#Garin of Chroyane

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons ch.3

ao3 link, ao3 ch.1

Summary:

Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep.

No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board.

Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen.

If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

tw: safe for now

Tagging my lovely beta @kyonkyon69 and the person responsible for turning me into Aemond simp, who has developed the idea for this story with me @lacebvnny

Chapter 1

3. hāre

Charm me. Furiously. Torment me. In detail. - Hermann Hesse

"Lady Tarth." Aemond nodded, his irritation all but hidden under a pretense of genteel leveling his voice.

Willowy and quite tall, the older woman curtsied before bringing up her full goblet.

"I was enjoying dear Arianne talk about my famed ancestor," Lady Tarth continued, much to Aemond's chagrin.

"She had questions only us living near Morne can answer."

Dear Arianne seemed to look everywhere but him.

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.

"How generous of you to indulge her," Aemond cut in, his tone as sharp as Blackfyre.

"Does Lady Swann not discern between fanciful tales and facts then, if she truly believes a dragon was slain with a sword?" His mouth bloomed into a veritable sneer once her gaze of polished malachite settled on him.

A twinkle of annoyance swirled through the evergreen depths of her eyes.

Lady Tarth scoffed at his words, which Aemond found rather insulting as his station was above hers.

He shifted one of his legs forward and straightened up.

Although the older woman was truly imposing, his stature effortlessly eclipsed almost everyone's.

“Yes, I am aware that you Targaryens believe nothing can slay a dragon. Yet, poor Queen Rhaenys — Seven bless her soul, perished in Dorne—“

“Are you suggesting a knight could take a sword and slay a creature like Vhagar?” Aemond scowled indignantly, tired of always hearing about the stupid scorpion bolt and Dorne.

It was an extraordinarily lucky shot.

Lady Tarth tensed with indignation but it was the little courtesan who spoke.

“Perhaps it was a smaller dragon? Not to mention...” Arianne lifted her chin.

"Garin the Great's army did kill two dragons at Volon Therys."

Aemond stilled, momentarily robbed of the acrid retaliation he had already formulated in his head. Two heartbeats passed before his eye narrowed and he glanced down, studying Arianne Swann anew.

How does she even know that?

He'd managed to keep his scornful grimace from faltering.

"With a combined strength of Chroyane, Sar Mell, Ny Sar, Ar Noy, and Ghoyan Drohe. Two hundred and fifty thousand men." The One-eyed Prince blustered, his thoughts in disarray.

Ladies were not schooled in the brutal histories of the Rhoynish Wars.

By the time he'd been lectured on Valyria's most enterprising of enemies after the Old Ghis, Helaena was whisked away — to focus on skills more suited for womankind. For a mere country bumpkin like Lady Swann, differentiating between Essos and Westeros on the map would've sufficed.

This was a fluke, surely, much like her prowess in cyvasse, because he'd already realized what lay beneath her pleasant facade — a vapid, grasping, and shameless courtesan.

Saera's blood might have given her a prepossessing visage, but that was all she was.

"Not even that mattered in the long run because three hundred dragons destroyed his entire army." Aemond finished, his voice bleeding with derision.

Arianne merely blinked.

"That does not refute what I've said."

"The Perfect Knight is just a story." The retort spilled through his tight lips before he could stop it, betraying his irritation at her little diatribe about Volon Therys.

Lady Tarth, who had just finished her wine, offered Lady Swann a smile before turning to him.

"Have a pleasant evening, Prince. I am far too old to discuss this with a man who has lived through just one winter and two summers."

Arianne appeared as if she wished to float after the crone, to become her shadow or lady-in-waiting so that she could avoid him again. Some traces of manners seemed familiar to her because she dipped into a proper curtsy, even if her eyes pored over the assortments of cakes on the table.

"Prince Aemond..."

His temper flared immediately upon hearing her address him with a caustic bite to his name.

"Lady Swann...I had thought my dear nephew wouldn't let you fly around without him. Yet, here you are, discussing matters beyond your understanding."

He leaned slightly forward, his pale eye boring into her.

"Hontī gerpi ēza iā Garino vējo?" (Do birds enjoy reading about Garin's doom?)

Arianne felt her nose scrunch at his insulting question. She turned to face him and crossed her arms.

"The symbol of my house is indeed a swan, but I would prefer not to be referred to as a bird. Considering I am a human being, even if only a woman." She afforded him a level, icy tone of her own.

Aemond blinked.

"And yes, I did enjoy reading the History of the Rhoynish Wars, Your Grace."

"Udrizi Valyrio ȳdrā?" (You understand Valyrian?) 

He rasped, his voice low.

The One-eyed Prince was so taken aback, that he forgot he was supposed to torment her for her various transgressions against his royal highness.

She shook her head.

"Issa se Daor," (Yes and no.) Arianne muttered, fidgeting with her long sleeves again.

"My brother and I were educated on basic phrases...but Princess Rhaenyra let me study with her children when I arrived at Dragonstone...so I can understand some of it. I don't...speak it."

"Not a very satisfactory education, then." His taunt was almost a reflex.

Arianne bristled.

"You are aware it is a difficult language that takes years to master. Jac — I mean Prince Jacaerys has been teaching me as well."

Aemond clicked his tongue, observing the way her eyebrows drew together and her cheeks erupted with heat.

"Meri nadresy. Kostos iksā ao udrir zaldritos. Ao azh ydragon."  (He is merely a bastard, he cannot teach you properly the language of dragons. You will never speak it.)

Arianne's eyelashes fluttered several times and she grabbed the honeycake if only to hide her face behind it.

A bastard...could not teach? Dragon...dragon...language?

"The Prince speaks too fast for me." She grumbled with a hint of embarrassment before taking a small bite.

She'd choke on that sweet before ever telling the self-important twat how ethereal he sounded, like a dragonlord of old — ho w she thought the language beautiful when spoken so perfectly.

"Clearly." Targaryen Prince snarled.

"My nephew is as incompetent as I've thought and you are ill-suited for —"

"Your Grace, why are you again conversing with me when your dislike is clear and made known?"

Aemond's limbs locked.

Why was he?

I wrote you a note after we met and you didn't answer. — he'd hang himself before saying it.

He'd perish from a bout of Shivers before giving her any leverage.

He shouldn't have written anything.

Not to a spoilt, ungrateful, witless — no,no, much as he wanted, he could not call her dimwitted. She bested Tyland in a game of tactics, and she seemed to read —

Aemond sensed the surge of something awful lap at his spine.

He consciously flexed his fingers, as if to keep it at bay.

How could a bastard possess a paramour not only pretty but erudite as well? And of Valyrian blood!

No.

It was a fluke. She had to be as vacuous as the most unpalatable of Aegon's mistresses.

She'd glimpsed those pages by accident. It must've been so.

He frowned before speaking, "I wished to make one thing clear, Lady Swann. You are an insult to my family. Your grandmother was banished from here and for a good reason. If you think you'll wed Jacaerys Strong and be Queen—“

Aemond’s laugh was as cold as the Bay of Ice.

“ You are simpler than I thought. No one will ever accept you and him as rulers.”

And then he leaned down to whisper just loudly enough for her ears..

"Whatever flowery lies your bastard whoreson plied you with, make no mistake — you do not belong here."

She needed several moments to recover from the sheer impact of his vicious remark.

It was a grave offense — to call Rhaenyra's sons bastards and her a... word any noble lady refused to use. How could he pierce at all her worries — that she would never be good enough, that she'd never shake off Saera's shadow — with such ruthless precision.

An arrow loosened hitting the bullseye.

Arianne took in Prince Aemond's cruelly beautiful face, not knowing how to react other than to keep still.

"You speak treasonously. And unkindly."

Aemond sneered.

"You are the only one who heard me. Now...you can try outing me, but who will believe your word over mine? Hmm?"

She bit her lower lip.

"No one," Arianne stared at her half-eaten cake, honey dripping from its edges.

"But it is no less treason."

Aemond let out a low, drawn-out hum, saturated with disdain.

He grabbed a goblet and drank — swallowing a proper mouthful of wine for the first time this night, knowing if he didn't stop before someone else heard him address his nephews as such he'd cause a commotion.

"I meant no offense, even if you don't believe me." Arianne turned her attention to the hall and the moving figures.

The crowd had resumed dancing while they conversed about Prince Aemond's displeasure with her person.

Perhaps if she were to apologize for her lapse two nights ago, he'd leave her alone. Even if privately she'd always consider him the instigator — his insults came first.

The sharp crease between his pale brows deepened.

"With the earrings, I apologize...I forgot myself, it wasn’t supposed to be…"

She shook her head.

"An affront."

The One-eyed Prince said nothing, his sole eye following the way her mouth formed words.

Arianne swallowed — was he not going to accept her apology? How inconsiderate!

Aemond’s lips curled into something sinister, as though the thought of her confession amused him.

“You think a few words of regret will make me forget your little performance?” he said, his tone laced with hemlock.

“You are mistaken, Lady Swann. I’m not so easily placated.”

Arianne swallowed, pins and needles nicking at her dry throat. She could not stomach the rest of the sweet she'd taken — had a honeycake ever tasted so bitter? Prince Aemond was such a malevolent boor that everything around him suffered from it.

"I was frightened—"

"So you threw pearls at me out of fear, hmm? Was it my nephew who instructed you on attacking your unarmed opponent?" Targaryen Prince cut her off, clasping his hands behind his back and circling the chair next to her.

Arianne realized he had trapped her between himself and the table.

Did he intend to make her cry again and not let her escape? So everyone could see how pathetic she was?

Mother help her!

"It would not be a surprise, my sister's children were always spoilt and favored." Aemond pored over her guarded expression, his tone dissolving into something softer.

Arianne had to crane her neck to see his face properly when he stood right in front of her.

Almost inappropriately close for a stranger.

"Tis them who attacked me for claiming an unclaimed dragon." Aemond continued, unperturbed.

"You prattled about Ser Galladon's honor earlier, do you find it honorable to attack one with four companions?"

She stared at him with wide eyes.

Aemond thought his heart might've dropped into his stomach, heavy as a stone.

How green they were, and those lashes, long, long, fluttering — He found himself unable to look away.

He swallowed.

"No...it is not honorable," Arianne muttered, a slight discomfort settling against her spine.

It felt like a betrayal.

Did Prince Aemond not attack Baela first? Was that not what Jace had told her?

But what reason would he have to lie — to her of all people? A woman he scarcely knew and disliked.

Aemond was already on the verge of another retort when he heard her. Her voice was barely more than a murmur against the merriment of the crowd.

A servant had placed another plate of candied fruit to Lady Arianne's right.

The corner of his eye crinkled.

"Careful, hontes. If they heard you championing my side..." the sardonic tilt of his voice made Arianne shudder.

She realized she would have to ask him directly to step aside if she wanted to escape. Not to mention, he was so much taller than her that he was obstructing her view of the hall.

"Why do you think the stories about Ser Galladon are ridiculous and untrue? A-and please stop naming me a bird." Arianne decided to move their conversation away from her friends.

If he was attempting to pry information about them, he wouldn't be successful.

Perhaps, it might even lessen his clear anger with her previous actions. If Prince Aemond were to not forgive her...how was she to survive until her father arrived? Lord Swann would certifiably think her behavior unruly! Oh, what if he took her back to Stonehelm because of this...and forced her to marry pox-faced Lord Horpe as a punishment?

Facing the Stranger would be preferable!

She peered at the pale-haired Prince, his fervent, knife-like stare almost taking her over the vertiginous edge. At least he could not shame her attire this time, because her dark gown bared no skin save for her neck.

Only the embroidered sleeves and skirts — swan's feathers gleaming from tiny jewels sewn into the fabric — distinguished it as hers.

"Apart from the invincible sword that he refused to use?" Aemond's silvery eyebrow lifted to match the snide undertone of his question.

"There aren't enough accounts to even confirm his existence, and Morne was ruled by petty kings when storm kings waged a war against them. Do you not think they would have remembered they had a perfect knight with Maiden's favor in their ranks?"

Arianne pulled on her sleeve absentmindedly.

"Well, that is just one theory. If he was a warrior from the age of heroes there wouldn't be much surviving other than tales."

"Then he wasn't a knight. Let me educate you —"

"I do know the Andals were first to introduce knighthood," Arianne interjected, slightly put off by the way he'd assumed she had such glaring holes in her theories.

Did he believe himself the only one capable of opening a book!?

"I've read my histories. But Ser Galladon was a real person, that much is beyond discussion. Mayhaps, he was a great warrior whom people later dubbed a knight. I think they did it precisely because he wasn't using Just Maid against his opponents. He was fair."

She paused briefly, her fingers reaching for the goblet.

"Decency, fairness, integrity...call it as you will, but only the truly great can wield fairness, for it calls for a sacrifice of pride and vengeance."

Aemond smirked incredulously.

"You think using your advantage against opponents is unfair?" His response was dripping with condescension.

The slow, deliberate tilt of his head only emphasized his clear ridicule of opinions someone like her might hold.

The court's newest darling.

Bastard's supposed paramour. Citing Grand Maester Aethelmure to him!

 "If an enemy army invades Westeros, wouldn't you want us to use our dragons? Or would you rather be slaughtered, fair as it may be?" Aemond cocked his eyebrow.

Only a woman would find something so ludicrous honorable. What'd they know of war? Though he found himself enjoying their conversation, and that she was clearly an avid reader like himself.

A shudder of disquiet cascaded down his neck. He'd forgotten himself, much like he did when they played cyvasse.

She wasn’t merely recalling some passage memorized from the scroll — no, she had understood it. Used it.

It rattled his bones.

She was meant to be simple, clumsy, a blight —beautiful blight, yes, but in the shallow, ornamental way of a gilded bird. Saera's granddaughter ensnared droves of men mere days after arriving. She had Rhaenyra's favor, and her prowess in outsmarting an opponent with figurines fascinated many.

That simpleton Jorlan Wylde thought she was delightful.

Aemond settled his countenance in a firm glower as if the severity of his expression could anchor him against the tide of something far more dangerous than disdain. A pull.

No.

Not him.

He was a dragon, trueborn son of Old Valyria.

The treacherous allure of Arianne Swann did not even move him. He was above this base fancy. He was above her and those like her.

"You're twisting my argument!" Arianne insisted with honest earnestness.

"He wasn't fighting invading armies, he was fighting duels. Every account I found states he fought in duels, so using a sword given to him by the Maiden herself would've been an unfair advantage. Cyvasse is a great game precisely because both players have the same starting position."

"So great a game that you declined my offer to play again?!" Aemond snapped before being able to stop himself.

Seven fucking hells.

Now she'll think he wanted to play against her again. That he would want anything pertaining to her would make him seem weak. Weakness was unacceptable.

Arianne's eyelids fluttered in confusion.

"I didn't...realize there was an offer..." Her rasp did nothing to appease his ire. Aemond thought the perplexion painting her features was perfectly strikable if she were a man.

How long her eyelashes were, and her mouth provoked —

"I sent you a note," He managed to hiss through gritted teeth.

"I thought it was a threat." Arianne pursed her lips, the gesture sending a fresh wave of fury— and something far worse— coursing through him.

How fucking lovely, full, and heart-shaped and she hadn't ever been kissed. He should just —

His fingers twitched around his goblet.

"And you insulted me before that." The tone of her voice carried something sharp in it, as if daring him to deny it.

"I had thought letting you walk away after an attempt on my life, feeble as it might have been, was worth more than words."

Arianne balked.

He had to be jesting!

"Attempt on your life!?" She bemoaned, eyes ricocheting left and right. If anyone even heard them, she'd be carted off into the dungeons.

Aemond grinned self-indulgently.

"That is how I see it."

She gasped in horror.

"I would never —" Arianne felt her hands bathing in cold sweat.

"I just...You insulted me and...I lost my temper. Please do not even repeat it!"

"I had thought you were a lady." One-eyed prince continued, smiling despite himself.

Perhaps Jorlan had been right — what delight to see her beleaguered, whimpering for his mercy and favor.

 "Do you generally throw things at people when angered? Ñuhe zaldritoso anogar issa??"  (Is it your dragon's blood?)

Arianne's forehead creased as she tried to translate his words. They must've been talking for a while as her throat turned dry.

She grabbed her goblet again and drank deeply, glaring at Aemond while she did so. His sole eye was focused on her with such intensity it made her legs weak.

It dawned on her that his voracious gaze hadn't strayed from her for a moment.

Arianne glanced away, at the golden platters filled with fruit and tried to find them interesting.

Aemond observed her, wondering if she understood him. His attention drifted to her attire once more, now that she was distracted. It was tight around her bosom and he couldn't help it but to look. Aemond could punish himself later for it.

She was so goddamn soft and womanly. He could still imagine her in that white dress, with the tops of her perfect, pert tits —

He should make her his mistress.

Clad in nothing but myrish lace and jewels — emeralds, sapphires, rubies, he’d gift her all of them. He’d be more generous than whomever gave her this dress.

No one would know...he could.

It could help this dreadful fancy go away.

Aemond wondered how Aegon went about those things, as he not only sullied himself with whores and maids but court ladies as well. Should he just tell her he wanted her?

Absolutely not.

What humiliation!

To admit that he found himself thinking of her —

Not to mention it would be tedious to find her a husband who would stay at court so that she could warm his royal bed. Some old, fat minor lord he could intimidate.

So that he was the only one who fucked her. The children she'd give to her husband would be dragons, because he'd make it certain his seed took root —

Aemond cut his train of thought with cold disgust.

Bastards.

They'd be contemptible baseborns.

He wouldn't have bastard children.

"Oh," Arianne finally peered back at him. "Anogar is blood. Dragon's blood. You are insulting my grandmother again, are you?"

He shifted on his feet and inhaled, straightening his spine.

"I was merely asking a question. Besides, your grandmother was of pure Valyrian blood, despite...the choices she made." He offered, clasping his hands at his back again.

"You should be proud that you have dragon's blood, even if...dilluted."

Arianne shook her head.

"I am proud of my house. My grandmother abandoned my father when he was a babe, I'd rather not be proud of her."

"Your house? Even your great aunt?" Aemond's lips morphed into a foul grin.

He didn't know why was he questioning her, or hacking at her pride. What did he even want her to tell him?

That he was right and so much better than her, with the right lineage, with no blemishes —

That she despised these whores and that she was a virtuous, Seven-fearing woman, a perfect daughter and pliable to be a perfect wife?

Aemond shook the rotting anger away, though it clung to him like brambles in his mind.

No, he thought, his keen stare dipping to her lips again, you might gallivant around the Keep with your bastard and have your pick of husbands, but I am your better.

He could practically taste the bitter triumph of the thought, yet the satisfaction was lacking.

It should have been enough to declare it to himself and dismiss her entirely — but it wasn’t.

She is beautiful. Clearly educated beyond the expectations of her lot. Of well-enough breeding. The admission slid into his mind like a thief in the night. It mattered little.

His future wife will be chosen for him, for an alliance, or for whatever his grandsire deemed necessary. There was no room for his preferences, no place for him to desire something as indulgent as beauty or intelligence or a spark of defiance that teased his loins.

He couldn't possibly daydream about a woman, even one with perfectly shaped hips as Arianne Swann's were.

"My great-aunt is a good person! She has developed a system to help the poor Lyseni children. She rules Lys as a queen would." She hissed indignantly.

"She is," Aemond managed to stop the word 'whore' from leaving his lips.

"...a courtesan. Does your father know that you esteem her so highly?"

Arianne inclined her chin stubbornly.

The Targaryen Prince found the expression coupled with her delicate features endearing.

"That does not concern you, Your Grace. If you haven't read about the war in the Stepstones, my great-aunt was captured and sold — she didn't choose to be a courtesan of her own will. From the dawn of time, it had been men who waged their wars and women and children suffer. If the gods switched our lots, so many tragedies could be avoided. "

So she was one of those , he thought, without much surprise at it. Wishing to trespass into men's domain of governance — like Queen Alysanne with her laws, like those dornish wenches, or like her abhhorent aunt, ruling Lys through her cunt.

Like his whore of an older sister , Aemond remembered morosely, assuming herself an heir when the King had trueborn sons. As if the Realm would accept a woman on the throne, when dominion over land was the prerogative of men.

His mother had ruled in all but name, but that was out of necessity.

There was a certain insolence in the way Arianne carried herself — like she derived perverse pleasure from refusing all those lords who asked to dance with her, like her proximity to his whore-sister somehow made her better than her station implied.

"Men also protect women and children from evils that be." Aemond spat tonelessly. "But do go on, explain to me how the world would be better with women holding power. Hopefully, the men who court you do not listen to such rants, otherwise, my lady Swann, you'll remain an unwed maiden until you die."

Her fingers curled into fists.

Jace did not hold her views against her. He'd let her be his equal, Arianne mused while frowning.

Prince Aemond was the most strikable man she ever had the misfortune to meet. She should pray for the poor woman born under the most rotten star — his future wife.

"Even Grandmaester Gawen writes how Queen Visenya was better at certain aspects of governance than King Ae—"

"Using my family's history against me, are you?" Aemond clicked his tongue in vexation.

He couldn't deny it anymore — she intrigued him.

Was not even Gawen safe from her? One of his favourite accounts on The Conqueror's reign. She read. Not skimmed or parroted scraps overheard at court, but read.

"You said it yourself, through my grandmother, it is my family too. So please, stop interrupting me!"

"I already know what you were about to say,"

Aemond glanced at her lips.

"We seem to read the same books."

His growing irritation coiled tightly around the bottom of his spine. He judged her a creature of basest charms and no wit, and yet he had even forgotten to eat while debating with her.

How could a woman like her fancy a bastard?

The tips of his fingers were tingling.

"Well, you are quite rude," Arianne said, crossing her arms.

"With all due respect, my Prince."

She bit her plump lower lip and Aemond felt an almost overwhelming urge to kiss her right then and there.

It would quiet her.

But he'd be the one yielding, ensnared like all those other fools.

He cleared his throat.

"You wished to murder the prince at his own court, and I am rude?"

"I did not!" Arianne professed with urgency.

"Please stop saying that! If someone hears you, I could be hanged!"

She seemed to match pulling on her long sleeves with the spiraling tone of her voice — like a bird fluttering its wings nervously in flight.

"I apologize for hitting you...and throwing earrings at you. B-but you have called me...a bad word. Can't we just be even now?"

Aemond cocked his head and chuckled. They could be even when she properly occupied her place beneath him.

When she surrendered like the lands did before Aegon the Conqueror, waving their white flags.

He could wave her chemise for all of court to see that it was him who had enjoyed their darling. His whore-sister's bastard's face alone would be worth the scandal.

"No, we cannot."

"It is rude not to accept an apology. I do not wish to continue this conversation."

The moment she uttered those words, it dawned on Aemond that he didn't want to let her take leave. He wanted to converse with her, drink in more of her peculiar thoughts, and observe the way her lovely mouth shaped words.

Gods be cursed, what was wrong with him?

"Perhaps one of your suitors would defend you against...my bad words, lady Swann." He sneered, without the real bite to his words.

"If they dare..."

With great amusement, the long-haired Targaryen watched how her full bottom lip quivered in annoyance.

"What my suitors do is not a concern of yours, Your Grace," Her response was a veritable hiss.

"Certainly, you're not one of them, so it matters not."

"Because I have no desire to be," Aemond hissed back, frankly insulted that she stated it openly — as if she found him less than what she deserved.

There was a twinge of disappointment creeping around his upper spine. Suitors, plural. Minor lords weren't a concern, but his nephew...

"If I only wished it so, your father would give me your hand tomorrow!"

"I wouldn't be so certain. He already has someone in mind for me." She flicked her hand dismissively at him.

Blood crashed against his temples, setting his veins on fire.

"Does he? And who is a more coveted match than a Targaryen dragonlord?" Aemond snarled on an impulse.

It passed through him as a bolt of lightning — a reflex at a perceived insult.

Arianne's eyes widened, the inhale of breath sharp and burning.

"As I've said," She muttered. "It does not concern you."

The One-eyed prince pressed his lips tightly together and stretched his fingers to appease his temper.

She was right, but he found it hard to pretend he didn't want to know — despite having an inkling it was his Strong nephew. Bastard as he was, Jacaerys was still the supposed heir to the Iron Throne once that old whore inherits it.

She dared to wave her hand like that at him!

If Arianne Swann were a man, she'd have found herself lacking that same hand. Ought he bring her to tears again?

"I merely wanted to know if he is as brave as Ser Galladon of Morne." Aemond lied easily enough. The little line appearing between Arianne's brows as she drew them together told him enough.

"Ser Galladon is a legendary knight…" She sighed and glanced towards the crowd gathered in the middle of the hall.

"Do you enjoy tormenting me? Is that why you returned my earrings, so you can hold it over my head?"

Yes.

Clever girl.

"It was the proper thing to do," He almost laughed at the feigned propriety in his voice.

“After I no longer feared for my life.”

With the way her doe eyes glittered, Aemond mused if he truly might make her cry again. He wasn't even doing anything to her. And he wanted to do so much, starting with tasting her pretty, pink lips.

They were now set in a worried frown.

“Why would I even attempt something like that?” Arianne stomped her foot, unladylike. She’d had quite enough of his insidious accusations. To think she’d ever dare it! Not only was it a sin and a crime, Aemond was her kin.

A distant cousin, yes, but the curse of kinslaying would still fall upon her.

“They were ready to toast to you, a cyvasse champion…You must hate how I’ve snatched it away.” He mused.

Her face seemed to gain an entertaining shade of valyrian firebloom when she was rattled.

“I do not care so much about winning,” She muttered with a significant effort to not feel it was a lie. A low hum slid through Aemond’s lips when he parted them.

“Here I thought you spend your days playing cyvasse, lady Swann.”

“I do not,” Arianne snapped. “Unlike the princeling, I have duties to attend to.”

“The princeling at least knows how to dance without making a fool of himself."

Flabbergasted, Arianne ran her eyes over his face, over the epicurean grin raising the corner of his mouth up.

He'd seen her trip.

This hateful, hateful man.

“The princeling…ought to read a certain scroll on proper manners and gallantry. With respect, Your Grace.” The undertone of her voice was brimming with liquid fury she had to constrain.

It amused Aemond to no end.

He had an inkling to pinch her rosy cheek to see if her skin could redden further.

“I do wonder what scrolls keep your interest, lady Arianne. A children’s story about Galladon of Morne, or perhaps doltish, women’s fairy tales such as Jonquil and Florian?” He taunted, though already too aware of the breadth of her readings. Much alike his.

She took a sip from her goblet.

"I am reading The Fires of the Freehold now. Have you read it?" Arianne firmly decided to not give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

The tale of Jonquil and Florian was indeed one of her favorites, but what would a callous, heartless boor appreciate about romance?

"Of course," Something imperceptible danced in Aemond's voice.

"But all known copies, all six of them, are here or the Citadel. How did you get your pretty hands on the tome?"

"Well, I...", She started, realizing her own stupidity at the same time she realized he'd called her hands pretty.

"I asked to borrow a copy from the Royal Library."

Aemond's pale eye narrowed in suspicion.

"You're not a royal, so you couldn't have."

"Well, Jace had gotten it for me,” Arianne confessed, waving her hands frantically.

”I will return it! As soon as I finish it. I would never harm a book!"

Much as he wanted to chastise her for it, Aemond had stolen the only other copy from the library for himself. It was safe and cared for in his chambers.

"How far into it are you? It's...quite heavy for someone who does not read High Valyrian well." He was genuinely curious, though a spark of something darker ignited within him — a strange thrill was now coursing through his vessels at the thought of her engrossed in his ancestors' history. Not his, theirs, The One-eyed Prince reminded himself. She was of Valyria as well.

"Siege of Norvos, ah— " Arianne smiled, elated to share her excitement with someone — even if that someone happened to be Jace's cantankerous uncle.

She couldn't help herself any more than a moth could help flying into a flame.

"I intend to ask Jace to translate it… well, I wouldn’t wish to be a bother, and…I've been stuck on this one passage because the sentences are so long but, it is so enthralling — the siege, a hundred dragons descending upon Qarlon to defend the city! So many dragonlords! It makes...it almost makes you feel sorry for his army. From what I discerned, it was the first blunder he committed, and also his last. But how was Quarlon to know Valyria would aid Norvoshi! They'd closed the river on him —"

The audible inhale of breath she took almost broke the silver-haired Prince out of his trance.

He shifted his weight, his hand brushing against the leathery hilt of his dagger as if it could tether him to the polished marble beneath his boots.

But Arianne's voice drew him back in, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke, gesturing here and there, a physical rhythm to match her words.

And how her lips curled into a smile — Stranger, had he ever seen something so tantalizing— so unguarded, so genuine, it caught him like an arrow to the throat.

It lit her face with flames so arresting, Aemond could scarcely follow her soliloquy.

And Siege of Norvos was his favorite part.

"Well, what other choice was there for him but to besiege the city, a reliable water source is essential in a campaign...and then I couldn't really find what vēzos rhaeshisar meant when Valyrian dragonlords appeared above Norvos to defend—"

Arianne faltered, suddenly aware of the torrent of words spilling from her lips.

Her eyes darted to  Aemond.

His gaze was fixed so intently on her that she concluded he wanted to see through her. Blood rushed to her cheeks.

She had been blabbering— again. How many times had her septa chastised her for it — it was unladylike! Rude!

 "I apologize," she added sheepishly, her fingers brushing her braid.

"It's just that I couldn't stop reading until morning."

One-eyed prince swallowed, his heart beating uncomfortably. She was so infuriatingly lovely. More so when she wasn't glaring at him.

He could not think.

Aemond profaned several Valyrian deities for mucking his proficiency — he knew what vēzos rhaeshisar, an army commander meant. What was the title they used to refer to him?

Much as he itched to neatly skim through the vast dictionary in his mind, all he could focus on was her — The way her heart-shaped lips parted with each word, the delicate tilt of her head.

A delight.

His breath burned as it traveled through his lungs, his body mutinying against his better judgment — leaning just enough to feel the warmth of her presence more keenly.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away; he didn’t want to.

Seven hells.

This is absurd.

He could not allow this.

Aemond's gaze darkened as he became aware of his heart pounding like the drum of a war march.

He wanted her.

The air grew dense, and his body ached, responding to her in a way he could not control. It was maddening. He couldn't allow it.

Was the bastard's courtesan doing it on purpose? Was she even aware of the effect she was having on him?

"I could translate it for you if you'd like, my Lady." Aemond's throat formed words without his consent.

He succeeded in preventing himself from inviting her to his chambers now — he'd translate all the Valyrian she wanted, he'd speak such filth in her ear using the language of dragons and then he'd kiss and taste her quivering cunt.

He'd teach her to pronounce certain words properly so that when he buried himself in her warmth, she could keen and cry out how she was his to tarnish and enjoy.

He'd find out if her cunt was as pretty as she was, if it was tight and silken and — what was the word those dolts used? Magical. He might even tell Aegon about it — watch his imbecilic brother go into shock.

He'd ruin her as thoroughly as Valyria ruined Lorath.

Arianne only stared at him with a girlish smile decorating her face, unaware of how deep his depravity went. How this sudden lust clouded his judgment and how he needed to be rid of it.

"You would truly transla—"

"Arianne!"

She almost jumped and hit herself against the table at Rhaena's voice.

Peeling her eyes away from Aemond, Arianne found her royal friend waving at her, with Jace and Luke in tow.

"What are you doing, Arianne? Come, we'll dance together." Jace noticed his uncle and eyed him with palpable confusion.

How much time had it passed? She had been talking to Aemond all night.

"Ah, excuse me, Your Grace," She gave him an apologetic smile.

"They wish to kill me with dancing."

Aemond did not move, his muscles locked tightly together.

He did not want to let her go, and found the thought terrifying. It was a weakness and it was pathetic, and clearly her suitor was his bastard nephew. It seemed as if he regained some clarity at last, because he remembered vezos rhaenishar was a general.

"Dance with me?" He unclasped his hands and offered his right to her, palm up, open, inviting.

Arianne felt the bewilderment bubble up in her belly — she beheld him completely flummoxed.

"I...I already promised —"

"Dance with me," Aemond repeated levelly, shoving his impatience violently into the bottom of his spine.

"and I'll consider us even."

Even.

He'll no longer torment her over hitting him. Arianne glanced at Rhaena who furrowed her pretty, ivory eyebrows.

Hadn't she heard a rumor that Aemond Targaryen disdained frivolity, that he saw dancing as beneath him unless demanded by ceremony?

It would be scandalous if she refused him when he openly asked, wouldn't it? But it would be exponentially worse if she were to trip and tumble to the floor, taking him with her.

"I...I would rather try my luck with cyvasse," She murmured, wiping her hands down her sable skirts.

"Perhaps Your Grace would offer me a rematch—"

"You refuse me?!" The thrum of Aemond's voice cut like a dagger.

Arianne flinched, resisting the urge to seek refuge with her royal companions.

"No, I — it's just that I..." She stammered, biting the inside of her cheek.

'Mother Above, grant me mercy. And Warrior, grant me courage. And please just do not let me stumble this one time...I don't want to die!'

Nodding, Arianne consciously ignored the way something searing and lethal brimmed in his single eye — as if promising her retribution should the next words to leave her lips displease him.

"Alright, b-but I am...not a very good dancer, Your Grace."

She placed her hand in his, a sudden rush of something traveling up her arm.

Aemond's skin was cool to the touch and his hand was large — long, slender fingers closing over hers in a secure grasp.

Perhaps he knew how cold he was for his thumb began circling over her knuckles, so gently it made her blush.

"Pasagon vūs, nyke rūal vestri ropagon." (Trust me, I will not allow you to fall.) He led her between the moving figures while Arianne tried to see her friends' reactions. Jace wouldn't really be mad at her, would he? Aemond was seemingly cordial with her tonight and she didn't want to insult him. He would be her uncle-in-law if gods were to will it. Rhaena might be less forgiving but it was too late to think on it now.

Aemond had easier ways of ending her life than dancing.

She wouldn't trust him, but at least she believed he wouldn't harm her in front of the courtiers, the guards, and his whole family.

Aemond's skin was tingling.

Her hand fit easily in his, and as his fingertips slid over her soft skin, h e noticed she was so pleasantly warm.

Distracting and completely preposterous musings attempted to invade his mind — how it would be most useful to share a bed with Lady Swann. He’d coil around her heat and never suffer the stab of chill again.

Would she share her bed with him?

The rumors about her proclivities were baseless and clearly as untrue as the whore of Dragonstone claiming Laenor Velaryon fathered her children.

She tensed and flushed — swathes of crimson erupting over her cheeks when he touched her.

She took his hand so unsurely, not like a prolific courtesan who welcomed bastard lovers into her bed.

Which mayhaps meant she really was telling the truth about her virtue.

Which meant she was for him to enjoy alone.

They stopped and she cast a nervous glance at the shoes protruding under her long, dark gown as if they were not her own.

He offered up his other hand, as the dance required, and this time Arianne grabbed him quickly.

"Relax, it is merely a dance, not a battle." He advised softly.

The One-eyed Prince could afford to be accommodating now that she truly was holding onto his hand and depending on his whims.

 Jacaerys Strong was glaring at them so obviously that Aemond had to make a conscious effort not to laugh. Was he a craven little bastard, if he hadn't kissed her yet?

"Easy enough for you to say, Prince Aemond. I...well, it is of no matter." Arianne waited for the music to start, feeling increasingly aware of his closeness.

He scared her, and if she fell down and embarrassed him, she was sure he would toss her to the gallows.

The music started and Aemond decided he'd just lead her gently through the moves. Arianne followed him well enough, not placing a foot out of place so clearly she knew the correct steps.

Yet, she was rather stiff and nervous — he could feel her delicate pulse beneath his touch, ticking erratically.

It was even more obvious when their hands parted and they side-stepped each other. Arianne was so completely absorbed in her own movement that she almost collided with him — a rather humiliating spectacle he avoided by adjusting his turn to match hers too wide one.

Her breath hitched as she realized her misstep, her fingers tightening around his forearm for the next twirl.

Aemond could practically taste her embarrassment at the tip of his tongue.

"Jurnegon vūs,” (Look at me.)

 He commanded, flexing underneath her fingertips.

“Not at your feet." He added, softer now, his lips inches away from Arianne's ear when their turn brought them closer.

She blanched.

He was jesting, wasn't he? She couldn't stare back at him when his eye on her was so intense it made her stomach gallop and wallop.

Why would he stare at her like that?

Like when they met —

Like —

He twirled her around and Arianne was in awe of herself when she hadn't stumbled.

Aemond was so sturdy, yet light on his feet, and his hand was a steady anchor that ensured she wouldn’t fall, even if she tried— unless, of course, he willed it.

"Vāedan?" (ready?) Aemond asked, his pale eyebrow quirking.

They had to change hands mid-step.

"Daor," (No.) she protested, much to his amusement.

 With effortless poise, Aemond seized her other wrist and adjusted their stance without hesitation.

Finally, as her ordeal was over, Arianne took a steadying breath and allowed him to lift her — completely modestly, of course — by the waist and twirl her around a final time.

Seven, he did it as if she weighed nothing!

Oh, it's over.

Arianne blinked several times to confirm she was now on solid ground.

"Did your ladyship survive?" Aemond's lips crooked at her astonishment.

One of the smaller curls fell out of her tightly bound braids, cascading softly to rest against the side of her neck. It appeared so playful, so inviting, and he fought the sudden urge to reach out and trace its curve.

He would sooner disembowel himself with a rusty sword than admit how perfectly her svelte waist fit within his grasp.

How he could hold her as tightly as a lover should while she rode him, his cock sheathed inside her. She'd take him so well, his courtesan donned in the finest Myrish lace and jewels.

With unbound, wild hair and constantly bruised lips from how often he would require a taste.

"Do not jest with me," Arianne lightly slapped his arm when he had finally released her.

Aemond glanced at her hand before reaching for it, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin. At this moment, after the dance, no one would think it inappropriate.

"You dance so well, Your Grace." Arianne swallowed hard, her pulse drumming against her temples, flapping like a hummingbird's wings — and managed to meet his gaze for a fraction of a moment before her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in the crowd.

Why was he still holding her hand?

"Come." the Targaryen Prince placed his other hand on top of hers.

"If we stay here, I'll think you want me to dance with you again."

Arianne pouted.

"You asked me! And we're even now."

He held his grin at bay — how swiftly her boldness returned when the music stopped, and it was no longer a matter of dancing, but of words.

"Not if I translate you the passage." He hummed, a secretive lilt to his voice.

Aemond was fairly certain he knew which one she meant if it pertained to the siege of Norvos and the later scouring of the Lorathi islands.

"Lorath rūsīr perzys, kīrīr ūbra zaldryos zaltan jerdar —" (Lorath was bathed in fire, as three hundred dragons burned its skies.) 

 Aemond drank in her awed gaze, his fingers stroking wistfully over her knuckles.

"It is an older form of High Valyrian, a hymn for the scouring of Lorath. Unless you visit the Citadel or somehow talk to my dying father and King, you won't be able to understand it properly."

"But you would translate it for me?" Arianne blurted, completely forgetting she was supposed to be wary of Prince Aemond — he was a twat and a rude, prejudiced man regardless and yet... He spoke the language with such effortless fluency that one could almost believe he was a traveler from the Valyria of Old.

Not just that, but the way he carried himself, the way he looked — with a chiseled jawline, nose and cheekbones carved from marble, and those lips, ever so slightly curled with disdain.

Even compared to all his siblings, he seemed more...more...hen zaldrīzes. (...belonging to dragons.)

"My Prince." She added quickly, observing the fair silver of his tresses.

The blood of the ancient Valyrian lords ran thick in his veins, far beyond the Targaryen name alone.

Aemond leaned in conspiratorially, and Arianne felt her breath lodge somewhere underneath her throat. His single eye— sharp as tempered steel — lingered on her face.

"We could take a walk along the inner courtyards and I’ll translate it now. All this merriment is growing rather tedious.”

Did he know he was still holding her hand? His other one drifted to the hilt of his dagger, his thumb tracing the leather grip in absent circles.

Arianne sensed her palm turning clammy inside his.

“Translate what? We don’t have the text here.” She uttered, the booming voice of her septa clanking at the back of her mind instantly.

 "The text? A properly raised lady would immediately refuse to go anywhere with a man her parents do not know! Even if the inner courtyards are lit and chaperoned, it is still unseemly to leave the feast with that man. Young lady, you will sew until you learn!" 

“My memory serves me well.” Aemond retorted in a measured cadence. He’d never confess he’d read that particular scroll a dozen times.

Her septa would be furious, but Arianne was considering it.

She lowered her chin, noticing the stark contrast of their hands. Hers were small and rather unremarkable, but his – broad palms with long, tapered fingers held her rather firmly.

Aemond’s hands were far from soft with calloused pads, and faint scars —  A warrior’s hands and yet there was an elegance in the way they moved— deliberate, assured, almost mesmerizing.

"Arianne!"

She blinked, the sound of her own name grabbing her roughly by the neck and forcing her to abandon Aemond’s fervent stare.

The One-eyed prince leaned back.

It wasn't his cousin this time who interrupted them, it was his bastard nephew. Aemond beheld him with venomous irritation.

"Jace, there you are." He loathed the cheerful tilt of her voice when she addressed Jacaerys Strong. He loathed even more the improper way they seemed to converse with each other.

"I think you have suffered my sullen uncle long enough." The plain-featured bastard had the nerve to glare back at him.

"Besides, you promised me all dances tonight." He pouted like some child.

Surely, Aemond thought, Arianne couldn't be considering this boy as her husband. Although Jacaerys was less than two years younger than him, he was coddled and doted upon, and it made him weak in the long-haired Targaryen's eye.

The feathers etched upon her sleeves glinted when Arianne moved to hide her lower face.

"It was just one dance, Jace. Do not be mad!"

Aemond's eye narrowed, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around her wrist.

Mad?!

What right did the bastard have to lay any claim over her? His mind drowned in indignation and something darker that he refused to acknowledge.

Aemond cocked his head, refusing to release Arianne's dainty hand, even when he felt her attempt to pull away, twitching within his grasp.

"Gīda mandia tresy, iksis ziry aōhon syt ao naejot gaomagon zirȳla hae iā zaldrīzes āeksion."(Calm down, nephew. Is she yours for you to guard her like a jealous dragon his gold?)

She in question glanced back at him, trying to comprehend his quick retort.

His nephew understood easily enough, from the frown erupting across his face.

"Issa." (Yes.) Jacaerys Velaryon spat, helping morph Aemond's features into a nefarious glower.

"Aderi, ziry kosta nyke vestri." (She will be my betrothed, soon.)

So he was her suitor — which Aemond struggled to make sense of. Wouldn't his bitch sister need the Velaryons on her side? And would his uncle, ever ambitious, let his wife's heir marry someone who wasn't his blood? Certainly, the marcher lord’s only daughter, Targaryen princess’ granddaughter, was never a poor choice, but did Rhaenyra think one bastard wed to Laena’s daughter was enough? When that bastard wasn’t even the one who would end up on the Iron Throne?

"Jace!" Arianne chastised him, as she understood the last bits of their exchange.

" W-what are you talking about?" Her vision swam.

Was he serious? Her pulse quickened into a steady, violent staccato of a blood rush. Hadn’t he known she held him dear to her heart? He couldn’t jest with her in such a way! Could this mean Jace wanted her hand? Did Princess Rhaenyra approve of it?

Aemond's not-quite-princely snort cut through her rumination.

The One-eyed Prince tilted his head haughtily, his long fingers drumming against the bottom of Arianne's palm.

"The Lady seems unaware of your claim?"

It was Jace whose features now took on a visage of offense.

" 'Tis none of your concern, uncle." He blustered, his dark, turbulent gaze finding Arianne.

She went rigid — her eyes wide and terrified as if suddenly she became aware of the crowd and the murmuring surrounding them,

“ Come, Arianne. Aemond hates dancing either way." Jacaerys Velaryon offered her his hand, beckoning her. His invitation fueled the bile picking at the One-eyed Prince's insides — he had to forcefully still his muscles so as not to scoff and send him to the Stranger.

It was true enough that he hated dancing, as he did all the tiresome courtly stupidities, but it wasn’t the bastard’s place to assume as much.

Nor should he relinquish the woman to him.

It was enough that the Strong whelp felt entitled to the Targaryen throne.

Subconsciously, Aemond squeezed Lady Swann’s hand too harshly — her prepossessing green eyes immediately met his with confusion.

"It is her ladyship’s decision. " Aemond sneered, his bones sizzling with disagreement.

It should be his prerogative. He was trueborn blood of the dragon — the king’s son, Vhagar’s rider, and if he desired so — the little courtesan should warm his bed.

Yet, Arianne Swann was nothing to him. To give voice to the budding desire to keep her hand in his and find out more about her secrets felt both a folly and a crackling fire. This passing fancy was his burden, and he shouldn't indulge it any longer.

But when her countenance turned apologetic, it slashed at the edges of his resolve like valyrian steel.

Aemond felt the dreadful rejection licking at his pride before she even spoke.

How dared she?!

He swallowed, measuring his breath.

"I should…I should go. I’ve taken enough of your time already." The faint tremor of her lips only made Aemond madder.

Jacaerys Strong appeared so smug, that the other Targaryen prince had to swallow the intrusive thoughts of pulling his dagger and slicing his bastard head clean off.

The warm skin between his palm and fingers moved and he debated whether to abandon his hold or to press upon her knuckles until her bones broke.

She hadn’t even kissed anyone.

Infuriating, deceiving little temptress —

Aemond’s blood was boiling and it crashed up his neck in a vehement thud until it reverberated inside his temples.

She was fucking provoking him, staring at him with those wide, malachite eyes, her long eyelashes fluttering like some — some timid maiden. When in fact she was —

Of course, she was also a whore! Saera’s granddaughter and his whoresister’s lady-in-waiting.

The muscle in his cheek twitched.

Stranger take her!

He wasn't even sure what exactly that little whoreson was saying because he battled an overwhelming surge of rage that demanded he spill blood.

Aemond wanted to remove himself from there quickly, before he did something stupid like telling Prince Strong he could have Arianne only if he defeated him in a duel at the back of a dragon. Because he wanted to claim her for himself.

He wanted her. In the basest, most humanly disgusting way — he wanted to delve between her thighs and take her as a man does a woman. The thought was hideous enough, let alone to act on it.

He was above it.

He was above desiring a willful, left-footed, granddaughter of a blight among his grand ancestors. She didn’t even have a dragon. She’ll never be able to claim a dragon. Her Valyrian blood was already too diluted.

She was nothing.

So when Arianne pulled her hand back this time, Aemond let her.

"I meant it, Your Grace. You are a wonderful dancer." She had enough fire in her to dare smile at him. After this little humiliating stunt. The honest mirth in her eyes would've sent shivers down his spine, had it not been for the fact that she led him on.

"And you were, as it happens, correct, Lady Swann. You truly are an awful dancer. Clumsy as Seven hells." Aemond hissed in her ear and lingered only a few moments longer — enough to see the delight vanish from her green eyes and her smile turn into a dejected frown.

"A tavern wench has more grace than your ladyship. Even a bastard," he added pointedly, venomously.

"— should see that."

Her jade irises shimmered, the edge of her bottom lid brimming with tears.

He'd hurt her.

Good.

Stranger take him, rather,  she was even beautiful when on the verge of crying with those dark lashes battering to keep tears at bay.

The desire to whisk her away with him only infuriated him more.

To seven hells with you, Arianne Swann.

"I apologize —"

Aemond scoffed and trudged away, his boots striking the ground like hammer blows. He would not stay to watch her bawl to her bastard bitchson.

He glanced at his family — he’d let his guard down, unforgivable! What if Daemon tried anything, what if his mother and his sister were hurt while he dallied with —

Aemond pressed his lips tightly together when he realized everything was fine and found his mother looking at him with worry etched between her brows.

Next.

[jedimaesteryoda]

"He told about Prince Garin, I remember, the one that I was named for." "Garin the Great," offered Drey, "the wonder of the Rhoyne." "That's the one. He made Valyria tremble." "They trembled," said Ser Gerold, "then they killed him. If I led a quarter of a million men to death, would they call me Gerold the Great?" -AFFC, The Queenmaker

Arianne thinks herself Nymeria when Daenerys is actually the image of Nymeria: a ruling warrior queen from the east who after years of wandering leads her people on ships to Westeros to escape slavery, married three times and remains undefeated on the battlefield.

Arianne is more Garin the Great: the Rhoynish prince/ess who leads their people to war and after some initial success, loses to invading Valyrian dragonlords.

Garin dismissed Nymeria who warned him and the other Rhoynish princes that they could not win a war against the Valyrians. Garin led his people, and after a few tactical victories, Nymeria's warnings proved correct when an army of 300+ dragons descended from the sky and burned his army. He died in a golden cage as his city of Chroyane was destroyed with his only release being the Rhoyne flooding the city and turning the festival city into the Sorrows, an uninhabited, plague-infested ruin.

His story is effectively a lesson on arrogance and the foolhardiness and dangers of blindly going down a path to avoid confronting the inevitable, harsh truth. As is often the case in these stories, he took the path that ultimately did lead to the destruction of his city and the absorption of the Rhoynish lands by the Valyrian Freehold, the exact fate he tried to avoid.

It was ultimately Nymeria who accomplished what Garin could not: preserve Rhoynish independence against Valyrian domination. She also proved to be a successful military leader winning all her wars and crushing her enemies in Dorne.

Arianne's desire is less noble than Garin's given he was defending his homeland while Arianne is getting involved in the game of thrones. When Daenerys inevitably reaches Westeros, Arianne will learn Garin's lesson the hard way when she chooses to fight the last living dragonlords to keep her crown and avoid confronting the truth that Aegon is a false pretender. While Dorne will once again be conquered by an invading warrior queen.

[horizon-verizon]

This series of conflicts reached a bloody climax a thousand years ago in the Second Spice War, when three Valyrian dragonlords joined with their kin and cousins in Volantis to overwhelm, sack, and destroy Sarhoy, the great Rhoynar port city upon the Summer Sea. The warriors of Sarhoy were slaughtered savagely, their children carried off into slavery, and their proud pink city put to the torch. Afterward the Volantenes sowed the smoking ruins with salt so that Sarhoy might never rise again. The utter destruction of one of the richest and most beautiful of the cities of the Rhoyne, and the enslavement of her people, shocked and dismayed the remaining Rhoynar princes. “We shall all be slaves unless we join together to end this threat,” declared the greatest of them, Garin of Chroyane. This warrior prince called upon his fellows to join with him in a great alliance, to wash away every Valyrian city on the river. Only Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar spoke against him. “This is a war we cannot hope to win,” she warned, but the other princes shouted her down and pledged their swords to Garin. Even the warriors of her own Ny Sar were eager to fight, and Nymeria had no choice but to join the great alliance.

A World of Ice and Fire, pg. 22  

[sebeth]

The World Of Ice and Fire: The Rhoynar Vs Valyria

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

The Valyrians conquered their ancient rivals and proceeded to run wild on Essos. The first Valyrians to arrive near the Rhoyne were adventurers, exiles, and traders.

The Rhoynar made their first mistake by welcoming the Valyrians to their land. The Rhoynar, both the government and religious offices, believed all were welcome to the bounty of Mother Rhoyne. The Valyrians follow the “everything is mine, not yours” philosophy.

Resentment between the two groups increased as Valyrian outposts turned into towns and then into cities. The two most prominent rivalries were between Sar Mell and Volon Therys, a Valyrian town in the lower Rhoyne, and between Sarhoy (a port city) and the Free City of Volantis on the shores of the Summer Sea.

Disputes led to wars. Sar Mell and Volon Therys started the first war over the butchering of the Old Men of the River – gigantic river turtles held sacred as the consorts of Mother Rhoyne.

The First Turtle War lasted less than a month. “Sar Mell was raided and burned” but won the war when Rhoynish water wizards flooded half of Volon Therys, resulting in half the city being washed away.

More wars followed: the War of the Three Princes, the Second Turtle War, the Fisherman’s War, the Salt War, the Third Turtle War, the War on Dagger Lake, the Spice War, and numerous others.

The name of the wars clearly describes either the cause or location of the war. I am intrigued by the “War of the Three Princes”. Is the war still only between Sar Mell and Volon Therys? If so, who is the third prince? Does Volon Therys even have a prince? Were princes rapidly dying?

Yandel notes Beldecar’s History of the Rhoynish Wars as the definitive source of the history of the Rhoynish-Valyrian conflicts.

The wars caused the destruction of cities and the death and enslavement of thousands. The Valyrians won most of the battles. The Rhoynar believed in independence and fighting your own battles.  The Valyrians believed in group effort and running home to daddy (the Valyrian Freehold) when they got into trouble. And daddy sent dragons.

The wars occurred over two and a half centuries. The conflicts reached its climax in the Second Spice War. Three Valyrians dragonlords joined the citizens of Volantis in annihilating Sarhoy – the adults were slaughtered, the children sold into slavery, and the city torched.

The destruction of Sarhoy caused the remaining Rhoynar princes to form an alliance. Finally!

Garin of Chroyane, the greatest Rhoynar warrior prince, declared: “We shall all be slaves unless we join together to end this threat.”

Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar disagreed: “This is a war we cannot hope to win”.

Because, you know, dragons!

Nymeria’s warriors wanted to fight so she joined the alliance.

Prince Garin assembled the largest army Essos had ever seen at Chroyane – 750,000 strong.

Garrin’s strategy was to keep the fighting close to the Rhoyne believing the Rhoynar water wizards would be able to combat the dragons.

Garrin divided his army into three parts: “one marched down the east bank of the Rhoyne, one along the west, whilst a huge fleet of war galleys kept pace on the waters between, sweeping the river clean of enemy ships.”

Garrin and company marched downward from Chroyane, “destroying every village, town, and outpost in his path and smashing all opposition.”

Garrin’s forces were on a winning streak: defeating a thirty thousand strong army at Sellhorys and destroying the city. Valysar suffered the same fate.

Garrin and company battled a hundred thousand foes, a hundred war elephants, and three dragons at Volon Therys. The Rhoynar won but it was a costly victory.  Thousands burned but Rhoynish archers killed two of the dragons and wounded a third. The water-wizards caused the Mother Rhoyne to “swallow” Volon Therys.

The Rhoynar proclaimed Garrin as Garrin the Great. The Volantenes retreated behind their black walls and begged the Valyrian Freehold for help.

The Freehold responded by sending dragons – 300 dragons or more. Once hundreds of dragons are sent, its game over. Tens of thousands burned. The Rhoyne itself boiled and turned to steam.

The death of the dragons had to be the cause of the Freehold’s overkill response of 300 dragons. The Rhoynar and the Valyrians had been fighting for centuries and the Freehold’s response amounted to “whatever”, but two dragons die and 300 dragons are sent in response?

Dragons are a precious resource to the Valyrians – it’s the backbone of their empire and the reason they’re able colonize everywhere. The Valyrians cannot let the death of dragons stand or allow the dragons to appear weak. There is no way the Freehold wants the death of dragons by mere archers to be widespread knowledge. Can you imagine if the numerous enemies of Valyria realized a highly skilled archer could take out a dragon? It lessens the awe and mystique of dragons. Not to mention every dragon-rider out on a pleasure ride would have to worry over a potential sniper attack from an archer.

Garrin was captured and forced to watch as his fellow Rhoynar were massacred. So many were executed that “their blood turned the great harbor of Volantis red as far as the eye could see”.

The Volantese and Valyrians followed Garrin’s route in reverse- savagely sacking Sar Mell before advancing on Chroyane. Garrin was locked into a golden cage and forced to watch the destruction of Chroyane – his home city.

 Garrin was hung in his cage from the walls of Chroyane. Garrin’s conquerors wanted him to witness the murder and enslavement of his people. Garrin called upon Mother Rhoyne to avenge her people: “That very night, the Rhoyne flooded out of season and with greater force than was known in living memory. A thick fog full of evil humors fell, and the Valyrian conquerors began to die of greyscale.”

Was this an actual divine/magical response or simply the result of masses of corpses being near a body of water? Is this the first incident/cause of greyscale?

Centuries later, Lomas Longstrider “wrote of the drowned ruins of Chroyane, its foul fogs and waters, and the fact that wayward travelers infected with greyscale now haunt the ruins – a hazard for those who travel the river beneath the broken span of the Bridge of Dreams.”

If I remember correctly, Tyrion and company travel through Chroyane in A Dance With Dragons. I believe this is where Jon Connington caught greyscale.

Nymeria, in Ny Sar, hears of the destruction of Sar Mell and Chroyane and decides now is a perfect time to leave Essos.

 Up next: Nymeria’s travels

[eschercaine]

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you had for each other.”

This scene right here... I call it BULLSHIT.

If Alicent really loves Rhaenyra, as the writers or producers of the show wanted to claim, why did she keep on humiliating and backstabbing her, then?

The torn out page is about Princess Nymeria and her 10,000 ships fleeing to Dorne after learning Prince Garin of Chroyane’s defeat and the enslavement of her people at the hands of the Valyrian Freehold.

That stupid page scene in episode 10 is a threat to Rhaenyra, not a trip down to memory lane. Alicent is subconsciously telling her, “Give up your claim or you will be crushed.”

If this was book!Rhaenyra, she will tell Otto, “Tell my half brother that I will have my throne, or I will have his head,” and rip that paper to shreds.

But it seems that the producers and writers are Team Green and hate Team Black, so they gave Rhaenyra no agency and want to demonize Daemon.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Tyrion V (Chapter 18)

"This is no common fog, Hugor Hill," Ysilla insisted. "It stinks of sorcery, as you would know if you had a nose to smell it. Many a voyager has been lost here, poleboats and pirates and great river galleys too. They wander forlorn through the mists, searching for a sun they cannot find until madness or hunger claim their lives. There are restless spirits in the air here and tormented souls below the water."

Let me give you a bit of context.

They're travelling through the Sorrows, where stone men afflicted with greyscale reside. They've hit heavy fog. It's spooky.

+.+.+

"We'd do well not to breathe the fog either," said Haldon. "Garin's Curse is all about us."

The only way not to breathe the fog is not to breathe. "Garin's Curse is only greyscale," said Tyrion. The curse was oft seen in children, especially in damp, cold climes. The afflicted flesh stiffened, calcified, and cracked, though the dwarf had read that greyscale's progress could be stayed by limes, mustard poultices, and scalding-hot baths (the maesters said) or by prayer, sacrifice, and fasting (the septons insisted). Then the disease passed, leaving its young victims disfigured but alive. Maesters and septons alike agreed that children marked by greyscale could never be touched by the rarer mortal form of the affliction, nor by its terrible swift cousin, the grey plague. "Damp is said to be the culprit," he said. "Foul humors in the air. Not curses."

We get a lot of information on greyscale in this chapter, and I can't help but think we should be keeping Shireen and Jon Connington in mind.

The main takeaway here is Shireen is fine, and Val is ridiculous.

+.+.+

"The conquerors did not believe either, Hugor Hill," said Ysilla. "The men of Volantis and Valyria hung Garin in a golden cage and made mock as he called upon his Mother to destroy them. But in the night the waters rose and drowned them, and from that day to this they have not rested. They are down there still beneath the water, they who were once the lords of fire. Their cold breath rises from the murk to make these fogs, and their flesh has turned as stony as their hearts."

Waters rising, drowning the lords of fire. Cold breath, stony hearts.

I don't know.

+.+.+

The heat from the glowing coals brought a flush to Tyrion's face. "Is there a Shrouded Lord? Or is he just some tale?"

"The Shrouded Lord has ruled these mists since Garin's day," said Yandry. "Some say that he himself is Garin, risen from his watery grave."

"The dead do not rise," insisted Haldon Halfmaester, "and no man lives a thousand years. Yes, there is a Shrouded Lord. There have been a score of them. When one dies another takes his place. This one is a corsair from the Basilisk Islands who believed the Rhoyne would offer richer pickings than the Summer Sea."

The dead do rise, and I know of one man who could potentially live a thousand years, so the rest must be wrong too.

+.+.+

"Aye, I've heard that too," said Duck, "but there's another tale I like better. The one that says he's not like t'other stone men, that he started as a statue till a grey woman came out of the fog and kissed him with lips as cold as ice."

Personally I don't believe you're going to see a girl in grey wake a sleeping lord commander with a kiss, but I know some people do, so please enjoy the above.

Instead, he blamed Jon Snow and wondered when Jon's heart had turned to stone. - Samwell III, AFFC

+.+.+

Beyond, half-seen, were other shapes: shattered spires, headless statues, trees with roots bigger than their boat.

"This was the most beautiful city on the river, and the richest," said Yandry. "Chroyane, the festival city."

Too rich, thought Tyrion, too beautiful. It is never wise to tempt the dragons.

How do you know it wasn't Jon Connington?

Will I ever tire of this joke? No.

+.+.+

The drowned city was all around them. A half-seen shape flapped by overhead, pale leathery wings beating at the fog. The dwarf craned his head around to get a better look, but the thing was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

Imagine Drogon appearing the second they drift through a ruined city destroyed by dragons. What are the odds?

+.+.+

"What word from old Volantis?" Yandry called.

"War," the word came back.

"Where?" Griff shouted. "When?"

"When the year turns," came the answer, "Nyessos and Malaquo go hand in hand, and the elephants show stripes." The voice faded as the other boat moved away from them. They watched its light dwindle and disappear.

[...]

"Elephants with stripes?" Griff muttered. "What is that about? Nyessos and Malaquo? Illyrio has paid Triarch Nyessos enough to own him eight times over."

"In gold or cheese?" quipped Tyrion.

Griff rounded on him. "Unless you can cut this fog with your next witticism, keep it to yourself."

Yes, Father, the dwarf almost said. I'll be quiet. Thank you. He did not know these Volantenes, yet it seemed to him that elephants and tigers might have good reason to make common cause when faced with dragons. Might be the cheesemonger has misjudged the situation. You can buy a man with gold, but only blood and steel will keep him true.

Is that a reference to Bittersteel?

Even people who have been bought off don't want anything to do with Daenerys, hahaha.

You've got to love bitter enemies coming together to fight a common cause.

+.+.+

I hate this. I hate this fog, I hate this place, and I am less than fond of Griff.

I'm thrilled another man is going give his life to save Tyrion.

+.+.+

Tyrion still had the poison mushrooms he had plucked from the grounds of Illyrio's manse, and there were days when he was sore tempted to slip them into Griff's supper. The trouble was, Griff scarce seemed to eat.

Too bad, I guess another character will have to eat poisoned food.

+.+.+

The fog concealed three-quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Tyrion to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep once and a hundred times more beautiful. He knew where he was. "The Palace of Love," he said softly.

"That was the Rhoynar name," said Haldon Halfmaester, "but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow."

The ruin was sad enough, but knowing what it had been made it even sadder. There was laughter here once, Tyrion thought. There were gardens bright with flowers and fountains sparkling golden in the sun. These steps once rang to the sound of lovers' footsteps, and beneath that broken dome marriages beyond count were sealed with a kiss.

Is this worldbuilding or something else?

+.+.+

"Light ahead," warned Young Griff.

Tyrion saw it too. Kingfisher, or another poleboat, he told himself, but somehow he knew that was not right. His nose itched. He scratched at it savagely. The light grew brighter as the Shy Maid approached it. A soft star in the distance, it glimmered faintly through the fog, beckoning them on. Shortly it became two lights, then three: a ragged row of beacons rising from the water.

"The Bridge of Dream," Griff named it. "There will be stone men on the span. Some may start to wail at our approach, but they are not like to molest us. Most stone men are feeble creatures, clumsy, lumbering, witless. Near the end they all go mad, but that is when they are most dangerous. If need be, fend them off with the torches. On no account let them touch you."

Travelling under the Bridge of Dream has to be a reference to other literature, yes?

If they're anything like wights, I'm not sure they're as witless as they seem.

+.+.+

Stone eyes are blind eyes, thought Tyrion. The mortal form of greyscale began in the extremities, he knew: a tingling in a fingertip, a toenail turning black, a loss of feeling. As the numbness crept into the hand, or stole past the foot and up the leg, the flesh stiffened and grew cold and the victim's skin took on a greyish hue, resembling stone. He had heard it said that there were three good cures for greyscale: axe and sword and cleaver. Hacking off afflicted parts did sometimes stop the spread of the disease, Tyrion knew, but not always. Many a man had sacrificed one arm or foot, only to find the other going grey. Once that happened, hope was gone. Blindness was common when the stone reached the face. In the final stages the curse turned inward, to muscles, bones, and inner organs.

Rest in peace, Jon Connington. Greyscale or dragonfire, either way it's going to be unpleasant.

So they cut off Illyrio's wife's hands, and then he kept them? I'm almost hoping that's not the real story, because ew.

+.+.+

Griff drew his longsword. "Yollo, light the torches. Lad, take Lemore back to her cabin and stay with her."

Young Griff gave his father a stubborn look. "Lemore knows where her cabin is. I want to stay."

"We are sworn to protect you," Lemore said softly.

"I don't need to be protected. I can use a sword as well as Duck. I'm half a knight."

His father?

I understand why it has to be this way, but the writing suffers when characters are obscuring the truth in their own head.

+.+.+

Tyrion had no sooner exhaled than Young Griff grabbed hold of his arm. "What do you mean? I am everything? What did you mean by that? Why am I everything?"

"Why," said Tyrion, "if the stone men had taken Yandry or Griff or our lovely Lemore, we would have grieved for them and gone on. Lose you, and this whole enterprise is undone, and all those years of feverish plotting by the cheesemonger and the eunuch will have been for naught … isn't that so?"

The boy looked to Griff. "He knows who I am."

[...]

The dwarf ignored him. "The blue hair makes your eyes seem blue, that's good. And the tale of how you color it in honor of your dead Tyroshi mother was so touching it almost made me cry. Still, a curious man might wonder why some sellsword's whelp would need a soiled septa to instruct him in the Faith, or a chainless maester to tutor him in history and tongues. And a clever man might question why your father would engage a hedge knight to train you in arms instead of simply sending you off to apprentice with one of the free companies. It is almost as if someone wanted to keep you hidden whilst still preparing you for … what? Now, there's a puzzlement, but I'm sure that in time it will come to me. I must admit, you have noble features for a dead boy."

Is Tyrion acknowledging Aegon's eyes are purple?

This guy can't keep his mouth shut, it's incredible. Massive credit must go to show!Sansa for telling Tyrion Jon's secret. What a good call that was.

+.+.+

The boy flushed. "I am not dead."

"I am not dead yet, Mother." - Catelyn IV, ASOS

+.+.+

Young Griff hesitated. "Lannister? Your father—"

"—is dead. At my hand. If it please Your Grace to call me Yollo or Hugor, so be it, but know that I was born Tyrion of House Lannister, trueborn son of Tywin and Joanna, both of whom I slew. Men will tell you that I am a kingslayer, a kinslayer, and a liar, and all of that is true … but then, we are a company of liars, are we not? Take your feigned father. Griff, is it?" 

Really leaning into that kingslayer persona like his big brother.

+.+.+

Who better to raise Prince Rhaegar's infant son than Prince Rhaegar's dear friend Jon Connington, once Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King?

Do you have a pen and paper?

+.+.+

Every eye was on the distant light. As they grew closer, it turned into two lights. Then three.

"The Bridge of Dream," said Tyrion.

"Inconceivable," said Haldon Halfmaester. "We've left the bridge behind. Rivers only run one way."

There is so much discourse over this bridge, and how they've managed to pass it twice. Was it magic? Sorcery? Did they get turned around in the fog? Is Tyrion hallucinating?

Words can't express how much I don't care.

+.+.+

The dwarf turned, and there he stood.

The leap had shattered one of his legs, and a jagged piece of pale bone jutted out through the rotted cloth of his breeches and the grey meat beneath. The broken bone was speckled with brown blood, but still he lurched forward, reaching for Young Griff. His hand was grey and stiff, but blood oozed between his knuckles as he tried to close his fingers to grasp. The boy stood staring, as still as if he too were made of stone. His hand was on his sword hilt, but he seemed to have forgotten why.

If this had been Samwell Tarly he would have found the courage to do something, but that's a rant for another day.

Aegon's eager to join the fight, and then freezing when it's time to act. Could be foreshadowing future events.

+.+.+

Tyrion kicked the lad's leg out from under him and leapt over him when he fell, thrusting his torch into the stone man's face to send him stumbling backwards on his shattered leg, flailing at the flames with stiff grey hands. 

Fantastic, Captain Westeros is back.

+.+.+

The stone man flung the torch away. There was a soft hiss as the black waters quenched the flames. The stone man howled. 

Interesting words.

+.+.+

The sudden cold hit Tyrion like a hammer. As he sank he felt a stone hand fumbling at his face. Another closed around his arm, dragging him down into darkness. Blind, his nose full of river, choking, sinking, he kicked and twisted and fought to pry the clutching fingers off his arm, but the stone fingers were unyielding. Air bubbled from his lips. The world was black and growing blacker. He could not breathe.

There are worse ways to die than drowning. And if truth be told, he had perished long ago, back in King's Landing. It was only his revenant who remained, the small vengeful ghost who throttled Shae and put a crossbow bolt through the great Lord Tywin's bowels. No man would mourn the thing that he'd become. I'll haunt the Seven Kingdoms, he thought, sinking deeper. They would not love me living, so let them dread me dead.

And he brought his favourite plot armor.

And if truth be told, he had perished long ago

Not going to lie, that plus the drowning is reminding me of the Sailor's Wife claiming her husband is dead.

+.+.+

When he opened his mouth to curse them all, black water filled his lungs, and the dark closed in around him.

You can't tease Tyrion's death this many times and not eventually go through with it.

I'll sue for false advertisement.

Final thoughts:

At least I didn't have to submit a research paper on this one.

40 down, 9 to go. :(

-> return to menu <-

[korra-of-the-watertribe]

Make Me Choose: @1nsaankahanhai-bkr asked: Garin the Great or Bran the Builder?

During the Second Spice War, Prince Garin gathered a great army of the Rhoynar to Chroyane to oppose the Valyrian Freehold.  He began to be called the Great after victories at Selhorys, Valysar, and Volon Therys.

After Garin the Great threatened Volantis, however, his Rhoynish host was defeated by the dragonlords of Valyria.  The men of Volantis and Valyria hung Garin in a golden cage and carried him north to his city of Chroyane. The victors mocked Garin as he called upon Mother Rhoyne to destroy them. That very night, the waters rose and drowned many invaders, and survivors began to die of greyscale.  Some say Garin's Curse brought the Doom of Valyria./

[sunontherhoyne]

What do you think was in the letter that Princess Deria gave to Aegon? That also made his hand bleed for some reason.

I’ve looked at the main theories, none of them really work for me. I doubt at that point, words of “let’s be friends” were gonna work. Aegon was committed to bringing Dorne into the Kingdom. Nor can I buy it being a body part of Rhaenys: too risky, and could have easily had the opposite effect and put Deria in danger.

P.S who do you think the Martells supported the Vulture King? They had to be, otherwise I’m not sure where they could’ve raised that many men from, unless a house like the Wyls or Manwoodys were going against Deria’s wishes to not attack.

I like to imagine that it was a letter from Prince Nymor telling him that, thanks to their access to Rhaenys' bones and remains, they have the ability to do what Garin the Great was said to have done to the Valyrians: curse Aegon and his line to die, to turn Dragonstone and Aegon's other cities and forts into another version of Chroyane.

Were the Dornish bluffing? Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. The problem is that no one is sure exactly what caused the Rhoyne to flood Chroyane and curse everyone there with grayscale since everyone involved died, and Aegon likely knew enough about magic to know that he can't rule the possibility out.

As for the Vulture King- oh the Martells were definitely in on it. They just made certain that they had enough plausible deniability to say they haven't broken the peace treaty.

[pre-gameofthrones]

Nymeria of Ny Sar by spychecked

Princess Nymeria soon received the news of Garin's shattering defeat and the enslavement of the people of Chroyane and Sar Mell. The same fate awaited her own city, she saw. Accordingly, she gathered every ship that remained upon the Rhoyne, large or small, and filled them full of as many women and children as they could carry (for almost all the men of fighting age had marched with Garin, and died). Down the river Nymeria led this ragged fleet, past ruined and smoking towns and fields of the dead, through waters choked with bloated, floating corpses. 

[kaorym]

Higher on the Rhoyne, in Ny Sar, Princess Nymeria soon received the news of Garin’s shattering defeat and the enslavement of the people of Chroyane and Sar Mell. The same fate awaited her own city, she saw. Accordingly, she gathered every ship that remained upon the Rhoyne, large or small, and filled them full of as many women and children as they could carry

Legend tells us that Nymeria took ten thousand ships to sea, searching for a new home for her people beyond the long reach of Valyria and its dragonlords.

[westerosims]

DAY TWENTY: PRINCESS NYMERIA OF THE RHOYNE

Higher on the Rhoyne, in Ny Sar, Princess Nymeria soon received the news of Garin’s shattering defeat and the enslavement of the people of Chroyane and Sar Mell. The same fate awaited her own city, she saw. Accordingly, she gathered every ship that remained upon the Rhoyne, large or small, and filled them full of as many women and children as they could carry (for almost all the men of fighting age had marched with Garin, and died).  

(TWOIAF PG 23)

[horizon-verizon]

At Selhorys he won his first battle, overwhelming a Valyrian army thirty thousand strong and taking the city by storm. Valysar met the same fate. At Volon Therys, Garin found himself facing a hundred thousand foes, a hundred war elephants, and three dragonlords. Here too he prevailed, though at great cost. Thousands burned, but thousands more sheltered in the shallows of the river, whilst their wizards raised enormous waterspouts against the foe’s dragons. Rhoynish archers brought down two of the dragons, whilst the third fled, wounded. In the aftermath, Mother Rhoyne rose in rage to swallow Volon Therys. Thereafter men began to name the victorious prince Garin the Great, and it is said that, in Volantis, great lords trembled in terror as his host advanced. Rather than face him in the field, the Volantenes retreated back behind their Black Walls and appealed to the Freehold for help. And the dragons came. Not three, as Prince Garin had faced at Volon Therys, but three hundred or more, if the tales that have come down to us can be believed. Against their fires, the Rhoynar could not stand. Tens of thousands burned whilst others rushed into the river, hoping that the embrace of Mother Rhoyne would offer them protection against dragonflame … only to drown in their mother’s embrace. Some chroniclers insist that the fires burned so hot that the very waters of the river boiled and turned to steam. Garin the Great was captured alive and made to watch his people suffer for their defiance. His warriors were shown no such mercy. The Volantenes and their Valyrian kin put them to the sword—so many that it was said that their blood turned the great harbor of Volantis red as far as the eye could see. Thereafter the victors gathered their own forces and moved north along the river, sacking Sar Mell savagely before advancing on Chroyane, Prince Garin’s own city. Locked in a golden cage at the command of the dragonlords, Garin was carried back to the festival city to witness its destruction.

A World of Ice and Fire, pg. 23

[sebeth]

A World Of Ice And Fire: The Rhoynar Vs Valyria

Warning, Spoilers Ahead...

The Valyrians conquered their ancient rivals and proceeded to run wild on Essos. The first Valyrians to arrive in Westeros were adventurers, exiles, and traders.

The Rhoynar made their first mistake by welcoming their Valyrians to their land. The Rhoynar, both the government and religious offices, believed all were welcome to the bounty of Mother Rhoyne. The Valyrians follow the “evyerthing is mine, not yours” philosophy.

Resentment between the two groups increased as Valyrian outposts turned into towns and then into cities. The two most prominent rivalries were between Sar Mell and Volon Therys, a Volyrian town in the lower Rhoyne, and between Sarhoy (a port city) and the Free City of Volantis on the shores of the Summer Sea.

Disputes led to wars. Sar Mell and Volon Therys started the first war over the butchering of the Old Men of the River – gigantic river turtles held sacred as the consorts of Mother Rhoyne.

The First Turtle War lasted less than a month. “Sar Mell was raided and burned” but won the war when Rhoynish water wizards flooded half of Volon Therys.

More wars followed: the War of the Three Princes, the Second Turtle War, the Fisherman’s War, the Salt War, the Third Turtle War, the War on Dagger Lake, the Spice War, and numerous others.

The name of the wars clearly describes either the cause or location of the war. I am intrigued by the “War of the Three Princes”. Is the war still only between Sar Mell and Volon Therys? If so, who is the third prince? Does Volon Therys even have a prince? Were princes rapidly dying?

Yandel notes Beldecar’s History of the Rhoynish Wars as the definitive source of the history of the Rhoynish-Valyrian conflicts.

The wars caused the destruction of cities and the death and enslavement of thousands. The Valyrians won the majority of the battles. The Rhoynar believed in independence and fighting your own battles.  The Valyrians believed in group effort and running home to daddy (the Valyrian Freehold) when they got into trouble. And daddy sent dragons.

The wars occurred over two and a half centuries. The conflicts reached its climax in the Second Spice War. Three Valyrians dragonlords joined the citizens of Volantis in annihilating Sarhoy – the adults were slaughtered, the children sold into slavery, and the city torched.

The destruction of Sarhoy caused the remaining Rhoynar princes to form an alliance. Finally!

Garin of Chroyane, the greatest Rhoynar warrior prince, declared: “We shall all be slaves unless we join together to end this threat.”

Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar disagreed: “This is a war we cannot hope to win”.

Because, you know, dragons!

Nymeria’s warriors wanted to fight so she joined the alliance.

Prince Garin assembled the largest army Essos had ever seen at Chroyane – 750,000 strong.

Garrin’s strategy was to keep the fighting close to the Rhoyne believing the Rhoynar water wizards would be able to combat the dragons.

Garrin divided his army into three parts: “one marched down the east bank of the Rhoyne, one along the west, whilst a huge fleet of war galleys kept pace on the waters between, sweeping the river clean of enemy ships.”

Garrin and company marched downward from Chroyane, “destroying every village, town, and outpost in his path and smashing all opposition.”

Garrin’s forces were on a winning streak: defeating a thirty thousand strong army at Sellhorys and destroying the city. Valysar suffered the same fate.

Garrin and company battled a hundred thousand foes, a hundred war elephants, and three dragons at Volon Therys. Garrin won but it was a costly victory.  Thousands burned but Rhoynish archers killed two of the dragons and wounded a third. The water-wizards caused the Mother Rhoyne to “swallow” Volon Therys.

The Rhoynar proclaimed Garrin as Garrin the Great. The Volantenes retreated behind their black walls and begged the Valyrian Freehold for help.

The Freehold responded by sending dragons – 300 dragons or more. Once hundreds of dragons are sent, its game over. Tens of thousands burned. The Rhoyne itself boiled and turned to steam.

The death of the dragons had to be the cause of the Freehold’s overkill response of 300 dragons. The Rhoynar and the Valyrians had been fighting for centuries and the Freehold’s response amounted to “whatever” but two dragons die and 300 dragons are sent in response?

Dragons are a precious resource to the Valyrians – its the backbone of their empire and the reason they’re able colonize everywhere. The Valyrians cannot let the death of dragons stand or allow the dragons to appear weak. There is now way the Freehold wants the death of dragons by mere archers to be widespread knowledge. Can you imagine if the numerous enemies of Valyria realized a highly skilled archer could take out a dragon? It lessens the awe and mystique of dragons. Not to mention every dragon-rider out on a pleasure ride would have to worry over a potential sniper attack from an archer.

Garrin was captured and forced to watch as his fellow Rhoynar were massacred. So many were executed that “their blood turned the great harbor of Volantis red as far as the eye could see”.

The Volantese and Valyrians followed Garrin’s route in reverse- savagely sacking Sar Mell before advancing on Chroyane. Garrin was locked into a golden cage and forced to watch the destruction of Chroyane – his home city.

Garrin was hung in his cage from the walls of Chroyane. Garrin’s conquerors wanted him to witness the murder and enslavement of his people. Garrin called upon Mother Rhoyne to avenge her people: “That very night, the Rhoyne flooded out of season and with greater force than was known in living memory. A thick fog full of evil humors fell, and the Valyrian conquerors began to die of greyscale.”

Was this an actual divine/magical response or simply the result of masses of corpses being near a body of water? Is this the first incident/cause of greyscale?

Centuries later, Lomas Longstrider “wrote of the drowned ruins of Chroyane, its foul fogs and waters, and the fact that wayward travelers infected with greyscale no haunt the ruins – a hazard for those who travel the river beneath the broken span of the Bridge of Dreams.”

If I remember correctly, Tyrion and company travel through Chroyane in A Dance With Dragons. I believe this is where Jon Connington caught greyscale.

Nymeria, in Ny Sar, hears of the destruction of Sar Mell and Chroyane and decides now is a perfect time to leave Essos.

Up next: Nymeria’s travels

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Hello, I was just reading twoiaf, the part about the Valyrians conquering the Rhoyne, and I'm curious about the water magic that's mentioned. How much do we know about? Do they still do it in Dorne? Can it cause greyscale? Thanks

Hey! We don’t know much about water magic, as the mystical power of the Rhoynar was only first alluded to in ADWD, and what details there are in TWOIAF are not that detailed. (And written by a skeptic maester, so deliberately not much help there.) But here’s what we do know:

While the magic of the Valyrians was based in fire and blood, the magic of the Rhoynar was based in water.

“It was said the Mother Rhoyne herself whispered to her children of every threat, that the Rhoynar princes wielded strange, uncanny powers, […] and that their cities were protected by “watery walls” that would rise to drown any foe.”

During the wars between the Rhoynar and the Valyrian cities that had been founded on the Rhoyne, the Rhoynish water wizards called upon the power of the Rhoyne and flooded the city of Volon Therys, washing away half the city.

In the last war between the Rhoynar and Valyrians, Prince Garin the Great’s water wizards fought the Valyrian dragons with gigantic waterspouts.

After Garin’s army was slaughtered by the Valyrians, Garin was captured and locked in a cage to witness the enslavement of his people. That night, Garin called upon the power of Mother Rhoyne to curse the Valyrian conquerors… and the Rhoyne flooded hugely, out of season, and a thick fog fell upon Chroyane, and the Valyrians began to die of greyscale… presumably grey plague, by its speed.

To this day, Chroyane, now known as the Sorrows, is a place of evil fogs and mysterious events. A leper colony of “stone men”, those suffering from the last stages of greyscale, haunts the ruins of the city. It’s not known if it’s the fog or the river that carries Garin’s curse of greyscale, or neither, or both, but contact with the stone men is extremely not recommended.

When Princess Nymeria of the Rhoynar and her ten thousand ships of refugees finally made it to Westeros and settled in Dorne, it is said that the Rhoynish water witches “knew secret spells that made dry streams flow again and deserts bloom.”

If the Dornish still know water magic, it’s not mentioned at all in the main books – and considering that the deserts of Dorne are still huge and overwhelming, I think it’s probable that the last practitioners died out long ago. If anyone still knows anything, it’s probably the Orphans of the Greenblood, who live on the river like their ancestors once did, but probably more in the sense of cultural traditions rather than powerful “magic”.

The Children of the Forest also had a form of water magic – when their greenseers gathered and called upon the Old Gods to bring down the Hammer of the Waters to break the landbridge from Essos into the Stepstones, and later attempted to break north and south Westeros apart but were only able to flood the Neck. It is highly unlikely that the few remaining Children could ever summon such power again… but who knows what the last greenseer and his heir could do, if they truly needed to.

Also note that there are various water gods of Westeros – both the ancient First Men gods like those of storm and sea (worshipped by Storm’s End and in the Sisters islands) and the Drowned God and Storm God of the Iron Islands. It may be that their power was a form of water magic… and perhaps it was an example of such magic that allowed Patchface to survive being drowned for three days, and come back a prophet.

And then there’s the Deep Ones, semi-human eldritch creatures of the sea who may have worked with the oily black stone found in strange places of the world… who may have destroyed the ancient Lorathi mazemakers… and, well, if these eldritch fish creatures didn’t use water magic, I’d be very surprised. There are legends of horns that can summon krakens and stranger things from the waters too…

So, water magic is a strange and mysterious thing, possibly extinct… or possibly it could still affect the course of ASOIAF.  We’ll just have to see. And for more about greyscale, please check this tag.