good look at the exiled Mormont.

“Why can’t we stay back?” You ask in obvious irritation, to which Annabel just laughs and pulls you beside her once she makes it by the steps of the keep.

“I heard Mairi say that he’s a handsome man.” Annabel reasons. “And I want to see it for myself.”

Then silence.

The creak of the doors of the keep and the chirping of the birds are the only sounds that fill the cold air as Jorah Mormont steps out of the keep.

You expect to see an old man who was fast approaching his 50th, maybe even 60th, nameday, based on the stories of the townspeople. But to your surprise, you see is a regal and handsome man instead. Standing tall and stoic before the population of Bear Island. His body looks strong, dressed in northern garments and a longsword strapped to his side. Under the rays of the sun, his red-blond hair looks more golden than bronze, the breeze blowing against his face with features that only seasoned warriors would have. His eyes are serious and void of emotion, giving nothing away to the people that have gathered around to see him, both welcoming him home and wishing to banish him once more.

“He looks like a prince.” You hear Annabel say and give her arm a gentle tug to silence her.

But you notice, or rather feel, someone looking in your direction. And when you look up, you couldn’t help the blush that begins creeping up your cheeks as your eyes meet his sapphires. With how close you are to him, you could see that his eyes bear the color of the ocean, how deep in hue they were and you could feel yourself get hypnotized by the beauty that they possess.

The connection only shatters when the man on his left, who you recognize as Captain Wymond, one of Lady Mormont’s advisors, whispers into his ear, Jorah giving the captain and nod in response before both men make their way down the steps of the keep. Jorah gives you one last look before he turns to look ahead, the crowd moving to part before them as they walk southward of the island, towards Crail.

💐

A week has passed since the exiled knight came home and you find out from your uncle after he returns from fishing that Jorah now lives among the smallfolk of Crail.

So that’s where he went. You think as you listen attentively to your uncle’s tale while mixing up the stew that’s cooking by the hearth.

“Why doesn’t he live with his cousin?” You ask. “Isn’t he a Mormont too?”

To which he replies after taking a hearty sip of his ale. “The North Remembers.” Your aunt then takes the pitched to refill his cup before he adds. “And I doubt the smallfolk have forgiven him for what he’s done.”

💐

The forest during the summer on Bear Island is one of the places you love going to be alone. The comfort from the sounds of nature—the rustle of the leave from the trees, of twigs snapping from the wildlife that lingered beneath the bushes, and how the birds would sing songs for the wind to take and share their melody to the mountains, as well as the crashing of the water against the rocks as they fall from the highest point of the island—is what you always seek.

Yes, a trip to the forest, be it on your own accord or to do an errand for your aunt, is something you never shy away from. You always look forward to your next visit to the earthy maze, feeling exhilarated by the freedom it gives you and making the most out of it before winter comes and forbids you to even leave your home.

With a basket in hand, you stroll into the forest with the task of gathering some wild berries for your aunt, that she would be making into a pie for your uncle’s upcoming nameday. It’s a simple task. A task you’ve frequently been doing since you were a little girl. And you have your ax with you to keep you safe from any possible danger that may arise.

You were a good way in the forest when you spot a bush of wild berries just by the edge of a stream. Immediately, you make your way towards it and bend down, taking every berry your eyes could spot and dropping them into your basket.

The basket was already a quarter full when several twigs snapping behind you catch your attention and you were immediately on your guard. As much as you love the forest in the summertime, you were still cautious of whatever animal lurking in the green. You just didn’t want to get in their way, allowing them to go on with their business and letting you do the same.

You grip tightly on your basket of berries and carefully pull your ax from your side as you slowly walk towards where the sound came from. You swallow thickly, mustering up your courage and preparing yourself to scare off the creature that had interrupted your time in the woods. But fear immediately grips you when you see the unsuspecting bear cub playing with a pile of loose leaves. You were immediately on high alert as a bear cub would signal that its mother is just close by.

And just as you suspect, a loud roar emerges from behind you, making you turn around swiftly and come face to face with the large brown bear, standing on its hind legs, already threatening you for even coming close to its cub. Your basket of berries dropping to the ground as you hold onto your ax tightly with both hands.

You know how to fight. Your uncle taught you how to wield an ax when you were just a little lass and you were confident enough to maneuver it with ease. But you couldn’t help feeling scared. You’ve never engaged in a real battle before or even have come face to face with a real bear. By the gods, you’ve never even seen a live bear before. Only saw them when they’ve already been gutted and left to dry out in the neighboring homes. Their furs ready to be turned into cloaks and their meat to feed the people.

You try to stay strong and hold your ground, preparing yourself for the incoming assault. Silently, you begin praying to the old gods that they would guide you and that if this is to be your end, they may see the courage you’ve displayed and that they would bless your aunt and uncle when you are no longer among them.

Just as the bear was about to charge at you, you gasp when you see it suddenly topple over. The large beast rolls on the ground and hits its back against a massive pine tree. The sounds of a loud grunt and a low growl mixed among the trees.

You stand stock still with your ax still tightly in your grip, shocked as you look at the man standing before you, a longsword in his grasp and his free hand reaching over to you to keep you behind him. The tension in the forest thickens as the bear shakes its head and gets back up on four legs. The man in front of you keeps growling lowly as if preparing himself to attack and warding off the beast if it decides to charge for your once more. But to your luck, the bear flees, the cub following its trail after and you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You lower your head and sigh in relief but frown soon after when you spot the berries scattered at your feet. But the shadow of the man casting over you makes you look up and you couldn’t prevent the blush forming on your cheek when you see those mesmerizing blue eyes once again.

“Are you alright, lass?” The man asks and you quickly bow your head to acknowledge the presence of the knight.

“I am, m’lord.” You say with sincerity, then chance to peek up at him. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I’m no lord.” He simply says and bends down to pick up the berries at your feet.

You’re suddenly filled with panic when you see him picking your harvest, making you drop down to your knees and quickly helping him gather them back into the basket.

“M’lord, you don’t have t—”

“You shouldn’t be alone out here.” He interrupts and takes the basket from the ground after he drops the last of the berries in, giving it to you. “The bears usually come down the mountain to gather food before they sleep for the winter.”

“I’ve been doing this since I was little, m’lord.” You say with much conviction, tucking the basket in the crook of your arm before looking at the man straight in the eyes, truly looking at him. “It’s the first time that I’ve seen a bear come close.”

“I’m no Lord,” he repeats and you fight the urge to roll your eyes at him.

“You are the cousin of Lady Mormont, are you not?” You ask with as much politeness as you can muster, but you can see that Jorah could sense your slight irritation. “You are a Mormont and House Mormont has ruled over these lands for generations.”

“I am a Mormont, but I am a disgraced Lord. An exiled knight.” He argues.

“Still a Lord.” And you couldn’t help but release a soft chuckle when he grunts at your comment.

“Let’s take you home.” He simply says and you don’t argue any further as you walk with him out of the forest and back into town.

💐

Three days have passed since your encounter with the bear. Three days since Jorah Mormont saved you from your supposed end. You never told your aunt nor your uncle about what happened for fear that they would forbid you to go back to the forest alone. So, the event stays a secret between you, the berries that have turned into a delicious pie, and the blue-eyed knight.

You find yourself walking towards the docks one sunny afternoon. The commotion of the men fills your ears as they haul their catch from their boats and into the waiting baskets of the boardwalk. You crane your neck forward and look from side to side for your uncle as you walk towards his usual dock to give him the fares that your aunt had packed for him.

“Lassie!” You hear your uncle’s voice resound over the chatter and smile when you find him at last, his tunic drenched from the sea and a basket of fish by his feet. “Eden sent for you?”

“Aye.” You reply and make to stand in front of him, holding out the basket. “She says not to lose this one like the last one. She just borrowed this from Agatha.”

Your uncle laughs and takes the basket from you after you grab two of the berry tarts you brought for yourself. “I be seein’ you at supper. The crew and I be headin’ to the market to drop off the catch then to the tavern.”

You roll your eyes at him then laugh. You couldn’t help but think how mad your aunt would be when she finds your uncle drunk again and unable to walk back home.

“Just don’t find yourself in the stables again. Aunt Eden won’t let you back home if you smelled like horse shite.” You call out as you leave the docks and wave to your uncle goodbye.

As you make your way back home, you see him again. Alone by a small rowboat. A net tangled in his hands as he hauls his catch for the day. You curiously ask yourself if he sells his catch in the market like what your uncle does or keep it all for himself.

You gather up your courage and walk up to him, a smile on your face as you greet him with a ‘good noon’. To your relief, he acknowledges you but doesn’t say much after. But his silence doesn’t deter you, making you stay by his boat and watch him finish up his task.

For some reason, you feel drawn to him. Felt a connection the moment your eyes locked with his the first time. You couldn’t point out what the reason is but you guess it’s the sadness you see in his eyes. The defeat you felt when he was presented to the entire island. You feel somewhat compelled to soothe it, to make him welcome. To rid him of the loneliness that emanates from him and make him feel at home.

Just like what your aunt and uncle did for you when your father abandoned you after your mother passed. How they welcomed you into your home and took care of you. Trying their best to teach you the way of life and doing with full of smiles and laughter. Not once have they made you feel that you were a burden for they always made you feel like you were their own.

“Why are you still here?” You snap out of your thoughts when you hear him ask.

“Oh, I—wanted to thank you for last time.” You say with a grin and hold out a tart to him.

He looks at the pastry in your hand before tossing the net in the boat and locking up his catch in a small basket. “You already did.” He responds.

“I want to say it again.” You hold the tart closer to him, your smile widening when he eventually takes it.

You both sit at the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the ocean as you eat the sweets in silence. The weather was fair despite the cold and you bask in the sun as much as you could, knowing that such an opportunity would be scarce in the coming months.

“I heard you live in Crail.” You start, catching the knight by surprise. “Why are you there instead of the keep?” He eyes you curiously and you couldn’t hold in your giggle when you spot the crumbs left by the flakey pastry sticking on his beard.

You observe that Lord Mormont—you still call him as such, undeterred by his protests that you don’t—is a quiet man. For it takes a while for him to answer your question. But he entertains you regardless and explains that he chose to live among the smallfolk not only to prove to his cousin that he has not returned to reclaim lordship over Bear Island but to live a humble life. To live in simplicity and not regality.

“I heard you served the Dragon Queen.” You begin once more but regret it immediately when you not only see his sadness but feel it.

You’ve heard of Daenerys Targaryen. Knew from the stories of your aunt and the gossip of the fishwives how the daughter of the former king of Westeros survived the late King Robert’s rebellion and escaped with her brother to the neighboring country, which she now rules over.

But you know nothing of Jorah’s time with her the Targaryen Queen. Not a lot of people know why he chose to follow her despite siding against her brother. And why he’s back home, far away from the monarch he chose to serve and not by her side where he would be expected.

“Aye.” He confirms. “I did.”

“If you serve her, why are you here?” You couldn’t help but ask. “Shouldn’t you be where she is?”

“You are not wrong.” His eyes cast down into the water while his hands turn into fists. Seeing that makes you truly regret asking in the first place. But he continues. “But my desire for home had been the end of my service to her.”

Now, you’re the one caught off guard. How could Bear Island be the reason for him to leave? He must have known that the northerners would never forget his sin. That Lord Stark would hunt him down and take his head if he ever sets foot back home. Your curiosity gets the best of you.

So you ask, “You left her?”

“I betrayed her.”

And you knew that his story is over. That he wouldn’t speak of it any further and you didn’t want him to continue either. Not because you weren’t curious, quite the opposite from it, but because you could feel his pain just through his words. How desolate he looks just by answering your questions about the queen he used to serve. How hard it must be to relive once more the betrayal he spoke of.

The quiet makes itself known once more Only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the squawk of the birds in the air, and the chatter of men fill your ears.

You don’t know how to ease the tension from such an emotional conversation. How to make the knight feel more at ease in your presence and not be filled with remorse of the past. You think of something to ask. A light and easy point of conversation for him to follow.

When an idea strikes you.

“Could you teach me how to fight, Ser?”

The look Jorah gives you makes you want to laugh, but you end up blushing instead when you witness how his blue eyes shine against the sun.

“It’s just—” you try not to fluster. “My uncle has taught me how to wield an ax, and my aunt, how to be brave in hard times. But I know not what to do once faced with danger,” you reason. “—like the bear.”

“You want me to teach you how to fight off bears?” He asks, his eyes looking at you incredulously as if you’ve pulled a mermaid out of the sea.

“Not just bears,” You smile. “But to really fight. Who knows when the krakens would raid our shores once more when the men are out at sea.” You add. “I want to know what to do and to be able to defend myself when the time comes.”

His eyes never leave you as you speak. A sense of relief fills you knowing that he’s listening and not taking your words as a form of jest. You really do want to learn how to fight. Most of the women of the island know how to. It’s what the gates of the keep represent, that the women are just as tough as the men. And what better way to learn than from a man who has not only seen battled but has been a part of them, not just against the Greyjoys, but against armies of lords.

Wasn’t that the reason he turned into a knight? And to learn from a knight would be such an honor.

“Very well.” His response brings a very wide smile to your face. “We start tomorrow, midday.”

💐

“How can you hit them when you are not fighting back?” Jorah asks as he swings his wooden sword and hits your shield when you lift it to defend yourself from the blow.

It’s only been an hour since your started and already you’re exhausted. You expected that he would hold back. That he would consider you being a novice in the art of self-defense. But you were clearly wrong.

He reasons that it was because you told him you were trained in using the ax. You even mistakenly boasted that you could wield a shield. But such skills were proven faulty when he swings his blunt sword once more, lifting your shield just in time for the impact that causes you to fall to the ground.

Your frown is enough of a response.

He sighs and makes to stand behind you, helping you get to your feet before lifting your arm that’s strapped to the wooden protection. He then pushes his foot between yours and gives one a gentle nudge for you to part them.

“You fight with an ax and it’s a disadvantage against a longsword.” He starts to explain. “Your point of contact is small that is why you have to fight with your shield as well.” He then proceeds to lift the shield to cover your face. “Every block you make gives you an opening to strike. If you block high, you swing low.” He begins to demonstrate by moving his arms along with yours accordingly. “If you block left, you have the advantage to strike at the right.” He moves your arms in position once more. “If you only keep blocking the attacks and don’t take the opportunity given to strike, then you are bound to fall.”

He repeats the process again, moving your arms left and right, and shows you how to properly swing your weapon.

For days he continues to train you. And as every session ended, you become more confident in your ability to fight. You even go as far as practicing in the late hours of the evening, taking up your ax and your uncle’s shield when both he and your aunt were asleep, repeating the movements Jorah had shown you in the day.

You feel yourself grow stronger day after day, moving fluidly and swiftly despite holding such heavy arms. You even start to add your own flair to the lessons. Crouching and kneeling, lifting the shield with ease and swinging your ax as if they weren’t made from wood and metal.

“Are you ready, lass?” Jorah asks with a playful smirk one cold afternoon as he lifts his blunt longsword, twirling it once and taking up his stance.

You smirk back and lift your accouterments, banging your blunt ax against your shield in response, twirling your ax like he did his sword, and letting out a battle cry when you make to charge him.

With each blow Jorah gives, you block it efficiently and swiftly with your shield and counter each one with your ax. Multiple times you’re able to land a hit on either his side or his calf, causing the knight to drop to one knee and defend himself in such an uncomfortable position.

You could sense the pride in the smile that he gives you whenever you grab the opportunity for offense. How you swing your ax like it is an extension of your arm and surprise him when you slide across the ground with your knees and hit his calf once more, making him completely fall down.

A groan of pain and the cough right after makes you laugh as you make your way toward him. You give yourself a celebratory pat on the shoulder before holding out your hand for Jorah to take. But your happiness is soon short-lived as Jorah makes to pull you down onto the ground, his hands gripping on your wrists tightly as he wrestles you and goes to straddle your hips, pinning you on the grass.

“Another rule in combat.” He says with a smirk while you struggle to set yourself free. “Never put your guard down.” And he laughs as he watches you squirm underneath him

But his laugh soon dies from his lips when his eyes meet yours. You could feel the sudden change of energy between the both of you, and you know that he feels it too, making you stop struggling from his hold but continue squirming for a whole different reason. You could feel as if your body is being set on fire and your face going red as the realization of how both of you look starts to sink in. You didn’t miss the blush on his cheeks either, and how ethereal he looks with the sun burning brightly against his red-blond hair, making him shine like gold.

Slowly, he releases your arms and moves to get off of you. But you stop him and grab at the neck of his tunic, your body seemingly acting on its own accord as you pull him back hard and press your lips against his.

You could feel his body tense in your hold and how his lips are unmoving against yours. You immediately curse yourself for doing something so stupid, and to a lord and knight no less. You want to cry, you could feel the tears threatening to fall down your cheeks. So you pull away and look away, quickly wiping away any evidence of your pain.

“Forgive me, m’lord.” You say in a rush and move to stand from the patch of grass.

But similar to what you’ve done, he grabs your hand and pulls you back to him, his hands quickly finding your face and kissing your lips, claiming them with such intensity and passion.

You wrap your arms around his neck, not minding the sweat and grime clinging to both of you as nothing else truly matters at this moment. Nothing other than you and the blue-eyed knight.

💐

Your relationship with Jorah changes since then. You both still train like always, meeting at midday and perfecting the art of the ax. You even gather up the courage to use the longsword, to which Jorah found both funny and exciting to see your enthusiasm to learn such a weapon.

But instead of parting ways after your training, you both would walk along the shores of the island, particularly Seal Beach, and enjoy each other’s company, asking him multiple questions not only about the capital but about the neighboring country.

While on other days, you both would hole up in his cottage till the early hours of the evening, talking and reading stories from books he’s been granted use by Lady Mormont. He would also read to you scribes he’s made during his travels in the eastern country. You’ve even been given the privilege of hearing him sing, to which you adored greatly. But for most nights, you would end up tangling yourselves in his sheets, something you would never complain about.

One night, you lay your head against Jorah’s shoulder as he gets back in bed after blowing out all the candles. The cold air makes itself known but the fire dancing on the hearth and Jorah’s body heat are enough to keep you warm.

You ask him for stories, specifically about the Dothraki, as curiosity continues to eat you about what his life had been. You smile at how passionate he sounds and how knowledgeable he’s become just by simply staying and riding with them. He then tells you of the Great Khal Drogo, a friend he’s made during his travels, and how he went to meet the new Khaleesi, Daenerys Targaryen.

As he shares how amazed he was at a young girl, sold by her brother to a Dothraki Khal and became queen who now rules Mereen with 3 full grown dragons, you couldn’t help but sense how drawn Jorah was to her, how he must have felt so much more than awe and wonder to the silver-haired queen. And you realize that he must have loved her for him to return looking desolated after she found out about his treachery.

“You love her.” You say and you couldn’t help but feel your heart break thinking that his answer would be ‘yes’.

And how could he not? From how he describes her, she sounds like the most beautiful woman a man would ever lay eyes on. She has power and strength. And most of all, she’s a queen. And you? You are nothing more than a daughter of a fisherman who was left in the care of her aunt and uncle. You are no queen, not even a lady. It would be completely stupidity of Jorah to love you and not the Dragon Queen.

“Loved.”

“What?” You blink your eyes to shake away your thoughts and look up at Jorah’s.

“I loved her.”

“Do you still?”

“I love you.” And he leans down to press his lips against yours, your eyes closing and your arms wrapping around him, clinging to him tightly as he moves to lay himself atop you and whispering in a deep voice. “Let me show you how much I truly love you.”

💐

For three months, you have been nothing but happy with Jorah Mormont. Your uncle and aunt have been slightly hesitant about your relationship with the exiled knight but Jorah has proven to them countless times that he is worthy of your affections.

It even came to the point that Jorah started to fish with your uncle, the crew you grew up with slowly warming up to the previous lord of the island and inviting him to nights at the tavern which made you smile one morning when you found both him and your uncle nestled in the barn after a celebratory catch the previous day.

It’s a cold evening like no other and you find yourself on a hike with Jorah to one of the highest waterfalls on the island. It’s one of the places you frequent when you want to be alone or bask in the beauty of your home, so the sudden invitation for an evening stroll was nothing but pleasant.

Once you reach the top, you look in awe as you peer to the horizon, the purple hue of the sky kissing the royal blues of the ocean.

Jorah then leads you to a clearing and makes you stay by a tree, his eyes wandering around as he places both his hands on your shoulders.

“Stay here for a while.” He instructs and you look at him in disbelief and with one raised eyebrow.

“You’re not going to leave me here alone, are you, Jorah Mormont?”

“Never, my love.” He responds with a smile. “Just close your eyes and I will be here before you know it.” He then presses a gentle kiss on your forehead, waiting for you to close your eyes. And after you do as he instructs, he gives your cheek a gentle caress before leaving you.

You stand there for a while, relishing in the sounds of the night. The rustle of the trees from the nocturnal animals and the crash of the water against the rocks waiting below. The winter chill is among you and you’re glad to have Jorah’s winter cloak keeping you warm. You nuzzle against the fur, taking in his scent of pine and leather and basking in the comfort it gives you.

Then you feel him return. You could always sense him when he was around. But you could also hear his footsteps against the damp grass and his scent that you’ve come to know so well. You smile when you hear him clear his throat.

“Open your eyes.”

You gasp when you open your eyes and see him down on one knee, his face shining against the hues of the sky and his eyes so blue that you could drown in them. But what catches your breath is the bundle of flowers—not just any kind, but blue lobelias—in his hand.

You know what they mean. What the women in town giggle about when their lover gives them such a gift. And you couldn’t believe that Jorah is offering you the same thing, that you of all people would have the privilege of receiving the lobelias from a knight.

“I cannot offer you anything for I have nothing but the clothes on my back.” He starts and your hands fly to your mouth as tears begin to spring from your eyes. “But I offer you my heart, My Love.” You could see the nervousness in his eyes but you nod and will him to continue. “I will protect you until my last breath and love you until the stars burn out. I ask you to be my wife, and I, your husband—if you’ll have me.”

You couldn’t believe what is happening. Couldn’t believe that such a man would even ask you of such a thing. You wipe away the tears that roll down your face and smile as you take the flowers from his hold and press them against your nose to take in their scent.

It’s now become one of your favorites, along with the smell of pine and leather, for it reminds you of him. Of his devotion to you. Of his love.

Placing a hand on his face, you rub your thumb against his cheek and lean down, answering a breathy ‘yes’ before pressing your lips against his.

#Jorah Mormont #Ser Jorah Mormont #Game of Thrones #Iain Glen #coconut bun stories #Jorah x reader #Jorah x you

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 3 years

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Forbidden

700 Follower Smoochfest Request #5

A/N: I am sorry that these requests are taking me so long to finish- as is my way, I put way too much on my plate all at once, and now I am trying to work through the mess. BUT! After this one there are only two more so we are almost there, friends, the light at the end of the tunnel, I can see it! (And then it is time to DIVE back in to all of my poor mangled series, I promise.) ANYWAY- I am babbling now. Just want to thank you all for hanging tight while I pick away at my to be written list. You guys are certified gems and I truly hope you are all having a lovely day. And what better way to ensure that your weekend gets off to a good start than by smooching the Prince of Dorne?

A/N 2: This story takes place well before the events of GoT, when Oberyn is younger and travels to Essos to compete in the fighting pits of Meereen. Though they aren’t talked about in the show adaptation, the Graces are an order of priestesses of the Ghiscari religion, and one of their main functions was giving their blessing over the Great Games.

Warnings: discussion of death, violence, blood, GoT canon typical awfulness surrounding the fighting pits and Slaver’s Bay.

Word Count: 4,539

Requested by: @lightsinthedistancee - kissing their bruises and scars with Oberyn Martell

Summary: As one of the Blue Graces, you were a healer. And as one of the most skilled healers in your Order, you had been designated to Daznak’s Pit to tend to the fighters who were injured in the Great Games- a brutal, gladiator style tournament where men were forced to fight to the death. During a particularly bloody day of fighting, you find yourself questioning your commitment to it all. With yet another fighter in need of your assistance, you don’t have much time to dwell on it- besides, it is forbidden for you to forsake your vows.

There was already another fighter in your stall by the time you returned to it, the shadow of a man reclining on the cot visible through the threadbare curtain walls of the healing tent. The sight caused your footsteps to falter and your hands to shake. You had just scrubbed them raw, removing the blood that had soaked into the cracks of your knuckles, the lines on your palms, only for them to become steeped in crimson again.

The gods are ravenous today.

Of course they were. It was the opening day of the Great Games in Daznak’s Pit, the tournament that the gods, masters, gamblers and everyone in the city of Meereen seemed to fast for each year so that they would be able to consume their fill of violence and gore. You had already tended to five men since the horns sounded to signal the start of the games. Two of those five had died on the cot that the sixth now occupied, though it was through no fault of your own. One of them had come to you with the talons of some poor beast still lodged in his abdomen, and though you had acted as quickly as possible his wounds had been far too severe for you to treat. The other was gone before you ever touched him. You knew it, as did the other Graces and the Guards that carried his limp form into the tent. But the fighter in question was one of high value and the masters demanded that he be brought to the healers- specifically to you.

Perhaps they had been hoping for a miracle to come from the gods they had just fed, that they would be merciful and grant the masters this prize fighter’s life back so that he might fight another match, fill more seats, drive more wagers.

Ignorant men. The gods of Ghis are always hungry. It is known.

The sand that lined the pit’s floor was red for a reason.

Your role in all of it was strange, and it felt even stranger as you stood frozen just a few steps from your stall. Some days you were glad to be of service in the fighting pits. It was far better than tending to old men in their chambers, changing the bandages on their sores, mixing herbal tonics for their ailments. It was more exciting, and if you were being honest, more personally fulfilling than helping with birthing and babies. But at the same time it was exhausting- both physically and emotionally- to be constantly locked in a battle with death, to feel the push and pull of your skill and experience versus the bloodthirsty nature of the pits. Some days you were glad, and proud to have been sent by the High Priestess herself to care for the brave men, the strong men, the unfortunate men that fought there. But the opening day of the Great Games was not one of them.

Clenching your fists to stop them from shaking, you swallowed the knot of unease you felt forming in your throat and straightened the azure colored robes that you wore. There was no point in dwelling on your internal struggle with your position, because leaving the Order of the Graces meant a life of exile. Besides, right now there was a fighter in need of your attention, and you were sworn to give it to him.

I hope that it will make a difference.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you took one last moment to compose yourself before forcing yourself forwards and reaching for the gauzy fabric to pull it open.

“I was beginning to worry that I was taken to the wrong tent.”

You sucked in a breath, immediately recognizing the man as one that you had seen in the healing tent a handful of times before. Thick, black curls crowned his head and beneath them a pair of deep brown eyes shone more brightly than those you were used to seeing in your line of service. His lips were set in a curved line that was not quite a smirk but still less than a grin, and the casual way that he leaned back on one elbow made him seem more amused than injured, though you knew he must have been bleeding somewhere to have ended up here.

Flicking your focus to his left shoulder, you found a nicely healing but still relatively visible scar, the only remnant from the last of his visits to your stall. A quick sweep of his chest and torso told you that whatever had brought him to you again wasn’t life-threatening, the exposed skin of his upper body slick with sweat and smattered with flecks of reddish sand but free of gashes, burns or torn flesh. For that you found yourself immensely grateful, barely concealing a sigh of relief as you pulled the curtain closed behind yourself.

“You should be familiar with this tent by now, I think.” Despite the way that you were questioning your commitment to your calling only moments before stepping into your stall, you let a small smile lift your lips as you took a step closer to the man. “This is not your first time here.”

Though you rarely learned the names of the bruised and battered warriors that you stitched up only to send back into the fights, you wished you had taken the time to learn his so that you could use it. The only thing you knew about him was that unlike most of the fighters that stepped out onto the red sands of Daznak’s Pit, this man was not being forced to participate. He was not owned by any of the masters, and his involvement in the games was not a punishment of any kind. You glanced down at his waist where his dagger was still sheathed at his belt and found the symbol for the Second Sons emblazoned on its pommel.

A sellsword company consisting of men who would never inherit anything because they had been born behind their brothers, the Second Sons fought with the fearless abandon of those with nothing to lose. They were hired all over Essos to supplement, or in some cases, stand in completely for other armies. But in times of peace, or to put it more accurately when those with coin had no one that they needed to conquer, the men of the company would often enter the pits of Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai. There were hardly ever payouts to the victors as you had heard was a tradition in tournaments of skill and combat across the Narrow Sea in Westeros, but that did not mean that the games held in the arenas of Slaver’s Bay came without benefits to the winners. Fighters who performed well in the pits were given more food, better sleeping quarters, even women- your sisters in the Order of the Red Graces- to help soothe the things that your salves and oils and tonics could not.

They also get to keep their lives.

You had been taught that the gods of Ghis demanded bloodshed, and that the pits were created to slake their unquenchable thirst. It was believed throughout Essos that denying them what they craved would bring their wrath down on the cities that defied them- that death and destruction would flood their streets and leave them in ruins. As another deafening roar rose from the crowd in the distance, no doubt signaling a gruesome mauling of some kind, you had to wonder how it would be so different. You and the other Blue Graces saved as many men as your abilities allowed, but still hundreds were brutally maimed and mutilated. Still, fighters were kept in cages alongside beasts as though they were the same. Still, men and boys were taken from their homes, torn from families that were left waiting for fathers and husbands, brothers and children who would never return; whose blood was already helping to stain the sand red. When the people of Mereen were already dying and suffering, could angering the gods truly make it worse?

It wasn’t the time for such thoughts though, so once again you pushed them aside to focus on the man in your stall and what your role required you to do for him. For the first time since you had donned the blue robes of your Order though, you wanted to do more for him than what was required- more than what was permitted. You wanted to kiss him, touch him in ways that had nothing to do with healing. You wanted his violent hands to soften when they met your flesh. For the first time since you were sent to join the Order of the Graces you could think only of breaking your vows. But I can’t. It’s…only the Red Graces can- Realizing that you were staring at the rise and fall of his chest, at the way that sweat beaded on his skin to make it shimmer, you snapped your attention back up to his face as he spoke.

“That is true.” He raised his right hand to indicate the work you’d done last time, when he had come to you with a jagged yet shallow slash across the summit of his shoulder. “It is not my first time.” Dropping his hand back to the cot, he adjusted his position with a lift of his hips, pushing himself into a more upright posture. A small wince at the movement was still the only hint that the man was actually in need of any assistance from you, but before you could press the issue he continued. “It will be my last, though.”

You blinked, unsure of what he meant by that. Did something happen? Did he kill a prize fighter and anger the masters? Are they driving him out or executing him? You took a breath to steady the rush of questions and asked a simpler one. “Is that so?”

He nodded once, eyes locked on yours. “It is. I have entered the pits for the last time, and I have walked out of them a victor for the last time.” His tongue came out to wet his lips and you couldn’t help but track its motion. “And now I am here. In this tent with you for the last time.”

Moving his left hand from where it was laying over the same side leg, he finally revealed his wound. A tear in the brown leather trousers he wore as his only layer of protection in the fights- the use of armor was not permitted by the fighters in the pits- showed a shallow gash in the meat of his thigh. That’s it? It wouldn’t take much at all to clean it, close it up and wrap it in bandages, and even though you knew that even the smallest wound could turn septic and deadly if left unattended, you questioned the necessity of his visit especially since he was not looking to head back into the pits any time soon.

Unless the Second Sons are on the march. They follow the coin, not the cheers of the crowds.

Clearing your throat, you rubbed your fingertips over your palms and tentatively reached out, one hand landing just above his knee. “This is not a serious injury.” You pressed gently around the ripped area to check for any swelling or signs of bleeding beneath the skin and felt nothing. Nothing but relief that this man at the very least would get to walk away. For all the corpses that you handed over to your sisters in the Gold Order for burial in the temple, for all the bodies that hummed one final time in the tents of the Graces in Red before being ground into the vermillion sand, you felt extreme happiness to know that this man would not become one of them. “I will take care of it, of course, but…” You brought your eyes up from his lower half to his face. “But I think you know that it is not necessary for me to do so.”

His smirk finally grew into a full smile, white teeth flashing and eyes lighting up to defy the meaning of the word darkness. “You caught me, priestess.”

For the first time you felt yourself cringe internally at the word he had called you. Priestess. It was what you were, a steward of the Ghiscari religion. But was it what you were meant to be? Narrowing your eyes in hopes that it would hide your inner conflict, you tilted your head. Hands still pressed over the bloody fabric of his pants, you took his bait. “Caught you?” The man nodded. “And what is it that I caught you in, warrior?”

With the way that the man was looking at you, you were the one who felt caught- as though he could sense that you were wavering in your faith, wavering in your commitment to the Graces and the Games and the city and the gods. Can he?

“Oberyn.” His tone was even and balanced, no sign of pain or weakness present. “Please, call me Oberyn. As I have just told you, I am no longer just another fighter without a name.”

“Oberyn.” It slipped out of your mouth with the same reverence that you used to use when praying for the recovery of one of your charges. It tasted sweet and intoxicating like the wine used in ceremonial rituals. It made your insides swim with warmth the way they used to before you were forced to take a vow of chastity and put on the blue robes. With his name finally on your tongue your robes suddenly felt like chains. “What is it that I caught you in, Oberyn?”

That is not a Meereenese name. And his accent… he is not from Essos.

“Like you said, this is not a wound that requires treatment.” A few grains of sand fell from his back as he shrugged his shoulders. “I have studied such things before, and this?” He brought one hand down to indicate the cut on his thigh, his knuckles brushing over yours as he did. “I know that this is nothing. But-” He raised the same hand that had just touched yours and held up one finger. “I know that if a fighter sheds blood in the pits he will be brought before the healers. The Blue Graces of Ghis. You.”

You nodded, a smile pulling at your lips at his admission that he had only sustained a qualifying injury so that he would be brought to your stall. “It is known.” You took your bottom lip between your teeth and couldn’t bite back the small laugh that slipped out. “So you have bent the rules to suit your wishes, then?”

Oberyn chuckled, the sound a pleasant contrast to the echoes of gasps and jeers that you could hear coming from the arena. “Why not?” Raising an arm in the direction of the pits, he went on. “Is that not what the masters have done here in Mereen?” He returned his hand to cover yours where they still lay over his leg, your fingers and his becoming red-tinted. “Is that not what they have done to you? To your sisters in Red? The young girls in White?” It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “Have they not bent the rules of your religion to suit their lust for blood and for pleasure?”

How does he… You tried to lift your hands away from his thigh but he kept them there with his own wide palm. He was speaking truths that you had learned only after joining the Order of the Graces- that the original Order had only two suborders, the Green Graces who were the High Priestesses of Old Ghis, and the White Graces, younger girls who served as handmaidens to their revered counterparts. Over time, as the masters built their wealth on the control of those beneath them, they extended that corruption to the Temples of Slaver’s Bay, entwining the religion of Old Ghis with the bloodsport of the fighting pits. It was they who requested that the Order create new divisions within its ranks to serve different needs. Red so that they could blind the fighters with the promise of pleasure beyond what they could ever receive in brothels. Blue so that they could pull the wool over mens’ eyes by claiming that the healers were extensions of the gods and that if they could not save a man from his wounds, it is by divine right and not barbaric entertainment that he meets his end. Gold so that the fallen fighters may be given proper funeral rites, Purple to punish any of the Graces who did not adhere to the rules of their order. But this was all a secret, kept by the masters and by the Order of the Graces so that the noble families of Essos would not stop sending their dowerless daughters into service. But how does he know that?

“I have studied many things,” he said in response to your stunned silence. “Many subjects in many parts of the world.” Releasing your hands by moving his own, he waited a beat until you were looking up at him instead of at your trembling hands. “And it is a big world.”

Is it? You had never left Meereen, not even before your younger sister outpaced you with a marriage to a nobleman from Yunkai and your parents sent you off to take your vows. When you were still naïve and hopeful, you spent hours daydreaming of what life was like in other places- among the Dothraki in the grasslands, beyond the eastern shadows in Volantis, in the free city of Braavos, in the kingdoms of the fabled land of Westeros on the other side of the Narrow Sea. But narrow or not it did not matter. You were not permitted to leave the walls of the city of Meereen.

“My world is only as big as this tent and the Temple.” Your tone was flat as you pulled your hands away from his body, turning towards the cabinet that held your healing supplies. “It is… forbidden for me to leave. The Graces take our vows for life. It is known.”

He startled you by hopping down off the cot and stepping behind you, one hand coming around your body to still yours where you were preparing a mixture of oils and herbs to smear over the cut on his thigh. “Yes,” he spoke close to your ear. “It is known. But I know that you are unhappy with the limitations, the burdens of your vows.” You felt your stomach tighten, twisting in knots. “Am I wrong?”

“No.” The word was past your lips before you could suck it back in, a shuddering breath leaving your lungs as he let go of your hand. You turned back to face him, this stranger, this one man in the sea of thousands that you had seen in your life, and wondered how it was possible that he knew the truth inside your heart.

“Tell me,” he leaned back against the cot but remained on his feet, further proving that the injury he sustained was nothing serious. “What would you do if you were not bound by your vows, hmm? Where would you go? Who would you be?”

“I… I-”

“Do not say that you haven’t thought about it.” He raised one eyebrow. “Back home my sister likes to keep birds as pets, and they sing beautiful songs for her. But I know as well as she does that those creatures were not meant to live in cages, that they dream of taking flight.” He gripped the cot with both hands and took a deep breath. “So what do you dream of? What would you do if your cage was opened?”

“I would kiss you,” you breathed. To your shock and relief the man did not flinch or laugh, didn’t scoff or turn up his nose. “I.. I would travel. Find somewhere that I can-”

“Why do you deny yourself these things, then?” The way he asked the question made it seem as though the man had never been forced to adhere to a rule or restriction in his life.

Maybe he hasn’t.

You shook your head. “It is forbidden, Oberyn. I cannot-”

“What is forbidden? To touch?” He pointed to the mortar in your hands which held the mixture you’d been preparing. “You may touch a man with your hands if it is done in the name of healing, yes?”

Glancing down at the light yellow salve that you used to treat anything from serious infections to chapped lips, you struggled to see where he was going with his question. “Yes, of course, but I do not see how that-”

At that he stepped forward and took the bowl from your hands, setting it back down on the cabinet. “Is it not the same skin covering the tips of your fingers-” He took one of your hands in his own, matching the pads of his digits to yours. “-that covers the pillow of your lips?” Letting go of your hand, he waited, searching your eyes for something that he must not have found, because then he raised his fingers up to touch your lower lip, and you felt yourself letting him.

This is… I… it’s forbidden. I should-

But you didn’t want to stop him. It was such a light touch, but there was a level of intimacy in it that you only now realized that you needed as desperately as the men you cared for needed medicine. “It is.” Your answer was breathless, your heart pounding against your ribs as his hand fell away from your face to land at your waist.

“What else is forbidden?” He used his opposite hand to tilt your chin up so that you couldn’t avoid his eyes. “To love?” The hand at your hip drifted down over the shiny fabric of your robes until you felt his fingers twining with yours and squeezing gently. Moving his fingers from under your chin to the side of your cheek, you watched his expression soften. “Is there not love in every action you take when you are healing the men that have been brought to you?” He swallowed, his brow furrowing. “Do you not feel for them when they die?”

“I… yes, I do. But it… it is not the same th-”

“But it is. You touch. You love. It is not for others to decide for you when and how you may do these things.” He shook his head slowly. “Do not let them keep you in a cage.”

At that you scoffed, the sound coming out more harshly than you meant for it to, and you reached up to remove his hand from the side of your face. “I have already let them do that.” He surprised you by not releasing the hand that he still held. You surprised yourself by not removing it.

“That does not mean that it must continue. I told you that I have studied many things.” You nodded as the man stepped backwards, still holding your hand and guiding you until he was once again seated on the edge of the cot. “One of the things that I have studied was what happens when one of your Order breaks from the Temple.” You felt your heartbeat increase again, the idea of leaving filling you with nervous excitement. “And so I know that if you leave you must never return.”

If you did, your sisters in Purple would put you in the ground. The thought of being sentenced to death and having that sentencing carried out by the women that you lived and worked with should have sent chills straight to the marrow of your bones. But instead added to the buzzing, rushing adrenaline that you felt at the idea of walking away from this life, leaving your robes and the duties they symbolized behind you forever. And that made you realize it was exactly what you wanted to do.

“You are right, Oberyn.” You blinked at him and smiled before turning to reach for the container of salve that you were mixing.

When you spun back in his direction you saw an amused look on his handsome features. “I know that I am,” he answered, a slight laugh deepening his voice and a grin brightening his eyes. “But what is it that I am right about at this moment?”

It was your turn to smirk as you dipped a small cloth in the sweet smelling oil. Without cutting away his torn trousers, you used the compress to apply the mixture to his wound, and even though the slice was shorter than your pinky finger and no deeper than a few layers of skin, he closed his eyes and let out a long sigh of comforted relief at the instant soothing effect of the salve. While his eyes were still closed you dipped a finger in the bowl and spread the oil on your lips.

“Two things,” you responded to his question and again set the bowl behind yourself as he opened his eyes. Before you lost your nerve, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to the scar at the top of his shoulder- the one you personally stitched only a month or two ago- and were rewarded with another satisfied sigh from him, as well as the feel of both of his hands coming to your waist. You rubbed your bottom lip over the area, dragging it the length of the scar and then dropped another kiss there. When you pulled back to finish your answer, his chest was rising and falling with shallow, excited breaths. “One, is that there is no difference between the skin on my fingertips and my lips.” To drive that point home you found another small scar near the first one and kissed it.

He hummed and pressed his thumbs into your flesh through the fabric of your robe- the garment that you would soon be taking off never to be worn again. “And the second?”

“That the world is wide.” You brought your hands up to take his face between them, head moving from side to side. “And I do not wish to live and die all in the same corner of it.” You shrugged. “And if I can never return to Mereen… it just means that I have other places to explore.” You heard rushed footsteps outside of your stall, the sound of Guards and other Graces hurrying to take a wounded fighter to a vacant cot and tuned them out- tuned your past out. Focusing instead on the man who helped you come to terms with your future, you slid one hand back to tangle in his hair. “Other things to explore, too.”

Without hesitation you leaned even closer and brought your lips to his, the door of your cage coming off its hinges as you kissed him fully without an ounce of regret.

And I know just where to start exploring, Oberyn.

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