#Medrick manderly

[derangedthots]

"The Manderly brothers accompanied Rhaenyra when she fled the capital after the Storming of the Dragonpit. Medrick asked Rhaenyra to travel to White Harbor, but she insisted on sailing instead from Duskendale to Dragonstone on the Violande without the Manderlys."

- A Wiki of Ice and Fire

Very important to me that we all know this🥹

[dreamfyre01]

Historia de la Casa Manderly - CDHYF

[lady-corrine]

Saying that book Rhaenyra always had an arc of "going mad and incredibly cruel" is how I know that you either did not read the book or if you did you have no reading comprehension and take things completely out of context:

Was Rhaenyra the one that first turned against Addam and Nettles? No, those were voices on the black council. Did Rhaenyra call bastards treacherous by nature? No, that was Bartimos Celtigar. Did Rhaenyra want to seize Addam and Nettles? No, that was Bartimos Celtigar, followed by several others: Luthor Largent, Lorent Marbrand, Medrick Manderly and his brother Torrhen who all "urged the queen to mistrust". Did Rhaenyra act at once even after 5 men urged her to seize them? No, she called for Mysaria, who actively fuels her paranoia. Can we be certain that's what Rhaenyra truly said/responded? No, that's what Eustace writes she said.

"Rhaenyra always had a tyrant arc" except she didn't, not if you actually read with your eyes open and your brain functioning.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 6: I Am Missing You To Death]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, a Wolfman update, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), dragons, murder, suicide, say hello to the Crab Fam! 🥰🦀

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 9k (she chonky!).

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

There’s fire on the table, ice in your blood. Alicent and Helaena are prisoners in their rooms, and tomorrow Otto will be beheaded in the Dragonpit, but you are here in the Great Hall surrounded by candles, cider and beer and wine, rare roast boar sweating blood like rubies, raucous celebration.

Your father and Clement are laughing with Medrick Manderly, Lorent Marbrand, Luthor Largent, other men of Rhaenyra’s council; when they toast their wine, it sloshes carelessly out of the glass goblets. Corlys Velaryon—whose navy helped secure the city—is pensive and withdrawn, saying very little. At the center of the high table, the woman who calls herself queen is manic: color in her cheeks, light in her eyes, but not a warm life-giving glow, a hollow glint like the flash of coins or swords or moonlight. She is receiving a litany of congratulations for her victory from the lords of loyal houses: Blackwood, Bar Emmon, Costayne, Tully, Frey, Dustin, Cerwyn, Grimm. Frequently and unmistakably, Rhaenyra glances across the hall to where Daemon is conspiring with her military commanders, his back to the wall and arms crossed and face daunting yet distracted somehow, reminding you very much of Aemond. He does not look at his wife. He looks elsewhere, into the future, into the past, into the northwest where Nettles and Baela are waiting for him to return to the cursed corridors of Harrenhal.

“Please eat something,” Everett says quietly. He is carving off the least-bloody pieces of roast boar and laying them on your plate, where they remain untouched. He doesn’t have much to talk about with the other men as long as the topic of conversation hinges on combat. He knows books, not blades. Everett can walk, though only slowly and with great difficulty; he does not ride horses, he does not fight, he does not have a wife and in all likelihood never will. He reads and he watches, sharp eyes like a hawk’s.

“I’m alright,” you reply with effort that feels like lifting iron, stones, the dead weight of a man.

“You’re not,�� Everett says, pained.

“Cregan Stark is a good man!” your father is telling his compatriots. He has grey hair and a crafty grin and speaks with dramatic sweeps of his arms. “When he heard of my daughter’s tribulations, borne with such courage, such resilience, he assured me that his intentions to wed her were unchanged. He pledged to forgive her any transgressions suffered at the hands of the Usurper.”

“A better husband than any of us!” Clement trumpets, toasting his wine glass with anyone who will accommodate him. Clement does have a wife—and two sons so far, the infant heirs of House Celtigar—but he spends far more time writing to Lord Stark than his family back on Claw Isle. “Gallant! Merciful! The most clever and civilized Northerner to ever live!”

“Hear hear!” his audience answers spiritedly, though Everett only frowns.

“And soon Cregan will leave Winterfell,” your father continues. Rhaenyra is now listening attentively. “He will finish rallying and fortifying his men, and then march south to crush the last vestiges of this infernal, traitorous uprising!”

Resounding cheers, fists drummed against the table. Clement picks up where your father left off: “Already Roddy the Ruin and his Winter Wolves slaughtered 2,000 Lannister men at the Fishfeed. Can you imagine the carnage when Cregan arrives with his host of young, fresh, able-bodied warriors?! We will eviscerate the Kingmaker! We will avenge Rhaenys, Lucerys and Jacaerys! And when we find the Usurper, when we drag him out of whatever hovel he’s crawled into on his belly like a snake, we will cut him open to see if his guts are green as well!”

As men roar all around you—men who have killed, men who are starving to do it again—you stare down at the reflection in your wine, a vacant face that barely resembles yours. You cannot write to Aegon. He cannot write to you. Where and how he is will remain a mystery until you meet again…or until the Blacks uncover his fate. In your mind, he is both alive and dead; he is sick, he is well, he is suffering, he is finding solace in another woman’s bed, he is lying broken on the side of the road, he is sailing under the cover of darkness into Dragonstone on a borrowed ship, he is drunk, he is sober, he is burning up with fever, his is reunited with Sunfyre, he is in desperate need of you, he has forgotten you completely.

“I bet he’s at Storm’s End!” Medrick Manderly bellows, motioning with a turkey leg as if it’s a dagger. “We should send assassins to slay him!”

“No, no, the Reach!” Luthor Largent counters. “He’s probably on his way to meet his brother Daeron there!”

Theories are lobbed back and forth like the arrows of archers, none of them right. No one asks you. No one has asked about the abuse you supposedly endured either. It was taken for granted as truth; what else could anyone expect from a captor as notoriously depraved and insatiable as the Usurper? Your melancholic demeanor is proof enough. Inquiry beyond that would be impolite. And then Rhaenyra says, startling you: “Is there any chance he’s gone to Dragonstone?”

“He cannot be there, Your Grace,” your father assures her. “It is impossible to take Dragonstone without there being signs, ships in the sea and smoke from the kitchens and the like. We would have heard from the lords of the Crownlands who reside near the island.”

Unless they have silently abandoned Rhaenyra’s cause. Unless Aegon and Larys have won them over. You have to protect him. You have to distract the side you once called your own. You twist the dragon ring on your left hand, gold wings and jade eyes. No one asks about that either; sometimes you think they don’t really see you at all. You say softly: “He spoke often of Dorne.”

“Dorne?” your father muses, stroking his short beard.

“Of course he did,” Clement says. “Degenerates are quite at home there.”

Medrick Manderly is muttering: “We’ll never find him if he gets past the Marches…”

Rhaenyra gazes at her husband again, a hollow, vulnerable sort of desperation, a plea that echoes against stone walls. He knocks back the last of his wine, turns his back on her, and strides out of the Great Hall. Rhaenyra’s pale eyes—a treacherous, oceanic sort of blue like Aegon’s—are glossy with despair. You’ve crossed paths with her before, of course, usually from a distance; but you are fascinated by how much she has changed. With each person she loses—King Viserys, infant Visenya, Luke, Jace—another piece of her is cut away like a man being flayed. The so-called queen is more erratic, more cold. She has had her remaining children brought to King’s Landing: Joffrey, Aegon the Younger, Viserys who is a sickly and disengaged toddler, his eyes and nose always running. They are tucked safely away in their rooms currently. They are glorified prisoners, just like you; they have no role in shaping the world they will one day inherit.

“My lady?” Autumn says, tapping your shoulder. The Blacks know her only as a handmaiden who assisted you in escaping the clutches of the Usurper when he fled King’s Landing. They have no idea who might have fathered the child in her rounded belly. It would not be safe for them to know. Before her time comes to deliver, Autumn will have to go someplace where the Blacks will be unaware if her son or daughter has the silvery hair of a Targaryen. You promised her a new home, but you cannot give it to her yet; nothing you own is truly yours, and Aegon left too suddenly to gift her property on your behalf. Autumn, curiously, does not seem to be in any hurry to leave you.

“I’m alright,” you say again, another leaden lie. The men are now discussing how the Usurper should be executed once they’ve found him: beheaded, hanged drawn and quartered, fed to a dragon, burned alive, some combination thereof. Medrick Manderly is suggesting that they have him flayed alive. When Cregan Stark arrives at last, surely there will be Boltons in his retinue.

“You are exhausted,” Autumn announces, loudly enough for the others to overhear. “You have been through so much. Please, my lady. Allow me to escort you back to your rooms.”

“Will you, please?” Everett asks Autumn. His eyes flick to hers, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll check on her before I retire for the evening.”

Autumn offers you her hand. This is a kindness, an escape. You take it and rise from the table.

“My daughter!” Bartimos Celtigar laments, gesturing to you. His spectators, men rabid with bloodlust, nod and murmur sympathetically, like it is almost something too distasteful to speak of. Murder can be discussed openly, torture, weapons, war; but the violence women collect and carry in their bones? Those are details best left unsaid. Perhaps it strikes too near to their own deeds, if they dared to think hard on them. Your father approaches and kisses you twice, once on each cheek. Rhaenyra drinks her wine and stares blankly at the place where Daemon had stood. “So wronged, so mistreated, and yet she is still with us. She will rise again. She has a glorious future ahead of her. We all do. All of us who serve Rhaenyra, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. To the words of my house: Perpetual Resurrection!”

The men lift their cups and shout, none more deafeningly than Clement: “Perpetual Resurrection!” Everett mouths it quietly to himself. Corlys Velaryon says nothing. Rhaenyra holds her head high, sorrowful but defiant. You retreat from the Great Hall with Autumn, the hem of your gown flowing out behind you, black like the faction the Celtigars have aligned with, black like mourning.

“No,” you tell Autumn as she starts up the stairwell that leads to your bedchamber.

She is puzzled. “Where then?”

“Take me to the dungeons.”

“What? Why?” Then she understands. “Oh. Oh no. You don’t want to go down there. It’s awful, dark and grimy, dried blood on the walls, handprints and fingernails. Spiders and bones. Rats everywhere.”

“So you know the way.”

“Yes,” she admits cagily, tugging at a coiled lock of her coppery hair.

Your eyes narrow. “When were you in the dungeons?” You met Aegon there? He took women there? Before the war, before he was burned, before he met me?

“Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t want the answers to,” Autumn says primly. Then she ushers you through doorways and shadowy stairwells that lead down, down, down.

Grand Maester Orwyle is in the black cells. Jasper Wylde has already been executed; Tyland Lannister is being tortured until he reveals the location of the Greens’ stores of treasure. Otto Hightower, condemned to death, is housed on the floor of the dungeons reserved for prisoners of noble birth. There are torches burning in the corridor, rage-orange luminescence like dusk bleeding into the cells through gaps in the iron bars. Autumn does not leave you alone there, but she does wait at the end of the hall to give you—and the man who three times served as the Hand of the King and was twice removed from the same office, first by King Viserys and again by Aegon when Otto proved too cautious for his liking—some semblance of privacy.

Otto peers up at you from where he sits on the floor of his cell, strewn with dirty straw and glowing firelight. He appears old, impossibly old; the flesh has evaporated between his skull and his yellowed skin. He already looks like the skeleton he will be soon. He once counseled Aegon against flying into battle with Sunfyre, and Aegon hated him for it. But Otto was right, wasn’t he? “Did you tire of all the merriment upstairs? Or have they run out of roast boar? I could smell it cooking, you know. All day long as rats chewed at my ankles.”

“I imagine you now regret not running when you had the chance.”

Otto shrugs haggardly. “My odds would have been as good on the road as here. Out there, I might have been descended upon by a bear or a shadowcat or a band of thieves who left me gutted on the roadside. At least my death will be clean and swift.”

“Is there anything I can bring you?” you ask him, gently now. “Anything I can do for you? Before…tomorrow?” Before your life is ended. Before the Greens lose one of their greatest assets.

His gaunt face stretches into a slow, taunting grin. “You have chosen a side, Lady Celtigar.”

That’s true, isn’t it? By not spilling the Greens’ secrets. By falling in love with their king. “If Rhaenyra wins, I have to marry Cregan Stark and Aegon dies.”

“And you want him to live so he can marry you.”

It stuns you so much it takes a moment to find your words again. “Well, that’s not possible.” He already has a wife, no matter how insane she is now.

“I would not assume that any form of depravity is beyond his skill.” Otto sighs deeply. “Before that bitch took the city, I was corresponding with the Dragonseeds called Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer. They claim they will switch to our side for titles that Rhaenyra denies them. Ulf wanted Storm’s End—delusional, the drunk could not manage a fishing village, he spells half his words wrong—and Hugh asked the Blacks for Casterly Rock. Apparently Daemon was actually amenable, but Rhaenyra refused the notion entirely. How fortunate for us. If we offer these Dragonseeds the seats of lesser houses—Costayne and Merryweather, I’d suggest, both traitors to Aegon’s cause—I think they’ll declare for us. Alicent must write to them. With Aemond, Criston, and Daeron on the battlefield, and Aegon gods know where, she must be the one to negotiate for our side now. She is capable of it. I know she is.”

“She can’t get to the rookery.”

Otto smiles up at you cunningly. “I suspect her letters will somehow find their way there,” he says. “And you are now more knowledgeable of the would-be betrayers’ whereabouts than I am.”

You nod. This is true, for the Blacks speak openly around you. While Corlys’ alleged bastard Addam Velaryon—who accompanied the navy into King’s Landing—now patrols the skies above the city on Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh are currently stationed at Maidenpool in a remote corner of the Riverlands and awaiting further instruction. Rhaenyra dislikes them, you can sense this already. She has heard tales of boasting, drinking, whoring, brawling, bottomless greed. She does not trust them. She does not understand how the gods allowed her sons to be killed and those scoundrels to live.

Otto says: “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What is it that draws you to Aegon?” He speaks with profound, genuine confusion. “What is there to admire? To yearn for?”

You see him, playful crooked smile and dazed eyes, careful hands, tiny silver braid. Unaware that you’re doing it, you twist the dragon ring on your finger. “He’s brave. He’s kind. I don’t understand why none of you can see it.”

“Ah.” And now Otto at last comprehends. “I was in love once,” he says wistfully, very far away, gazing at the stone wall, gazing at nothing. “I don’t remember what it felt like. But I remember that it happened. I suppose I will see Alicent’s mother again tomorrow. I hope she still recognizes me.” His eyes return to you, reflecting torchlight that shifts and distorts. “These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder.”

You can hear Aegon’s voice in the silence of the dungeons: I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you. “I’ll help your side however I can.”

“Do not allow the Blacks to discover your treason. You are far more valuable to us as someone who can drift between worlds than as a professed ally, assuming you cannot turn the Celtigars.”

“I can’t.” You could convince Everett, perhaps. But he isn’t the heir to Claw Isle.

Then Otto smiles, and it is the softest, most tender thing you’ve ever seen him do. “Please tell Alicent that I love her.”

“I will.”

“Now go,” he says. “Before you are witnessed here. Before you endanger what you want most.”

To end the war. To stop this suffering. To be with Aegon again. You hesitate, not knowing how to say goodbye. What is there left to say when the man in front of you is already dead?

“Go,” Otto Hightower orders again; and this time you obey.

He dies at 9:00 the next morning. Sunlight streams fierce and blinding into the Dragonpit. The smallfolk applaud and cheer, though perhaps mostly because Syrax and Caraxes are perched atop the domed roof and waiting, fangs bared, to devour anyone who dissents. In the people’s eyes, you see less savagery than terror. You can read the thoughts that dart between them, infectious like fever: We do not trust Rhaenyra, this ruthless queen, this Maegor with teats. We do not trust her bloodthirsty uncle-husband. We do not want to burn if Aemond and Vhagar return to reclaim the city.

Daemon swings the blade himself. It takes three blows to sever Otto’s head. This must have been intentional; you know what an expert swordsman Daemon is.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit compliantly with your family at meals, dances, executions. You stroll in the gardens. You bring Helaena flowers, lilies, irises, tulips, daisies, roses. You bring Alicent paper and quills and ink. You take the letter she writes to the rookery above the chambers where Grand Maester Orwyle once resided. As the raven departs for Maidenpool, black wings flapping in cerulean summer air, you stare through a window that looks out onto Blackwater Bay towards Essos, Driftmark, Dragonstone.

Is Aegon there now? Is he alive?

You have no way of knowing; while ravens pass between King’s Landing and the Riverlands frequently, you cannot risk someone noticing correspondence with Dragonstone. But you feel that Aegon is safe on that fearsome, windswept island. You feel that he might even be gazing out of his own window, back towards the mainland, back towards you.

When you return to your bedchamber, Everett is there. He is seated at the writing desk and pointing to pages in a book about animals of the Crownlands, bears and dragons and crabs. The book is for children; the words are large and accompanied by colorful illustrations. Autumn is sitting in Everett’s lap, giggling as she repeats the words that he croons through her firelight hair.

You pause in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Learning how to read!” Autumn replies brightly.

“I thought you weren’t interested in that.”

“I’ve been struck by sudden and forceful inspiration to shed my commoner ignorance.”

“Autumn, dear,” Everett prompts. She climbs out of his lap, sweeps him a teasing girlish courtesy, and sails out of the room. Everett looks to you. “Come. Sit.”

“Not in your lap, hopefully.”

He laughs. “Where on earth did you find her?”

You take a seat at the edge of your bed, toying with your ring. Your fingertips glide over the bumps of those gleaming jade eyes. “A brothel here in King’s Landing. I don’t know what sort of family she was born into.”

“Oh,” Everett sighs sympathetically. Your father and Clement would be viciously pejorative, would demand Autumn’s removal from your service immediately. But Everett is a different sort of man. He was even before he was burned, and he’s far more so now. “The poor thing.” Then his eyebrows leap up. “Wait. How did you end up visiting a brothel…?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You peer out the window that overlooks the beach. You’re always watching the sea now, as if it can tell you its secrets, as if it can whisper to you in a language made of gull cries, breaking waves, starlight and moonbeams reflected on indigo currents in the dead of night.

“It’s strange,” Everett says. There is a soft, sad smile on his face. “Your body is here with us, but your soul isn’t.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to explain everything that’s happened.

“The Usurper must have harmed you terribly.” Everett is not asking, but he is opening the door; you can tell him anything that is burdening you, and he will keep it to himself. You once sat with him as he lay dying, or at least when everyone believed he was; everyone but you and Maester Arthur back on Claw Isle. You once helped bring him back to life. That is a bond forged with something stronger than iron, something deeper than blood.

Aegon? Harm me? “He would never do that.”

Now Everett’s eyes are fixed intently on you. He is reading you like calculations of taxes, expenses, accounts, gains, losses. He realizes, hushed and alarmed: “You weren’t taken to King’s Landing by force.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

His jaw drops open, his eyes blink incredulously. “Do you…do you think he’s the rightful king?!”

“It’s not about that for me.”

“You are betrothed to another man.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“The Usurper is married.”

“Yes,” you say again. “And yet…”

“Seven hells,” Everett exhales. He shakes his head. “But…the Usurper…Aegon…he…he…he’s a monster, isn’t he? A rapist, a degenerate, a slothful and selfish wastrel?”

“No. He’s not. Just like Rhaenyra isn’t a sweet, serene mother to her kingdom.”

Everett smirks ruefully. He can’t argue with this.

“Aegon will pardon any Celtigar who rebelled against him. All they need to do is swear fealty upon being captured.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I know where he was planning to go. I don’t know if he made it there.”

“And you worry for him,” Everett says softly.

You nod, unable to speak. You can feel the threat of tears scorching in your throat, dark churning clouds that forecast lightning, cyclones, floods.

“His burns have healed?” Everett asks. “Everyone knows he was horribly wounded at Rook’s Rest.”

“They’ve scarred over. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be alright.”

Everett understands this, he remembers the discussions the two of you once had with Maester Arthur. Severe burns weaken the organs, even years after the flesh is no longer raw and weeping. Survivors are prone to failure of their kidneys, liver, heart. They must be careful to avoid further trauma. Aegon does not have that luxury. “I don’t know what remedy to offer you,” Everett says remorsefully. “Rhaenyra met with Alicent, and the dowager queen put forth a generous compromise. Alicent proposed that the realm be divided. Aegon’s seat would be at Oldtown, and his jurisdiction would include the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands. Rhaenyra would continue to rule from King’s Landing and preside over the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North. Both branches of the family would survive.”

“Rhaenyra could have ended it.” You marvel at the simplicity, the doomed slighted possibilities. “Here and now. The bloodshed would be over. Aegon could return to me.”

“Rhaenyra rejected the notion of any concessions whatsoever. Our father and Clement encouraged her. I would advocate for a peaceful resolution, I would advance your interests, sister. I would, I swear I would. But it is futile. You know they don’t listen to me.”

No, not in the arena of warfare. Everett is the heir to your father’s skill with trade, but Clement is the future Lord of Claw Isle, and it is he who wields swords and shields and leads men into combat. Everett cannot fight. Other men will never regard him as their full equal. “You have listened to my treason and not condemned me. I cannot ask for more from you than that.”

Everett stands from his chair, a slow, laborious undertaking. He crosses the room gingerly, lifts your chin to break the trance as you stare down at your ring, beams like the sun. “You want him.”

“Yes,” you admit helplessly.

“You’ve never wanted any man.”

“Just him. It can’t be anyone but him.”

Everett nods, thoughtful, amused. “Then I will pray that Lord Cregan Stark takes a wrong turn on the Kingsroad and ends up in the Vale, or the Iron Islands, or Essos, or perhaps even walks right into the sea. He’d sink, I’m sure. All those furs must be heavy when wet.”

“If anyone asks, you believe Aegon to be in Dorne.”

“I certainly do.” Everett smiles, touches his lips to your forehead, shuffles off to find Autumn and tell her that she can come back now.

Some nights, if you can enter without being noticed, you steal into the bedchamber that was once Aegon’s, the place where you brought him back from the dead, the place where he made you crave things that had once only filled you with dread, fear, revulsion. No one else has claimed Aegon’s rooms. No one else wants them. They make jokes about the debaucheries his walls must have seen, the unholy stains that surely riddle his mattress, rugs, curtains. They don’t know him at all, and nothing can make them want to. Tonight, there are quarreling voices coming from outside. You go to the open window, your lungs expanding with cool indigo air, and look out.

“Where are you going? Daemon? Daemon!” Rhaenyra is raging after him, following him onto the wet sand of the beach. “Back to Harrenhal? Back to your whore?!”

He does not answer. He strides arrogantly, he storms away from her, this woman he once loved for her tenacity and pride. He has no appetite for weakness. He has no patience for pruning those creeping, thorny vines of madness that are growing into her mind, her veins. Already Caraxes is landing in the surf to take him back to his foothold in the Riverlands, to Baela, to Nettles.

“Then go!” Rhaenyra screams after Daemon. And if you can hear this, surely others can as well. “Just go! We don’t need you here! I don’t need you here!”

Lies, lies, lies. Desperate and transparent lies.

Daemon and Caraxes take flight and disappear into the nightscape darkness over the ocean. You climb into the bed that was once Aegon’s, curl up in a nest of his blood-flecked sheets, breathe in lingering wisps of rose oil and the echoes of his low, drowsy voice, thick with wine and milk of the poppy and forbidden desire for a woman who sheds and replaces her skin again and again and again.

~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, you go to the gardens and read under the heart tree about cures and poisons. When you return inside—clutching a glass jar containing sticks, leaves, grass, and a single wriggling caterpillar, a gift for Helaena—the Red Keep is in chaos. Servants and guards are gossiping feverishly. Upstairs, Alicent is howling with grief. You glimpse Autumn racing up a staircase towards the dowager queen’s rooms to comfort her. There are sounds of celebration in the Great Hall, cups being toasted and cheers loosed like dragonfire. You follow them, suffocating terror constricting your throat like a noose. Is it Aemond, Criston, Daeron? Is it Aegon? Have they found him, have they killed him?

At the center of the high table, Rhaenyra is wearing a gown of black and red on her body and a smile of soulless satisfaction on her face. She holds a glass of maroon wine high above her head. “To vengeance!” she calls, and the lords that fill the hall thunder the words back to her. “To victory!”

“Father…?” you say, rushing to Bartimos Celtigar’s side. Clement is shaking hands with Manderlys and Blackwoods and Costaynes, grinning radiantly. Everett and Corlys are peering around grimly, looking uneasy, looking ashamed.

What have they done now? Who have they murdered in cold blood?

“Father, what—?”

“He has no more heirs,” Bartimos Celtigar tell you, as if it is the most joyous of surprises, as if is a gift like a gemstone or a rare book.

“Who?”

“The Usurper. Both of his sons are now dead. Neither of his brothers have children. Aegon has no heirs!”

“Maelor,” you whisper, envisioning that defenseless white-haired child, giggling, affectionate, anxious, sobbing in the arms of Sir Rickard Thorne. The jar tumbles out of your grasp and shatters against the stone floor. “Maelor is…he’s…he’s been killed…?”

“By a mob of Black loyalists at Bitterbridge,” your father says. “The Greens were trying to smuggle the child to Oldtown. Our supporters attempted to seize the boy so he could be brought to us. Alas, they were too boisterous. He did not survive, and neither did his keeper Rickard Thorne.”

They tore Maelor apart? They clawed and yanked at that little boy until there was nothing left but shreds of muscle and moon-white bones? You gape up at your father, unable to recognize him, unable to keep the horror from your face. “You’re celebrating the murder of a child?”

“They did the same when Luke was killed.”

Because Aegon thought they had to. Because he wanted to protect his brother. “It was wrong then and it’s wrong now.”

“You are too compassionate, daughter,” your father says, smiling with a puddle-deep, patronizing fondness. Was he always this way? Has he changed so much, or have you? He touches your cheek, and you want to flinch away from him. “You lose sight of the scale of this war. Each child of the Usurper that dies spares thousands of others. Aegon now has no heirs left, not unless you count that little girl who’s hidden away somewhere, and don’t the Greens reject the right of a daughter to inherit the throne? Isn’t that what all of this havoc has been about, preventing Rhaenyra’s ascension? This is a resounding triumph for our side! This is something to commemorate!”

They tore Maelor apart??

Corlys gets up from the table and leaves the Great Hall. Everett is watching you with wide, fearful eyes. He is pleading silently: Don’t react. Don’t panic. Not where they can see you.

“Are you well?” your father asks you, concerned now.

“I feel ill,” you hear yourself answer. You grip the back of his chair so the floor can’t rip itself out from under you.

“Just a moment,” Everett says, rising in that labored way, the scar tissue straining painfully at his ankles and knees and hips. “I’ll accompany you back to your rooms…”

But you can’t wait for him. The tears are already flame-hot and misty in your eyes. You rip away from the Celtigars, away from all the Blacks, and escape upstairs. Breathless, sobbing, you go first to Helaena’s bedchamber. Aegon’s wife is standing in front of her window that overlooks the sandstone courtyard, cobblestones of muted earthy gold. You can hear courtiers chattering far below. You can hear the carousing reverberating from the Great Hall. Helaena does not turn when you arrive; she does not give any indication that she is aware of you.

“Helaena,” you gasp. “Your Grace, I…I’m so sorry…what has happened…it’s despicable, it’s soulless, I cannot stop Rhaenyra’s men from reveling in it but I would never defend their actions, I would never join them, I am horrified and heartsick and appalled—”

“It’s a travesty,” Autumn says from the doorway, and you glance over at her. When you look back to the queen, she has vanished.

“Helaena?!” you shout. You and Autumn bolt to the window. Down in the courtyard, courtiers are shrieking and fleeing from the mess. On the cobblestones, Helaena lies sprawled; her arms and legs are bent at impossible angles. A pool of blood spreads out from under her like a river swelling in a storm until it spills over. Guards are hurrying to the scene, their armor jangling. “Helaena!”

“She’s gone,” Autumn says, bundling you into her arms before you can make for the hall, the stairwell. Her belly presses unyieldingly into you. “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t go down there. You can’t help her now.”

You cover your face with both hands and scream: for Maelor, for Helaena, for Alicent, for Aegon, for the world full of people who can’t stop paying the debts others incurred.

“Don’t go down there.” Autumn’s voice is warm and hushed, her grasp strong. “You can’t help Helaena now. You can only hurt yourself. You don’t need to see it. You don’t need her blood on your hands.”

Everett appears, looks out the window to investigate the commotion in the courtyard, backs away with a hand covering his gaping mouth. “Oh, gods. All the gods, Old and New. What a goddamn fucking disaster.”

Autumn at last releases you, and you dash into the hallway with Everett following as quickly as he can and Autumn walking with him, one arm looped through his. You find Alicent in her rooms, standing motionless beside her bed in an emerald green gown. She is trembling and speechless, she is in shock. You embrace her. “I’m sorry,” you say, tears falling on the velvet of her dress. “I know that doesn’t make it any better, but I am.”

Everett and Autumn enter the bedchamber and shut the door behind them. “What—?” Everett begins.

“I have to go to him,” you say. You step away from the dowager queen and wipe your eyes with your sleeves, black like onyx, like obsidian, like death.

“Who...?”

“Aegon. The king,” you tell them. “He’s going to hear of this. He’s going to know what happened to Maelor and Helaena. I can’t let him face that alone. I can’t let him fall into despair.”

“But he…I mean…” Everett is trying to choose his words sensitively. The state of the royal marriage was no secret anywhere in the realm. “Was he even…involved with his wife and children? In any meaningful way?”

“It’s not about them, it’s about him thinking that he’s responsible, that he’s a curse to anyone he touches, that he ruins people, I…” You shake your head franticly. “I can’t stay here. I have to go. I have to be with him.”

“Go where?!” Everett exclaims.

“Dragonstone,” Autumn answers for you.

“Dragonstone,” he repeats numbly. “You can’t be serious! How will you get there?!”

“I’ll take a horse to Crackclaw Point and then pay a boat to ferry me across the water.”

“Alone?!” Everett says.

“I’ll have to be. You cannot travel by horse, only carriage. And your absence would be noticed too swiftly. Father would send soldiers after you if he feared you’d been captured.”

“You’ve never gone anywhere alone, now you’re going to travel a hundred miles over earth and ocean to Dragonstone?!”

“She won’t be alone,” Autumn says. You and Everett turn to her. She is grinning. “I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.”

“You can’t ride a horse either,” you object. “You’re with child. It could be dangerous.”

“I’ve done far more vigorous activities while pregnant, believe me.”

“You’re really going?” Everett says, quiet, mournful. It seems that you’ve only just reunited with him.

“I have to. Aegon thought I’d be safe with the Blacks, and I am, I suppose…but I’m not really a Black anymore. And I can’t let him suffer alone. I…I…”

“You love him,” Alicent says. She gazes at you with huge, glassy, void-dark eyes, like those of a doe felled by arrows. She is half-here and half-not, and thank the gods for that. Her loss is too great. She cannot bear it all at once. Part of her knows her only daughter is dead on the cobblestones outside, her last grandson was torn apart by a mob that were more beasts than men. And then part of her is only aware of this room. “Properly. Entirely. In a way he can understand.”

“I do,” you confess. I do, I do.

“I’m glad,” Alicent says dully. “Someone must.”

She staggers to her bed, lies down on it, curls up like a wounded animal, rips away her golden necklace of a seven-pointed star and throws it to the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night, you and Autumn leave King’s Landing on horses Everett procured. There is only a skeleton crew of guards left in the Red Keep; the rest are partaking in the festivities that pulse in the Great Hall like a heartbeat, candlelight and music and manic glee. Yet among the smallfolk, no one is celebrating. They are in mourning for their misfortunate, benign queen and her toddler son. They are hissing venomously about Rhaenyra, Daemon, Bartimos Celtigar.

The court will not notice Autumn’s absence, not for days at least, perhaps not ever. Everett will upend your bedchamber before he goes to sleep, knocking over chairs and tables, yanking sheets from the bed. In the morning, he will tell your father that he assumes you are still resting from your illness, from the insurmountable stress of the past months. Women are so fragile, after all; their lives are one tragedy after the next. When at last someone checks on you—hopefully not for a few days—it will appear that you have been taken after a struggle. You did not leave. You were kidnapped by fiends using the secret passageways. You are a prisoner of the Greens again, and likely spirited away to the Stormlands or the Reach or perhaps even the remote, golden sands of Dorne.

You and Autumn travel by night and sleep through the day, staying at roadside inns paid for by the heavy sack of coins Everett gifted you. It is not difficult to blend in among countless travelers and refugees displaced in the wake of the war. You have no distinguishing characteristics, no Valyrian-white hair or ragged burns or sapphires in place of eyes. In fact, Autumn attracts more attention than you do. She is beautiful, talkative, effortlessly flirtatious. Men trail after her at every inn. You receive exemplary service, the hottest soup and the cleanest rooms. She complains to you about how difficult it is becoming for her to rest as her belly grows: perhaps five months along, perhaps six, she isn’t certain, her cycle was already irregular from the lemonweed tea brewed at the brothel.

In a small town called Eagle Harbor at the base of Crackclaw Point, you need to hire a sailor to take you across the narrow strait to Dragonstone. You fumble through stilted inquiries at a tavern until Autumn takes charge, half-drags a bald, bearded man back into the pantry, emerges with him five minutes later, and orders a pint of ale that she sips with a lazy, arrogant smirk.

“May the Mother have mercy!” the sailor says unsteadily, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll go to Dragonstone and back ten times for this red-haired demon!”

You and Autumn board his humble vessel at the end of the town’s lone pier and set off through choppy, night-draped waters towards Dragonstone. On the way, the sailor informs you that he’s made this trip a handful of times in the past two weeks, delivering an assortment of workers to the island: servants, guards, maesters, cooks.

“Rumor has it,” the sailor says with a conspiratorial grin. “There is a very illustrious occupant currently holding Dragonstone. He is scarred, but he is growing stronger. Surely you know of whom I speak. He must have beckoned you to join him. Perhaps you are servants. Perhaps you are whores. He has a famed appetite for them.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Autumn offers casually.

“Many here in the Crownlands are aware,” the sailor continues. “But you will not catch anyone being too loose with their gossip. The Beggar King is no enemy to us. The Bitch Queen is an enemy. That money-grubbing Bartimos Celtigar is an enemy. But the Greens will end the taxes he put on us. The sooner the Beggar King is well again, the better. He and his dragon too.”

When the sailor docks at Dragonstone, Autumn helps you up onto the pier and then gets back in the boat. “You aren’t staying?” you ask her, baffled, troubled. You have grown terribly attached to her. Cold night rain falls onto the island, growing heavier by the minute. Lightning snaps through the darkness and strikes near the castle.

“No. I want to be with Everett.” Autumn smiles. “And I know the king would not wish for me to impose upon Dragonstone.”

She’s probably right. “Why is he so cold to you? So avoidant?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Autumn says. “He doesn’t want you thinking about him fucking anyone except you.” She grins, winks, gestures for the sailor to unmoor his boat again. “When the Greens come to retake the capital, please ask them not to incinerate me.”

“I’ll pass the message along.”

“Good luck,” she says, waving. “We’ll wait to set sail until you’ve started up the steps.”

Through the darkness, through the driving rain, you trudge up the beach and then ascend the stone steps carved precariously into the cliffside. The grey stone is slippery; for parts of the climb, you walk on your palms as well as your boots. Your ring clinks against rock. When the clouds momentarily blow away from the moon, the gold wings glimmer in the silver light. There are torches burning in the mouths of iron dragons as you near the entranceway of the castle, towering walls that disappear into storm clouds. There is candlelight flickering in the corridors and chambers within. You can see dots of miniature infernos in the windows.

Aegon is in one of those rooms.

Suddenly, a screech startles you so badly you nearly plunge off the steps. Fire blooms in the night air only yards from your face. He’s clutching the cliffside, glaring at you with molten gold eyes set in an angular skull, snarling, smoke drifting skyward from his nostrils. You scream before you can stop yourself.

Sunfyre!!

You crouch down on the steps, squeeze your eyes shut, and wait for him to burn you alive. Seconds pass, ten, twenty, thirty. When you look at Sunfyre again, scales shimmering in the moonlight, he is observing you not with hatred but with curiosity that is clever, almost catlike. You have never been this close to a dragon before. You’ve never wanted to be, and now is no exception. He smells like smoke and sulfur, earth and ash. Sunfyre clambers nearer to you, his muzzle outstretched. You flinch away, whimpering, but he is not deterred. The dragon sniffs and nudges at you, his breath hot, his snout bumping against your arm and shoulder.

“Stop!” you squeak, petrified. “Sunfyre, don’t!”

At last, he seems to realize he’s frightening you. The dragon retreats with a low grumble from deep in his chest. You scramble up the remainder of the steps before he can change his mind.

There is distant shouting, and someone cranks open the castle gate for you. You hurry into the courtyard, running now, as rain pours down on you and thunder booms. There is a figure in a hooded cloak trotting out of the castle entrance. At first you don’t believe he can be Aegon; he is standing too tall, moving too brisky. You have never seen him so well before. But then he calls to you, and there is no doubt.

“Angel?!” Aegon shouts in disbelief over the drumming of raindrops. He is rapidly closing the distance between you. The wind tears off his hood. Beneath it his hair is longer than you remember and wild except for a single small braid down the left side of his face. His cheeks are ruddy. Tears stream from his eyes. He has heard what happened to Maelor and Helaena; he has been weeping for them, for the impending ruin of anyone he’s ever touched. “What the hell are you doing here—?!”

And instead of waiting for an answer he kisses you, or you kiss him, or you both do it at once, an unspoken covenant written not in ink but in the blood that whispers to each other through the veils of vessel walls, muscle, scarred skin. His hands are cradling your jaw, his lips ravenous. He smells like rose oil; he tastes like wine and rain and the clean salt of tears, the ageless mineral blue of the ocean.

“It has to be you,” you tell Aegon, a ghost of a voice in the maelstrom of the storm. Your thumbprint skates across his full bottom lip before you kiss him again, more slowly now, entwining yourself with him, hipbones and ribcages and handprints that will never wash off. Do you see what I’m offering? Do you feel what I want? “You’re not ruining me. You’re saving me. And it can’t be anyone but you.”

Aegon studies your face, stunned eyes murky like the waves, and then hungry as well: depths that swallow ships, watery graveyards that feast on bones. Then he takes your hand and leads you into Dragonstone. Inside, Larys Strong is waiting under a cascade of torchlight. He blinks at you as if you might disappear. When you don’t, he tilts his head to the side, intrigued.

“Lord Larys,” Aegon says curtly. “Make yourself invisible for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys purrs with a bow. Then he vanishes into the shadows.

“This way,” Aegon says, and you follow him up a staircase and down a corridor to a bedchamber illuminated only by a few flickering candles and flashes of lightning. In the corner of the room, you glimpse swords and armor; on Aegon’s bedside table, there is a glass bottle of rose oil and the hollowed-out shell of a crab, boiled red like fresh blood. And then you are on the bed and Aegon is beside you and there is not a single thread of you, muscle or marrow or nerve, that is afraid. “Are you sure?” he’s asking between deep, insatiable kisses, his fingers working on the laces of your gown. “We don’t have to. We can stop.”

But does he want that? No, no, he’s starving just like I am. “I’m sure, Aegon.” And you uncover each other with hands that rip away cotton and silk like trees are stripped bare in the winter.

His clothes are gone, cloak and trousers crumpled on the floor, and he pauses with trepidation in his eyes. His scars riddle him with uneven swaths of white, pink, red, a burgundy so dark it’s almost the violet of a bruise. The macabre patchwork stops at the lowest part of his belly, where his skin becomes abruptly pristine, pale, velvet-soft. “I guess…” He swallows noisily. “I guess this isn’t what you imagined the man you’d sleep with would look like, huh?”

“No,” you agree, smiling, pulling him in close again. I never imagined enjoying this at all. “And I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Aegon helps you tug off your gown and loosen your hair; it spills freely over the bedsheets. He’s on top of you, his warm weight perfect and welcome and right. Too swiftly for you to be nervous, his hand has settled between your legs. He strokes you, only on the outside where there is no threat of pain, as his tongue darts into your mouth and wetness soon coats his fingers. Then his fingers venture lower, seeking to enter you, the first time anything ever has. And you feel it, though you wish you didn’t, involuntary and uninvited: your body tensing just as his finger attempts to glide inside, a biting pain that makes you wince.

“No,” you yelp softly, a betrayal of your own flesh.

“Okay,” Aegon murmurs reassuringly. “That’s okay. Not a problem. Here…” He sits upright, draws you to him, bites lightly at your throat as you settle in his lap. “You’re in charge. You decide if and when it happens. And if this time doesn’t work, that’s fine, that’s completely fine, we can try again later, I can wait—”

“Are you alright like this? Am I too heavy?”

He grabs your face with his left hand—fingers hooked around your jaw, his eyes locked with yours—and says roughly: “Don’t ask about me again.”

“Okay,” you moan into him as his right hand skims down to touch you, to coax the fear out of you, to draw powerful circles around the place where your pleasure is greatest.

“This is about you.”

“Okay,” you say again, only a whisper this time, obedient, desperate.

“Please let me have this,” Aegon begs, resting his forehead against yours, his silver hair grazing your cheeks. “Please let me take care of you this time.”

“Yes,” you sigh, breathing him in, roses and heat and wine and sharp, oceanic, mineral lust. You lay your palms against the gnarled scar tissue of his chest and Aegon chuckles bitterly.

“I can’t even feel it. I’m a monster.” Then you press your bare hips to his, gradually finding a rhythm, slipping his cock through slick, warm folds that are aching more ardently than you ever knew was possible. “Oh fuck,” he gasps. “I felt that.”

“I want you,” you plead. “I want you, I want you.”

“Not yet…”

You are aware that your tension unraveling, your muscles opening as Aegon massages you until his hand is soaked, until you’re so wet the friction is almost nonexistent. Outside waves crash and lighting flashes and thunder growls like a dragon. I can’t wait. I need him. You lift up and Aegon holds his cock steady, coating it in your wetness with a quick pump of his hand, so you can lower yourself onto him. Slowly, you can feel his cock sinking into you, an indescribably foreign sensation, fullness and stretching and dull, strange contentment that is more like the potential of pleasure than anything else. There is discomfort as well, yes, a burning and a stinging that swells as he fills you. You try to keep it from your face; still, Aegon can read the pain there like black ink on pages.

He shakes his head and murmurs: “Stop, stop, I’m hurting you.”

“I want it. I can take it.”

He’s kissing your lips, your cheek, the slope of your jaw. “Give yourself time to adjust. There’s no rush, Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait until the pain seems to have vanished, then—carefully, tentatively—you rise up and lower yourself again. Yes, there’s definite pleasure now, less sharp than where he touched you before but deeper, more total. You try this again, again, faster now. Aegon’s breath hitches. He’s trembling; sweat glistens on his forehead and dampens his hair.

“I’m going to show you something,” he pants. “But you have to help me out.”

“Help how…?”

“Tell me what I’m doing right.” His fingers are on you again, pressing, circling. And there’s something about this combination of two very different colors of pleasure—dull fullness inside, intense ecstasy dancing over the skin—that lights a spark in you like striking flint.

You cry out, your pace as you ride him quickening, any last remnants of pain banished to distant memory. You are conscious now that you are working towards a peak of some sort; you can feel it building in you like fire in the mouth of a dragon.

Aegon asks: “Faster? Slower?”

“Faster,” you reply, and his hand obeys. You moan, fingers knotted in his hair and lips against the scar tissue of his throat, grisly webs that you cherish for knitting him back together, for saving his life.

“Harder or softer?”

“Harder,” you beg him in a whisper. And all at once, the pleasure is overwhelming, unstoppable, incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced or ever wanted to, anything you thought was possible, anything you believed you were worthy of. It wrenches everything out of you, desire as well as turmoil, every thought in your skull and fear in your bones. It passes, leaving your heart thumping violently and an involuntary throbbing that squeezes Aegon’s cock, releases it, squeezes it again.

Aegon lays you down on your back and thrusts into you, shallowly at first to make sure you’re alright, then deeper and more powerfully. There’s no pain at all, only a hazy calmness, a need to be near to him, to tangle up closer and closer until you share everything, veins and arteries and the capillary beds of lungs. He’s exhausted already; you notice a few needle-thin split seams in his scar tissue. There are faint stains of crimson blood on your belly, your chest. His fingers link through yours, his moans grow louder and more jagged. He comes so hard tears spring into his eyes, and you feel one more thing you hadn’t expected to: not vulnerability but power, pride, satisfaction.

“It’s like that every time?” you ask, drowsy and amazed as he rolls onto his side and pulls you against him. The rain is still falling outside. Lightning paints the windows; thunder quakes them.

“If it’s done well.” Aegon is pink-faced, breathing heavily, staggeringly beautiful. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

“No wonder you’ve fucked hundreds of women.”

He laughs. “Not that many.” He grins as he kisses you, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve rid me of them all. You’ve burned them away.”

“I love you,” you say without planning to.

Aegon replies, but not in words you can understand. He whispers something in High Valyrian, his eyes dip closed, he is asleep before you can ask him what it means.

[reyraereads]

💗💗💗🙌🙌🙌! HEY! I read your latest chapter on your fic, and I'm really hooked on it, so badly 😭! But I just wanted to ask three questions, if you don't mind.

1) "Speaking of his nephew, the passing of his supposed name-day allowed him to relax slightly. Knowing the boy that replaced him might no longer exist gave him some respite.."

Assuming his actions had either belated or changed courses of events, for example, Laena's death happened much later than the original. Does this mean Aegon the Younger was born much later into the year alongside his brother Viserys? Does this change the order or manner of Rhaenyra's children with Daemon being born too with Aegon's initiative of taking action — Visenya living or still being stillborn?

I don't know, but I re-read the chapter again and saw that and thought, oh crap did he erase his existence lol 💀

2) Aside from Aegon's growth progress, I was wondering if Sunfyre grows much bigger and stronger in this timeline than og?

I mean, it would only be natural that he would grow bigger — a lot of the characters like Daemon, Baela, who was a kid, and Viserys mentioned how big Sunfyre was. Does Sunfyre and Aegon's daily flying training every day affect his growth. I always assumed Sunfyre was quite big anyway, especially in the show, but I was wondering now does that of that show in your timeline, too. It's just mere curiosity anyway. Naturally, dragons grow big every year, but I can assume the more often you fly with them and leave them in open space on the daily would help their growth.

3) Would Aegon eventually span his influence across the other regions? Like actually go visit Oldtown or even White Harbour(to chat with that Mendrick fellow)?

It would be the most rational course if Aegon wanted to spread his influence and build up rapport with the other houses and to show he is a good contender for the throne. Seeing as he mentioned never went on a royal progress himself, because Viserys was too ill and his mother and Otto often took charge of the kingdom.

In this timeline, Viserys is in good health, and so far, the other lords — particularly the Lannisters, Hightowers, Baratheons, and all in the Small Council - are in good favour of him. I would not be surprised if they would be more than happy to help Aegon out if he asked to stay over. Plus, in this timeline, Aegon is more than eager to show a helping hand when he said he could help with Ironrod and Greyjoys. I am assuming he might, if he wanted, did end up doing that.

Plus, I feel the Manderlys would be Aegon's key in garnering some support from the North — or just House Manderly in general. They are the wealthiest house and are going to have a big fleet (a fleet, Aegon really, really needs if he is going to deal with the Velaryons) at the North and act more Southern than the average Northerner. Maybe getting a good rapport with them and mainly Mendrick would aid his cause.

(The hints on Daemion and Daeron Velaryon is making me feel they are going to be a big hand to Aegon, if the dance does go forth).

Hi! Sorry, I’m replying late, and don’t apologize. I love getting asks!

For the first one I won’t spoil anything, and we’ll find out who Rhaenyra gives birth to in Chapter 19 but butterfly effects happen in my story. Like, Aemond claiming Vermithor instead of Vhagar since Leana was alive a bit longer.

Yeah, Sunfyre would grow pretty big. He was already formidable by the dance, and now he’s more trained than before.

The plan is for Aegon to visit parts of the realm. In Part 3, he visits different regions of the realm. I find it odd how book and show Aegon have never left the Crownlands. It’s easy to blame it on Viserys health but you’re telling me no one told Aegon to go to a tourney even just to watch. I mean, he has a dragon.

The Manderlys (Torrhern and Medrick) are important because they’re close to Aegon’s age, and like you said they’re a gateway to the North.

In the book, Daeron, Daemion and the other Velaryons supported the Greens in the books and considering Daeron’s daughter Daenaera is younger than Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. I assume that Daeron is close to Aegon’s age or at most 5 years older than him.

I just find it bizarre how there are so many canon characters — Medrick, Cregan, Daeron, Daemion who are close to Aegon in age yet they’d never interacted with him or their on the opposing side for plot reasons.

[stromuprisahat]

Queen Rhaenyra had neither gold nor ships. When she had sent Lord Corlys to the dungeons she had lost her fleet, and she had fled King’s Landing in terror of her life, without so much as a coin. Despairing and fearful, Her Grace grew ever more grey and haggard. She could not sleep and would not eat. Nor would she suffer to be parted from Prince Aegon, her last living son; day and night, the boy remained by her side, “like a small pale shadow”. Rhaenyra was forced to sell her crown to raise the coin to buy passage on a Braavosi merchantman, the Violande. Ser Harrold Darke urged her to seek refuge with Lady Arryn in the Vale, whilst Ser Medrick Manderly tried to persuade her to accompany him and his brother Ser Torrhen back to White Harbor, but Her Grace refused them both. She was adamant on returning to Dragonstone. There she would find dragon’s eggs, she told her loyalists; she must have another dragon, or all was lost. ... It was raining when the queen’s party came ashore, and hardly a face was to be seen about the port. Even the dockside brothels appeared dark and deserted, but Her Grace took no notice. Sick in body and spirit, broken by betrayal, Rhaenyra Targaryen wanted only to return to her own seat, where she imagined that she and her son would be safe. Little did the queen know that she was about to suffer her last and most grievous treachery.

The Princess and the Queen & Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

Robbed of her throne and treasury she'd need to keep it.

Five children out of six lost, four certainly dead.

Husband she knew her whole life, dead.

Her dragon dead.

Believing she was betrayed several times, often by the closest allies.

All in two years?

After years of bullying she and her children had to endure?

No wonder she couldn't handle reality anymore. No wonder she wasn't able to react to current conditions.

No wonder Aegon turned up as depressed as he did, witnessing his mother go through all that, only to be brutally murdered. Living most of it himself.

[isefyres-archive]

𝕹𝖊𝖜 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝕬𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉:

Lynara Stark. was a noblewoman of House Stark during the second century after Aegon's Conquest, and the third wife of Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. She lived in Winterfell most of her childhood and when she often served to attend and help his previous wives, specially Black Aly, who she became good friends. She would later marry Cregan. The main line of House Stark's lineage descends from her. Canon. Dance Era.

Lord Torrhen Manderly. as a knight from House Manderly during the Dance of the Dragons and the second son of Lord Desmond Manderly. He later became the Lord of White Harbor, as well as Lord Regent and Hand of the King during the minority of King Aegon III Targaryen. Like most northmen, he supported Queen Rhaenyra's claim to the throne. Torrhen's father, Lord Desmond Manderly, sent Torrhen and his brother, Ser Medrick, south to aid Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. After Rhaenyra lost two dragons to the Two Betrayers. Canon. Dance Era.

Ser Addam Marbrand. is a knight of House Marbrand, and the son and heir of Lord Damon Marbrand of Ashemark. He is one of the chief knights in the service of Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and a knight of the Rock. Addam is a trusted friend of Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. During his youth, Addam was a page at Casterly Rock, and a childhood friend of Ser Jaime Lannister. Canon. Song Era.

Lady Jeyne Farman. Jeyne Farman is a noblewoman of House Farman. She is the sister of Lord Sebaston Farman, the Lord of Fair Isle, and is the wife of Ser Gareth Clifton. Jeyne was a childhood friend of Cersei Lannister. She accompanied Cersei and Melara Hetherspoon into the tent of Maggy the Frog, to hear their futures told. When Maggy opened her eyes, Jeyne fled into the night, never hearing her future. The visit to Maggy the Frog fractured the friendship with Cersei, who Jeyne refused to visit. Canon. Song Era.

Lord Tytos Manning. House Manning is a noble house from the crownlands. As the sole heir to an enderly and sickly lord, he acts as Regent of his House. The Mannings control the port and harbor of King's Landing and who comes and goes, keeping a record of everything and everyone who enters, specially they control the area of Blackwater Bay. OC. Song Era.

Damon Vypren is a knight from House Vypren, the son and heir of Lord Lucias Vypren. Damon is introduced to Lady Catelyn Tully at the Twins on the eve of Lord Edmure Tully's wedding. Damon passed out drunk in the woods during the wedding and upon discovering his father's wealth gained from conspiring with the Freys, Damon decides to atone for his father's sins and move Norht. Canon. Song Era.

Lady Beth Cassel. Beth Cassel is a noblewoman of House Cassel and is the only surviving child of Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms. Beth is raised at Winterfell with the Stark children. Though closer in age to Arya, she tends to hover around Sansa's more glamorous retinue. Beth is one of the prisoners at Winterfell when the castle is taken by Theon Greyjoy. After this, she is taken by the Dreadfort, where she is rescued by her uncle Brandon. Canon. Song Era.

Lady Eddara Tallhart is the daughter of Ser Helman Tallhart, she is named in honor of Ned Stark. After the deaths of her father, Helman, and elder brother, Benfred, Eddara becomes the Lady of Torrhen's Square. Eddara is held captive by the ironmen at Torrhen's Square, following its capture by Dagmer. After being released, she pledges her alliance to the new King in the North but refuses to accept apologies from Theon Greyjoy and his actions. Canon. Song Era.

[playlistashton]

Rhaenyra small council (pre war)

Hand of the King: Otto Hightower followed by Daemon Targaryen

Grand Maester: Maester Orwyle followed by Maester Gerardys

Master of coin: Tyland Lannister

Master of law: Lyman Beesbury followed by Visenya Targaryen

Master of ships: Corlys Velaryon

Master of whisperers: Larys Strong

Lord Commander of the Queensguard: Criston Cole

Visenya small council

Hand of the King: Otto Hightower

Grand Maester: Maester Alfador

Master of coin: Tyland Lannister

Master of law: Roland Hunter

Master of ships: the was position offered to Corlys Velaryon but later given to Meryn Redwyne

Master of whisperers: Cassandra Lannister was the unofficial master of whisperers of Visenya.

Lord Commander of the Queensguard: Ser Arryk Cargyll

Advisor: Oswin Targaryen

Jacaerys small council

Hand of the King: Daemon Targaryen followed by Oswin Targaryen, then followed by Saera Targaryen

Grand Maester: Maester Gerardys

Master of coin: Bartimos Celtigar followed by Medrick Manderly

Master of law: Jasper Wylde

Master of ships: Dalton Greyjoy and Corlys Velaryon both seemed to hold the position at various points in time

Master of whisperers: Larys Strong

Lors Commander of the Kingsguard: Criston Cole followed by Ser Lorent Marbrand

A daughter or a bastard

Index

[torrhen-manderly]

endure

a character challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood. additional character mention of @manderlypearl.

Lady Maisie Manderly had once told her lord husband that their firstborn son thrived off the life of others. Torrhen had heard his mother speak the words late one night while he wandered throughout New Castle, sneaking into the kitchens to grab a rare fig tart. He had been ten and three, while his younger sister Erena had been six. Her door had been his first when he slid a wrapped fig tart under the door, giving one to his brother Medrick when he returned to their shared room. His mother’s words met little to him than before the grey days had come, but now Torrhen Manderly understood that she had been right.

He had no connection to King’s Landing besides the feudal ties that had brought him here. He had come to swear loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen on behalf of his ailing father. The queen mourned her father, a thought that tormented him when it came to his mind. Desmond Manderly was the cornerstone of his house, and Torrhen was unsure if he could be the same. When he and Cregan Stark arrived in the capital, Torrhen had seen the new queen in spare moments. But the tone of the castle was not of festivity but of fear and paranoia. The Dragon Queen had been poisoned, and the court had been in an unsteady uproar. While a Northerner, Torrhen had heard undercurrents of rumors of unknown succession. Those rumors shook the castle to its very foundations. 

Anxiety seeped into his veins with each passing minute and conversation. It had been two days since the night of the poisoning, and as the Red Keep had been closed, his mood had only decreased. He joined many in the darkening attitude, not quite melancholy, but it crept ever closer. Now was not the time when he needed to prove himself in court for himself, his father, and his family. He would not be an unworthy son in such a time.

So Torrhen Manderly found himself slipping into his sister’s room once again. However, this time, he did not slink around New Castle but the royal seat. Erena had been his lighthouse since their childhood, home without home. When the melancholy beckoned, he ran to her. Erena was his reminder of life and its worth when all seemed a mistake or a loss. While the guards remained on edge, they recognized the easy smile of the Manderlly heir to let him inside the small chambers assigned to his sister. He padded in, his mind settling as he heard her soft hum before the window. Erena’s back was to him as he looked from the doorway, but he knew by the flick of her hand that she was at work. His sister was an artist, one of the finest he had seen.

Torrhen stood in the room's threshold, not entering but not leaving. Erena would know it was him. He would listen to or watch her paint for a time before eventually moving forward to speak with her. But it was enough to gather his thoughts and calm the flood of anxiety that rushed through him. Each stroke of paint hummed verse, and the bounce of Erena’s head soothed him. Torrhen would enjoy the small things in such a moment of strife, just as his younger sister did in the moment before him. The court would endure such an event, and the mood would lift, so Torrhen resolved to do the same.

[lya-dustin]

Someone will remember us

Chapter 68

Cw: mentions of domestic abuse, past murders, physical abuse

Taglist: @stargaryenx @mercedesdecorazon

Gif by @fireandbloodsource

If she had expected sympathy from her mother, she was sorely mistaken.

When Daemon revealed his justification for trying to strangle her, mother had latched onto the part where she met with Aemond and slapped her.

“Once Aegon is dead, your husband is king.” Grandfather said as he inspects the bruising on her neck.

“You are speaking treason, kepa.” Aemma warned and winced as he turned her head.

“Treason is letting him keep his hands after hurting you.” The Seasnake pointed out as he applied some slave for the bruises. “Gods, Rhaenys had told me that your mother had similar marks the day she was crowned. She tried to cover them with powder and denied it, but I would not put it past him.”

“As if I needed more reasons to want him dead.” The princess sat still as he applied some on her cheek for good measure.

“Once your mother is safely on the throne, and you are made Princess of Dragonstone, we will be rid of him.” Her grandfather said.

Maybe if they hastened his death Aemond lives.

“I need to tell you something.” She begins, unsure if her grandfather would believe her. “Aemond didn’t kill my brother.”

Ever since he was a boy, Corlys has been known to have back up plans.

At six and ten, he knew that in case he died without issue, Vaemond was to be Lord of the Tides after him and ensured his brother knew all he needed for it.

At nine and ten he knew that if King Jaehaerys refused to allow him to marry his Red Queen, they would take Meleys and his ship and never come back.

They had been foolish then, she seven and ten and he two years her elder. They had fallen in love over the course of one summer when she took it upon herself to protect the Gullet from pirates.

At two and twenty, he had vowed to die with Rhaenys if she and Laenor did not survive the birth.

Now at two and sixty, he knows he would kill Rhaenyra himself if his son and grandchildren were in danger because of her.

He remembers how happy and proud Laenor was when he showed them his newborn daughter.

Barely a lad of twenty and he had responded to those who expressed their sentiments about the baby being a girl with a laugh saying, Son or daughter, she will be queen and the shining jewel of the seven kingdoms.

“In the event of my daughter being unsuitable for the Throne, I need to know that you would back Joffrey’s claim.” The queen has the audacity to speak to her council.

A council who backed her claim and knew Viserys’ last testament dictated that Aemma be her heir.

Viserys had allowed for her to keep her sons and Harwin under the condition that her trueborn daughter inherited.

Corlys loved the boys as if they were his blood, but he would not choose Joffrey over Aemma.

Not when he knew Daemon would escape justice because he was the only father the boy knows.

“No.” Corlys stood his ground, this was the deal they had made.

Rhaenyra stared back incredulously, “No?”

He may believe in male primogeniture, but he was fond of making exceptions for his family.

“I advise we vote on this.” Maester Gerardys suggested to keep things civil. ,

Corlys keeps his face neutral even if he is furious that Rhaenyra would name her bastard son to Aemma’s throne, “Those for Queen Rhaenyra’s change in succession say aye.”

There was an aye, from the Manderly brothers, one Medrick, the Master of Laws and Torren who aspired to Vaemond’s office.

The Maester wisely stays out of it.

“Those against, say nay.”

In the end, you cannot go against the Hand, the Master of Coin, the Master of Ships and the Lord Commander.

“King Viserys made you his heir and in the adjoining clause he made Aemma your heir. By the laws of Westeros, your claim is forfeit if she is not your successor, to make matters much more interesting, she has an heir of her own body who is a child of prophecy just as she was.” Vaemond tries not to smirk as he explains why the lords are unanimously against her.

“She went behind our backs just to meet with the Kinslayer!” Rhaenyra defended her words and Baela winced at the words. “Who is to say what she told him?”

“She asked him to bend the knee, for the sake of the child they have and the love he still holds for her, she asked him to bend the knee to his sister given that he is his brother’s heir now.” Aemma answered her mother’s question and came into the room without bothering to hide the fading bruises on her neck.

Something more damning than anything Rhaenyra could say.

He would not go against her mother, but she would not be the filial daughter, not after she defended Daemon’s actions against her.

A dangerous game, and she knows it.

In Green territory, she was protected by her husband and her unborn child.

In Black territory, she is protected because she is a Velaryon and too powerful in her own right.

“If you wish to believe me or no, it is up to you, but I have not given you cause to doubt my loyalty, your grace.” Aemma said, the formality in her words wounding her mother more than any knife.

“Then why bind yourself to with fire and blood after he killed your brother?” the mother interrogated her daughter as if they were not before the council.

“Because his mother petitioned the High Septon to annul our marriage and declare my son, her own grandson, a bastard as a desperate measure to keep Aemon from being Aemond’s heir. Forgive me for thinking about my child and securing your line should the worst happen.”

That had been a half lie, Aemma and the One-Eye had done it out of love for each other. Corlys had pointed the shrewdness in the Kinslayer’s romantic gesture making her realize that, even as their enemy, Aemond was working with them not against them.

The boy had ambition in spades, many including the Sea Snake had believed he had wed Aemma to get closer to the crown.

But then he had seen how besotted with each other the young couple was and he was forced to accept him as a grandson.

Now he may have to accept him as Aemma’s King Consort should Rhaenyra listen to Daemon regarding the succession.

He is young, young enough to be molded into a different man by guidance and Corlys supposed he was that man to guide him.

“Father struck you.” Baela looked at the fading bruises with suspicion.

No one would believe one’s father capable of such violence.

“Strangled me, more like.” Aemma winced as she swallowed. “Mother struck me.”

Talking was difficult, would be until it heals in some weeks.

“He said you betrayed us all. That you told him Harrenhal was empty.” So that was the story he was running with.

Baela was livid at the false betrayal, but Aemma was enraged at how easily people believed him.

“Did he tell you that he told my mother that father had ran away to the Stepstones when in reality he had him killed? Or that he killed his first wife with a brick to her head?” Aemma seethed.

“You lie, my father would never do that. He loved Uncle Laenor like a brother---” Baela shouted at her as if it would make it all a lie. “Who told you such falsehood, Aemma, was it the Kinslayer?”

“I did. I, who chased after my son’s killer for six years, I, who was warned by Lord Royce who saw Caraxes leave where Rhea Royce died.” Grandfather answered her questions as Baela’s eyes were opened to the truth. “I, who should have saved your mothers from him.”

“I am sorry, Baela.” Aemma apologized to her cousin, stepsister and goodsister. “I know he is your father and you love him, but he is not a good man.”

“Did grandmother knew?” she asked their grandfather, unsure of what she was expecting.

“Yes, it is why you and your sister were sent to foster with her and why Jace and Luke were sent to Vaemond at Driftmark.”

To isolate them from his influence and protect them if need be.

“What did you do with the kinslayer then?” one sin she can forgive, but not the other.

“Remarried him, the High Septon can’t annul a Valyrian marriage and when Aegon finally dies, his faction would have no choice but to crown the man who will bend the knee to mother on the condition that she grants him a fair trial.” The Princess of Dragonstone for once felt hopeful.

“He killed your brother, he doesn’t deserve one, Aem.” Baela reminds her, as if telling her that if Daemon was terrible so was Aemond.

“That is the thing, Baela.” Aemma began the sordid tale as to what really happened the night Luke died.

[iamfina5]

The Kinslayer Couple

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Seventeen: Yours Everlasting

First  Prev/Next

135 A.C.

Valaena,

Word shall reach you soon that I a terrible in the stormlands, your brother and I

A week into Queen Rhaenyra’s tenure in the Red Keep, a consolidated small council meets in its designated chamber for the first time. Ser Lorent, recently installed as Lord Commander of the Queensguard, stands to the right of Her Grace’s chair at the head of the table. Also on her right sits Lord Corlys, her Hand, with his wife the Princess Rhaenys a place down from him, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, the newly appointed master of coin, sat between them. Her king consort sits to her left, with her heir on his left. On Valaena’s other side sits Ser Medrick Manderly, the heir to White Harbor, and beside him, his brother Torrhen.

Proudly, Rhaenyra surveys her council. Presiding over the meeting, she prompts its start. “Lord Corlys, what business have we this day?”

“There are several matters for your consideration, Your Grace,” Corlys tells her. He looks to his granddaughter. “Let us begin with the Princess Valaena’s report.”

Standing, Valaena commences her accounting of her findings as mistress of whisperers. “My whisperers throughout the city confirm that the people are most glad for your return, Your Grace.” Rhaenyra nods appreciatively. “They remember you as the Realm’s Delight and have no love for Prince Aegon the Elder or Prince Aemond, the boors. However, there is discontent among the merchants and traders as to,” she glances at Bartimos, “the new taxes. I have concerns that they may foment tumult among the smallfolk so as to have their way.”

“We are at war,” Bartimos reminds the room, predictably. “We require funds, and the queen’s unscrupulous half-brothers have cleaned out her coffers. Rest assured, the smallfolk shall come to heel in due time.”

Valaena doubts that very much. The Celtigars have a long, poor history with taxation. As rulers of Claw Isle, they frequently try to tax the people of Crackclaw Point, entirely without success. That being said, their lords are often named as masters of coin and lords treasurer. With any luck, despite Rhaenyra’s faith in Bartimos, she will soon see reason and repeal the more stringent of his exactions.

Not seeing fit to make further note of such concerns now and incite a tiff with the old lord, she goes on as though she had not been interrupted. “Word has traveled north that following the Battle of the Honeywine, a victory for the Greens,” she bitterly acknowledges, “Prince Daeron has been knighted and dubbed Daeron the Daring.”

At this, Rhaenyra’s mouth twists with displeasure. For her part, Valaena is not so distressed by the development. While their loss at the Honeywine had been devastating, it had not been a calamity. Moreover, a small part of her feels glad for Daeron. Her young uncle has spent most of his life in the shadows of his brothers and Oldtown, so it is fine for him to have something lofty for himself. It remains lamentable, however, that his good fortune should come to him on the wrong side of this war. She wonders how she might convince him to repent his fealty to Aegon and support the rightful queen.

She ends on an unsatisfactory note. “Tyland Lannister has not yet confessed whither he has sent the Crown’s coin, and there is yet no word as to the whereabouts of Aegon or Lord Larys Strong, though I hope to root out all our quarries soon.”

Rhaenyra accepts her optimism with a nod, and the conversation moves on. Valaena retakes her seat.

There remains another whisper which she could have mentioned. Since Rhaenyra first sat the Iron Throne, rumors have circulated through the Red Keep that she would not be long for it. Some claim to have seen cuts along her legs and the palm of her left hand, believing that the Iron Throne had spurned her, and thus that her days upon it would be few. Such rumors are worrisome, weakening Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne with their mere existence. Notwithstanding, they are but rumors, and they cannot unseat her alone. Moreover, Valaena believes it would be a poor choice to disclose them at this junction. It is so recent since her mother settled in King’s Landing, and she requires time and peace of mind to establish her rule.

Corlys inhales, preparing to announce the next topic for discussion, but Daemon pipes up before he has the chance. “The Lannisters should be punished, to set a precedent and show the realm your regard for rebels and traitors, Your Grace. We should sack Casterly Rock as we did Storm’s End and grant their lands and castle to men who have proven themselves more loyal.”

Corlys appears horrified by the unheralded proposal. “Your Grace,” he ventures, addressing Daemon, “I fear that would be unwise. Half the lords of Westeros will turn against us if we are so cruel as to destroy such an ancient and noble house.” Frowning, Daemon shrugs at him.

Valaena attempts to find the middle ground between her grandsire and her step-father. “The Lannisters should face retribution for their treason, but it should not be so grave as extermination.” Grateful for her intervention, Corlys nods deliberately. “We might take some of their lands and, say, grant them to Hugh Hammer and Ulf White. They are due to be knighted for their valor in battle.” Privately, she contemplates how favorable it would be to have the two unsavory dragonseeds stowed so far to the west.

Her suggestion sends Daemon on another tangent. He turns to Rhaenyra. “Speaking of Hammer and White, I believe I have a solution as to our troubles with the Rosby and Stokeworth successions.” He proposes, “We wed Hammer to Rosby’s daughter, White to Stokeworth’s, and the girls inherit.”

It comes Valaena’s turn to frown, and far more sincerely. Though she believes that Rosby’s and Stokeworth’s daughters should inherit their lands and titles, being their eldest children, she should not wish them tied to two brutes such as Hammer and White. Lady Roslin Rosby, in particular, is a maid of twelve. Should she be betrothed to Hugh Hammer, they would be wed soon, and her torment would commence forthwith.

The corner of Corlys’s mouth tilts down, too. “Both girls have younger brothers. Disinheriting them in favor of their sisters would overturn centuries of law and precedent, as well as call into question the rights of scores of other lords with elder sisters.” He shifts to face Rhaenyra, too. “Yours and Valaena’s claims are special cases. Your father named you heir, just as you have done for your daughter.”

With such high stakes, potentially losing the already-tenuous support of countless lords, Valaena notices Rhaenyra leaning in Corlys’s direction, quite literally. Before the queen can make her choice, however, Valaena steps in.

“Mother, never mind the centuries of law and precedent,” she says, avoiding her grandsire’s stare as she inflects his words with sarcasm. “House Targaryen has long overturned such traditions in favor of that which is just, from the time of the Conqueror. As the first ruling queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you have the opportunity to create a new order and show the realm that a woman has just as much a right to rule as does a man.” She looks to her grandmother for support, and Rhaenys nods with vehemence.

Rhaenyra’s lips twist. “Valaena, Lord Corlys is correct. You and I are special cases. We were brought up to rule. Most ladies are not so fortunate.”

Disbelieving, Valaena refrains from sputtering. “What matter is that? There are scores of fool lords who disregard their maesters’ teachings and behave as complete oafs! Think of Lord Darnold Arryn, whose temerity caused him and his brother to be murdered by mountain clan raiders, or Lord Lothar Bracken, who dishonorably attacked his neighbor’s army from behind, rebelled against Harwyn Hoare months later, and was starved to death by his king.”

Daemon jumps in. “The Stokeworth girl is but six. She and the Rosby girl can be taught to rule if it is so desirous.”

“Yes,” Valaena emphatically affirms. Her mother returns to gaze to her, having been staring consideringly at Daemon. “And they need not be wed to head their houses. It is not as though either of us requires a king consort.”

At this, Rhaenyra seems to make up her mind. “The girls will rule.” Valaena clenches her fist in victory as Corlys exhales a put-upon sigh. “But they will do so with husbands. I shall knight Hammer and White on the morrow and inform them of their betrothals.”

Valaena wishes to object, but Rhaenyra’s eyes light on her before she can think of what to say. “This brings us to another matter, that of the Princess Valaena’s betrothal.”

“My betrothal,” Valaena questions, pointing to herself in unadulterated shock.

Rhaenyra nods. Gently, she urges, “Valaena, should you hope to rule one day, you are in need of a husband.” Gaping like a fish, Valaena tries to shake her head. Rhaenyra turns her attention from her, looking back to the other members of her council. “I am hereby open to recommendations.”

Keep Reading

[derangedthots]

"Medrick [Manderly] was a fearsome man said to be the finest knight of the north...courtly and well spoken"

-A Wiki of Ice and Fire

🤭🤭

[lemonhemlock]

Fishing through FB for quotes on Nettles, I stumbled upon this little passage and remembered I forgot to make the following point:

But now voices on the black council were raised to question Ser Addam’s loyalty. The dragonseeds Ulf White and Hugh Hammer had gone over to the enemy…but were they the only traitors in their midst? What of Addam of Hull and the girl Nettles? They had been born of bastard stock as well. Could they be trusted? Lord Bartimos Celtigar thought not. “Bastards are treacherous by nature,” he said. “It is in their blood. Betrayal comes as easily to a bastard as loyalty to trueborn men.” He urged Her Grace to have the two baseborn dragonriders seized immediately, before they too could join the enemy with their dragons. Others echoed his views, amongst them Ser Luthor Largent, Commander of her City Watch, and Ser Lorent Marbrand, Lord Commander of her Queensguard. Even the two White Harbor men, that fearsome knight Ser Medrick Manderly and his clever, corpulent brother Ser Torrhen, urged the queen to mistrust. “Best take no chances,” Ser Torrhen said. “If the foe gains two more dragons, we are lost.” Only Lord Corlys and Grand Maester Gerardys spoke in defense of the dragonseeds. The Grand Maester said that they had no proof of any disloyalty on the parts of Nettles and Ser Addam; the path of wisdom was to seek such proof before making any judgments. Lord Corlys went much further, declaring that Ser Addam and his brother, Alyn, were “true Velaryons,” worthy heirs to Driftmark. As for the girl, though she might be dirty and ill-favored, she had fought valiantly in the Battle of the Gullet. “As did the two betrayers,” Lord Celtigar countered.

When reading the text, it's important to keep in mind that this is not GRRM's narrative voice telling us bastards are treacherous creatures that can't wait to stab you in the back at the first opportunity. Those are Lord Celtigar's words as presented to us by the historian Gyldayn, a man with his own prejudices and opinions that often seep through the text. And just because Gyldayn says so doesn't mean it's true or that GRRM is trying to convey that message as a "lesson" to the reader or even that the majority of Westerosi think so. Many times Gyldayn tries to pass off his personal views as undisputable fact, much like the historians of old.

One thing I do find annoying about GRRM's work is that he really lays on the 'bastardphobia' thick lmaooo. In real life, back in the medieval era, bastards weren't necessarily treated poorly per se, well depending on their fathers/mothers circumstances, I suppose, and weren't seen as these 'inherently untrustworthy, lustful creatures.' Henry VIII's bastard, Henry Fitzroy, was given a royal title and household I believe and wasn't treated like a leper or anything. Mary Queen of Scots bastard brother was a friend/advisor to her before they had a falling out or some type of conflict iirc. He also I think held noble titles/lands.

I get he's trying to make a point about bastardy in Westeros and this is a fictional story but I feel like people take this fictional Westerosi mindest and project onto actual history. Like, bastards were really not that big of a deal or whatever in real life.

On the whole, I think that men's bastards were looked upon more favourably than bastards borne by noble ladies, but in-universe it's a trope meant to explore certain themes or ideas and provide much-needed narrative tension. It may appear exaggerated at times, but it bears mentioning that not all ASOIAF bastards are controversial. The case of Dorne is one to note, of course, and there are other individual examples of bastards that are handled in a fairly chill manner - Mya Stone, Edric Storm (who would have had an OK life if it weren't for Melisandre constantly trying to kill him), Joy Hill, Garse & Garrett Flowers, Aurane Waters etc. There are enough high-born bastards that are shown to be either considered for or occupying official positions such as master-at-arms, in the City Watch, on the High Council, there's one that was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard (Addison Hill) etc. So I wouldn't even say GRRM has an axe to grind against bastards.

[twoiafart]

A NEW DAWN AT COURT Artwork by Lily Abdullina

But while some left the city, many others flocked to it ahead of the royal coronation of Aegon and his promised bride, Aegon II’s daughter Princess Jaehaera. Among those to arrive were Lady Johanna Lannister and her father Lord Roland Westerling; Lord Lyonel Hightower and Lady Sam; the High Septon (traveling separately from Lord Hightower, due to Lyonel’s incestuous relationship with his stepmother); the Baratheon sisters Cassandra, Ellyn, and Floris, escorted by Lady Elenda’s father Lord Royce Caron; Ser Alyn Velaryon; Ser Medrick and Ser Torrhen Manderly with a hundred knights from White Harbor; and many from more far-flung places, including emissaries from six of the Nine Free Cities and three splendid, feather-cloaked princes from the Summer Isles.

On the seventh day of the seventh moon of 131 AC—an auspicious and holy day according to the Faith—the High Septon performed the marriage rites atop Visenya’s Hill for all the city to see. Prince Aegon was wed to Princess Jaehaera, which was met with a roar of approval from the tens of thousands who witnessed it. The newlywed Targaryens were then carried to the Red Keep, where Aegon was crowned with a plain golden circlet and declared Aegon the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. It was a lavish occasion—although the dragons that once flew triumphantly on such festive occasions were absent: a loss that House Targaryen would feel in the years and decades to come.

[adancewithdragonsrpg]

Lista de personajes

EL NORTE

Personajes canon

Cregan Stark - 21

Bennard Stark - 36

Desmond Manderly - 40

Personajes semicanon libres

Brandon Stark - 19

Sara Nieve - 17

Benjen Stark - 18

Elric Stark - 16

Medrick Manderly - 22

Torrhen Manderly - 20

LAS ISLAS

Personajes canon

Dalton Greyjoy - 20

Krakiv - 53

Jaratar - 30

Darrik Harlaw - 40

Personajes semicanon con directrices

Veron Greyjoy - 19

Vickon Greyjoy - 38

Personajes semincanon libres

Elyse Pyke - 18

Carrel Schywryte - Libre

TIERRAS DEL OESTE

Personajes canon

Jason Lannister - 36

Johanna Westerling - 33

Cerelle Lannister - 17

Tyland Lannister - 36

Personajes semicanon con directrices

Roland Westerling - 53

Personajes semicanon libres

Tyshara Lannister - 16

Erwin Lannister - 26

TIERRAS DE LOS RÍOS

Personajes canon

Elmo Tully - 38

Kermit Tully - 19

Oscar Tully - 18

Humfrey Bracken - 39

Alysanne Blackwood - 23

Personajes semicanon con directrices

Amos Bracken - 18

Benjicot Blackwood - 16

Sabitha Vypren - 32

Personajes semicanon libres

Forrest Frey - 34

EL VALLE

Personajes canon

Jeyne Arryn  - 35

Joffrey Arryn - 33

Eldric Arryn - 22

Leowyn Corbray – 37

Corwyn Corbray - 29

Semicanon con directrices

Isembard Arryn – 36

Gunthor Royce - 50

Semicanon libres

Willam Royce - 26

Quenton Corbray – 17

LOS VERDES

Personajes canon

Alicent Hightower - 37

Otto Hightower - 58

Aegon Targaryen - 22

Helaena Targaryen – 21

Aemond Targaryen - 20

Daeron Targaryen - 16

Criston Cole - 41 años

Semicanon con directrices

Larys Strong – 42

Semicanon libres

Arryk Cargyll – 31 años

LOS NEGROS

Personajes canon

Rhaenyra Targaryen - 36

Daemon Targaryen - 46

Jacaerys Velaryon - 19

Lucerys Velaryon - 18

Baela Targaryen - 18

Rhaena Targaryen - 18

Rhaenys Targaryen - 55

Corlys Velaryon - 58

Personajes semicanon libres

Harrold Westerling - 52

Erryk Cargyll - 31

EL DOMINIO

Personajes canon

Garlan Tyrell - 23

Martyn Tyrell - 21

Margaery Tyrell - 19

Jeyne Bulwer - 26

Personajes semicanon con directrices

Ormund Hightower - 40 

Personajes semicanon libres

Lyonel Hightower - 18

Gwayne Hightower - 39

TIERRAS DE LA TORMENTA

Personajes canon

Borros Baratheon - 42

Elenda Baratheon - 39

Cassandra Baratheon - 19

Personajes semicanon con directrices

Royce Caron - 58

Byron Swann - 35

Steffon Connington - 21

Personajes semicanon libres

Maris Baratheon - 18

Floris Baratheon - 17

DORNE

Personajes Canon

Qoren Martell - 33

Aliandra Martell - 17

Semicanon con directrices

Qyle Martell - 16

Coryanne Martell – 16

Semicanon libres

Gyles Yronwood - 26

[stromuprisahat]

On Maiden’s Day in the year 130 AC, the Citadel of Oldtown sent forth three hundred white ravens to herald the coming of winter, but this was high summer for Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Despite the disaffection of the Kingslanders, the city and crown were hers. Across the narrow sea, the Triarchy had begun to tear itself to pieces. The waves belonged to House Velaryon. Though snows had closed the passes through the Mountains of the Moon, the Maiden of the Vale had proven true to her word, sending men by sea to join the queen’s hosts. Other fleets brought warriors from White Harbor, led by Lord Manderly’s own sons, Medrick and Torrhen. On every hand Queen Rhaenyra’s power swelled whilst King Aegon’s dwindled.

The Princess and the Queen × Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

Why?! Why could it not stay so?!