#arianne has eyes you fools

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

honestly, the more i think about it the more certain i become that winds of winter and specifically the kings landing plot/vale/gc plot will significantly parallel the dance of the dragons (mainly the end of the dance).

others have already made great metas on this lol

i think cersei’s downfall will resemble alicent’s. im sad but certain that both tommen and myrcella will be killed (maybe paralleling aegon and rhaenys deaths?). i’m kind of hoping the sand snakes will go through character development and not choose revenge… but i kind of doubt it. i’m sure that cersei will definitely break down even further tho. that’ll be interesting and horrifying to read.

tommen will certainly die first, leading to myrcella being crowned. i think it’s likely that tommen is killed by the sand snakes, but i think myrcella will be killed during the fall of kings landing to (f)aegon. i wonder if the sand snakes try protecting her and fail?

i highly doubt that dorne is going to join (f)aegon. i think arianne will see the truth and will be able to successfully maneuver her way back to dorne. (tho i think she’ll have a run in with aurane which would be cool to read). however, (f)aegon will think that arianne is on his side. i’m worried that lady lance wont leave with the dornish party tho…

anyways, after the fall of kings landing cersei will likely be locked up as she won’t be considered a threat. but this won’t be enough to stop the crazy that will be childless cersei.

the high sparrow will certainly support (f)aegon.

i’m 50/50 on whether margaery marries again. i am worried that margaery will get jaehaera’d :/. i think it’s certain that she’ll be held hostage tho. what if she goes the helaena route… yikes… that’s a sad thought.

at this point in time i think the starks will hold winterfell once again and the freys will have be destroyed. the tullys will probably hold the riverlands again.

euron will be causing absolute havoc in the reach.

i think the vale plot in winds will resemble what happens during the dance. harry and robin will both probably die, so i think littlefinger, who’d be in trouble at that point, would try to gain power through sansa. so i think the knights of the vale will make their way to kings landing with sansa with the intent of making her queen.

this is where the tourney at ashford theory comes into play. though jonsas have it completely wrong, as (f)aegon will be the one taking the place of prince valarr. i’m a bit iffy about sansa marrying (f)aegon due to sansa’s marriage to tyrion… but it could be annulled i suppose? but would the high sparrow do that? i think it’s possible.

i wonder what will happen to trystane and the sand snakes tho? i do think that the sand snakes are savvy enough to be able to escape on their own but trystane worries me :(. and he’s gonna be devastated by myrcellas death.

anyways if the plot does move in this direction then i totally expect to read many littlefinger vs varys showdowns.

this will definitely be a false dawn tho. euron will likely be making his way to kings landing and i’m fairly certain that he will sit on the iron throne at some point. bet this is when cersei is able to rise again.

i’ll admit that this prediction for winds has many holes in it. i may be misremembering some stuff as well and i likely haven’t considered all variables either, so take everything i just stated as a vague prediction.

some questions i’m asking myself rn lol: would the tyrell army go down that easily (or maybe varys friends in the reach will help the golden company win the battle?)? will sweet robin really die :(? baelish won’t be able to try and take back the north bc the starks will hold it once again, and going north would mean definitely giving up his hold over sansa… so wouldn’t trying to make sansa the new queen make more sense? since he’d still be able to isolate her and she’d likely need to depend on him? but wouldn’t going to kings landing again be dangerous for him? well if his and varys interests line up then maybe not… but would the knights of the vale follow him? i guess if both harry and robin died then they’d be totally lost too…

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons ch.3

ao3 link, ao3 ch.1

Summary:

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

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

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

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

tw: safe for now but will get dark later (includes character deaths and non-con/dub-con)

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

Chapter 1

3. hāre

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

.

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

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

"I was enjoying dear Arianne talk about my famed ancestor," Lady Tarth continued, much to Aemond's chagrin. "She had questions only us living near Morne can answer."

Dear Arianne seemed to look everywhere but him.

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.

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

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

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

Lady Tarth scoffed at his words, which Aemond found rather insulting as his station was above hers. He shifted one of his legs forward and straightened up.

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps it was a smaller dragon? Not to mention...” Arianne lifted her chin. "Garin the Great's army did kill two dragons at Volon Therys."

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

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

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

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

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

This was a fluke, surely, much like her prowess in cyvasse, because he'd already realized what lay beneath her pleasant facade - a vapid, grasping, and shameless courtesan. Saera's blood might have given her a prepossessing visage, but that was all she was.

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

Arianne merely blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

"Prince Aemond..."

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

"Lady Swann...I had thought my dear nephew wouldn't let you fly around without him. Yet, here you are, discussing matters beyond your understanding." He leaned slightly forward, his pale eye boring into her.

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

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

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

Aemond blinked.

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

"Udrizi Valyrio ȳdrā?" (You understand Valyrian?) He rasped, his voice low.

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

She shook her head.

"Issa se Daor," (Yes and no.) Arianne muttered, fidgeting with her long sleeves again. "My brother and I were educated on basic phrases...but Princess Rhaenyra let me study with her children when I arrived at Dragonstone...so I can understand some of it. I don't...speak it."

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

Arianne bristled.

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

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

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

Arianne's eyelashes fluttered several times and she grabbed the honeycake if only to hide her face behind it. ' A bastard...could not teach? Dragon...dragon...language?'

"Your Grace speaks too fast for me." She grumbled with a hint of embarrassment before taking a small bite. She'd choke on that sweet before ever telling the self-important twat how ethereal he sounded, like a dragonlord of old - h ow she thought the language beautiful when spoken so perfectly.

"Clearly." Targaryen Prince snarled. "My nephew is as incompetent as I've thought and you are ill-suited for -"

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

Aemond's limbs locked.

Why was he?

I wrote you a note after we met and you didn't answer. - he'd hang himself before saying it. He'd perish from a bout of Shivers before giving her any leverage.

He shouldn't have written anything.

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

Aemond sensed the surge of something awful lap at his spine. He consciously flexed his fingers, as if to keep it at bay.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You speak treasonously. And unkindly."

Aemond sneered.

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

She bit her lower lip.

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

"But it is no less treason."

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

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

"I meant no offense, even if you don't believe me." Arianne turned her attention to the hall and the moving figures. The crowd had resumed dancing while they conversed about Prince Aemond's displeasure with her person.

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

The sharp crease between his pale brows deepened.

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

"An affront."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was frightened-"

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

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

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

Arianne had to crane her neck to see his face properly when he stood right in front of her. Almost inappropriately close for a stranger.

"Tis them who attacked me for claiming an unclaimed dragon." Aemond continued, unperturbed. "You prattled about Ser Galladon's honor earlier, do you find it honorable to attack one with four companions?"

She stared at him with wide eyes.

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

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

He swallowed.

"No...it is not honorable," Arianne muttered, a slight discomfort settling against her spine. It felt like a betrayal. Did Prince Aemond not attack Baela first? Was that not what Jace had told her? But what reason would he have to lie - to her of all people? A woman he scarcely knew and disliked.

Aemond was already on the verge of another retort when he heard her. Her voice was barely more than a murmur against the merriment of the crowd. A servant had placed another plate of candied fruit to Lady Arianne's right.

The corner of his eye crinkled.

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

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

"Why do you think the stories about Ser Galladon are ridiculous and untrue? A-and please stop naming me a bird." Arianne decided to move their conversation away from her friends. If he was attempting to pry information about them, he wouldn't be successful.

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

Facing the Stranger would be preferable!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do know the Andals were first to introduce knighthood," Arianne interjected, slightly put off by the way he'd assumed she had such glaring holes in her theories. Did he believe himself the only one capable of opening a book!?

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

She paused briefly, her fingers reaching for the goblet. "Decency, fairness, integrity...call it as you will, but only the truly great can wield fairness, for it calls for a sacrifice of pride and vengeance."

Aemond smirked incredulously.

"You think using your advantage against opponents is unfair?" His response was dripping with condescension. The slow, deliberate tilt of his head only emphasized his clear ridicule of opinions someone like her might hold. The court's newest darling. Bastard's supposed paramour. Citing Grand Maester Aethelmure to him!

 "If an enemy army invades Westeros, wouldn't you want us to use our dragons? Or would you rather be slaughtered, fair as it may be?" Aemond cocked his eyebrow. Only a woman would find something so ludicrous honorable. What'd they know of war? Though he found himself enjoying their conversation, and that she was clearly an avid reader like himself.

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

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

It rattled his bones.

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

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

No.

Not him. He was a dragon, trueborn son of Old Valyria. The treacherous allure of Arianne Swann did not even move him. He was above this base fancy. He was above her and those like her.

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

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

Seven fucking hells.

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

Arianne's eyelids fluttered in confusion.

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

How long her eyelashes were, and her mouth provoked -

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

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

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

His fingers twitched around his goblet.

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

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

Arianne balked.

He had to be jesting!

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

Aemond grinned self-indulgently.

"That is how I see it."

She gasped in horror.

"I would never -" Arianne felt her hands bathing in cold sweat. "I just...You insulted me and...I lost my temper. Please do not even repeat it!"

"I had thought you were a lady." One-eyed prince continued, smiling despite himself. Perhaps Jorlan had been right - what delight to see her beleaguered, whimpering for his mercy and favor.

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

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

She grabbed her goblet again and drank deeply, glaring at Aemond while she did so. His sole eye was focused on her with such intensity it made her legs weak. It dawned on her that his voracious gaze hadn't strayed from her for a moment.

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

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

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

He should make her his mistress.

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

No one would know...he could.

It could help this dreadful fancy go away.

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

Absolutely not.

What humiliation!

To admit that he found himself thinking of her -

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

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

Aemond cut his train of thought with cold disgust.

Bastards.

They'd be contemptible baseborns.

He wouldn't have bastard children.

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

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

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

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

Arianne shook her head.

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

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

He didn't know why was he questioning her, or hacking at her pride. What did he even want her to tell him? That he was right and so much better than her, with the right lineage, with no blemishes -

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

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

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

He could practically taste the bitter triumph of the thought, yet the satisfaction was lacking. It should have been enough to declare it to himself and dismiss her entirely—but it wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

"She is," Aemond managed to stop the word 'whore' from leaving his lips. "...a courtesan. Does your father know that you esteem her so highly?"

Arianne inclined her chin stubbornly. The Targaryen Prince found the expression coupled with her delicate features endearing.

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

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

Like his whore of an older sister , Aemond remembered morosely, assuming herself an heir when the King had trueborn sons. As if the Realm would accept a woman on the throne, when dominion over land was the prerogative of men. His mother had ruled in all but name, but that was out of necessity.

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

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

Her fingers curled into fists.

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

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

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

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

He couldn't deny it anymore - she intrigued him. Was not even Gawen safe from her? One of his favourite accounts on The Conqueror's reign. She read. Not skimmed or parroted scraps overheard at court, but read.

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

"I already know what you were about to say," Aemond glanced at her lips. "We seem to read the same books."

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

The tips of his fingers were tingling.

"Well, you are quite rude," Arianne said, crossing her arms. "With all due respect, my Prince."

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

It would quiet her.

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

He cleared his throat.

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

"I did not!" Arianne professed with urgency. "Please stop saying that1 if someone hears you, I could be hanged!" She seemed to match pulling on her long sleeves with the spiraling tone of her voice - like a bird fluttering its wings nervously in flight.

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

Aemond cocked his head and chuckled. They could be even when she properly occupied her place beneath him. When she surrendered like the lands did before Aegon the Conqueror, waving their white flags. He could wave her chemise for all of court to see that it was him who had enjoyed their darling. His whore-sister's bastard's face alone would be worth the scandal.

"No, we cannot."

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

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

Gods be cursed, what was wrong with him?

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

"If they dare..."

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

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

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

"Because I have no desire to be," Aemond hissed back, frankly insulted that she stated it openly - as if she found him less than what she deserved. There was a twinge of disappointment creeping around his upper spine. Suitors, plural. Minor lords weren't a concern, but his nephew...

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

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

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

"Does he? And who is a more coveted match than a Targaryen dragonlord?" Aemond snarled on an impulse. It passed through him as a bolt of lightning – a reflex at a perceived insult. Arianne's eyes widened, the inhale of breath sharp and burning.

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

The One-eyed prince pressed his lips tightly together and stretched his fingers to appease his temper. She was right, but he found it hard to pretend he didn't want to know - despite having an inkling it was his Strong nephew. Bastard as he was, Jacaerys was still the supposed heir to the Iron Throne once that old whore inherits it.

She dared to wave her hand like that at him! If Arianne Swann were a man, she'd have found herself lacking that same hand. Ought he bring her to tears again?

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

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

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

Yes.

Clever girl.

"It was the proper thing to do," He almost laughed at the feigned propriety in his voice. “After I no longer feared for my life.”

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

They were now set in a worried frown.

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

“They were ready to toast to you, a cyvasse champion…You must hate how I’ve snatched it away.” He mused. Her face seemed to gain an entertaining shade of valyrian firebloom when she was rattled.

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

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

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

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

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

He'd seen her trip.

This hateful, hateful man.

“The princeling…ought to read a certain scroll on proper manners and gallantry. With respect, Your Grace.” The undertone of her voice was brimming with liquid fury she had to constrain. It amused Aemond to no end. He had an inkling to pinch her rosy cheek to see if her skin could redden further.

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

She took a sip from her goblet.

"I am reading The Fires of the Freehold now. Have you read it?" Arianne firmly decided to not give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait. The tale of Jonquil and Florian was indeed one of her favorites, but what would a callous, heartless boor appreciate about romance?

"Of course," Something imperceptible danced in Aemond's voice. "But all known copies, all six of them, are here or the Citadel. How did you get your pretty hands on the tome?"

"Well, I...", She started, realizing her own stupidity at the same time she realized he'd called her hands pretty. "I asked to borrow a copy from the Royal Library."

Aemond's pale eye narrowed in suspicion.

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

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

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

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

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

"Siege of Norvos, ah- " Arianne smiled, elated to share her excitement with someone - even if that someone happened to be Jace's cantankerous uncle. She couldn't help herself any more than a moth could help flying into a flame.

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

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

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

But Arianne's voice drew him back in, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke, gesturing here and there, a physical rhythm to match her words. And how her lips curled into a smile — Stranger, had he ever seen something so tantalizing—so unguarded, so genuine, it caught him like an arrow to the throat.

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

And Siege of Norvos was his favorite part.

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

Arianne faltered, suddenly aware of the torrent of words spilling from her lips. Her eyes darted to  Aemond.

His gaze was fixed so intently on her that she concluded he wanted to see through her. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She had been blabbering—again. How many times had her septa chastised her for it - it was unladylike! Rude!

 "I apologize," she added sheepishly, her fingers brushing her braid. "It's just that I couldn't stop reading until morning."

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

He could not think.

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

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

A delight.

His breath burned as it traveled through his lungs, his body mutinying against his better judgment - leaning just enough to feel the warmth of her presence more keenly. He couldn’t tear his gaze away; he didn’t want to.

Seven hells.

This is absurd.

He could not allow this.

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

He wanted her.

The air grew dense, and his body ached, responding to her in a way he could not control. It was maddening. He couldn't allow it. Was the bastard's courtesan doing it on purpose? Was she even aware of the effect she was having on him?

"I could translate it for you if you'd like, my Lady." Aemond's throat formed words without his consent. He succeeded in preventing himself from inviting her to his chambers now - he'd translate all the Valyrian she wanted, he'd speak such filth in her ear using the language of dragons and then he'd kiss and taste her quivering cunt.

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

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

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

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

"You would truly transla-"

"Arianne!"

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

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

"What are you doing, Arianne? Come, we'll dance together." Jace noticed his uncle and eyed him with palpable confusion. How much time had it passed? She had been talking to Aemond all night.

"Ah, excuse me, Your Grace," She gave him an apologetic smile. "They wish to kill me with dancing."

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

"Dance with me?" He unclasped his hands and offered his right to her, palm up, open, inviting. Arianne felt the bewilderment bubble up in her belly - she beheld him completely flummoxed.

"I...I already promised -"

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

"and I'll consider us even."

Even. He'll no longer torment me over hitting him. - Arianne glanced at Rhaena who furrowed her pretty, ivory eyebrows. Hadn't she heard a rumor that Aemond Targaryen disdained frivolity, that he saw dancing as beneath him unless demanded by ceremony?

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

"I...I would rather try my luck with cyvasse," She murmured, wiping her hands down her sable skirts. "Perhaps Your Grace would offer me a rematch-"

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

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

"No, I - it's just that I..." She stammered, biting the inside of her cheek. 'Mother Above, grant me mercy. And Warrior, grant me courage. And please just not let me stumble this one time...I don't want to die!'

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

"Alright, b-but I am...not a very good dancer, Your Grace." She placed her hand in his, a sudden rush of something traveling up her arm.

Aemond's skin was cool to the touch and his hand was large - long, slender fingers closing over hers in a secure grasp. Perhaps he knew how cold he was for his thumb began circling over her knuckles, so gently it made her blush.

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

Aemond had easier ways of ending her life than dancing.

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

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

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

Would she share her bed with him?

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

She tensed and flushed - swathes of crimson erupting over her cheeks - when he touched her. She took his hand so unsurely, not like a prolific courtesan who welcomed bastard lovers into her bed.

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

Which meant she was for him to enjoy alone.

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

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

"Relax, it is merely a dance, not a battle." He advised softly. The One-eyed Prince could afford to be accommodating now that she truly was holding onto his hand and depending on his whims.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath hitched as she realized her misstep, her fingers tightening around his forearm for the next twirl. Aemond could practically taste her embarrassment at the tip of his tongue.

"Jurnegon vūs,” (Look at me.) He commanded, flexing underneath her fingertips.

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

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

Why would he stare at her like that?

Like when they met -

Like -

He twirled her around and Arianne was in awe of herself when she hadn't stumbled. Aemond was so sturdy - yet light, on his feet - and his hand a steady anchor that ensured she wouldn’t fall, even if she tried—unless, of course, he willed it.

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

They had to change hands mid-step.

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

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

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

Seven, he did it as if she weighed nothing!

Oh, it's over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come." the Targaryen Prince placed his other hand on top of hers. "If we stay here, I'll think you want me to dance with you again."

Arianne pouted.

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

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

"Not if I translate you the passage." He hummed, a secretive lilt to his voice. Aemond was fairly certain he knew which one she meant if it pertained to the siege of Norvos and the later scouring of the Lorathi islands.

"Lorath rūsīr perzys, kīrīr ūbra zaldryos zaltan jerdar -" (Lorath was bathed in fire, as three hundred dragons burned its skies.)   Aemond drank in her awed gaze, his fingers stroking wistfully over her knuckles.

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

"But you would translate it for me?" Arianne blurted, completely forgetting she was supposed to be wary of Prince Aemond – he was a twat and a rude, prejudiced man regardless and yet - He spoke the language with such effortless fluency that one could almost believe he was a traveler from the Valyria of Old. Not just that, but the way he carried himself, the way he looked - with a chiseled jawline, nose and cheekbones carved from marble, and those lips, ever so slightly curled with disdain.

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

"Your Grace." She added quickly, observing the fair silver of his tresses. The blood of the ancient Valyrian lords ran thick in his veins, far beyond the Targaryen name alone.

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

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

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

Arianne sensed her palm turning clammy inside his.

“Translate what? We don’t have the text here.” She uttered, the booming voice of her septa clanking at the back of her mind instantly. ' "The text? A properly raised lady would immediately refuse to go anywhere with a man her parents do not know! Even if the inner courtyards are lit and chaperoned, it is still unseemly to leave the feast with that man. Young lady, you will sew until you learn!" '

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

Her septa would be furious, but Arianne was considering it. She lowered her chin, noticing the stark contrast of their hands. Hers were small and rather unremarkable, but his – broad palms with long, tapered fingers held her rather firmly.

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

"Arianne!"

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

The One-eyed prince leaned back.

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

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

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

"Besides, you promised me all dances tonight." He pouted like some child. Surely, Aemond thought, Arianne couldn't be considering this boy as her husband. Although Jacaerys was less than two years younger than him, he was coddled and doted upon, and it made him weak in the long-haired Targaryen's eye.

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

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

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

Mad?!

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

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

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

She in question glanced back at him, trying to comprehend his quick retort. His nephew understood easily enough, from the frown erupting across his face.

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

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

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

"Jace!" Arianne chastised him, as she understood the last bits of their exchange. " W-what are you talking about?" Her vision swam.

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

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

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

"The Lady seems unaware of your claim?"

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

" 'Tis none of your concern, uncle." He blustered, his dark, turbulent gaze finding Arianne. She went rigid - her eyes wide and terrified as if suddenly she became aware of the crowd and the murmuring surrounding them,

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

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

Nor should he relinquish the woman to him.

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

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

"It is her ladyship’s decision. " Aemond sneered, his bones sizzling with disagreement. It should be his prerogative. He was trueborn blood of the dragon – the king’s son, Vhagar’s rider, and if he desired so – the little courtesan should warm his bed.

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

Yet, when her countenance turned apologetic, it slashed at the edges of his resolve like valyrian steel. Aemond felt the dreadful rejection licking at his pride before she even spoke.

How dared she?!

He swallowed, measuring his breath.

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

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

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

She hadn’t even kissed anyone.

Infuriating, deceiving little temptress -

Aemond’s blood was boiling and it crashed up his neck in a vehement thud until it reverberated inside his temples. She was fucking provoking him, staring at him with those wide, malachite eyes, her long eyelashes fluttering like some – some timid maiden. When in fact she was –

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

The muscle in his cheek twitched.

Stranger take her!

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

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

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

He was above it.

He was above desiring a willful, left-footed, granddaughter of a blight among his grand ancestors. She didn’t even have a dragon. She’ll never be able to claim a dragon. Her Valyrian blood was already too diluted. She was nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

He'd hurt her.

Good.

Stranger take him, rather , she was even beautiful when on the verge of crying with those dark lashes battering to keep tears at bay. The desire to whisk her away with him only infuriated him more.

To seven hells with you, Arianne Swann.

"I apologize -"

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

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

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

Next.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

TWOW: Arianne I

On the morning that she left the Water Gardens, her father rose from his chair to kiss her on both cheeks. "The fate of Dorne goes with you, daughter," he said, as he pressed the parchment into her hand. "Go swiftly, go safely, be my eyes and ears and voice… but most of all, take care."

Probably the last time she sees her father.

+.+.+

Seven of them set out together on seven Dornish sand steeds. A small party travels more swiftly than a large one, but the heir to Dorne does not ride alone. From Godsgrace came Ser Daemon Sand, the bastard; once Prince Oberyn's squire, now Arianne's sworn shield. From Sunspear two bold young knights, Joss Hood and Garibald Shells, to lend their swords to his. From the Water Gardens seven ravens and a tall young lad to tend them. His name was Nate, but he had been working with the birds so long that no one called him anything but Feathers. And since a princess must have some women to attend her, her company also included pretty Jayne Ladybright and wild Elia Sand, a maid of ten-and-four.

Providing you some additional background information.

+.+.+

War is happening, thought Arianne, and this time Dorne will not be spared. "Doom and death are coming," Ellaria Sand had warned them, before she took her own leave from Prince Doran. "It is time for my little snakes to scatter, the better to survive the carnage." 

Truer words have never been spoken.

Great strategy too! While the circumstances were less than ideal, the Starklings being scattered all over Westeros is the only reason four of them managed to survive this long. Plot armour also helps.

+.+.+

Dayne was her most grievous sin, the one that Arianne most regretted. With one stroke of his sword, he had changed her botched plot into something foul and bloody. If the gods were good, by now Obara Sand had treed him in his mountain fastness and put an end to him.

Hmm, doubt that.

+.+.+

She said as much to Daemon Sand that first night, as they made camp. "Be careful what you pray for, princess," he replied. "Darkstar could put an end to Lady Obara just as easily." "She has Areo Hotah with her." Prince Doran's captain of guards had dispatched Ser Arys Oakheart with a single blow, though the Kingsguard were supposed to be the finest knights in all the realm. "No man can stand against Hotah."

Remember, that side quest is based on a Doran Martell lie. Therefore, there's no shot Darkstar, Areo Hotah, Balon Swann, and Obara Sand being in the Red Mountains together will go well.

+.+.+

Poison, thought Arianne. Yes. Pretty poison, though. That was how he'd fooled her. Gerold Dayne was hard and cruel, but so fair to look upon that the princess had not believed half the tales she'd heard of him. Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the ones who were dark and dangerous as well. That was before, when I was just a girl, she told herself. I am a woman now, my father's daughter. I have learned that lesson.

[...] The princess found herself riding beside Ser Daemon, remembering other rides when they were younger, rides that often ended in embraces. When she found herself stealing glances at him, tall and gallant in the saddle, Arianne reminded herself that she was heir to Dorne, and him no more than her shield.

When the author makes 24-year-old Arianne Martell indistinguishable from 13-year-old Sansa, and 15-year-old Daenerys.

+.+.+

"Tell me what you know of this Jon Connington," she commanded. "He's dead," said Daemon Sand. "He died in the Disputed Lands. Of drink, I've heard it said." "So a dead drunk leads this army?" "Perhaps this Jon Connington is a son of that one. Or just some clever sellsword who has taken on a dead man's name."

That's considered fAegon evidence.

+.+.+

"Or he never died at all." Could Connington have been pretending to be dead for all these years? That would require patience worthy of her father. The thought made Arianne uneasy. Treating with a man that subtle could be perilous.

Unfortunately for Jon Connington, terminal illness tends to rob you of your patience.

I do not have time enough for caution. - The Lost Lord, ADWD

x

It was not the prudent course, but he was tired of prudence, sick of secrets, weary of waiting. - The Lost Lord, ADWD

+.+.+

"What was he like before he… before he died?" "I was a boy at Godsgrace when he was sent into exile. I never knew the man." "Then tell me what you've heard of him from others." "As my princess commands. Connington was Lord of Griffin's Roost when Griffin's Roost was still a lordship worth the having. Prince Rhaegar's squire, or one of them. Later Prince Rhaegar's friend and companion. The Mad King named him Hand during Robert's Rebellion, but he was defeated at Stoney Sept in the Battle of the Bells, and Robert slipped away. King Aerys was wroth, and sent Connington into exile. There he died." "Or not." Prince Doran had told her all of that. There must be more. 

They're the same age, why does a bastard of Godsgrace know more about Jon Connington than the heir to Dorne?

How is her father just now telling her about Aerys' Hand, and the Battle of the Bells? She was the same age as Bran during the events of AGOT when the Rebellion was taking place.

+.+.+

"Those are just the things he did. I know all that. What sort of man was he? Honest and honorable, venal and grasping, proud?" "Proud, for a certainty. Even arrogant. A faithful friend to Rhaegar, but prickly with others. Robert was his liege, but I've heard it said that Connington chafed at serving such a lord. Even then, Robert was known to be fond of wine and whores." "No whores for Lord Jon, then?" "I could not say. Some men keep their whoring secret." "Did he have a wife? A paramour?" Ser Daemon shrugged. "Not that I have ever heard."

You're getting warmer.

+.+.+

That was troubling too. Ser Arys Oakheart had broken his vows for her, but it did not sound as if Jon Connington could be similarly swayed. Can I match such a man with words alone?

Lol.

Cersei Lannister attempting to seduce Stannis Baratheon.

vs.

Arianne Martell attempting to seduce Jon Connington.

Who wins?

+.+.+

To Prince Doran of House Martell, You will remember me, I pray. I knew your sister well, and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve for them as you do. I did not die, no more than did your sister's son. To save his life we kept him hidden, but the time for hiding is done. A dragon has returned to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance for his father, and for the princess Elia, his mother. In her name I turn to Dorne. Do not forsake us. Jon Connington Lord of Griffin's Roost Hand of the True King

Arianne read the letter thrice, then rolled it up and tucked it back into her sleeve. 

Good, good, keep writing while you still can.

I knew your sister well, and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve for them as you do.

↓↓↓

Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. - The Griffin Reborn, ADWD

+.+.+

A dragon has returned to Westeros, but not the dragon my father was expecting. Nowhere in the words was there a mention of Daenerys Stormborn… nor of Prince Quentyn, her brother, who had been sent to seek the dragon queen. The princess remembered how her father had pressed the onyx cyvasse piece into her palm, his voice hoarse and low as he confessed his plan. A long and perilous voyage, with an uncertain welcome at its end, he had said. He has gone to bring us back our heart's desire. Vengeance. Justice. Fire and blood.

And that's exactly what Dorne got.

+.+.+

In the Boneway and the Prince's Pass, two Dornish hosts had massed, and there they sat, sharpening their spears, polishing their armor, dicing, drinking, quarreling, their numbers dwindling by the day, waiting, waiting, waiting for the Prince of Dorne to loose them on the enemies of House Martell. Waiting for the dragons. For fire and blood. For me. One word from Arianne and those armies would march… so long as that word was dragon. If instead the word she sent was war, Lord Yronwood and Lord Fowler and their armies would remain in place. The Prince of Dorne was nothing if not subtle; here war meant wait.

The issue here is that not all the key players in Dorne are pursuing the same common objective, even though Doran Martell took the extra precaution of making them all pinky promise they'll behave.

"Tyene. Obara is too loud. Tyene is so sweet and gentle that no man will suspect her. Obara would make Oldtown our father's funeral pyre, but I am not so greedy. Four lives will suffice for me. Lord Tywin's golden twins, as payment for Elia's children. The old lion, for Elia herself. And last of all the little king, for my father." - The Captain of the Guards, AFFC

x

"War," said Tyene, "though not my sister's war. Dornishmen fight best at home, so I say let us hone our spears and wait. When the Lannisters and the Tyrells come down on us, we shall bleed them in the passes and bury them beneath the blowing sands, as we have a hundred times before." - The Captain of the Guards, AFFC

Doran's plan might be to hold or march, but Tyene and Nym's plan involved provoking the Lannisters, child murder, and armies descending upon Dorne.

And oops, Doran gave them the kid.

+.+.+

"Are you half horse, child?" Valena asked, laughing, in the yard. "Princess, did you bring a stable girl?" "I'm Elia," the girl announced. "Lady Lance." Whoever hung that name on her has much to answer for. Like as not it had been Prince Oberyn, though, and the Red Viper had never answered to anyone but himself. "The girl jouster," Valena said. "Yes, I've heard of you. Since you were the first to the yard, you've won the honor of watering and bridling the horses."

Elia, with a little bit of Lyanna mixed in.

+.+.+

"We have heard the same tales here that you have heard at Sunspear," Lady Nymella told them as her serving man poured the wine. "Sellswords landing on Cape Wrath, castles under siege or being taken, crops seized or burned. Where these men come from and who they are, no one is certain."

Is that the Golden Company burning food they don't seize?

Good luck in the future, you're going to need it.

+.+.+

"Pirates and adventurers, we heard at first," said Valena. "Then it was supposed to be the Golden Company. Now it's said to be Jon Connington, the Mad King's Hand, come back from the grave to reclaim his birthright. Whoever it is, Griffin's Roost has fallen to them. Rain House, Crow's Nest, Mistwood, even Greenstone on its island. All taken." [...] "Tarth has fallen too, some fisherfolk will tell you," said Valena. "These sellswords now hold most of Cape Wrath and half the Stepstones. We hear talk of elephants in the rainwood."

NOOOoooooo. Give it back!!

+.+.+

"And krakens off the Broken Arm, pulling under crippled galleys," said Valena. "The blood draws them to the surface, our maester claims. There are bodies in the water. A few have washed up on our shores. And that's not half of it. A new pirate king has set up on Torturer's Deep. The Lord of the Waters, he styles himself. This one has real warships, three-deckers, monstrous large. You were wise not to come by sea. Since the Redwyne fleet passed through the Stepstones, those waters are crawling with strange sails, all the way north to the Straights of Tarth and Shipbreaker's Bay. Myrmen, Volantenes, Lyseni, even reavers from the Iron Islands. Some have entered the Sea of Dorne to land men on the south shore of Cape Wrath. We found a good fast ship for you, as your father commanded, but even so… be careful."

Krakens!

Everyone say hello to Aurane Waters. I'll cover the rest below.

+.+.+

"Is Dorne at risk?" Lady Nymella asked. "I confess, each time I see a strange sail my heart leaps to my throat. What if these ships turn south? The best part of the Toland strength is with Lord Yronwood in the Boneway. Who will defend Ghost Hill if these strangers land upon our shores? Should I call my men home?" "Your men are needed where they are, my lady," Daemon Sand assured her. Arianne was quick to nod. Any other counsel could well lead to Lord Yronwood's host unravelling like an old tapestry as each man rushed home to defend his own lands against supposed enemies who might or might not ever come. "Once we know beyond a doubt whether these be friends or foes, my father will know what to do," the princess said.

Is Dorne at risk? Uh, yes.

"Doom and death are coming," Ellaria Sand had warned them

Please allow me to illustrate all the ways Dorne is fucked.

Map!

The red circle is where Lady Nymella sits, worried that she's badly exposed, and has nobody to protect her lands (valid fear).

The orange stars indicate the two great Dornish hosts, sitting in the Prince's Pass, and the Boneway.

Now, those two Dornish hosts are well positioned (heh, unless they "unravel") to take on the ever-resilient Cersei Lannister (who will probably have one less kid, thanks to Dorne).

However, if those hosts are preoccupied with an army descending down upon them, the rest of Dorne becomes extremely vulnerable. Didn't think that one through, did you Tyene?

Euron is in the west, travelling further and further along the coast, and I've just been informed by reliable sources that House Redwyne has no hope in hell of stopping him.

Daenerys, another vengeful queen Dorne will piss off, is coming from the east with her dragons, army, and fleet.

Notice how Dorne finds itself between Euron and Daenerys / Victarion? That ain't good.

Moving on, the purple stars are all the pirates, and slavers at the Stepstones and in the Sea of Dorne. We will continue to hear stories of them growing bolder, and landing on the shores of Westeros in Arianne's next chapter. Please pray for Lady Nymella.

That leaves the green arrows: the Greenblood, Dorne's most glaring weakness right now.

The mouth of the Greenblood lies in the Planky Town, which isn't currently being supported by any Dornish forces. Throughout history, there are multiple examples of the Planky Town being broken, and enemy forces driving up the Greenblood to defeat Dorne.

It's a historical fact that randomly gets inserted into a Jon chapter.

"Goat tracks?" The king's eyes narrowed. "I speak of moving swiftly, and you waste my time with goat tracks?"

"When the Young Dragon conquered Dorne, he used a goat track to bypass the Dornish watchtowers on the Boneway."

"I know that tale as well, but Daeron made too much of it in that vainglorious book of his. Ships won that war, not goat tracks. Oakenfist broke the Planky Town and swept halfway up the Greenblood whilst the main Dornish strength was engaged in the Prince's Pass." - Jon IV, ADWD

Kind of feels like with Dorne moving all its pieces to the Prince's Pass and Boneway, we're about to witness this play out all over again.

Do you see what happens when you play the game of thrones? Maybe I owe Lysa Arryn an apology.

One more thing,

"Once we know beyond a doubt whether these be friends or foes, my father will know what to do," the princess said.

That father who knows what to do? He's going to be dead.

+.+.+

It was then that pasty, pudgy Teora raised her eyes from the creamcakes on her plate. "It is dragons." "Dragons?" said her mother. "Teora, don't be mad." "I'm not. They're coming." "How could you possibly know that?" her sister asked, with a note of scorn in her voice. "One of your little dreams?" Teora gave a tiny nod, chin trembling. "They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died."

Is that like bad or something?

+.+.+

"I can attest to that." Ser Daemon took a sip of wine and said, "House Toland has a dragon on its banners." "A dragon eating its own tail, aye," Valena said. "From the days of Aegon's Conquest. He did not conquer here. Elsewhere he burned his foes, him and his sisters, but here we melted away before them, leaving only stone and sand for them to burn. And round and round the dragons went, snapping at their tails for want of any other food, till they were tied in knots."

So many interpretations of this sigil: the dragon is chasing its tail, the dragon is time ... no.

The dragon is eating itself, symbolizing House Targaryen.

+.+.+

"Our forebears played their part in that," Lady Nymella said proudly. "Bold deeds were done, and brave men died. All of it was written down by the maesters who served us. We have books, if my princess would like to know more." "Some other time, perhaps," said Arianne.

Well, that's the last thing you'd ever want to see.

George keeps emphasizing that Arianne Martell is Not A Reader.

During the daylight hours she would try to read, but the books that they had given her were deadly dull: ponderous old histories and geographies, annotated maps, a dry-as-dust study of the laws of Dorne, The Seven-Pointed Star and Lives of the High Septons, a huge tome about dragons that somehow made them about as interesting as newts. - The Princess in the Tower, AFFC

For the record, I don't care about this, but I am well aware of the author's stance on characters who have limited knowledge of history.

This is a book that Daenerys might actually benefit from reading, but she has no access to Archermaester Gyldayn’s crumbling manuscripts. So she's operating on her own there. Maybe if she understood a few things more about dragons and her own history in Essos, things would have gone a little differently. - Esquire, 2018

x

Martin is good at keeping secrets, but he does offer up one tidbit—a reminder that the royal Daenerys Targaryen was given the histories of her world as a wedding gift but neglected to read them. - Vulture, 2014

This is not a good parallel to share with Daenerys Targaryen.

Do I think it's a disaster and Arianne's as good as dead? No. Arya is Not A Reader. Asha is Not A Reader. They'll be fine, one of them might even run a kingdom by the end of this.

Still, at the very least it probably means Arianne Martell is poised to make more mistakes.

+.+.+

The Bastard of Godsgrace was one of Dorne's finest swords as well, as might be expected from one who had been Prince Oberyn's squire and had received his knighthood from the Red Viper himself. Some said that he had been her uncle's lover too, though seldom to his face. Arianne did not know the truth of that. He had been her lover, though. At fourteen she had given him her maidenhead. Daemon had not been much older, so their couplings had been as clumsy as they were ardent. Still, it had been sweet. Arianne gave him her most seductive smile. "We might share a bed together." Ser Daemon's face was stone. "Have you forgotten, princess? I am bastard born." He took her hand in his. "If I am unworthy of this hand, how can I be worthy of your cunt?"

Lol.

Arianne reminded herself that she was heir to Dorne, and him no more than her shield.

+.+.+

"What I will you will not, it seems. So be it. Talk with me instead. Could this truly be Prince Aegon?" "Gregor Clegane ripped Aegon out of Elia's arms and smashed his head against a wall," Ser Daemon said. "If Lord Connington's prince has a crushed skull, I will believe that Aegon Targaryen has returned from the grave. Elsewise, no. This is some feigned boy, no more. A sellsword's ploy to win support."

My father fears the same.

Daemon Sand comes across as a highly logical and rational thinker. I'm not sure what I'll think if he continues to not believe it's Aegon.

+.+.+

So it was. "I was seven when Elia died. They say I held her daughter Rhaenys once, when I was too young to remember. Aegon will be a stranger to me, whether true or false." The princess paused. "We looked for Rhaegar's sister, not his son." Her father had confided in Ser Daemon when he chose him as his daughter's shield; with him at least she could speak freely. "I would sooner it were Quentyn who'd returned." "Or so you say," said Daemon Sand. "Good night, princess." He bowed to her, and left her standing there. What did he mean by that? Arianne watched him walk away. What sort of sister would I be, if I did not want my brother back? It was true, she had resented Quentyn for all those years that she had thought their father meant to name him as his heir in place of her, but that had turned out to be just a misunderstanding. She was the heir to Dorne, she had her father's word on that. Quentyn would have his dragon queen, Daenerys.

You good, Arianne?

+.+.+

In Sunspear hung a portrait of the Princess Daenerys who had come to Dorne to marry one of Arianne's forebears. In her younger days Arianne had spent hours gazing at it, back when she was just a pudgy flat-chested girl on the cusp of maidenhood who prayed every night for the gods to make her pretty. A hundred years ago, Daenerys Targaryen came to Dorne to make a peace. Now another comes to make a war, and my brother will be her king and consort. King Quentyn. Why did that sound so silly?

She's coming alright.

I don't blame her for thinking it sounds silly, but I can't lie, she's making me a little uncomfortable right now.

+.+.+

Almost as silly as Quentyn riding on a dragon. Her brother was an earnest boy, well-behaved and dutiful, but dull. And plain, so plain. The gods had given Arianne the beauty she had prayed for, but Quentyn must have prayed for something else. His head was overlarge and sort of square, his hair the color of dried mud. His shoulders slumped as well, and he was too thick about the middle. He looks too much like Father.

Maybe he valued other things, Arianne.

What would a maid that age want with her dull, bookish brother? - Arianne II, TWOW

+.+.+

"I love my brother," said Arianne, though only the moon could hear her. Though if truth be told, she scarcely knew him. Quentyn had been fostered by Lord Anders of House Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, the son of Lord Ormond Yronwood and grandson of Lord Edgar. In his youth her uncle Oberyn had fought a duel with Edgar, had given him a wound that mortified and killed him. Afterward men called him 'the Red Viper,' and spoke of poison on his blade. The Yronwoods were an ancient house, proud and powerful. Before the coming of the Rhoynar they had been kings over half of Dorne, with domains that dwarfed those of House Martell. Blood feud and rebellion would surely have followed Lord Edgar's death, had not her father acted at once. The Red Viper went to Oldtown, thence across to the narrow sea to Lys, though none dared call it exile. And in due time, Quentyn was given to Lord Anders to foster as a sign of trust. That helped to heal the breach between Sunspear and the Yronwoods, but it had opened new ones between Quentyn and the Sand Snakes… and Arianne had always been closer to her cousins than to her distant brother.

They were kids when this happened, but it's still wild to resent Quentyn for any of this. He was also cut off from his father.

+.+.+

"We are still the same blood, though," she whispered. "Of course I want my brother home. I do." The wind off the sea was raising gooseprickles all up and down her arms. Arianne pulled her cloak about herself, and went off to seek her bed.

Are you alright?

+.+.+

Arianne played a game of cyvasse with Ser Daemon, and another one with Garibald Shells, and somehow managed to lose both. Ser Garibald was kind enough to say that she played a gallant game, but Daemon mocked her. "You have other pieces beside the dragon, princess. Try moving them sometime."

This is like reading a Catelyn chapter from A Storm of Swords.

+.+.+

"I like the dragon." She wanted to slap the smile off his face. Or kiss it off, perhaps. The man was as smug as he was comely. Of all the knights in Dorne, why did my father chose this one to be my shield? He knows our history.

Did she answer her own question? Bwahaha.

+.+.+

The secret pact that Prince Doran had made all those years called for Arianne to be wed to Prince Viserys, not Quentyn to Daenerys. It had all come undone on the Dothraki sea, when he was murdered. Crowned with a pot of molten gold. "He was killed by a Dothraki khal," said Arianne. "The dragon queen's own husband." "So I've heard. What of it?" "Just… why did Daenerys let it happen? Viserys was her brother. All that remained of her own blood." "The Dothraki are a savage folk. Who can know why they kill? Perhaps Viserys wiped his arse with the wrong hand." Perhaps, thought Arianne, or perhaps Daenerys realized that once her brother was crowned and wed to me, she would be doomed to spend the rest of her life sleeping in a tent and smelling like a horse. "She is the Mad King's daughter," the princess said. "How do we do know —" "We cannot know," Ser Daemon said. "We can only hope."

Are you projecting?

There's no getting around the fact that Arianne is bothered by the idea of her brother being king, despite it not interfering with her inheriting Dorne.

Sadly, these thoughts are going to continue in her next chapter.

King Quentyn. It still sounded silly. This new Daenerys Targaryen was younger than Arianne by half a dozen years. What would a maid that age want with her dull, bookish brother? Young girls dreamed of dashing knights with wicked smiles, not solemn boys who always did their duty. She will want Dorne, though. If she hopes to sit the Iron Throne, she must have Sunspear. If Quentyn was the price for that, this dragon queen would pay it. What if she was at Griffin’s End with Connington, and all this about another Targaryen was just some sort of subtle ruse? Her brother could well be with her. King Quentyn. Will I need to kneel to him? - Arianne II, TWOW

It's another bad parallel to share with Daenerys Targaryen.

"What … what if it were not Viserys?" she asked. "If it were someone else who led them? Someone stronger? Could the Dothraki truly conquer the Seven Kingdoms?" - Daenerys IV, AGOT

x

She wondered if all men were as false in the Seven Kingdoms. When her son sat the Iron Throne, she would see that he had bloodriders of his own to protect him against treachery in his Kingsguard. - Daenerys IV, AGOT

x

Dany had not known, had not even suspected. "Then … he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother … and my true king." - Daenerys V, AGOT

Let's hope these thoughts only exist to amplify the remorse and guilt she'll feel after she learns he's dead, and nothing more.

In other news, it appears that a developing rivalry between Daenerys and Arianne is taking form.

Is that you, Arianne Martell?

Final thoughts:

Doran's going to die, Oberyn's dead, Quentyn's dead, half the Sand Snakes are massive liabilities, Areo Hotah is a mute, and Arianne doesn't read books.

Where's Sarella? Maybe we let Ellaria run the kingdom for a bit.

Next chapter: Mercy (Arya)

-> return to menu <-

[aureliabriar]

( eva de dominici / 137 (looks 29) / she/her ) wait, is that AURELIA BRIARWOOD in the EMERALD ENCHANTED again? i heard through a grapevine, that the EARTH leaning high fae has been in town for 80 YEARS, and currently work as THE OWNER OF THE EMERALD ENCHANTED. some say she can be VAIN and HAUGHTY, but i thought she was actually CLEVER and POLITE. 

THE FOREST WAS BEAUTIFUL MY HEAD WAS CLEAN AND CLEAR ALONE WITHOUT FEAR THE FOREST WAS SAFE I DANCED LIKE A BEAUTIFUL FOOL ONE TIME SOME TIME

NAME: Aesira Aurelia Briarwood NICKNAMES: Aurie, Relia, Reela, Lia ALIASES: Arianne, Annika, Ainsley AGE: 137 (appears 29) DATE OF BIRTH: October 27th, 1888 ZODIAC: Scorpio ☼ | Leo ☾ | Gemini ↑ PLACE OF BIRTH: A forest on the border between Italy & Switzerland GENDER: Cis Female ORIENTATION: Pansexual, Demiromantic

SPECIES: High Fae (Earth) HAIR: A dark, nearly black shade of brown. Thick and shiny, falling in gentle waves to her waist. EYES: Hazel - sage green with a golden-brown ring around her iris. HEIGHT: 5'6" DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Pale freckles across her nose & cheeks traveling down her shoulders & arms. Skin that is otherwise entirely smooth & seemingly without pores. Unsettling stillness in her countenance. Her wings, in the rare event that she ever uses them, are the gossamer, fragile fractals of a dragonfly wing, with iridescent scales.

VIRTUES: Clever, polite, graceful, poised, eloquent, charming, intelligent, perceptive FLAWS: Vain, haughty, greedy, proud, cunning, dazzling, deceitful, crafty, cold, aloof MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

BIOGRAPHY

you are of the earth, carved from the evergreen of the forest & given breath of life. if you have parents, you know them not. as far as you are concerned, you are life personified: the lush overgrowth of verdant earth, a spirit of utmost revelry & mischief as any fae could be. living in the hollow of a massive oak as a child, then amongst its massive, twining branches as a woman grown. though, by fae standards, you are still to come of age when the first mortal man arrives.

he is enraptured by your beauty, and you are young enough to comply when he begs you for a kiss, and you willingly stray further. you are happy for the company, an immortal creature of the wood, you know his existence to be temporary, and if he grows worrisome you can always rid yourself of him. but he begs you yet for more. after multiple such visits, he asks you to be his bride. you laugh him off; bemused that he thinks to tame the wilderness you embody, but he takes offense. after he leaves, he returns days later with more company.

you are only fifty, barely having come into your power, and they are many. they chain you in iron, they chop down your tree & set fire to its remnants, and in the heat of pride, seek out other fae in your forest to capture. in your despair, you release a great force of power that shakes the foundations of the earth around you. vines entwine your attackers' bodies and choke the life from them, and you flee. your fortune turning toward the better when a witch discovers you & takes you in.

she heals you, unchains you, and dresses you in mortal trappings. teaching you to be human since a return to your old life is impossible. after a few years, you leave her care to seek out a change of scenery & abandon the ghosts of your past for good. there are murmurings among those of the supernatural of a safe haven in america called westray, where creatures lived in peace, if still in secrecy, and you follow the call there.

it is 1942 when you arrive & make a home for yourself, though you remain reclusive in the forest. founding the emerald enchanted, a nightclub in the woods for people to forget their worries & indeed, forget everything else around them. you thrive off of their revelry, and remain reclusive, almost mythic; a face among many, and rarely venture into town. most of your connections made are with the other fae that reside in town, especially after the vanishing of the mayor & the subsequent fragmentation of the town.

[lemoncakesandwine]

At what timeline is the story going to start?

Is Aelor going to stay in Pentos? If so then Elia would leave there too? And what did he think of what Rhaegar did?

What is Arthur and Rhaegar's relationship like now? Beside being loyal to his king.

Do you have a name for Vaesella's daughter?

I assume Viserys will be betrothed to Arianne?

Are there any messages between Rhaegar and Arthur about the princess? If there is, does she know? If she doesn't, how would she react if she knew?

Does she get annoyed if someone close to her and especially Arthur talk fondly or in a good manner about Rhaegar or Lyanna?

Is Rhaegar going to have more children?

After how long does she finally come to forgive and truly love Arthur?

Warnings: mentions of marital infidelity | Canon Targaryen marriage practices.

A/n: for this AU, I have come up with a full list of names for months and days. Those will be posted after Christmas. I have also come up with a full bio for Vaesella, my OC.

At what timeline is the story going to start? I have already drafted an introductory story set during Winter’s End (January), 285 AC, at the wedding feast held in honor of Arthur and Vaesella getting married.

Is Aelor going to stay in Pentos? He is. 

If so then Elia would leave there too? Aelor insists on bringing her. He thinks it would be cruel to leave her alone for the months he has to travel to Pentos every year. Plus, it will be easier for her, his kids, and his former paramour, Syreya, to get to know each other if they are all in the same place. 

And what did he think of what Rhaegar did? He thinks Rhaegar is a fool. And it is not just because of Rhaegar having an affair, plunging the realm into war, and ending his marriage to a good woman because of said affair. He thinks Lyanna is not prepared for life as a queen consort.    

What is Arthur and Rhaegar's relationship like now? Beside being loyal to his king. Complicated. He is still loyal to Rhaegar since he is king and they still have a rapport, but like I said in another ask in my other blog, Arthur is disappointed that Rhaegar did not honor his vows, and his relationship with Rhaegar shifts even more after he finds himself falling in love with his wife.

Do you have a name for Vaesella's daughter? Yes! Arthur and Vaesella name their daughter Rhaela, after an ancient Valyrian goddess associated with grace, joy, and festivities. She has her father’s hair and coloring, and her mother's rare true purple eyes.

I assume Viserys will be betrothed to Arianne? Oh, yes. Those two get into all sorts of “spicy” trouble when they are adults. 

Are there any messages between Rhaegar and Arthur about the princess? If there is, does she know? If she doesn't, how would she react if she knew? Arthur does not write to Rhaegar about the things Vaesella is doing since they are nothing to give anyone any concern. It is only when she becomes surrounded by admirers does he become concerned, more so by the attention she is getting than anything else.

Does she get annoyed if someone close to her and especially Arthur talk fondly or in a good manner about Rhaegar or Lyanna? In the beginning, Vaesella shuts down. Or she tries to change the topic. Or she makes up an excuse to walk away. Over time, she does grow accustomed to others talking about Rhaegar and Lyanna in both negative and positive ways, but when she does engage, it is with a thousand-yard look in her eyes. 

Is Rhaegar going to have more children? Yes. After Aenar, he has Maekar and then Daenys. Aenar wedding Daenerys will be the only Targ/Targ marriage for their generation. Maekar and Daenys are married into other suitable noble houses when they are of an age to do so. 

After how long does she finally come to forgive and truly love Arthur? Between six to eight months into their stay in Pentos, Arthur learns of her plan to take on a paramour to punish him for helping Rhaegar. He confronts her, confesses his love for her in a moving little speech, and he tells her that either they work on their marriage or he writes to Rhaegar and they part ways after securing an annulment. Vaesella, moved by Arthur’s declaration, agrees to give him a chance and accepts his proposal to court her. After this she finds it in her heart to forgive him and starts to fall in love with him in the months that follow this event.  

[reinerose]

@dcviline asked: ❛ i’ll take care of you. ❜ (daemon)

"Is   that   what   you   said   to   your   princess?   Because   for   what   I   heard,   there   was   nothing   but   care   in   these   matters."   Margaery   turns   to   look   at   him,   fully.   She   hadn't   seen   him   properly   when   he   was   there   with   Oberyn   for   her   own   wedding   now   she   is   in   Dorne,   hiding.   "I   do   not   require   care.   If   I   did,   I   would   go   back   to   my   brother   and   receive   brotherly   comfort.   I   need   something   else   from   you."   And   Arianne   and   her   ladies   spoke   plenty   of   Daemon   Sand.   A   knight,a   bastard,   a   graticous   lover.   He   looks   tall   and   slim   and   so   different   from   the   soften   features   of   the   Reach.  

"Thrice   wed,   never   once   consumated.   First   preferred   men   over   me,   second   would've   been   rougher   than   a   lady   would   want,   and   the   third   was   but   a   child."   And   while   she   had   fooled   around   with   her   own   knights,   it   has   been   a   long   time,   her   hand   locks   the   door   behind   him   and   turning   to   face   him,   eyes   looking   up   to   him,   desire   finally   overtaking.   "I   am   a   lady   in   distress   and   I   would   like   for   you   to   help   me   release   that   stress."   Her   hands   reach   for   the   jerkin   of   his   shirt   and   pull   him   closer.   "I   have   seen   how   you   look   at   me,   Ser.   You   can   look,   touch,   and   pull   as   you   wish."

[hell-much]

Cutting Room Floor - Once In A Lifetime II

MARGAERY’S PHOTOGRAPHS

A collection of cut scenes from chapter 4. Some more of Margaery's photographs they look at together.

...

“This was one of my first paid jobs for National Geographics. A grotto on the Arbor.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa mutters, looking the way the light mirrors on the surface of the lake.

“It’s also completely artificial. Manmade less than 100 years ago.”

“Really? But all those stalagmites look real…”

“Stalactites.” She corrects and smiles cheekily. “The guide told me a way to remember it easily. Stalac-tits. Because over time they’re hanging down.”

Sansa smiles weakly. “That’s pretty lame.”

“I have a weak spot for bad puns.”

“And here I thought you had class.”

The laughter bubbling out of Margaery is a wonderful sensation. “Fooled you.”

 “You’re bad taste aside,” she points at the picture, “how can you make those artificially?”

“Stage designers,” Margaery explains. “They worked with nets and tons of plaster.”

“Wouldn’t have finding a natural cave have been easier?”

“That is the least of it. The cave has coloured light, a sound system and the lake can be heated.”

Sansa studies the picture. Margaery knows that from looking at it you could never tell. It looks just like you’d imagine a cave. “Why though?”

“The owner had it made just for himself. For his entertainment. Apparently at some point there was even a gondola on there.”

“Again… why?”

“The public called him crazy.”

“That’s not what you think though.”

“No. I think he wanted to escape reality.” She takes a deep breath. “Rumour has it he was gay. Imagine that in one of the most pristine times we ever had. I would have built myself a cave too given the resources.”

“He must have been very lonely.”

“Who knows… I like to think that maybe he wasn’t always alone in there.”

That’s a thought Sansa likes a whole lot better. “Now you made it romantic.”

.

“Tell me about this one,” Sansa asks. “That’s Arianne again, isn’t it?”

She leans over the picture in a way that makes it impossible for Margaery to see it without leaning closer again. She can’t be sure if that’s a conscious act. At the faint chance that it is she moves forward and sets her elbows on the table.

“That was in King’s Landing.” Margaery’s eyes draw over the picture, the faces of her friends, squeezing on the landing of a fire escape, looking back at them. “During the student protests, the police would regularly come after the protesters. We made it up a fire escape just barely before they came with the water cannons.”

Sansa turns to look at her and blinks rapidly at the proximity. She fidgets with the strap of her dress in drawing her eyes back on the picture. “You were in the protests?”

“Of course.”

She saves herself to say that those rebellious days are behind her. It’s not that she isn’t still passionate about the things she believes in, but she does no longer spend her weekends painting banners and chanting until she’s hoarse. 

“What was the protest about?”

“This one?” She sips her wine, to stall, to figure out how to best put it, if to come out with the truth out at all. “We were marching to the Red Keep. Demanding the right to choose.”

“Abortion?”

“Yes.”

 Sansa is studying each of the faces in the picture, says almost absentmindedly. “A good cause.” A smile spreads on Margaery’s lips and she notices it so quickly, Sansa thinks she might have not been as captivated with the photograph as she thought.  “What?”

Margaery ducks her head, tries to get her smile under control. “Nothing.”

Now she puts the photograph down and leans back. “Tell me.”

“I’m just surprised—I’m glad that you see it that way.”

.

With the next photograph Sansa picks, Margaery’s smile grows broader. “This one is my favourite, if I had favourites.”

Sansa squints, not sure what she’s looking at.

On a first glance it’s hard to tell what makes it special. It looks like your typical street café. A handful of bistro tables with chairs, all of them set up with a small vase and a single flower. The three occupied littered with small cups, glasses, plates, personal belongings. In front of the whole scene a waitress in a black skirt and a tiny apron, flinging a look over her shoulder, sceptical eyes peering into the camera.

“That was in Braavos.” There is a soft smile on Margaery’s face. “Look a little closer you’ll notice it.”

Sansa sits up too. “The waitress wasn’t happy you were photographing her?”

“Here,” Margaery points at two men sitting at one table, then at another one. “And here.”

The first two are holding hands, not in a friendly or comforting kind of way, and not concealed either. Hands are intertwined tightly, on top of the table.

With the second pair it’s a less obvious, but only until you see it. The way they’re sitting angled towards each other, close together, looking into each other’s eyes makes for an intimacy that still captivates her until today.

“That was in broad day light, in the middle of the city, in busy streets, and no one batted even an eye. That would be unthinkable even in the most liberal cities here.”

She can hear the longing in her own tone, can tell Sansa’s eyes land on her for it, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the picture that feels still a little like a utopia. Just walking in the street, holding hands is yet completely unthinkable, even when the laws have changed.

“Maybe one day it will be the same here.”

“I hope so.” Who knows, maybe. Essos, and Braavos especially always had been pretty good indicators for future developments.

“What are you thinking?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just… I think sometimes things with Renly could have ended differently had they…” She shakes her head again. That was definitely enough wine for her. “That’s all just speculation of course. Maybe he could have kissed him goodbye on the front porch and still gotten into that car crash later the same day.”

“And maybe that kiss would have just delayed him enough.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe it was putting things too simple, but maybe life was too hard sometimes not to take some things lightly.

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons IV.

Ao3 link

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

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

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

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

Chapters: 4/? (47,745k)

Warnings: safe for now, canon-typical sexism, the story will get progressively darker and will include explicit content, canon character death(s), dubcon, noncon, it's war folks

Tagging my dear @lacebvnny, hope you like it! Our poor Arianne in this one.

I., II., III.

IV. Izula

"People do not see you, They invent you and accuse you." - Helene Cixous

(Arianne)

.

Clumsy as Seven Hells.

Arianne knew that as long as she kept blinking she might be able to keep tears at bay. They itched, those translucent droplets gathering between her dark lashes.

Prince Aemond offered her one last icy glare before he stalked through the crowd and out of her eyesight.

Her breath lodged underneath her throat.

Out of all the insults in the world, he spat that she had no grace.

Her house prided itself upon it. A swan was...above all, a paragon of grace.

Arianne's clammy hands trembled - she wished to fade into the walls rather than stand in the middle of the banquet hall, surrounded by the joyful crowd of lords, ladies, and courtiers.

Clumsy.

A blight that has no grace and does not belong here.

The low and venomous voice burned through her skin and permeated her flesh.

Less than a tavern wench.

What could she have possibly done to Prince Aemond for him to bestow her with so many insults?

For a moment, she imagined that they had found the mutual language, that they could be cordial, but he threw it right back at her face.

Hateful, hateful, hateful, hateful twat!

"Arianne, are you alright?" Jace came to stand right by her when she took too long to respond to his offered arm. He carried a certain, familiar warmth with him, and the concern bleeding through his tone made her flutter her eyelashes bashfully.

"I'm fine—" Arianne started, but her words faltered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.

Did Jace think she was without grace? L-like a tavern wench.

Her bottom lip quivered.

She was an embarrassment to her House.

"What happened?" He asked, his dark brows furrowing.

Arianne brushed her palms down her dark skirt, her pinky finger getting stuck against the embroidered feather. The mere attempt to repeat what the One-eyed Prince uttered would have her succumb to hysterics.

Jacaerys Velaryon tilted his head up, gaze knifelike as he followed his uncle leaving the hall and vanishing into the passageways.

"Did he say something to you?" He asked again, his tone colder now.

Arianne pressed her right molars into the inside of her cheek.

'Only that I was clumsy as hell and that no one would accept me as your queen.'

"No… no, of course not," she murmured, though her voice lacked its usual strength.

"He just said he didn’t care about a rematch."

Figures moved around them as another dance began. Jace gently pressed his fingers on her forearm and slowly guided her to safety.

A servant offered her a goblet from the golden tray and she gladly took it. The wine was heady, a blend of dark cherries, ripe plums, and spice—perhaps cinnamon or clove—lingered at the back of her tongue.

"That’s all?" Jace attempted again when she met his dark chocolate eyes over the rim of her chalice.

Arianne nodded, unable to commit to words. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth, not when the sting of Aemond’s insults still made her stomach churn.

"You do not belong here."

"Clumsy blight just like your grandmother - how much does he pay you -"

She realized it wasn't just the words but the way he’d looked at her—like she was fragile, inconsequential, and utterly beneath him.

Besides, what was he insinuating with that? What would they pay her for?

She drew her brows together.

Her company?

Her...her...her... Arianne coughed against the back of her hand, scandalized.

Did he think she was a courtesan?! How preposterous, her family would've disowned her if that were true!

Her mother would have dragged her by the neck to some remote sept and given her to silent sisters - insisting their newly acquired novice be canned for her sins.

Her father -

Arianne's stomach lurched.

Father would consider her dead from that moment on.

Her grip on the goblet tightened, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the chill coiled in her stomach.

Arianne cursed herself silently for lowering her guard around that malevolent arse and then cursed him into Seven hells, before remembering that cursing was a sin.

'Forgive me Maiden, but truly I do not think you would find Aemond Targaryen palatable either. I think you'd sooner remove his uppity head from his shoulders than let him prattle.'

Ser Galladon he was not.

Jace studied her, the flush of crimson bedecking her cheeks, the tight frown her full lips were settled into - his gaze searching.

'Tavern wench! Tavern wench! How dared he? 'Arianne scrunched her nose - she'd been nothing but courteous! She sought his forgiveness and what did she receive in return? More insults!

The fires of the Freehold, she’d beamed, as though the topic alone could bridge the chasm between them. As though Aemond Targaryen, with his jagged dagger of a tongue and demeanor that would put the Night King to shame, might soften at the shared reverence for their ancestors’ triumphs.

Foolish.

"Naivety, daughter," Her father had tried to lecture her — though clearly in vain —

"is a weakness—one that others will exploit without hesitation. To speak openly, to trust too readily, is to lay yourself bare to a world that feasts on vulnerability."

How could she have let herself believe, even for the briefest of moments, that he might see her differently? Just because she wished it so — because he'd be her uncle by marriage if her dreams came true.

Aemond hated her—clearly hated her. The way he looked at her, with that unnerving pale gaze, piercing through her armor, leaving her flayed and exposed.

"Did my mother put you up to this?" Jace crossed his arms, the movement pulling the fabric of his doublet taut over his broad shoulders. His cape, fastened at one side with a brooch shaped like a dragon in mid-flight, cascaded down in heavy folds of deep crimson velvet.

"My prince?" Arianne blinked, startled.

"Did she ask you to speak to him? To any of them?" he pressed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "To get close, to learn what they’re planning? Because if she did—"

"Jace," she interrupted, her voice breaking through his rising anger. Arianne batted her lashes in an attempt to clear her mind.

"Gods, no. Nothing like that." She shook her head and took another sip. A thunderbolt charged through her nerves — but his mother had asked her to speak with Lady Tarth! Which she failed to do!

She'd been conversing with that foul boor all night! Arianne returned her chalice to the table lest it slip from her perspiring palms.

He'd appeared there out of nowhere! How was she supposed to breach decorum by ignoring him?! She hadn't managed to gauge Lady Tarth's opinion on the Court welcoming a debate on an already settled succession matter.

"Ah... do not waste thoughts on my uncle then, even his own brother finds him unpalatable. " Jace declared, waving his arm.

 A glint flashed in his eyes of molten umber, and he chuckled.

When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with something whimsical.

"Shall I remind that spiteful cur that he cried to his mother over a silly pig in the Dragonpit?"

Arianne pressed her hand to her lips, stifling a giggle. She shook her head as if to seal the conversation.

She would not think about Aemond Targaryen and his wicked words, at least not until she could cry it out in the safety of her chambers.

Yet her mind could not, would not, quiet down - it tumbled and twisted so vehemently that the hall's music, voices, and pleasantries were but a quiet whisper.

"It’s her ladyship’s decision," Aemond had snarled, his fervid gaze locked on her with a torridity that made her stomach churn.

Why had he said that? If he despised her so thoroughly—why would he pretend to leave such a choice to her? What if she had decided to walk the inner courtyards with him? He'd have to suffer clumsy Arianne the Tavern Wench even more than he already did.

 Would he have laughed openly to her face if she accepted his invitation?

To humiliate her further?

To remind her how little she was suited to hold any position at court, let alone that of a Queen?

Or—her breath lacerated her throat—he had truly meant it and she scorned him by refusing?

Something tumultuous, something that made her chest tighten and her skin clammy invaded her mind.

No, that would be ridiculous. She pushed the thought away as she knew nothing of men or their peculiar behaviors. They were creatures of whims, mother would often say.

However, if a man wanted to spend time with a lady he wouldn't call her someone's mistress.

It would be absurd.

Utterly, veritably unsound.

Was he the only one who thought her frivolous with her honor?

Her thoughts pivoted suddenly, uncomfortably, to Jace.

" She will be my betrothed."

Arianne blanched, eyes widening as it dawned on her. Her eyes flickered to her handsome, curly-haired prince who had been, thank the gods, distracted with sipping his wine.

The tips of her ears tingled.

Jace had said it earlier, so plainly, as if it were an inevitable truth.

No, she couldn't hope. Hope is a fool's errand, her father always said. Jace only said it...well, because of Aemond...that... But...but..., Arianne pulled on her embroidered sleeve so tightly, she could feel the stitching holding onto fabric for its dear life.

A terrible sort of heat suffused her face, the words settling over her like a cloak too heavy to bear.

"Jace, you..." she began, her voice diminishing as she took him in now, beautiful and princely, his warm eyes set on her.

Arianne tried again, her words stumbling over themselves. "Earlier, you—"

"I am leaving!" Luke's voice cut through her attempt, rendering it inconsequential. He stormed past them, face flushed from anger or something else - Arianne could not know.

Jace sighed, his attention drawn away. "Luke—"

"No!" Luke snapped, his voice cracking from the frustration. "Don’t. I’ve had enough of this place, they are all muttering behind our backs—"

Arianne sucked in her bottom lip, glancing at the crowd from where Prince Lucerys escaped. So many green doublets in Targaryen court. Too many green gowns. Hightower green.

"Luke," Jace interrupted, his tone calm but firm. "We’ll leave together. Just wait—"

Luke pushed past them, muttering under his breath, his shoulders stiff with anger.

Jace turned back to Arianne, his large eyes brimming with something apologetic.

"Let me handle this," he rasped gently. She nodded, unable to say anything else. How awful she must be, selfishly caring about her betrothal when Luke could have his whole life upended if the Crown gives weight to Vaemond Velaryon's accusations.

Jacaerys lingered for a moment, then strode after his brother, his crimson cape trailing behind him in a sweeping arc of fire and blood.

Arianne stared at her half-empty cup, her posture rigid, her pulse racing steadily up her neck. The weight of Jace’s words earlier struck her again, and she pressed her lips together, her hands trembling faintly.

Her heart seized.

Betrothed.

Should she write to her father again? Or her Aunt Johanna?

She'd written to the black swan of Lys more often after settling in Dragonstone, the fear of her lord father finding out diminishing with such distance from Stonehelm. Johanna already knew from her last letter that she would be in King's Landing by now.

'Aunt Johanna would know what a man thought. From Lys to Asshai, men had fought for her favor.'

Arianne surveyed the spacious hall for any sign of Lady Tarth's gray updo yet her luck seemed to have run out - the old lady was nowhere in sight. With another curse upon Aemond's name, she relented and decided to retire for tonight.

A knight she did not recognize offered to escort her but she politely declined - she had memorized her way to the Holdfast.

Her handmaid was still awake, giving her evening prayers to the Seven.

Arianne let her untie the lace bindings at her back with no protest and dressed herself for bed. The unadorned, linen chemise shimmered faintly under candlelight. It clung to her form, falling loosely to her calves, as gentle as a breeze.

"Out with it." Miriam crossed her arms, copper hairbrush in hand, once her young Lady Swann quietly sat to have her hair loosened from the tight hold of the braids and brushed.

Arianne's eyes found her maid's reflection in the brass mirror. Miriam's hair was pulled back in a neat chignon of warm sunflowers and her thin eyebrows were narrowed.

"What do you mean?" Arianne pursed her lips.

She'd been so careful to avoid precisely what she imagined was now brewing.

Were her thoughts and secret pains truly so legible?

Her mother had been right in picking Miriam to watch over her, for nothing escaped her notice.

"If you think you'll be Queen you are simpler than I thought..."

A tremble of discomfort passed through her lower back.

Mayhaps, she was simple because Aemond somehow guessed - no, knew - she'd spent countless nights ruminating on those same premises.

It was a plain syllogism really.

She was Saera Targaryen's granddaughter.

Saera was the worst of the Conciliator's children. Nefarious. A clawed harlot.

Therefore, Arianne had that same taint. It poisoned her blood and made people doubt her good graces.

'I need to be above suspicion. Better behaved, as pious as the Queen, then maybe...'

"You're awfully docile. No argument?" Miriam replied with a raised brow, her voice laced with disbelief.

"You're not even trying to grab that fat book and weasel out of - " She waved the brush in the air.

"-my butcher's hands."

Arianne had to huff at her wording.

Her maid had been as gentle as she could but brushing Arianne’s wavy mass of maple-brown hair was unpleasant because it always got tangled. Always.

The knots seemed to multiply with every pass of the brush, like a wild thing refusing to be tamed.

Miriam had learned long ago not to take offense to the occasional wince or gasp from her lady, and to barrel through her refusal to have it done before going to bed.

"Miriam," Arianne whispered softly at last. She swallowed thickly around the weight in her throat. Her fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her chemise because she knew her maid was poring over her reflection in the brass.

"Do you think I have no grace?" She wondered, unwilling to meet Miriam's keen eyes.

The other woman stilled, hairbrush resting lightly in her palm. Arianne knew her handmaid was trying to see her better, but her gaze just wouldn't leave her knees.

"You are a daughter of House Swann." Miriam offered at last.

Her fingers deftly seized one of Arianne's heavy curls, smoothing it between thumb and forefinger.

"Grace Above All. How could you not have it? It is in your blood."

"I am a rotten fruit then." Arianne muttered bitterly. "One-winged swan. Maybe I was swapped in the cradle. Something is wrong—"

"Where is this coming from?" Miriam cut in and crossed her arms.

"I am clumsy," Arianne confessed, her voice catching as she finally met her maid's eyes in the reflection.

"It's unbecoming. Laughable."

Her breath quivered.

She had collided with Jace before during turns and he waved it off, but now - What if he were to arrive at the same conclusion? Clumsy Arianne Swann. Who'd marry her? Certainly not a Velaryon prince.

One other prince found her so unbecoming he wanted her gone from court.

Aemond snarled that she did not belong there.

"My lady," Miriam replied, with a slight raise of her brow, "if you're fishing for compliments at this late hour—"

"I am not!" Arianne snapped, furious heat tickling her cheeks.

"I really...what was father thinking, sending me to Dragonstone? I'm not..." She faltered, her fingers twisting harder in the chemise.

"My grandmother didn't belong here, how could I?" The question left a hole in her ribcage. What Prince Aemond had said gnawed at her insides, because what if it were true — what if she truly was ill-suited for all this?

"You're nothing like her!" Miriam argued with a surprising fierceness.

"She -"

"I know." Arianne cut in, her voice quieter now, the words weighted down by the obsidian stones of Stonehelm.

Miriam sighed, brushing a stray curl back into place with a tenderness that belied her brusque tone.

"Well, you are as comely as she was."

Arianne's nose scrunched.

Her thoughts flew to the image of her grandmother she conjured in her mind from stories—fabled Valyrian hair that shone like woven starlight, cerulean eyes so piercing they could freeze a room. So, so charming supposedly — when she wished to be.

Arianne had none of it.

Her eyes, mossy green like her father’s, had somehow managed to persist through generations of Swann sons and daughters, stubborn and unyielding against both dark browns and palest of blues.

Her father took after Saera in everything else, much to his chagrin.

His hair, a dazzling white-gold, caught the light like the finest gossamer. He carried himself with an almost dragon-like grandeur, and Arianne often thought that if he’d been given a dragon, many would have mistaken him for a true Targaryen prince rather than a scion of an old Andal house.

After beholding the Old King's portrait, she was rather surprised at how much his grandson — her lord father — resembled him.

Yet, if she ever mentioned it to him, he would have septa whip her palms with a thin birch branch.

"I highly doubt that." Arianne shrugged noncommittally. She adjusted the tiny horses on the lapis-lazuli board before her, trying to feign disinterest.

"I just wished to know if dancing was truly a requirement for a lady's luck with marriage prospects."

Her lips pursed into a pout as she fixed the misaligned pieces. A light horse's value is two-thirds of a heavy horse's. It is one of the most versatile pieces. If she had not accepted the exchange and pursued Aemond's with an elephant...

"I’ve seen her portrait, you know," Miriam said after a pause, her voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial.

"Before Lord Swann had it removed. You favor her."

Arianne’s head turned, and she afforded Miriam with a sharp, incredulous look over her shoulder.

"Well, thank the Seven," Miriam added quickly, raising her hands in mock defense, "—it is only her lovely face you inherited and not her temperament. You are not an evil cow like she was, my lady."

"Miriam!" Arianne gasped, though the corners of her mouth twitched with the threat of a smile.

"It is the truth! You'd think being so pretty would make her kind, but she had all the older serving girls beaten if anything displeased her. And everything displeased her in Stonehelm. My mother told me and she does not lie."

Arianne’s fingers paused above the bronze elephant.

Even among her kin, Princess Saera's reputation was far from flattering. Beauty and high birth had done little to soften her temper or foster any measure of humility.

The older members of Swann's household had spoken of her sparingly, but what they said painted a picture of a woman whose beauty was matched only by her cruelty.

Arianne often found herself wondering if her grandfather loved his Targaryen princess. She had been his wife, but, according to her father, Princess Saera was hoisted on him without much room for debate.

She had not even been a maiden when they wed.

King Jaehaerys had taken the life of a man who deflowered her and forced her to marry after that debauchery.

She abandoned her son when she decided to leave for Essos. My father — then only a babe.

Now her name lingered in her family’s history like a shadow, dark and unwelcome.

"You are an awful flatterer, Miriam," Arianne said finally, her voice tinged with dry amusement, breaking the heavy silence.

"I practice," Miriam quipped, her grin flashing.

"Now, enough of this. I need to brush your hair. Gods know it will tangle into a viper’s nest if I don’t."

Arianne sighed dramatically, leaning back into the chair with exaggerated resignation.

"So, I look like the most hated woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and I have the grace of a tavern wench. What merciful gods—"

"Your embroidery is also atrocious, must I remind you." Miriam tutted, hiding her grin behind the copper hairbrush.

Arianne’s lips parted in a scandalized gasp.

"I take it back, you—"

"But," Miriam interrupted again, her voice softening. "you are courteous and kind, and quick-witted besides. I am certain everything will turn out well."

Kind. 

The word did nothing to assuage her distress. Kindness was one of those virtues her father considered a demerit.

Arianne winced as the bristles caught a knot in her waves.

"Being kind does not help me here. I'd rather dance well, sing, and be more like Rhaena." She uttered morosely.

While Arianne's introduction to the Red Keep was as successful as Rhoyne's war on Valyria — courtesy of that evil one-eyed demon, Rhaena Targaryen thrived.

The Hightowers' contempt for Prince Daemon did little to dim her effortless charm. If she were not already promised to Lucerys Velaryon, she would have to chase suitors away with a sword.

She glided along the marble while dancing — engaging in conversations and settling debates — with a poise Arianne could not help but envy.

Jace too, seemed to possess an innate penchant for diplomacy, as though he had been born with the ability to weave alliances.

Even if they muttered behind his back about his dark curls, not one of them could call him an unworthy heir.

Miriam sighed, releasing the strand of her lady's hair she had intended to brush. She set the torture device down deliberately, her hands folding in front of her.

"If you truly lacked any grace, do you think Lord Donnel would have a stack of letters as tall as you, all asking for your hand?"

Arianne huffed.

"It’s my dowry," she replied with a faint shrug. "Not me."

"It is not your dowry," Miriam's huff bled with exasperation.

Arianne’s lips twitched as if to argue, but Miriam pressed on.

"Besides," she said slyly, long fingers curling around the copper brush.

"Prince Jacaerys fancies you."

Her response drowned in the fierce rush of blood, her eyes widening.

"She will be my betrothed."

The beating muscle in her chest billowed turbulently. She couldn't - wouldn't dare hope.

Alas, Arianne's disobedient, grasping heart could envision it. 

Jacaerys Velaryon taking his mother's name.

Jacaerys Targaryen, the first of his name, getting crowned, his eyes as dark as storm-tossed waves.

Jacaerys holding her hand and helping her sit on the saddle. Securing them with belts. The air whips at her cheeks as Vermax soars ever higher.

Their wedding feast - his cloak on her shoulders.

Jace feeds her their marital bread, and she smiles, and smiles, and smiles, as Queen Alysanne's golden crown decorates her head.

Pain flared from her left temple as bristles caught in another tangle of her luxuriant chestnut curls.

"H-how would you know?" Arianne sputtered, pinching the bridge of her nose. 'What foolish, nonsensical dreams.'

 They would be old before supplanting his mother as King and Queen. Princess Rhaenyra had years ahead of her, gods willing.

"He’s never said anything like it," She added, voice trembling from the echo of the valyrian response he gave to Aemond.

Miriam's hand stilled, her brush pausing midair.

Arianne peered at her maid's exasperated visage.

"Because I am not blind." The older woman declared levelly. One of the burning wicks gave a few last flickers of warm light before dying in a pool of molten wax.

Arianne shook her head, her voice dropping into a resigned whisper.

"Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. It won’t be his decision."

Because father was right. Princess Rhaenyra might not wish to ally with them through Jace, but rather one of her younger sons.

Lady Swann furrowed her brows.

Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys were just boys and she was a woman grown. Besides, it was rotten luck to marry anything less than a firstborn son — her father would not have it. 

He would prefer giving her to Bryen Caron even, she imagined. It did not matter that he was one of the Carons, a simpleton or that he lost half his teeth in a brawl because he was Lord Royce's eldest son. Heir to Nightsong. If she were to wed him, Arianne knew it would be her blood one day inheriting everything — her firstborn son by Bryen. 

If she were to wed Prince Joffrey Velaryon, their sons — Lord Donnel Swann's grandsons — would inherit...nothing. 

No, father would absolutely not have it.

Jace was Rhaenyra's heir, and no simpleton. If she could marry him, if only...

If gods could be merciful for once, because she liked him and her father would be proud of her — marrying the best firstborn son in the kingdom. 

His grandsons would inherit the Iron Throne.

Arianne placed the bronze dragon in front of teal king, isolating him. Her imaginary opponent would suffer a defeat in three. It irked her, the fact that if she had not exchanged her light horse, she might have won against Aemond Targaryen. 

But it did not matter that she liked Jace.

Jacaerys Velaryon and her both were little more than tools for lucrative bargains and enterprising alliances. He, something of a rarity, a coveted tool of pure valyrian steel, an heir, and she — a common one of plain iron, just another noble lady awaiting her father's decision about the remainder of her life.

Miriam tilted her chin up with the tip of her index finger.

"Princess Rhaenyra seems fond of you." Her voice was as soft as a goose pillow, and Arianne knew she merely wished to soothe her ache.

Yet, the words tightened around her throat like feral hands. 

Princess Rhaenyra expected her to have done what was ordered.

Tears welled in her eyes, so, so full of salt.

She tried to blink them away, but the dam broke before she could stop it.

"She won’t be after tonight," Arianne whispered, her voice cracking.

How was she to explain that she tried conversing with Lady Tarth, when Aemond Targaryen and his venom soured the older woman's mood?

Aemond.

His name had an acrid aftertaste.

Like a curse.

"Mayhaps everything would turn out well if you'd say your prayers for once." Miriam rolled her eyes and spoke no more, intent on detangling her lady's hair for bed.

Prayers helped no one. She ought to strengthen her position like bolstering catapults with a heavy-horse.

With a soft, nearly imperceptible groan, Arianne stood up once her handmaid concluded she'd suffered enough. She lifted a hand to her forehead, rubbing it as if trying to push away the ache that settled there.

The bed appeared irresistibly soft.

Arianne gathered the Fires of the Freehold into her arms and shoved the plush covers aside when Miriam's firm grasp caught her shoulder.

"Do not even think it! You need rest!"

"But only one paragraph-" Arianne insisted, her knuckles paling with the effort to resist her maid's seizure of precious tome.

"Your lack of sleep is why such calumnies weight on your mind, my lady. Give me the book and go to bed."

She huffed, and with a glare, relinquished The Fires. Arianne burrowed beneath the covers, throwing a few pillows to the floor in an unladylike form of protest.

"I do not have to listen to you, you know. I'm your Lady." She muttered.

Miriam snorted and doused the candles.

.

.

.

The hour of the nightingale came with the first, thin rays of sun. Arianne tossed in her bed, reluctant to leave the warm comfort of it.

More so since she had a task at hand. To find Lady Tarth in the Great Hall during the morning assembly. She will somehow have to juggle it with picking out silks for Princess Rhaenyra's new gowns. Her belly was growing larger by the day, as was the babe in it.

Younger princes also had to be escorted to their lessons, but Arianne hoped Lady Massey could cover for her.

'I won't be able to see Jace before supper.'

Knowing her maid would be knocking soon enough, she dressed herself in a simple woolen dress of rather pale pink.

Its sleeves, long and flowing, were adorned with a fine, white embroidery that danced in subtle patterns along the edges, adding a touch of grace to the otherwise modest garment.

She tied a ruby-red silk girdle around her waist. It was Myrish, of pristine quality — its sheen catching the light with each movement, and Arianne adored how the ends of the sash cascaded over her hips. The crimson-painted fabric originated from Tyrosh, where sea snails producing the color were abundant.

The door creaked open, and Miriam entered without a word.

She raised an eyebrow at Arianne's choice of attire but made no comment.

"Has my father written to me?" The young Lady Swann yawned, sitting immobile as her handmaid's fingers deftly braided the hair over the crown of her head.

"I will go and check if any ravens came for you, my Lady."

The single braid kept the hair away from Arianne's face, looping behind her ears like a delicate headband.

The rest cascaded freely down her back.

When Arianne left her chamber the Holdfast was rather empty, save for other ladies scrambling to fulfill their duties. She caught the flash of green once she passed the corridor leading to royal suites.

The Queen?

Alicent Hightower was rushing — clad in an exquisite emerald gown, she passed Rhaenyra's youngest lady-in-waiting without a glance. Beside her walked a knight of the Kingsguard. Arianne curtsied but by the time she looked up they were paces away from her already.

"Delicate situation in the prince's chambers—"

The rest Arianne could not hear because the Queen rounded the corner and disappeared.

She was rather dismayed because she had hoped the most important woman in the realm would have remembered her from last night. Arianne practiced her introduction to perfection, and even, if briefly, managed to speak to Queen Alicent. She was from Oldtown! The most wonderful town in the Seven Kingdoms! The Conclave conducted their meetings there, and the library - the grandest in the Realm! The Hightower itself is the tallest structure ever built!

Arianne asked if she had ever been in the Citadel and the Queen merely smiled. "Rarely I am asked about the Conclave and my House. But no, women are not permitted inside."

Alicent dismissed her gently, as people waited in line to speak to the current ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in all but name, and Arianne was overcome with a soft sort of melancholy.

When she was a slight girl of eight, her mother said the same thing after Arianne had professed she would love to marry a Hightower boy because then she would go live there and read all the books in the Citadel.

' "Lord Hightower does not rule over the Conclave, little pearl. The Maesters choose who can enter."

"Then I will become a maester, mother." She scrunched her nose in childish determination.

"Silly, girls cannot be maesters. They cannot go to the Citadel." Her brother Robb, eleven of age and golden-haired, pinched her cheek.

"Never?"

"No, sweetling." Her mother patted her head. "Only the good Queen Alysanne was granted entrance."

Arianne drew her brows together.

"Then I could become a Queen one day." She declared, much to her mother's chagrin.

Her brother guffawed and chucked a wooden toy at her.

"A Queen of froggy ponds only—" '

The Great Hall was full of murmur — the courtiers forming an endless sea of silks and velvet. The morning sun filtered through the high windows, casting long beams of light that made the polished stone floor gleam.

The stained glass fascinated Arianne, depicting flames in the warmest ochre, the dragons with scales of darkest coal to ivory.

'The white one must be Meraxes.'

She spied Rhaena Targaryen close to one of the gargantuan columns, not far from the throne. She was conversing animatedly while several ladies nodded along with her every word. A young knight seemed to have acquired stars in his eyes as he glanced shyly at the silver-haired daughter of Laena Velaryon.

Taking a breath, Arianne made her way toward Rhaena, weaving through the courtier clusters with a quiet, deliberate determination. A caustic pang of envy almost made her hesitate.

When she finally reached the small circle of conversation, she smiled nervously.

"Arianne," Her friend beckoned her close, and a woman Arianne was certain was one of the Roxtons side-stepped to allow her in.

The others in the group, seeing Rhaena’s welcoming gesture, gave nods of acknowledgment, some of them even offering polite smiles.

"Have you met my dearest cousin, Lady Swann? The Keep's cyvasse champion." Targaryen princess introduced her. Arianne blanched at her choice of words, they were hardly cousins, and she was hardly a champion.

Prince Aemond held that informal title, she had asked around.

Of course, he did. Hateful prick.

"Rhaena," Arianne began, her fingers straightening down her ruby belt. “if I might speak with you in private for a moment?”

Rhaena’s smile faltered only slightly, the faintest edge of surprise crossing her face.

Someone cleared their throat.

The others clearly didn’t appreciate being brushed aside, and Arianne could sense their collective annoyance.

“Oh,” one of the ladies murmured, her voice dripping with a subtle, masked irritation. “How… important, I wonder, that Saera's granddaughter requires private conversation.”

Several nods erupted around the group.

"Is she marrying into Boltons with those colors on her?"

Arianne groaned inwardly. It was important! She had no time for idle chitter-chatter.

The corner of Rhaena's lovely mouth curved into a smile — with just a touch of feigned disappointment.

“Ladies, I do hope you will forgive me. I am terribly needed elsewhere.” She inclined her head apologetically before her gaze returned to Arianne.

“Of course, Arianne,” Rhaena linked their elbows and let the Swann girl lead her away.

“I’m certain these lovely ladies will continue their discussion in my absence.”

Arianne hurried through the mass of people, trying to decide where they might speak without interruptions. They exited the Great Hall before she pursed her lips.

"How do you do it? So easily?" Arianne sighed, eyeing Rhaena from the corner of her eye.

"Do what?"

"The court thing." She clarified as they descended the first staircase. "They all like you."

Rhaena giggled, a charming tinkle of sound.

"Well, I don't ask for privacy when everyone is starved for gossip. It reflects poorly." She squeezed Arianne's arm before they both greeted several of King Viserys' dignitaries.

Once at a safe distance from prying ears, Arianne groaned.

 "I hate gossip." Her free hand brushed over her roseate skirts.

Especially when it is directed at me. Bolton? What would she do all the way up North?

The corners of Rhaena's eyes crinkled, lashes fluttering in what one might consider a mild amusement.

They turned the corner, entering the spacious corridor that opened into a long loggia. Between the columns, the view of the lush greenery of the castle grounds gave Arianne's heart a tug.

They seemed to stretch for miles, full of pebbled paths and old trees.

Stonehelm had well-cared-for grounds as well, her mother considered their beauty a reflection of her work as the Lady of the House, but they were perhaps one-third of the size.

One of Arianne's earliest memories entailed her older brother shoving her into the fish pond before running away. His palms have been raw red for weeks from the lashes he received as a punishment.

She pulled at Rhaena's crimson sleeve lightly, not wanting to damage the brocade.

"I need your help." She whispered, pretending to peruse the detailed tapestry on the nearest wall.

Yet her breath caught mid-thought, her eyes widening. 

'Wait a moment, are those people bare...?'

The tapestry's scandalous display—a swirl of figures entwined in unmistakably Essosi decadence—left her blinking, her cheeks heating in quiet horror.

She quickly averted her gaze to the stone floor underneath their feet, a sudden and oppressive flush of mortification entering her mind — were those things she would have to do with a husband? The septa said a woman is supposed to lie down and not think about it, but those women weren't lying down, they were on hands and knees and the men — the men —

Would Jace do that to her?

Her vision spun.

"Arianne," Rhaena laughed lightly.

"I think our castle in Pentos would've made you faint. These are rather tame—"

"They are naked!" Arianne quaked, nudging her friend towards the stone bench nestled against the outer columns, safely distanced from those sinful textiles.

"Can you help me, Rhaena?" Her tone was laced with an urgency born of desperation.

"I need to speak to Lady Tarth and last night...well, your cousin Aemond interrupted me and it was...tense. W-would she talk to me again?"

Rhaena tilted her head, her expression poised somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.

"So that is what you were doing with that thief." She flicked her moonlight strands behind her shoulder.

"I wasn't doing anything with him." Arianne retorted quickly, her face flushing deeper.

'Only one dance, after which he proceeded to compare me to a Tavern Wench and found me lesser. Rude twat!'

Rhaena's cheek twitched.

"Hmmm," she murmured, as if deciding whether to let the matter drop. "Let us see what we can do. You do know Lady Tarth plays cyvasse, don't you?"

Arianne blinked.

"No...she does? H-how do you know?"

Rhaena sighed, the sound reminding lady Swann of her mother when she'd caught her sneaking cakes from the kitchens.

"Ser Edric Wylde told me." Her brows, as pale as gossamer threads narrowed at Arianne's confused stare.

"Can you imagine he has twenty-seven younger siblings? And an older brother, Jarlon." She added, tone decorated with the slightest of reprimands.

"You asked me how — by speaking to people more, making them feel important. Men are honestly...they would talk until the end of time if they thought their voice impressed a woman. One of my tutors always emphasized the art of speaking as essential as wielding a sword."

Arianne deflated, peering down at the couple promenading along the grounds. What tutors? She had her septa and castle's maester.

"Speaking of Edric," Rhaena continued smoothly. " his younger sister told me my dragon-pilfering cousin followed you into the gardens that night."

Arianne's throat seized.

"W-who?"

"Aemond." Her friend clarified levelly.

"So, what is happening? I am warning you, Arianne, if you're gonna fancy a man who stole my mother's dra—"

"That is utterly insane," Arianne interjected, her tone sharp with disbelief.

'Fancy Aemond?!'

The thought itself was enough to make her innards twist.

She might as well fancy a Skagosi cannibal.

"I haven't even seen him, so how would I know if he went to the gardens?" The lie left her lips hastily, escaping her clamped throat. The last thing she needed was for anyone else to find out she kicked a prince in the shin and acted in a manner unbecoming of a lady.

Arianne's verdant gaze, in an attempt to avoid Rhaena's, landed briefly on one of the tapestries.

The naked male was kneeling between the woman's legs. 'W-was he kissing her womanhood?'

Her mouth dried.

There were stories, gossip, about Prince Aegon's proclivities, but a brief, and very, very torrid thought made her palms clammy — she'd wondered if that loathsome paragon of vanity ever did engage in carnal indulgence like the bodies — pale as ivory or golden as the sun — depicted here.

The concept itself, of a man like Aemond on his knees sent a strange jolt to the bottom of her belly.

Arianne wondered what could make the man commanding the greatest military power in the Seven Kingdoms - Vhagar - kneel.

Then again, Targaryens were quite strange with their customs.

Her nails bit into her palm violently and she turned back to Rhaena.

'Evening prayers would do me well.'

"Please, help me. I do not want to disappoint Rhaenyra." Arianne's voice softened, the plea woven into her words unmistakable.

Rhaena studied her for a few moments, before relenting.

"Alright. Let us find her first."

She stood up and fixed her exquisite gown made of vermilion brocade. Two young women spoke in hushed tones until they reached the main corridor.

For once, Arianne sensed her luck returning, because Lady Tarth appeared on the stairs leading toward the Great Hall, her mood evidently buoyant.

"Just allow me to speak first, Arianne,"

Rhaena urged into her ear.

.

.

.

Arianne was beaming.

She couldn't even control the light skip to her steps as she returned to Holdfast. Lady Tarth had not held last night against her, and more — Rhaenyra would be pleased with what Arianne had learned.

The older woman thought Lucerys Velaryon was Lord Corlys' chosen heir. He should inherit Driftmark.

This could not have turned better for Arianne.

She hurried to Lady Massey's room to help with the silk delivery. The lingering warmth of her conversation with Lady Tarth left her feeling oddly jovial, a rare sense of triumph settling over her. If she thought on it, the Lady of the Evenstar Fall was rather nice company.

They conversed about the famous cyvasse game between King Jaehaerys and Lord Rogar Baratheon.

Lady Tarth appeared to be impressed by her commentary of the game.

"The trebuchet could've negated the King's spearmen. Had Lord Baratheon noticed the dragon was pinned, he could've trapped the King's king. Death in four."

Lady Tarth had tilted her head at that, her dark eyes glimmering.

"A sharp observation, my dear. A few would dare voice it."

The Lady of Evenstar even lamented, half in jest, that all her sons were already wed. "If they weren't, I would gladly welcome a clever mind like yours into my household."

It brought an influx of warmth to Arianne's cheeks.

Her heart tittered in hopes that Princess Rhaenyra would see her in a similar light.

Arianne knocked on Lady Elinda Massey's door, her incisors biting into her lower lip. 'Gods, let it be Jace, please, please, because if not —

If not him, then who, and whoever it was, they could hardly match the prestige of a future king — Jace, her curly-haired Galladon of Morne.'

Marriage loomed ever large on the horizon, not as a choice but as a certainty.

Father had all but said so — she would be married by the year's end. Eight and ten almost, it was nigh-time.

The only reason he had waited this long was because of Jacaerys Velaryon. 

"You are my only daughter, Arianne — my pearl beyond price. I would see you flourish."

If not Jace, then Lord Paramount, she supposed. Father would not settle for less. Not for Bryen Caron. Not for old Lord Horpe.

Arianne hoped he had not meant to offer her to the dreary North, even if Cregan Stark was allegedly handsome and her age. Besides, why would Lord Cregan even want a southron wife?

Her lips twisted into a wry smile at that.

How ironic that she could pin a dragon or corner a king on the board regardless of her opponent, but remained so helpless when it came to plotting her own future.

Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the door creaked open to reveal a rather disheveled Elinda.

"Arianne," She said, her tone hushed and hurried.

"I was looking everywhere for you. But I couldn't find you so..."

“What’s wrong?” Arianne asked, a lilt of unease in her voice. It must have been something of importance, because Lady Massey rarely lost composure, her blue eyes always reminiscent of calm seas.

“The Library’s custodian came by, and…” Elinda hesitated, her expression tightening. “Well, he seemed furious. He had two Septas with him.”

Custodian? What possible —

Arianne felt her pulse quicken, her stomach sinking.

“What?”

“They went to your chambers.”

The words hit her like a thunderclap, her mind scrambling to make sense of them.

'Gods, oh gods.'

Without another word, she turned and rushed toward her chambers, her heart pounding louder with each step.

As she approached, she could already hear the commotion inside.

“You!”

The custodian’s voice, sharp as an executioner's blade, rang out the moment she came into view.

Arianne's palms grew damp.

She swallowed.

His wrinkly face was flushed, and his pointed index finger trembled with outrage.

The door to her chambers stood wide open, and from within, she could hear Miriam’s voice raised in protest against the clipped tones of a woman.

“How dare you steal a tome of such rarity from the library! To think your ladyship even involved a prince in it!”

Arianne halted just outside the threshold, her body locking tightly as her heart plummeted.

'The Fires of the Freehold!

What? How... How in the Known World did he —'

A jagged tightness clogged her throat.

'How could he know? Jace...'

Arianne's lungs refused to expand.

She could not get Jace in trouble!

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to curtsy and step inside, her movements wooden and jerky.

"There she is!" A plump woman, adorned in the simple, gray robes of a Septa pointed a finger at her.

"You'd be wise to offer an explanation for how this came into your hands!"

The taller Septa clutched The Fires of the Freehold against her chest as though it were the crown jewels, her face a mask of disdain.

"I just...borrowed it to read." Arianne felt as though somebody else possessed her body and spoke because she could not. 

"I didn't steal it!"

“Thief!” the plump Septa spat, her voice burning like a birch strike against flesh.

'Seven help me!'

“No, no, no, that is not true!” Arianne protested, waving her hands desperately.

“I would have returned it after I finished!”

"Confess it to a Septon and pray the Gods forgive you this foul sin, young lady." The taller one intoned coldly.

"And your princess has already been informed."

Arianne’s vision blurred, her heart lurching violently.

'Rhaenyra knows?

Oh no,no,no,nonononono —'

Her mind reeled, trying to piece it together. She hadn’t told anyone about the book. Jace and her alone know so... 

No one, except—

"I am reading The Fires of the Freehold now. Have you read it?"

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

She froze.

Aemond.

Her stomach clenched painfully, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. The betrayal burned like dragonfire, scorching her from within.

Aemond.

Aemond.

Her chest tightened as white-hot anger whirled inside her vessels, mingling with the iron in her blood. 

He offered to help her translate it! Only to...Arianne, you idiotic girl — how could you even tell him —

Aemond.

Arianne curled her fingers.

Aemond — gods curse him and his name.

It had to be him.

It was not her, and it was certainly not Jace.

She dug them so deep into her clammy palms that it hurt, but the pain felt distant - almost insignificant against the reality of the situation.

They told her princess.

She will be sent away. Punished.

Father will —

It was unbearable. The humiliation.

She glanced after the two women as they exited her chambers.

If she explained it to Rhaenyra, then maybe...

Miriam just stared at her, unable to find the right words. Arianne could not fault her for it, because her own throat was rendered useless.

She walked out and followed a corridor until it turned left towards the royal suites. Princess Rhaenyra would not — she would not send her away, would she?

Arianne’s heels clicked softly against the stone floor as she blindly passed several handmaidens and guards. 

Why? How could he do this to her? She did not even finish translating the massacre of Quarlon's entire army under the walls of Norvos. The scouring of Lorath!

What had she done to provoke this cruelty? She replayed their conversation about Galendro's work, searching for the moment she had erred so egregiously that he would do this. Was it because she rejected his offer?

How petty! Could a Prince be so spiteful?

Did he not say they were even now? Arianne scrunched her nose. One day she would make him pay for this humiliation — knowing damn well she could not do so now, he was a Prince, but one day - when she weds the Crown Prince — she would make Aemond Targaryen regret it. She would find the thing he cherished most and deprive him of it.

As if Princess Rhaenyra would ever accept her hand for Jace after this, she thought morosely.

Arianne halted outside the large, double doors.

The torchlights along the corridor danced on the carved dragons etched into the wood, their eyes gleaming like rubies in the dim light.

They were slightly ajar and she frowned — Where were all the handmaidens, servants, and ladies-in-waiting?

Then, voices spilled through the crack, low but unmistakable.

"Ah, the maesters." Prince Daemon's voice was a drawl, his disdain palpable even through the thick oak. "Of course. It is they who keep him… addled on milk of the poppy while the Hightowers warm his throne."

"Rhaenyra, if you would see him without it, almost blind with suffering."

Arianne blinked. That voice — the Queen's?

She realized with a jolt that she was eavesdropping. Her fingers hovered near the doorframe, but her feet refused to retreat.

What if they spoke of her transgression? Would Queen Alicent press Rhaenyra to send away her unruly lady-in-waiting? Her cheeks burned at the thought.

"Oh, Alicent, I have no doubt it was… an act of the purest mercy, but tell me, for the King’s suffering, did the maesters also prescribe the removal of Targaryen heraldry and the installation in its stead of various statues and stars?" Prince Daemon snarled.

A barely audible sigh of relief escaped Arianne's lips.

They were not speaking about her mishap with the book.

The silence fell for a few uncomfortable seconds and then the Queen's voice lifted again, all steel and iron.

"The emblems of the Seven serve only to guide us on an uncertain path. To remind us of a higher authority."

"Speaking of authority," Rhaenyra interjected. "what is the Crown's decision regarding Vaemond Velaryon's brazen insult?"

"Insult." Alicent intoned.

"The King's Hand has sent a letter to Driftmark. Ser Vaemond is entitled to petition His Grace to consider this matter."

"When?" Rhaenyra pressed.

"A moon from now," Alicent replied smoothly, her tone betraying no hint of emotion. Or perhaps the heavy wood hid it from Arianne.

"The Books of Law and the Seven’s mercy grant time for the preparation of petitions and evidence."

'A moon? If father reached Griffin's Roost, he should be here by then as well.' She sent a letter there just days ago.

A flicker of hope ignited in Arianne's chest, only to be swiftly doused by cold dread.

A bout of nausea churned in her stomach—not for fear of punishment over the book, but for what one whole month might mean. More than enough time for Rhaenyra to come to an accord with Princess Rhaenys, which would mean —

it would not be her who would marry Jace.

"And with the condition my father is in, who will sit in judgment of my son’s claim on his own inheritance?" Princess Rhaenyra’s voice pulled Arianne from her spiraling thoughts.

"That would be me, " The Queen replied evenly, "and the Hand."

Arianne caught the faint sound of Daemon scoffing, though the noise barely carried before Alicent’s voice sliced through once more.

"But be assured, the Father is just and commands me to forget the accusations you have hurled in this room today."

'What accusations?'

She scarcely had time to process the words before the door creaked, and Alicent swept out, her green skirts rustling.

Arianne's breath breath hitched as the Queen’s sharp gaze fell on her, so utterly unreadable. Hastily, she dipped into a low curtsy, her head bowed in deference.

"Your Grace," she murmured.

For a moment that stretched unbearably long, Queen Alicent stood still, her silence heavy as a drawn blade. Then, with a faint, almost imperceptible nod, she turned on her heel and glided down the corridor like a specter, leaving Arianne to rise on trembling legs.

She swallowed thrice before knocking on the halfway-open door.

Inside, Rhaenyra’s voice was the first to answer. “Arianne,” she sighed, her tone laced with a weariness that only served to deepen the tension in Arianne’s chest.

'Mother grand mercy to your humble daughter, Maiden guide me —'

Adjusting her silken girdle, Arianne stepped into the room.

She lowered herself into a graceful curtsy before both Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“My princess,” she addressed Rhaenyra with the utmost respect, then turned to Daemon, offering the same courtesy.

“My Prince.”

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment, then nodded, her expression unreadable.

“You may rise, Arianne.”

Before she could proclaim and insist how terribly sorry and repentant she was, Daemon’s voice cut through the silence, as biting as the frost.

“They said my aunt Saera stole jewelry from her mother, Queen Alysanne.” He shot Arianne a glance, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You steal books. Quite the downgrade, if I must speak plainly.”

Arianne stiffened, gaze cast downward. 

Well, if mocking was her punishment, she should be thanking the Seven.

Aemond's foul grin flitted through her thoughts. She realized there was a certain similarity, a likeness of sorts, between him and his uncle, The Rogue Prince.

Except, she highly doubted Daemon stalked around reporting people for sneaking books out of the library.

Rhaenyra shot the Prince a sharp, warning look, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Let me speak with her, Valzyris." (Husband.)

Daemon raised a pale eyebrow but inclined his head, stepping back. He sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his arms.

Arianne’s breath caught in her throat as the words tumbled out, almost as if she had no control over them.

“I swear I didn’t steal it!”

"I would never steal anything!"

Her voice cracked, desperation creeping into the edges of her words.

“I just borrowed it! Please forgive me! It was a misunderstanding—"

Daemon, a glint of curiosity in his eyes, shook his head and snorted.

“Who did you anger enough to have them report you?” He shrugged with feigned innocence.

“Everyone sneaks in there all the time and—"

Rhaenyra glared at him sharply, her eyes narrowing with a warning.

Daemon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his expression shifting to one of mock defeat.

"Very well, Your Grace," he muttered, then turned and exited the room, clearly deciding to leave the matter to his wife.

Rhaenyra took a long breath, turning back to Arianne with a tiredness to her gaze.

“You are quite adept at following the rules, even at your detriment sometimes. I know you didn’t steal it.”

Oh.

Arianne blinked, the weight of the words grounding her in relief.

Thank the gods —

"Because my son borrowed it for you."

A candle flickered between Arianne's breaths.

Her heart twisted.

She cleared her throat, before shaking her head.

"Prince Jacaerys would not —"

"Oh, he would." Rhaenyra flicked her hand dismissively. She leaned back into the cushioned chair, sharp eyes poring over her lady-in-waiting.

Arianne did her best to keep her trembling hands steady — clasped together in front of her stomach. A sliver of dread tickled her spine.

“And I think I know why,” The Crown Princess continued, her tone pensive.

"He is overly fond of you."

Arianne paled.

She dared not raise her gaze to meet Rhaenyra's.

Fond of her?

How could it be that the one thing she wished to hear more than anything now sounded so damnable? So sinful? So uncomfortable?

Because Arianne knew, or at least, she had an inkling, that Rhaenyra was not going to entertain the idea of an alliance born of an infatuation. Less so, if it incited her firstborn son  — her heir — to act unruly.

Rhaenyra studied her for a long moment, her expression inscrutable.

"I will not pretend there isn't," The future Queen paused, perusing the embroidery decorating her sleeves.

"A consideration about a betrothal." Her eyes, now murky as the riotous seas, met Arianne's fearful green ones.

She swallowed yet again.

“But until such time,” Rhaenyra declared, hands resting on her swollen belly.

“I expect you not to encourage him.”

The seas pulled her under. Arianne's face reddened. She was not, was she? 

Her mother had told her the same day she had flowered to behave with care. "Men will look at you, daughter — and some of them will look at you differently now. They'll want what belongs to your future husband. A virtuous lady must never instigate such aspirations."

 “Your Grace, I would never—”

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing her.

“Dragon’s blood runs hot, Arianne. I know it better than most. The Hightowers might whisper treason about his parentage, but he is my son. A Targaryen. He will go after what he thinks he wants.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

“Surely, you must understand the trouble this… fondness could bring. Jacaerys is my heir. He will one day sit on the Iron Throne. His heart belongs to the future of the Seven Kingdoms."

Arianne’s heart twisted, shame and disbelief surging within her. She itched to say so many things — that she considered the future, that she would never bring him trouble, that her heart belonged to it too.

Yet, she could not.

She could not utter any of those things. Tears welled in her eyes.

"I swear Prince Jacaerys had nothing to do with this." The lie tumbled from her dry lips.

Father is going to be so furious with her. How dare that hateful prick ruin her life?! Oh, if she could strangle Aemond —

Before the silence could stretch further, the door to the chamber flew open with a thud.

“It was me, Mother!”

Arianne's long-lashed eyes widened.

Jace burst into the room, still clad in his training tunic, his dark hair in disarray.

Rhaenyra turned sharply, her brows lifting in surprise at his abrupt entrance. He breathed loudly, his chest rising and falling as if he had run the length of the castle to be here.

Green met brown and Arianne's pulse upsurged to her ears. She glanced down first, unable to do anything else under Rhaenyra's stare.

Scarlett heat enveloped her cheeks.

Jace stepped in front of her, as if to shield her.

“Do not blame lady Arianne,” he addressed his mother, though Arianne could not see his expression.

“I borrowed the book for her. It was my idea.”

He is making it worse. Her gallant prince.

While her heart melted at his words, her head knew better. This would only give weight to Princess Rhaenyra's concerns.

His hands were clenched at his sides, his shoulders drawn taut as though bracing himself for a storm.

Rhaenyra’s face shifted as she took in her son's eagerness. She regarded him for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line, before she spoke, her voice calm but heavy with authority.

"Leave us, Arianne."

Arianne curtsied stiffly, her face ashen as she slowly retreated. Still, she dared not meet Jace's tender gaze.

She could still hear the faint murmurs from within once shutting the heavy door behind herself —Rhaenyra's controlled diatribe, Jace's desperate pleading.

But none of it reached her as she stumbled away, her thoughts a whirlpool lapping at the inside of her skull.

Arianne had barely taken a step before the tears overwhelmed her eyes, blurring the corridors before her.

She leaned against the cool stone wall, sobbing.

She had not even told Rhaenyra about Lady Tarth — not that it mattered now. Rhaenyra was disappointed in her.

With her behavior. With Jace's behavior.

'Oh, gods, I'll never read any book ever again.'

 Arianne gnawed on her bottom lip and instant regret flooded her veins. 'Please, just not the books. Leave the books. I didn't mean it.'

Her hands trembled as she wiped furiously at her face, but it only made the tears fall harder.

Arianne slowly made her way through the Holdfast. The weight of Rhaenyra's words crushed her.

Betrothal was possible, but, but, but —

'What would father think?'

Her legs almost gave out and she had to steady herself lest she fall down the polished staircase.

The very idea of him knowing about this, knowing of the whispered accusations and the suspicions cast upon her…

'Stranger take Aemond Targaryen!'

 If a word of this were to reach her father—if he even heard a whisper about the borrowed book—he would never forgive her.

He held onto grudges as if they were treasures.

She could plead her case walking barefoot from the Wall to Sunspear and it would be to no avail.

The punishment would be swift, and cruel, and final. Would he marry her off to some old minor lord to put an end to her folly? Some distant, distant noble she could never stand, a man old enough to be her grandfather, shackling her to a life she couldn’t bear? Or perhaps he'd take harsher measures, thinking it a failure of her upbringing. 

Silent sisters would await her.

Oh, she'd rather run to Essos like Saera once did.

To Lys, to Aunt Johanna.

She would take her in, Arianne knew. But she would truly be dead to her parents then — their hearts would shatter to learn their daughter had become a lyseni whore.

'Would Rhaenyra write to them about this? Maybe she would not? No one else seemed to even know but her, Custodian, and those septas.'

Arianne rubbed her teary eyes with the back of her hands.

She hurried, crossing the narrow hall and the three ladies seated on the wooden bench. The Queen did not seem to even mention her, she was there to discuss the petition for Driftmark.

Arianne pressed her eyelids tightly together, wishing desperately for the weight to lift, for the tears to stop.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Oh, how much she loathed powerlessness.

If only she could hide somewhere, anywhere, just until this awful sobbing stopped. Her face must look blotchy and ugly from crying.

Arianne continued walking, looking for one of the gardens. She might hide under a pear tree or a rock until the end of her days.

She disappointed Princess Rhaenyra. She couldn't imagine a worse thing happening now.

' W-what if she really writes to my father?'

She hurried along the colonnade, its archways opening into the inner courtyard.

'Father would not forgive this.'

Arianne could see it — a simple carriage without much comfort to send her back home. She'd have to travel the Kingsroad for a month before reaching Stonehelm in disgrace.

Her father would tell her she had no one to blame but herself before giving her hand to Lord Horpe, or even worse, one of the Carons.

If Jace truly fancied her — and she hoped, hoped, hoped it so —

even if everything went to ruin, he could steal her away on Vermax and wed her and —

oh, the infamy! She would never dare!

To even think about it, what unabashed sin! 

Wicked Arianne. 

Saera's granddaughter in truth.

They could put her on some morally abhorrent tapestry —

Arianne felt her legs tangle and before she could steady herself, her right knee met the cold, stone floor with a resounding thud.

Ouch.

She shot up back to her feet so quickly that the air spun around her.

She at least managed to keep herself from yelping or cussing — which would be utterly unladylike.

'H-how embarrassing.'

Her eyes darted toward the corridor, and she released a small huff of air when she realized there was no one coming in her direction.

"Your education should've included walking it seems."

Arianne's head snapped to her right and her muscles stiffened.

Prince Aemond Targaryen was leaning against the column, his lithe arms crossed.

'Him! Him, gods curse him! W-where did he come from?'

"Your Grace."

She muttered levelly, her fingers curling into fists.

Arianne's first instinct was to flee all the way to Mossovy.

Her heart, however, lurched, rightful wrath towards the silver-haired Targaryen spilling in torrents into her blood.

It wasn't the wry taunt about her clumsiness, it was the abominable crime of taking The Fires of the Freehold from her!

Of ruining her life! She ought to kill him where he stands!

Arianne wished her eyes could pierce through him as she stared. He seemed to have come from the training courtyard by the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. A few shorter strands of his silky hair, pale as the pearl, were strewn across his temples.

Arse!

She couldn't even accuse him. She had no proof, but somehow, she knew it in her bones that it had been him who slandered her to the Custodian.

'She did not steal a book! Jace borrowed it for her.'

In mere moments, Arianne was overwhelmed with all sorts of sinful thoughts about Aemond Targaryen's untimely demise. She would pray to Father to make him suffer, to Warrior to make him a craven, and to the Crone to send an illness his way!

To Stranger itself, to make his rotten heart suffer!

How could he deprive her of a book she told him she stayed up all night reading?!

He in question, merely clicked his tongue at her and hummed.

"Does crying prevent you from curtsying properly? I am a Prince of the Realm."

Arianne sniffled and wiped at her face furiously.

"I am not crying!"

Aemond fixed her with his shrewd, icy eye before drawing himself to his full height.

She observed how his shadow stretched to almost meet hers.

"I do wonder what is it this time, Lady Swann." He stalked toward her, his sturdy dark boots thudding softly against the stone floor. The rhythmic sound seemed to echo her volatile heartbeat.

"One of your suitors decided he'd rather pursue an honorable woman, mayhaps? Or your payment was less than what you'd—"

"Yet I do not find my crying important enough for a prince of the Realm to wonder about it." Arianne retorted, digging her nails deeper into her palm, almost yelping at the pain.

It did keep her grounded when she wished nothing more than to become a swan and peck his remaining eye out.

'Payment? Payment for what? Just w-what was he insinuating again?'

"Humor me," Aemond said, his voice a dark purr of a sound.

Arianne glanced up, observing the high collar of his training tunic rather than his face. She cleared her throat and wiped her hands down her roseate skirts.

"I am Princess Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting, not your fool." The harsh response made Aemond's blood thrum. So, Lady Swann was avoiding his gaze.

The muscle in his jaw ticked.

Arianne decided it would be for the best that she absconds quickly, lest she truly try to maim him again. 'He would deserve it! Her princess now considered her bad influence on Jace.'

"Your Grace." She dipped in a quick, low curtsy — her knees ached from it, and dashed past him, her skirts swishing around her legs.

Aemond caught up to her in two strides and blocked her way, his arm extending like a gate across her path.

"You forget yourself, woman." He snarled.

"You are mine-whatever-I-decide you are."

"Have you any manners at all?" She shrieked, rather startled by the harshness in his usually melodious voice.

He ignored her outburst and continued, chuckling nastily.

"How is your progress with The Fires of the Freehold going? Did the bastard translate you the scouring of Lorathi islands?" Aemond's defined lips peeled back to reveal his white teeth.

'You evil, evil arse!'

"I know no bastard. And it is going fine." Arianne gritted out.

Aemond's ivory eyebrow lifted.

"Truly? Here I've heard a different tale, Lady Swann." He taunted, his face settling into feigned wonder.

"That they've confiscated the tome from you."

She must've drawn blood from how forcefully she was pressing her nails into her own skin.

'Heard the tale? He mocks me.'

Lady Swann could scarcely believe a prince could be so wicked to not only do it but to torment her over it. Was he still angry over her earrings? She apologized!

Could he think she scorned him last night?

What despicably cruel retaliation, then! Arianne concluded — because now she might never get to read it. Only six copies existed in the Seven Kingdoms. Four were locked inside the Citadel, and now she'll never be allowed to peruse the two housed in the Royal Library.

 'Oh, shivers take him, if he truly branded her a thief over some wounded pride of a man.'

She had been nothing but polite!

"You've heard it true," Arianne uttered stiffly.

"Some awful miser told the Custodian I had the book."

Aemond's one, cerulean eye widened.

"An awful miser?"

He tilted his head mockingly. "Or just someone with respect towards the laws and rules that keep our Realm from descending into chaos?"

Arianne had to exert a significant effort not to laugh at his badly performed act of a righteous man.

"And does Your Grace agree with him?"

She glanced at the deep, darkened scar decorating his left cheek.

"Naturally."

"I wouldn't have dared hope otherwise." Arianne's mouth widened into a brittle smile and she curtsied, hoping it was for the final time. 

It was him, and she will not forget it!

Rather than to risk another bout of unladylike violence, she turned around.

So what if she had to walk all the way back and confront Miriam about her utter disgrace — it seemed a superior choice than to argue with the evil boor himself.

She wouldn't even refer to Prince Aemond by a name anymore, he'd earned his special title. He was evil boor from now on.

"You should be aware though," He tutted after her, in tones cool and sharp as valyrian steel.

"Those misers will know shall your pretty head try to loot the royal library again."

Loot?

Heat surged through her chest, rushing to her face as indignation overcame her. She peered over her shoulder at the tall dragonrider.

Aemond ran his tongue over his incisors and hummed.

"You've never seen the dungeons, have you, my lady Swann?"

Arianne shook.

How dared he? How dare he speak to her this way, as if she were some common thief, as if her desire to know more was a crime?

Her breath hitched, her muscles locking as she tried to suppress the insults threatening to erupt.

Aemond Targaryen was a blight. He was as ill-behaved as her grandmother had been. Only he hid it better, the capable swordsman, the studious prince, the Queen's favorite son — oh, how blind those courtiers were!

He was sent here by some Stygai demons to ruin her life.

Arianne knew the best way to proceed would be to apologize again, much as it pained her lady's heart. Profess her regret for whatever it was that earned his enmity and bide her time.

One day, when Princess Rhaenyra becomes Queen and Jace the Crown Prince - and she his Crown Princess - Oh, she'll find Prince Aemond the best seat to watch her, graceless bird, become Queen among Dragons, and then she'll exact her revenge. Even if holding grudges was a sin.

Her bottom lip quivered.

Even if it was strategically the most sound approach she could not do it.

She would sooner die than be Aemond's supplicant after what he had done to her.

Her father would sooner let a pirate ship carry her away like it did his cousin Johanna, than to hear she humiliated herself in front of a Targaryen.

A certain something curling around her spine —her pride—would not allow her to walk away from his taunts.

Not this time.

She was a lady of a noble house, her father a Lord of the Marches and her grandmother a princess herself!

Arianne whirled around, the strands of her chestnut hair bouncing with the force of her movement.

The fiery glare she fixed on him could have scorched dragonhide.

"I know this awful miser is you!" she snapped, her voice acidic and unwavering despite the tremor in her hands.

Her words reverberated in the corridor, something that startled even herself. She stomped back toward him, her chin held high. Arianne flicked the heavy curl that had fallen over her shoulder back with her hand — Aemond seemed to follow the motion with his pale eye.

She thrust her finger out in an accusatory jab.

"You told the Custodian I was reading Fires of the Freehold!"

The words were flung like arrows, her voice tinged with the sting of betrayal. She only told him about it because he claimed they loved the same books.

Arianne could feel her pulse thundering in her ears, fueled by the righteous wrath that consumed her.

She’d been humiliated, shamed, and stripped of her dignity—all because of him!

"You malevolent arse!"

Her outburst echoed against the columns. Arianne took in a sharp breath, it sizzled inside her lungs. Oh, Seven! 

Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes burned with the unshed tears of frustration.

Aemond stood there, unflinching, his condescending grin deepening, and that infuriating gleam of amusement in his blue eye only stoked her fury further.

She wanted to scream at him, to lash out more, to do anything that might make him understand the depth of her outrage.

He made her look wicked in Princess Rhaenyra's eyes.

Aemond’s delight was immediate and utterly insufferable, a sardonic chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

He shifted slightly — one leg stretched brashly forward, fingers tracing idly the pommel of his sword.

The leather strap of his eyepatch caught a sliver of sunlight as if it too mocked her.

"Hontes drējī pykagon perzys issa." (A bird is a spitfire, indeed.)

He muttered it more to himself than her, his lips twitching as though savoring the observation.

Arianne's nostrils flared.

The infuriating ease with which he dismissed her anger was enough to set her blood to boil.

"Rya nopāzma!" (Go to hell.)

She hissed rabidly, remembering all the valyrian insults Luke, Rhaena, and her learned one rainy afternoon.

For the most fleeting of moments, something in Aemond's eye glimmered, disbelief passing through his features.

"My, my what a foul mouth you have—"

"Your deed garners no respect, Your Grace!" she interrupted sharply, stepping closer, emboldened by her fury.

A mistake, in hindsight.

Aemond moved too quickly for her to react, his hand darting out to grasp her wrist with a downright frightening precision.

The heat of an unexpected touch rooted her in place, her breath lodging in her throat.

His grip was firm but not bruising, the strength of his fingers pressing into her skin just enough to hold her there.

Arianne could suddenly not think, hyper-aware of the bared skin of her wrist and the way her blood trashed underneath it — meeting his.

It was utterly improper—by all laws and morals of gods and men—and her mind raced with the implications.

Would he harm her? Kill her? B-break her wrist?

Dread cascaded down and around and through her spine.

No one had ever — well her brother did hit her when they were younger but that had been different. She hit him too — but Aemond could, if he wished, and who'd punish him for it?

He has a dragon — she gulped — no, not just a dragon, he has Vhagar.

Arianne willed herself to remain calm.

For a man of his rank, a Prince, to seize a lady in such a manner...

It bordered on scandalous.

Her gaze snapped to his hand, then to his face, and she felt her pulse mutinying vehemently against the confinement of his grasp.

Aemond's expression was unreadable, his pale eye burning with an intensity that seemed to bore straight into her.

"Unhand me, Your Grace," she demanded, her voice low and strained.

She twisted slightly, testing his hold, but his fingers did not falter.

"What do you imagine would happen if everyone disregarded rules and laws like you, Lady Swann? Hmm?" He crooned, a dangerous undercurrent racing beneath the words.

Aemond leaned closer, his breath warm and steady against her skin.

"If men took what they wanted like you did?" The grip around her wrist tightened briefly.

Arianne gulped, her free hand trembling at her side. She wiped it against her skirts. The proximity was unnerving, the heat of his presence coiling around her like an unwanted tether.

"I did not take it, and your grace knows it! Prince Jacaerys borrowed it and happened to give it to me." She stammered.

Still, he held her, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist as if testing her pulse, gauging her reaction. The gesture was both intimate and unsettling, a deliberate breach of decorum that urged her to demand a release and flee.

"B-besides," Arianne continued despite the uncomfortable tightness of her vocal cords. "If men only wanted to read books, I do not see what is so wrong with that. No one is hurt by it. You cannot compare it to raiding-driven subsistence where men just plunder peaceful settlements for land and food."

Her words were hurried, as if she could will the moment to pass faster.

Aemond's hold on her lingered — his fingertips calloused and rather warm against the inside of her wrist.

"Their liege lord was murdered ever so often during the Old Way and they raised rebellions because it would cause instability and—"

"I do not need a lecture on the primitive savagery of Iron Islanders, Lady Arianne." he interrupted smoothly, though there was a clipped edge to his tone.

"Release me, then. I have duties to attend to." Arianne spat, cutting the air between them. Her frustration was mounting.

Aemond’s gaze bore into hers, dark and molten — his single eye burning like the edge of twilight.

He tilted his chin as if weighing whether her demand deserved acknowledgment.

After a few long moments, his fingers loosened, sliding away with an infuriating slowness that made her feel as though she had conceded ground rather than reclaimed it.

But he did not step back.

"What duties,hmm?" he questioned, his voice low, mocking.

"Gallivanting around my Keep, diverting men's attention with those ridiculous dresses you wear—"

 "There is nothing wrong with my attire!" Arianne bristled, brushing her skirts defiantly.

Her movements were brisk, her pulse still thrumming incessantly in her wrist where his touch lingered like a scorch mark.

"Nothing," Aemond drawled, his tone dripping with derision.

"If you wished to resemble a strawberry tart."

'A- a strawberry tart?' His explanation rattled her so much, Arianne couldn't muster a proper answer. The insult struck her so unexpectedly that she could only gape for a moment, her thoughts scrambling for purchase.

Her dress was a paragon of modesty!

Perhaps it was a tad bit vibrant with a red silk girdle but how was it Aemond's problem?

Besides, what was wrong with strawberry tarts?

"I don't understand," she confessed at last, her voice tinged with bewilderment and indignation. Arianne searched his face for some clue to his meaning, but his expression was unreadable, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his good eye.

It now roved over her with a deliberateness that made her spine stiffen, lingering on her rose-tinted woolen skirts before returning to her face.

"Those iron-born savages would ignore every other sustenance if they saw you frolicking and pretending unaware of your womanly wiles."

The accusation hit her like a strike, her cheeks stinging.

"You cannot swindle me though, my lady," Aemond added with a hearty dose of venom in his voice. It was too measured, too deliberate.

Arianne swallowed hard.

"You should talk to a septon, your grace. Imagined slights are a disease of the mind and soul." She snapped, lifting her chin.

Aemond’s expression darkened.

His long, tapered fingers gathered the free end of her silk girdle. Arianne's cheeks colored into the same ruby-red that now gleamed inside his palm. H-he ought not to touch her clothes!

"I would never allow my lady to dress like a Lyseni courtesan." He spat, releasing the fabric.

Arianne balked, her mouth opening and closing before she could form a coherent response.

Her anger surged anew.

"Thank the Seven, I am not your lady!" She hissed, her body trembling with fury.

"Indeed," Aemond replied coldly, though a flicker of something — she couldn't quite make — crossed his features before he masked it.

"Thank the gods. A commoner wife would be preferable to you. She'd know her place, at the very least." He taunted, with something  not quite a smile.

"How wisely you speak, Your Grace." Arianne batted her eyelashes several times before the corner of her mouth curled.

"Mayhaps you go court one then, instead of ruining my day."

For a long, tense moment, Aemond said nothing.

Something brimmed in his eye, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his features before being buried under a cool, marble-like facade.

His lips twitched, just slightly, as though he could not decide whether to sneer or hiss something back.

Just as his mouth opened, his gaze lifted to focus on something above her, further away.

Aemond stilled, then quickly composed himself as he saw who approached — several courtiers, Ser Tyland Lannister among them.

The group moved toward them with casual grace, their footsteps light on the cobbled stones, yet their arrival seemed to extinguish something in the air.

Aemond's eye sizzled with irritation, but he said nothing—choosing instead to shift slightly away from Arianne, into a proper distance for their stations.

She turned her head and observed them as various voices greeted the Prince.

Tyland Lannister noticed Arianne, his mouth opening in something akin to a concern.

"Lady Swann," he said with a gentle note of surprise.

"Your eyes are rather red. Do not tell me something has made your ladyship cry? You only need let me know—"

Arianne let out a quiet, relieved breath, her expression softening into a smile.

At least now she had witnesses.

'The Lannisters are the Queen's supporters, you foolish girl.'

Even if they were not, she hardly doubted anyone would take her side when the other one had a ferocious beast like Vhagar.

'Would Jace...would he do something about his uncle? If she told him he seized her like...like...oh she did not know!'

Arianne grimaced inwardly. No, she could not tell him. Rhaenyra had made that clear.

He had enough on his plate now, and, not to mention, his legitimacy could be called into question.

Was Princess Rhaenyra telling him now to keep away from her — unruly Arianne?

Oh, curse you, Aemond.

Though, an idea flashed in her mind.

How effortlessly Rhaena moved through the Court, either side welcoming her with open arms! 

Perhaps if she tried to speak prettily, too?

"Ser Tyland, you truly are my knight in shining armor."

Her voice was underlined by genuine gratitude—Tyland had given her a welcome reprieve from Aemond’s cruel presence.

'How had Rhaena explained her ease in conversing with people? To give them a chance at feeling important.'

Arianne thought about it briefly, deciding this was her refuge from the evil boor himself.

She straightened, subtly shifting away from Aemond’s imposing figure as she faced Tyland with a new spark of amusement.

"It is true, I’m on the verge of tears."

Arianne let the words drip from her lips as if she were indulging in a great tragedy.

"Prince Aemond has been talking about the taxation system the crown exerts over fiefdoms, and I... I scarcely understood him."

She took in his finely tailored Lannister attire—a richly embroidered crimson tunic with gold thread winding around the edges in intricate patterns.

"Of course, I’ve tried reading the monetary treatises you wrote, but..." She gestured with a hand, her fingers curling in mock defeat.

Tyland’s face brightened at the mention of his work.

"I am honored, Lady Swann. But how could you forget to tell me earlier taxation interested you!" He accused, though his smile was genuine and he was seemingly unaware of the pretense in her tone. Of course, she understood how taxation worked! Arianne gave him a polite nod, her shoulders relaxing.

"But it is all so difficult," she continued with a dramatic sigh, casting a glance toward Aemond, who stood silently watching.

"The prince was clearly bored by my lack of knowledge."

Tyland leaned in, eager to lighten the mood.

"Surely no one could be bored conversing with you, Lady Swann."

He shook his head as if such a thing was preposterous.

"A lady of your wit and beauty would charm a Night King."

Arianne let out a soft laugh, eyes sparkling.

"You flatter me, Ser. I was hoping you had a moment to spare and simplify it for me," she said, a bit more brightly now that Tyland’s presence had dissolved some of the tension.

"I would prefer to have knowledge of such matters. You do mention how several members of a noble house ought to peruse the numbers lest some opportunities slip through the cracks. How fortunate I could be if I learned about gold form a Lannister."

Tyland’s grin widened, clearly pleased. An older lady whose name Arianne did not know nodded eagerly. She wore red and gold as well.

"Ah... of course. Mayhaps you’d offer me a rematch sometime then."

He took a half-step forward, his voice growing more playful.

"I do pride myself on my prowess in cyvasse, yet your maneuver with using an elephant as a sacrificial piece..." He was about to continue, but then, his eyes flickered past her, catching Aemond’s glare.

The prince stood ramrod straight, his icy stare fixed firmly on Master of Ships.

Tyland hesitated, suddenly aware that he had interrupted something.

The easy, confident smile slipped from his face.

"Your Grace," He murmured, his tone shifting to one of polite caution. His eyes quickly regarded Aemond, who had barely moved, save for flexing his fingers in a way that suggested restraint.

The air grew thick and Arianne cleared her throat.

She could practically feel Aemond's fervent glare bore into the back of her head. 'What was he glowering about?'

 His distaste for her had been clearer than a mountain lake, so he should be happy she was leaving.

He should be overwhelmed by joy that she could not, in fact, kill him!

Or did the One-eyed Prince think she ought to suffer under his wicked thumb for hours?

Well, regardless of evil boor's opinion, she was going to extricate herself from his unsettling torment.

“Your Grace,” she began, turning to Aemond and trying not to tremble under the hateful attention of his sole eye.

“We would never dream of delaying you from your princely duties. Surely, your loyal subjects are constantly entangled in their own... misunderstandings with books. Perhaps it is your responsibility to rush and report every last one, my Prince of the Realm.”

Tyland shifted on his feet, not really wanting to find out how Vhagar's rider would react to Lady Swann's words—they were nothing more than a very elegant dismissal.

Someone cleared their throat.

The harsh lines of Aemond's face took on a mien of cold indifference.

His blue iris glinted like ice under sunlight.

He clasped his hands behind his back and blinked, before speaking,

"I assure you that every thief will be brought to justice, my lady Swann." His tone could put the deadliest lyseni poisons to shame.

 "I suggest caution though, Ser Tyland. Her ladyship trips over her own feet, and often so."

Just as Arianne thought she was safe, his melodious voice made her ears red again.

Her bottom lip quivered from another bout of shame, but Tyland would have none of it it seemed.

Master of Ships stepped forward and proffered his elbow to her.

“Lady Swann,” he declared, his voice as sweet as linctus. “if it pleases you, may I offer my arm? I would be most honored to escort you. And I will explain everything you wish to know about the system of taxation detailed in my treatise."

A fleeting thought of how Rhaena might be the smartest person she knew — because everything she had said was working — invaded Arianne's mind as she smiled.

"Ser Tyland. I would be delighted.”

'I'd be delighted to sail to Skagos to avoid this particular Targaryen.'

Tyland inclined his head, his own smile growing as he turned toward the waiting courtiers.

“Your Grace,” he added with a respectful nod to Aemond, before leading Lady Swann into the courtyard.

Arianne felt the tension in her spine finally diminishing.

She allowed herself a soft exhale, the corners of her lips lifting in genuine relief.

Aemond’s presence had been oppressive, his words mean and uncourteous.

He seized her wrist like some savage.

Now, in the company of Tyland and the courtiers, she felt like she had slipped free from the coiling grip of a dragon's tail.

Would Princess Rhaenyra write to her father?

Arianne didn't glance back, though her mind was still working through fantasies of exacting revenge on the One-eyed twat for taking the Fires of the Freehold from her, all the while crafting small pleasantries to distract herself from the encounter.

When Jace becomes King, and she his Queen, she will have Aemond Targaryen exiled to Yi Ti!

To Sothoryos!

To Grey Waste!

To ruins of Valyria if need be!

[onthesandsofdreams]

There Is Room For Love Again

Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire Pairing: Sansa Stark x Daemon Sand Rating: T Summary: To her surprise, Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria invite her over for a lunch. She attends, she hardly can refuse a Prince, and besides, that has the added bonus of not having to deal with Queen Cersei for the length of it. Prince Oberyn is charming and has her in stitches, Lady Ellaria is both incredibly fierce and maternal in such a way, tears near fall at the thought of her own mother. She also gets to meet Prince Oberyn's innermost circle, amongst them? Daemon Sand. Words: 2017 Notes: I aged up Sansa for this. Prompt(s): 27.- That is not why we’re doing this from @fictober-event

Read @ AO3

The Dornish delegation arrives in a flurry of orange and gold.

And the part of her that still remains from her childhood, is thrilled at seeing all of them. At seeing Prince Oberyn be defiant enough to bring his paramour with him. There is something about it that tickles her fancy. The lowborn lady and the high prince, it is made much sweeting at seeing how clearly in love both of them are and how tender they are around each other, even if their teeth carry poison for everyone else.

To her surprise, Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria invite her over for a lunch. She attends, she hardly can refuse a Prince, and besides, that has the added bonus of not having to deal with Queen Cersei for the length of it. Prince Oberyn is charming and has her in stitches, Lady Ellaria is both incredibly fierce and maternal in such a way, tears near fall at the thought of her own mother. She also gets to meet Prince Oberyn's innermost circle, amongst them? Daemon Sand.

Oh, she should know better by now! She should know that a handsome visage can hide the vilest of beings. But here, in the privacy of the Dornish wing, she allows herself to be a child again and dream of a handsome knight, his bastardry doesn't matter; it is not like she will be allowed to wed him, after all. She can dream.

And that is how it starts.

For Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria extend the invitation to join them frequently enough. She wants to weep in gratitude for the respite of the loneliness they give her. And she is secretly glad whenever Daemon joins them. For she finds him to be funny and charming, but unlike Joffrey, there is no mocking grin. No cruelty. His eyes are clear of deception and he never treats her as if she were a plague.

For once they make their acquaintance, she finds that Daemon seeks her out and keeps her company whenever possible. They speak, of their respective childhoods and she finds that he is just as fascinated with her stories of the North as she is of Dorne. "Summer snows, how dearly would I love to see that."

"Perhaps one day, ser, you shall make your way North and have your fill of summer snows."

To her surprise, Daemon squeezes gently her hand, "And I'm sure you will be there, guiding my steps and making sure I do not freeze to death."

She chokes back a sob, the idea of home is a sweet one and the promise of going back is something she holds dear. But it is also something that she knows will be a hard won battle. "I will make you a cloak," she tells him when she has swallowed back her pain. "A very warm one, so you will not freeze."

Daemon smiles at her then, and her pain is replaced with butterflies.

* Other days, their conversations are smaller. "I once asked my father to keep a singer in Winterfell, for it was seldom they made their way North."

"I would imagine you were upset after he left."

"I wept for days."

*

"I was a companion to Princess Arianne. She is quite the spitfire, but she fools you by being soft and friendly. She certainly is my Prince's niece."

"I would dearly love to meet her, she sounds lovely."

"She would take you under her wing, she would love you, but tease you relentlessly. It is in her nature. But she is kind to those who need it. And with respect my Lady, after everything that you have lived through, you need it."

Her throat doesn't close, but it's a near thing. "Thank you."

*

To her surprise, Daemon gifts her with a small, delicate dagger. "I see that you have no guards, my Lady. But a lady of your standing should always be protected. You should have no difficulty hiding it under your gown, the Lady Ellaria could teach you how."

She stares at the dagger, and says, "Thank you, and I would appreciate if you were to teach me how to use it."

And just like that, she and Daemon meet in the godswoods as she slowly learns to use a dagger and protect herself from anyone who might wish her harm. She knows she will never be able to use it against Joffrey or Cersei or Lord Tywin, but she still feels as fierce as the direwolf of her sigil.

*

She speaks with Daemon of her love of dancing and music and songs. He listens to her, does not judge her and even when he disagrees with her, he does so respectfully. There is never any mocking. When she asks why, he tells her, "All songs had to have a base on something. What? I do not know, but the emotions behind the songs are not false. Perhaps the story is, but never the emotion that brought forth the song."

And she, is thankful that no one watches how she wipes away a quick tear.

*

And that is how she begins to realize that she has begun to fall in love with a man that she should not. Daemon is a bastard, and while she has a good sense about his character, she knows that she would never be allowed to make the choice of her own. At least not here, in this gilded cage.

Little does she know, that Daemon has fallen for her too.

*

When she is finally comfortable enough to confide in Ellaria about the plot of her marriage to Willas, she looks alarmed. "My Lady," Ellaria says quite formally. "I would not trust the Tyrells, but then again, I would say that, would I not?"

"You would think they would hurt me?"

"I would think that you are an heiress and they know it."

And that is such a bitter pill to swallow, for how can she deny it? Yes, she would be a good wife to Willas, but she also knows that her siblings, bar Jon are dead or missing. She is the only one who has a claim to Winterfell. And she has much to think about it.

*

It is one day when Prince Oberyn calls her that he barely has let her sit, so he can drop some news. "Lord Baelish has asked for your hand in marriage."

It is a good thing that she does not have anything on her hands, else they would have fallen. "My lady mother's friend? Why would he...?"

Prince Oberyn and Ellaria look pained, "Because that man could not have the mother, but he might have the daughter yet."

And just like that, panic sweeps through her. Lord Baelish was known to her lady mother, but what does she know about him? Only that he had made her uneasy when she and her father had arrived at the capital, and that for all his friendship towards her mother, he has never done a thing for her.

"Gods be good," she whispers.

"Have faith, Lady Sansa," Prince Oberyn tells her. "You might yet escape those clutches. And the lions' too."

At that, she looks sharply at the Prince. "Whatever do you mean, Prince Oberyn?"

Ellaria and the Prince share a look. "That we have a plan to have you smuggled out of the city." Oberyn takes a goblet of wine and drains it in one go. "I am a father, Sansa. And my sister died in this accursed city, I would not leave you to your doom."

She wants to cry. "However shall that be done? And what do you expect to get out of this?"

"I have my ways," Prince Oberyn gives her a smirk, only to grow serious. "As to what am I expecting? Nothing. That is not why we're doing this. I swear on my honor, that you shall be safe. I know you have been betrayed by many and have few reasons to trust me, but I would want that any man would do the same for any of my daughters."

"My father would," she says.

"I know."

In the end, the plan is simple. There will be a moment in Joffrey and Margaery's wedding when everyone shall be distracted, that is when they will spirit her away to an awaiting boat, one that will take her and a few chosen men of his to White Harbor. She allows herself to weep that night.

*

The moment she shows Ellaria the hairnet, Prince Oberyn stands on edge and hisses. "Those are not stones." He says, takes a dagger and removes one, placing it on an empty wine cup that he adds some wine to it. The jewel dissolves and Prince Oberyn grits his teeth. "The strangler, get rid of this thing Sansa."

Panic fills her again, someone gave her poison? How could Ser Dontos betray her like that? She gives Prince Oberyn a jerky nod, "I shall, thank you for telling me."

She lets Prince Oberyn take another 'stone', she does not ask about it. And in the privacy of her chamber, she uses the dagger to remove the stones. The poison could be useful, so she sews them into her dresses and gets rid of the metalwork.

*

Joffrey and Margaery's wedding is a grand affair, Prince Oberyn has requested that she be seated near him and the Lannisters can not deny him. Joffrey mocks her for it, Margaery gives her pitying looks and Lady Oleanna disapproves, vocally so. But she finds that she does not care.

The music is loud and she wishes she could dance, to her surprise, Daemon comes to her, bows deeply and asks, "Lady Sansa, can I have this dance?"

She beams, "I would be delighted," she tells him and lets herself be led onto the dance floor. If people talk and watch and gossip, she does not care. She will enjoy those stolen moments with Daemon as much as she can.

And she finds Daemon to be a marvelous dancer, he sways her to the rhythm with surprising grace. Her heart is thundering inside of her heart and how she wishes in that very moment that she were brave enough to pull him down for a kiss. Propriety be damned. Her parents are gone, so are her siblings, who is there to berate her? The Lannisters, but she finds that she does not care a bit about what they have to say.

The Tyrells have slowly pulled back, displeased that she spends more of her time with Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria, she does not mourn the friendship, calling it summer friends, but she mourns what could have been.

She dances with the Dornish who ask, but she returns over and over to Daemon.

And then, Joffrey dies and everything breaks into chaos.

That is when Daemon rushes her towards safety.

Prince Oberyn's men are waiting near the pier, ready to depart and she feels an immense relief at knowing that Daemon will be going North with her. She is rushed to the ship, hair covered. To her surprise, she finds the cabin she has been given contains dresses that will fit her, and she vows to one day to something to repay the kindness that Prince Oberyn and Ellaria have given her.

*

The road towards the North is long and hard, but she doesn't mind at all. How could she, when she is finally free from the Lannisters and she has the safety that Daemon gives her?

No, she is finally going home and, if things go well, she might be able to give Daemon the cloak she has spoken about. Because she is Lady Stark, and she will do her utmost to make sure that Daemon is treated with the respect he deserves. And she will fight anyone who tells her that he is not a fit consort for her. Because in him she has found more nobility than in others of higher birth.

Yes, he would make a fine Lord Stark at her side.

Daemon is and will be her choice.

[forever-rogue]

Patricia!! First of all congrats on a new follower milestone! Those are always so exciting and asking and you deserve every one of them! Could I possibly request 39: “I wish we could stay like this forever” and 80: “let’s run away together” from promo list 2 with Oberyn? I love how you write him and would die to see what you do with this 🥺 ily Patricia! And congrats again! ❤️

Anything for you, my love! Enjoy 🥺

(also not necessary but I am a fool - this could totally be read as a slice of life in INO)

Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader ; warnings: references to sex

Pedro Characters Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

The warmth, golden light filtered in through the sheer curtains, and the fresh, salty smell of the ocean and sound of chirping birds hit you all at once. It was a late, but beautiful and blissful morning and you were loath to get up. All you wanted was to stay here forever, wrapped up in the arms of your beautiful lover. Almost as if he sensed that you were up, you felt him grinning against your skin as he pressed a flurry of gentle, saccharine kisses to your chest and collarbones. You mumbled something into the soft pillow, something about wanting just five more minutes of sleep, but he just chuckled. 

“Sleep is for the dead, sunshine,” he murmured as he worked his way up your neck and stopped at your lips.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," a small huff of air escaped your nose as you pouted at him, slowly opening your bleary eyes. You found his soft brown ones, crinkled sweetly in the corners as he grinned at you, studying your face intently, “good morning.”

“Speak for yourself,” you teased him, “it cannot be a good morning if I am being woken up at such an ungodly hour!”

“Ungodly hour,” Oberyn laughed - a twinkling, beautiful sound - before laying back down and pulling you on top of him. You made a small sound of surprise at the sudden motion, but quickly quieted down when you felt his warm, bare body against yours. His golden skin on yours was delicious and warm, soft and strong at the same time, a perfect juxtaposition - just like him. You laid your head onto his chest, “it is almost the afternoon, sweet girl, it’s hardly ungodly.”

“Why can I not enjoy the day in bed with my prince?” you sighed softly, running a hand through his dark curls, “why should I allow the world to part me from my lover in such a manner?”

“Unfortunately the world requires us to be present,” he chuckled as kissed the top of your head. You huffed lightly although you understood what he meant. You'd always known - from the moment you had met the handsome prince.

“And what’s more important? The world or me?” you joked as he grazed his fingers up and down your spine, leaving a wake of gooseflesh under his fingertips. You sighed into his touch before pressing a few kisses to his bare chest.

“You, of course,” he promised, “and you have me always, first and foremost. But sometimes the world needs their prince.”

"And what about me?" you said softly as his large hands landed thoroughly on your backside, giving the firm flesh of your ass a squeeze. You giggled wildly before turning to look up at him and grabbing his jaw, "play fair!"

"I am," he insisted as you kissed him, "you will always manage without me. For the world needs their prince, but what is a mere prince to the queen?"

"Shut up," you groaned at him before moving to sit up so you were straddling his lap, his body humming with gentle love under yours, "you are not even a prince - only a mere fool!"

"A fool for you," he insisted softly as his hands found purchase on your hips. You beamed at him, golden as the sunlight and causing his heart to melt, "let me show you how a queen - my queen - is treated."

"Oberyn," you gasped slightly as his hands wandered up your body and to your breasts, "I thought we had to get up and rejoin society?"

"I've changed my mind," he grinned, "the prince needs you instead."

»»————-　♡　————-««

"Its beautiful here," you were sprawled out on the lush, soft blanket, soaking up as much sun as possible. You were near the edge of the stunning lake, secluded and alone, as you listened to the soft lapping of the waves onto the shore. It was so serene and blissful, for a few moments you almost forgot that a world outside of this place existed. 

Oberyn hummed in content as he popped a few fresh, plump berries into his mouth. He grabbed a particularly plump looking strawberry and held it out to you, dangling it just in front of your lips. You made a show of taking a large bite from the berry, letting the juice dribble from your lips and down your chin.  He tuttled lightly before using his thumb to collect the juices and holding it out to you. 

Grabbing his wrist, you pulled his thumb into your mouth before sucking it clean before slowly releasing it with a loud pop. He grinned at you, before pulling you in for a kiss. 

"You are a very tantalizing little thing," he licked across your bottom lip, savoring the sweetness that lingered. You grinned against him before pulling away and lying back down on the blanket. Oberyn watched you for a few moments before lying next to you, his large hand grabbed yours and he defty laced your fingers together, "you're thinking much too loudly."

"I am doing nothing of the sort," you shrugged innocently, keeping your eyes closed in order to shield them from the sun - and Oberyn. He had a knack for being able to read every thought and feeling almost as if he was able to see into your soul. Naturally, there were a million things running through your mind at once, but you weren't going to tell Oberyn any of that - not yet anyway, "perhaps you're being too analytical."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of such a thing," he snorted in laughter, "but I, my sunshine, am also able to read to you - easily. Tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours."

"And if I refuse to speak my peace?"

"Then I shall be forced to pull it out of you," he insisted softly as he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a delicate kiss to your knuckles. Sighing contentedly, you rolled onto your side so you could properly face him.

And he was beautiful - so stunning in his golden glory. He was older now, than when you'd first met him, calmer after everything he'd survived in King's Landing, even more wise and world weary than the best men. Which you supposed he was; a man with words as sweet as roses or sharp as hawthorne - it was easy to see why everyone fell at his feet, but he still reminded them of why he was the Red Viper.

The soft brown of his eyes, flecked with gold in the light, always seemed to betray him.  At least to you anyways. His hair was longer these days, softer much like him, lightened by the sun and flowing into luscious curls. His facial hair has greyed slightly (from keeping up with all of the kids he always claimed), and he was more...him. 

You'd always loved him, from the day he seemed to save you from a life of uncertainty and domineering men. But it has been a privilege to watch him grow, to see him become the best version of him - it was always thanks to you, he claimed, a guise you greatly disputed. But you loved him - your husband - more than the moon and all the glittering stars in the night sky. 

Playing with you a lock of his soft hair, you continued to brush off the insinuation that anything was wrong, "nothing is the matter, Oberyn. I am merely enjoying the private company of my husband."

“And yet there is so much going on in that mind,” he mused, as you shrugged innocently, “so much buzzing, I’d think we were in Honeyholt and tending to the bees. My dear sunshine, you should know better by now - when have I ever let such a thing go?”

“You are incessant,” you groaned lightly, but appreciating the care and concern nonetheless, “it is silly - a mere folly that should not even worry me and alas, here I am.”

“If it matters to you, then it is not a mere folly,” he promised, “you can tell me anything.”

“I know,” you agreed with a small. You sat up slowly pulling your knees to your chest as you looked out into the sparkling water. Oberyn followed suit before moving to sit in front of you, putting his hand under your chin and turning your face up to his. He almost left you breathless with his easy beauty and warmth, “it’s just...I like this. Just you and me, no one else around, no worries, no duties. I...I hate to think once we return home it will all cease to exist - you will be forced to your duties, as I understand you must, and I? Well, I suppose I will be your dutiful wife, hoping and wishing for a chance to see her husband.”

“Then I suppose we should run away, shouldn’t we?”

“I...Oberyn...what?”

“I’m serious,” he insisted softly as you just laughed at his idealistic ways, “let’s run away together, even if just for a while. No one has to know...and when we are ready we shall return.”

“That is a temporary solution for a permanent problem, my love,” you gave him a weak smile before pulling out of his touch, “what about when we return to Dorne?”

“Always so serious, my sunshine,” he chuckled softly as you huffed at him, “you must ruin every little surprise, mustn’t you?”

“I have done nothing,” you insisted, sticking out your tongue at him, “all I do is care about my husband and I am teased and punished for being woeful and caring!”

“You have not been teased -”

“I have too, Oberyn Martell!”

“I will make it up to you, sweet girl,” he praised with a glint in his eye, “however, whenever, and wherever you should fancy. Now - will you let me finish?”

“I have not been-”

“Your prince demands it.”

“Well your queen insists that she hasn’t been doing anything of the short,” gave him a little smirk, “but go on and tell me about this so called surprise.”

“When we return home to Dorne, things will be different,” he promised as you raised your eyebrows in question, “I have been thinking, and don’t even say a word, and I think it’s time for me to...take a step back and let Doran and Arianne, as his heir, handle things from now. I am getting tired...weary, of all these tasks that should be left to the next ruler. Besides, Arianne is more than ready to take over. I think I should quite enjoy a quiet, leisurely life.”

“Oberyn,” your mouth dropped and formed a small o as you studied him to try and see if he was being honest. A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth before he broke out in a wonderful grin. You leaned over and kissed him, unable to stop yourself, “do you mean it? Please tell me this isn’t some sort of cruel joke.”

“I would never do such a thing,” he whispered as he pulled you into his lap and you wrapped your arms around his neck, “I just think...it’s time. Besides, there is nothing more I want than to spend my day with you, and the girls - think of all the things we can do. There are still ways to help our people, but we will do it together.”

“You continually amaze me,” a single tear, this one of nothing but happiness and love had rolled down your cheek as you pressed your forehead against his, “and I will never know what I did to deserve you, and I will be forever grateful to the universe for bringing you to me.”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” he reached up and gently wiped away the tear, “for it should be the other way around. I take it as though you are not opposed to the notion?”

“Not at all,” you smiled softly, “I could have asked for nothing better.”

“Then what do you say?” his hand found the back of your neck as he gave you a gentle squeeze, “shall we run away? To Essos - the Summer Isles - far away from everything? Only to return when we decide we are ready to?

“Yes,” you eagerly agreed, delighted by the prospect of spending the days and nights at your husband’s side, without a care in the world, “I want nothing more.”

“Then it is settled,” he promised, “now, will you let me show you every way in which I love you?”

“Oberyn!” your face flushed with warmth as you looked around to make sure no was within ear shot, “we are out in the open! Anyway could...see.”

“And that is not our problem,” he shrugged simply, “we have told them not to disturb us, hopefully they heed our advice. But now, sweet girl, you are all mine.”

“Always,” you promised softly, “I am forever yours.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[wintearys]

He   genuinely   laughs   at   that,   the   echoes   of   his   own   laugh   turn   into   those   of   a   dragon   as   Balerion,   standing   watch   and   prideful   laughs   too.   Connection   between   rider   and   dragon   as   deep   as   her   pride.   "Rȳ   ease,   balerion.   Iksi   daor   kesīr   naejot   vīlībagon."   He   speaks   in   his   native   tongue   to   the   dragon   and   Balerion   takes   a   time   to   look   around   before   simply   letting   his   wings   spread   and   wind   so   he   can   rest   properly   on   the   sand,   as   strange   to   him   as   anything   on   this   content   is.   He   turns   to   look   at   the   dragon   with   a   smile   for   once   before   he   turns   to   look   at   Arianne.   "Lord   Torrhen   Stark   is   facing   a   drought   and   a   harsh   winter,   I   do   not   blame   him   for   doing   this   in   favor   of   food   and   water   for   his   people.   Are   you   saying   he   should've   let   his   people   die   by   fire   and   then   ice.   If   so,   then   perhaps   you   are   not   the   just   ruler   I   heard   you   are,   Your   Grace.   For   I   respect   your   title,   you   should   respect   mine.   I   might   not   be   a   King   in   Dorne,   but   I   am   a   King   elsewhere,   for   that,   I   demand   respect,   as   well   respect   for   Lord   Torrhen,   who   is   a   compassionate   ruler.   Are   you?"  

He   now   considered   Torrhen   a   friend,   for   the   man   had   been   wise   in   bending   the   knee   but   also   explained   their   own   situation.   Winterfell   was   House   Stark's   seat   and   it   had   their   own   prophecies   just   like   House   Targaryen   had.   The   North   has   it's   harships   only   a   wolf   can   understand,   and   he   respects   a   man   who   understands   when   to   protect   his   people   instead   of   his   ego.   "No,   the   sun   bows   to   no   one   but   itself.   Which   is   why   you   live   in   constant   inner   wars   among   your   own   houses,   fighting   for   power,   fighting   invasion   off   from   the   Reach   and   the   Stormlands,   both   now   acquire   to   my   Kingdom."   He   speaks   in   turn,   lilac   eyes   looking   down   upon   the   ruler   of   Dorne.   She   has   spirit   but   perhaps   too   much   pride   to   understand   an   alliance   when   it's   being   offered.  

"The   Stormlanders   and   Reach   had   agreed   to   not   invade   your   borders   further,   my   sister   Rhaenys   giving   them   lovely   wives   to   keep   them   entertained.   I   offer   you   that;   safety   from   living   in   constant   alert   of   who   will   come   next.   And   if   a   house   rises   against   yours,   which   they   will,   I   offer   my   assistance,   as   I   do   if   my   lieges   break   their   word.   You   can   remain   as   you   are,   a   princedom.   But   you   would   make   fool   of   your   sex   if   you   don't   accept   this   alliance."   And   perhaps   he   should've   send   Rhaenys   to   deal   with   this,   woman   to   woman,   but   he   had   a   gut   feeling   that   if   he   allowed   his   wife   to   come,   she   would   never   return   from   Dorne.   "Any   other   terms   you   wish,   are   to   be   discussed   and   a   treaty   sign."   

❝ What a disappointment. To hear that all those great lords with all their armies fell to mere mortal and his pup, ❞ she remarked, her pride and dignity palpable in her demeanor. Arianne carried herself with a regal air, never allowing anyone to diminish her worth or her status. ❝ The north also pisses on the streets, I heard. Does that mean we have to follow? We are off Rhoynish blood, they are made of snow, ❞ she added, her tone dripping with disdain.

Beneath her beauty lay a mind as sharp as any sword. ❝ You are wrong in one thing, however, Ser, ❞ she continued, refusing to bestow him the title of king. Confident steps carried her over, she was not afraid to face the man who crowned himself king. Standing at barely five foot two, Arianne's temperament was as fiery as the sun that scorched the Dornish sands. Quick to anger but just as quick to forgive, her emotions were intense and unyielding, just like her pride. The same pride that lit her eyes as her gaze shot up to him before raising her voice once more. There was a dangerous elegance to the way she spoke, her accent weaving a tapestry of intimidation. She spoke with the authority of kings. ❝ The sun never bows to the dragon. ❞

[mikasaessucasaa]

Title: Wolves at Dusk

Summary: When Sansa was a child, Jon reminded her of everything wrong with the world. He was proof that the things she craved the most, romance and the promise of marriage, could be betrayed. So she resented him.

Now, after spending 10 years in the Vale in hiding and her family dead and gone, she has come to King’s Landing to beg for support to take back her rightful seat in the North.

PART 1 – PART 2

“Tell me more about your former wife,” Daenerys asked Tyrion across the dining table.

Jon’s head snapped up to watch their conversation, the meal before him forgotten, but Rhaegar looked on, bored already.

“I do not know what happened in the Vale for her to be disfigured so, but Sansa was renowned for her beauty. The rose of Winterfell,” Tyrion explained.

Rhaegar scoffed. “Her coloring is too Tully to be the rose of Winterfell.”

Tyrion paused appropriately to let Rhaegar know that he acknowledged his comment before continuing. “She was beautiful but dull, always happy to go along with what my sister requested of her.”

And that was the end of it. He gave Jon nothing, while holding onto everything. There was more to his marriage to his cousin, he knew it, and yet nothing he could do would pry the truth out of the tricky Lannister.

The Sansa that he saw before the Iron Throne was not a dull woman. She had a sharpness in her eye that he had seen so rarely around him.

He remembered the Sansa of his childhood, who loved pretty gold things, who so desperately wanted to come South, and was shocked to see how she had aged. Gone was her shiny red hair, replaced with something dull and barely auburn. The scar across her eye did not disgust him, but made him curious as to how she received it. The Sansa of his childhood would never be put in a situation where she would receive something like that. She was beloved and protected, in a way that he never was while he was in Winterfell, before he found his way South to be with his true family.

And perhaps most of all, the Sansa of his childhood would never dare cast aside her cousin, more Tully than Stark that she was. Family, duty, honor.

Yet, she stood tall before the Targaryens, unafraid, something that he had not seen in the years since they had retaken the Iron Throne from the Lannisters.

Sansa Stark was a dangerous woman.

And his father wanted him to cast aside Arianne Martell to marry her.

Jon did not prefer Arianne Martell one way or another, but he knew the consequences of his actions. Another Dorne lady cast aside for a Stark. This would bring war one way or another, and his father was no fool to not see it.

“Marrying a Stark will bring Dorne's wrath,” Jon said quietly.

Rhaegar finally turned to fully engage in the conversation.

“You are the product of it, yet you do not know what it is to go to war with the North. Arianne Martell may be scorned, but that woman will burn down everything in her path to Winterfell.”

Daenerys perked up at Rhaegar’s words. “She does not seem strong enough to do so. She has no dragons after all.”

“All the same, if you wish to stop her, then you must be ready to run her through.”

At this Rhaegar’s stare pierced through Jon, and he swallowed wine down heavily, knowing that he believed Jon could.

He had already killed his half-brother, afterall.

[agentrouka-blog]

dumb question. but do you think dany is the stallion who mounts the world?

Hi there!

That’s not a dumb question. :) 

Also, yes. Absolutely. Along with the other savior-related prophecies. The Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai, etc... 

Specifically, it is Dany in combination with Drogon.

Dany eats the horse heart and the dosh khaleen make their prophecy, but like all seers and priests, they are fallible, and prone to misinterpretation, due to the sexist bias in their culture.

“Khalakka dothrae mr’anha!” she proclaimed in her best Dothraki. A prince rides inside me! She had practiced the phrase for days with her handmaid Jhiqui. (AGOT, Daenerys V)

Since the ceremony and everyone’s expectations are pointed at the expected son (assumed son, never a daughter!) their visions are ascribed to this innocent fetus. Rhaego, as we later learn, was never going to be that. He fits perfectly into the Targaryen pattern of dragonblood-related, malformed stillbirths. 

So who else would it be, who is prophecied to be this prince:

“As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name.” The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid. “The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.”

Let’s look what applies.

1) Swift as the wind...

The silver horse leapt the flames as if she had wings.

When she pulled up before Magister Illyrio, she said, "Tell Khal Drogo that he has given me the wind." (AGOT, Daenerys II)

But also...

The horses broke and ran when the shadow fell upon them, racing through the grass until their sides were white with foam, tearing the ground with their hooves … but as swift as they were, they could not fly. Soon one horse began to lag behind the others. The dragon descended on him, roaring, and all at once the poor beast was aflame, yet somehow he kept on running, screaming with every step, until Drogon landed on him and broke his back. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

2) Fierce as a storm… 

"And I am Daenerys Stormborn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon's daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo." (AGOT, Daenerys IX)

3) Enemies will tremble… Her perceived enemies at the point of that prophecy are the Robert and Ned and the Lannisters. 

"Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar." Ned fought to keep the scorn out of his voice, and failed. "Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?" (AGOT, Eddard VIII)

Ironically, Rhaego is not that unborn child. The “Shadow” is another. When Dany rides Drogon, she has completed her transformation into the Stallion.

"It were the black one," the man said, in a Ghiscari growl, "the winged shadow. He come down from the sky and … and …" (ADWD, Daenerys I)

4) Their wives weep tears of blood and rend their flesh...

The tears burned like vinegar as they ran down her cheeks. Ten fierce ravens were raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh, leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood. She could taste it on her lips.  (ASOS, Catelyn VII)

I have no doubt that more will tremble and weep blood before long.

5) Bells in their hair….

That was Drogon's victory, not mine, Dany wanted to say, but she held her tongue. The Dothraki would esteem her all the more for a few bells in her hair. She chimed as she mounted her silver mare, and again with every stride, but neither Ser Jorah nor her bloodriders made mention of it.

 (ACOK, Daenerys V)

6) Milk men in stone tents will fear her name...

"On that we can agree," Ser Kevan said, "but the girl is of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and I do not think she will be content to remain in Meereen forever. If she should reach these shores and join her strength to Lord Connington and this prince of his, feigned or no … we must destroy Connington and his pretender now, before Daenerys Stormborn can come west."  (ADWD, Epilogue)

and..

"She is the Mad King's daughter," the princess said. "How do we do know--"

"We cannot know," Ser Daemon said. "We can only hope." 

(TWOW, Arianne I)

7) The prince is riding.

As Dany rode beneath the arched entry and up the center aisle, every eye was on her. The Dothraki screamed out comments on her belly and her breasts, hailing the life within her. She could not understand all they shouted, but one phrase came clear. "The stallion that mounts the world," she heard, bellowed in a thousand voices.

They are screaming about Rhaego but they are looking at her as she rides.

So the Dany = Stallion = Prince (that was promised) = Azor Ahai.

“We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone and chosen of R'hllor." (ASOS, Davos IV)

Chosen by the god of burning people alive.

And finally Maester Aemon ties it up:

"No one ever looked for a girl," he said. "It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought . . . the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King's Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it."  

(AFFC, Samwell IV)

Ironically, he is still utterly wrong in his assumption that this prince will be a force of good. Quite the opposite.

[cerseiwondered]

Hello!! If prompts are still open maybe 12 or 20? Anyway I think your writing's great, thank you and have a nice day :)

Thank you for the prompt, I hope you have a great day as well!

I tried to write this as quickly as possible so I could still post it on the Sapphic Sansa Fest, but I hope you enjoy it anyway haha

Prompts: “Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss” + “ Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference”

I also added a little women football rivalry here because - why not.

-

Margaery’s smile was as kind as ever when she arrived at the post-match interview spot; properly hydrated and perfumed after ninety minutes on the field.

“Margaery,” the first journalist called as she blinked at the camera flashlights. “Struggling in the middle of the league table, I would say this tie was not exactly what any of the teams were looking for tonight. As captain, how do you think the aftermath of this match will affect Raventree City’s planning for the rest of the season?”

“It was surely not the result we were hoping for but I still think we managed to play some quality, offensive football tonight,” Margaery recited the words she had passed it on to herself from the moment the referee whistled for the last time.

“The fact that we still didn’t win shows us we weren’t what we were supposed to be - perfect. Stone Hedge was very efficient in the counter-attacks and I think this is something the coach will charge us defensively. But most of all, I think we’re on the right track.”

A dozen journalists called her name once again, and Margaery focused on the short black-haired one on her left.

“On social media, there’s been some noise on the penalty you were given at the last minute of the second half, the one that avoided Raventree’s loss. Some people claim that you looked for that contact after the defender slipped.”

Margaery fought hard to keep her lips from curling into a smirk. “I did not look for any contact; I was merely on my way to the ball when I tripped on the defender. It does not matter whether it was an accident or not, she blocked my pace and I fell; it was a penalty.” And then she smiled amiably. “Thank you for your question.”

A tall blonde man stole Margaery’s attention. “Margaery, you had such an inspired performance, your first goal after that dribble against the Stone Hedge’s midfielder and the second one with that free-kick. But we can’t help but wonder, why didn’t you take the last-minute penalty that would’ve saved Raventree and given you the hat-trick? Was the pressure too much for you to handle?”

Margaery narrowed her eyes at his last words. One thing was to call her a diver - well, there was not much she could say to deny that. But a coward?

“There is a reason why I wear this armband, and a reason why I wear this number,” she touched the number ten engraved on the black jersey she wore. “Myrcella had been frustrated ever since missing that open goal, and I decided to allow her the opportunity to score. There is no such thing as pressure; I simply put my teammate’s needs ahead of my statistics. That is what a leader should do,” she shot back with a gentle smile and hard eyes.

She answered a few more questions before her sight caught the number six on the yellow jersey meters and meters away from her.

As she excused herself, she was grateful for the path that the redhead was taking. Margaery followed Sansa through one of the stadium’s corridors, blissfully away from the press.

She heard the redhead’s gasp when Margaery pulled her into another, almost hidden corridor, away from other’s eyes.

“What?”, Sansa exclaimed as she found herself pushed against the wall outside a closet, right next to a staircase that led to an unused locker room.

“Hey,” Margaery grinned as she brought Sansa’s head down to meet her, pulling her bottom lip between her own. She was just sighing at the feeling of long fingers digging into brown hair when Sansa broke the kiss, whispering against Margaery.

“I don’t think this is the most discreet place.” A tender hand caressed Margaery’s lower back.

Margaery pressed a wet kiss on the spot under Sansa’s ear. “Don’t worry, nobody comes here. Arianne and I used to fool around here every day after practice back when she still played with us.”

And then she giggled when Sansa pushed her away abruptly. “I don’t need to hear about your adventures with another woman, let alone a Woody.”

Margaery refrained from rolling her eyes at the nickname given by the Stone Hedge fans to the Raventree players. “You’re right,” her hands slid from Sansa’s face to her hair. “You don’t need to hear anything.”

Her tongue was just darting out slowly to meet Sansa’s lips when the redhead broke their contact again.

“I told you,” Margaery breathed, “No one comes here.”

“It’s not that,” Sansa’s voice was impatient. “I’ve just remembered that I’m pissed at you.”

Margaery knew the reason full well but still asked as she stroked the nape of Sansa’s neck. “And why is that, my love?”

“That dive,” Sansa shook her head incredulously. “You’re so cheap, Margaery. Did you honestly feel so threatened about losing to us that you felt the need to play so low?”

Margaery laughed. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like that was a scandalous foul. The referee didn’t exactly hesitate to give the penalty.”

Sansa tightened her grip on Margaery’s hips. “Because you fell on the floor yelling like she had ripped your ankle off.”

Margaery’s smile faltered as she retracted her hands. “Is this really how we are going to spend this moment alone? Did you forget about our rules?”

Their rules. The rules they had come up with months before, after they had slept together for the fourth time and realized that that, them, was something they couldn’t run from any longer.

There were only two rules, fairly simple and expected when it came to a relationship between the Raventree City’s left-wing and the Stone Hedge United’s right back; the two clubs held the biggest rivalry in the country, if not the world.

Don’t talk about football matters.

Don’t let anyone find out.

They had been utterly successful with the latter; can’t say the same about the first one.

“You’re right.” Sansa pulled her more tightly against herself. “I have to say I’m thankful we only play against each other twice a year. You’re too cute but I don't think my love would be strong enough to survive you nutmegging me more than you already do.”

“Well, I’m also appreciative of the scarce number of times we have to face each other, but it has more to do with how tricky it is not to get distracted by you running after me on your sweaty uniform.” She circled the red horse crest over Sansa’s left breast with her index finger.

“I see your point.”

And then all of the sudden, Sansa was dragging her by the hand towards the staircase.

They were in the middle of the stairwell, and it was more silent and a bit dark - exactly what they were looking for. And then it was Margaery’s turn to break the kiss, freeing herself from Sansa’s hold and going up a few steps until she was towering over the redhead.

“What is this?” Sansa chuckled.

“I want to be taller than you for once,” Margaery shrugged as she rested her arms around Sansa’s shoulders.

“If you were taller than me, you would have been able to score that header I blocked in the first half,” she lifted her head to face Margaery directly. “If you were taller than me, you would have managed to lob me, like you tried, and failed, to do today.”

The feeling of Sansa’s nails scratching her stomach through the fabric of her jersey and a gentle kiss pressed to the skin of her neck robbed Margaery of whatever reply she was ready to give.

[atopvisenyashill]

@natividadmoon GNC = gender non conforming

which, like, Arianne is certainly very feminine and not particularly gnc but i sometimes group her in there bc there’s this conflation of ambition + pride with masculinity in the text, in a pretty clear parallel to the ways in which our own cultures conflate female ambition with acting “improper” and “like a man.” except sometimes it feels like in real life, when talking about female characters who have ambition, some readers will ascribe “being masculine” and acting “improper” with ambitious women.

kind of similar to people making the argument that d&d made yara a lesbian because they are making her “like a man” because “masculine girls are better bc they hate femininity” and liking women is a male thing - but MEN DO NOT HAVE A MONOPOLY ON LIKING WOMEN that’s like, queer theory 101! they made her a lesbian not bc they have such respect for butch lesbians (as IF) but because all asha/yara was in their eyes was a Sexy Pirate Captain and they think women kissing women is hot. that’s the reason, they just fundamentally misunderstand her character because They Are Not Serious People.

So people will hate every single character that a) is actually GNC, like arya and asha or b) are forced to be GNC bc of other ways they don’t conform to westerosi patriarchal standards, like brienne and c) are considered “masculine” by westeros due to misogyny (and racism in Arianne’s case; she would never be considered a proper woman by most of the seven kingdoms already because she’s dornish), and ascribe this like, Male Privilege Lite to them even while internalizing the sexism those characters face in universe.

and it’s sort of like…alright but you (general you, not you you) are also missing the point here, because even tho grrm could certainly be doing it better, he’s making just as much commentary on sex and sexuality as he is war, power, gender, class, etc. like, if you really think sex won’t be involved in brienne’s story line because she’s “above” that or bc you think she’s somehow treated better by society for being “masculine” that’s just like, repackaged sexism, women aren’t above or below sex because sex is value neutral!! it’s how sex is used that gives it any sort of meaning! the regents get alllllllll in their feelings about baela fooling around with boys her own age, and then a lot of fans react the exact same way by saying that a 16 year old wanting to have sex is grrm “sexualizing” or “ruining” her and beyond being a complete misunderstanding of The Themes (he’s clearly poking at prudish religious beliefs and societal preoccupation with Women Feeling Horny, and this is something he does in the main series too!) it’s also just stupid to the nth degree bc no, a 16 year old doing age appropriate sex stuff with age appropriate people is not sexualizing them. there are so many other instances where he does weird writing choices with young girls, writing a female character who is 16 and wants to fight, is shouty, doesn’t like being told what to do, and starts kissing random boys after her fiancé fucks someone else is one of the most normal choices grrm has ever made!!

sex and ambition and fighting and kissing girls are not “male” things, the point of these gnc or “improper” characters is to challenge the notion that anything at all is a male or female thing!

sometimes people will be like “there’s nothing wrong with liking feminine characters” except they absolutely despise Asha, Brienne, and Arianne & every Sand Snake and it’s like no…i actually don’t think your problem is that you like feminine characters i think your problem is that you dislike GNC women, actually

[shieldofrohan]

I was struck by your idea that there may be a Jonsa political marriage in TWOW or early in ADOS because I could NOT figure out why they made all those parallels between them and Ned/Cat in the show without addressing it. But, your idea worries me because in s7 they compared J/D to Rhaegar/Lyanna, and while I can't imagine Jon being unfaithful, Dany falling in love with Jon was what brought her North. So how does that/the love triangle we saw on the show play out if Jonsa is already married?

Hello @esther-dot! First of all thank you for your ask, people don’t ask me anything usually so your ask made me really happy. 

I wrote a long answer I guess, sorry :

First let me say that: I think we are giving too much credit to show. After S4 the show kind of stopped following the books. I mean look at the S5 Ramsay/Sansa nonsense. D&D made it clear that GRRM gave them some important scenes for them to work with so I see the show as a slide-show of some scenes from books tbh. For example the arrival of the Knights of the Vale was sth you can find the hints of it in the books. Or the trial and death of Baelish by the hand of Sansa. Even the death of Daenerys was foreshadowed in the books. But the plots to get to those scenes were all D&D if you ask me. So they had to fill the gaps and they did it how they wanted. 

At this point I really can’t see a version of Asoiaf without a jonsa plot. Jonsa is the most foreshadowed plot in the books. The hints are starting in the prologue of the AGOT and they keep going in the AFFC and ADWD, and you can even find hints in other books of GRRM. Jonsa foreshadowings are surrounded by marriage and children imagery. So not having a jonsa marriage or kids seems unlikely to me. 

I am looking at the j*nerys foreshadowings and they are all about them being enemies. For example these two chapters that follow each other:

“No. Dany shivered. No, no, oh no.“Are you deaf, fool?” Reznak mo Reznak demanded of the man. “Did you not hear my pronouncement? See my factors on the morrow, and you shall be paid for your sheep.” “Reznak,” Ser Barristan said quietly, “hold your tongue and open your eyes. Those are no sheep bones.” No, Dany thought, those are the bones of a child.”

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

*

Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another matter. Two kings to wake the dragon. The father first and then the son, so both die kings. The words had been murmured by one of the queen’s men as Maester Aemon had cleaned his wounds. Jon had tried to dismiss them as his fever talking. Aemon had demurred. “There is power in a king’s blood,” the old maester had warned, “and better men than Stannis have done worse things than this.” The king can be harsh and unforgiving, aye, but a babe still on the breast? Only a monster would give a living child to the flames.

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

***

The next morning Xaro’s galleas was gone, but the “gift” that he had brought her remained behind in Slaver’s Bay. Long red streamers flew from the masts of the thirteen Qartheen galleys, writhing in the wind. And when Daenerys descended to hold court, a messenger from the ships awaited her. He spoke no word but laid at her feet a black satin pillow, upon which rested a single bloodstained glove. “What is this?” Skahaz demanded. “A bloody glove …” “… means war,” said the queen.

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

*

As they did their count, Jon peeled the glove off his left hand and touched the nearest haunch of venison. He could feel his fingers sticking, and when he pulled them back he lost a bit of skin. His fingertips were numb. What did you expect? There’s a mountain of ice above your head, more tons than even Bowen Marsh could count. Even so, the room felt colder than it should.“It is worse than I feared, my lord,” Marsh announced when he was done. He sounded gloomier than Dolorous Edd.Jon had just been thinking that all the meat in the world surrounded them. You know nothing, Jon Snow. “How so? This seems a deal of food to me.”

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

***

Dizzy, Dany closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she glimpsed the Meereenese beneath her through a haze of tears and dust, pouring up the steps and out into the streets.The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon’s neck and cried, “Higher!” Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon’s wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY!”

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

*

Jon clasped the offered hand. The words of his oath rang through his head. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

***

I really try to see some romantic hints in those but I can’t find them. So why did D&D choose to do j*nerys instead of jonsa? Let’s face it: Their main audience are locals and Dany lovers. People were waiting them to bang... (ew). And when he was asked about Grrm’s intentions about Jon and Dany, Alan Taylor (director) said that he can’t tell what Grrm said because it is a S8 twist. So even the most j*nerys shipper director couldn’t confirm that j*nerys was sth Grrm told them about. What Grrm told them was a S8 twist, which turned out to be Jon killing Daenerys. I bet they chose the route of a romance instead of them being enemies (Dance of Dragons 2.0 ?!?!?!) so they could shock the audience with the final twist (a poor choice i must say).

So what I am trying to say is that: j*nerys is probably not a book thing. Or at least it can only be one sided in the books. Look at the S7-8 Jon Snow.. they made him so OOC to be in love with Dany... I am sure that Book!Jon won’t be in love with Dany. To be fair, I even can’t see Jon in Dragonstone or etc. Traveling during a White Walker threat is not a good idea. He won’t have such a time to go to DS and fall in love with someone like Dany. Dany is a combination of Cersei, Joffrey, Stannis, Selyse and Melisandre... Can you imagine Jon falling for those? No I don’t think so. I mean there is even dragon glass in Skagos... why would he bother to go DS? And we know that Dragons don’t like North and I can’t image using the fire threat to beat the ice threat... So her dragons won’t be the main forces against the Others. 

I tried to explain why Show!J*nerys was so forced to please the audience and how it was a fan service plot. But still an one-sided j*nerys can happen in the books. There are more foreshowings for this tbh. I am imaging an Aerys-Joanna-Tywin kind of triangle in the books. 

I mean look at this: (I have examined the Jon chapters that follow Dany ones in the ADWD and there were some interesting things. Maybe i’ll write a meta about them one day but for now let’s focus on one hint that I found interesting)

“I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and … the rest.” “As you command.” The white knight chose his words with care. “Prince Aerys … as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord’s right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin Lannister was not a man to forget such words, or the … the liberties your father took during the bedding.” His face reddened. “I have said too much, Your Grace. I—”

[...]

How beautiful, the queen tried to tell herself, but inside her was some foolish little girl who could not help but look about for Daario. If he loved you, he would come and carry you off at swordpoint, as Rhaegar carried off his northern girl, the girl in her insisted, but the queen knew that was folly.

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

This is Daenerys’ wedding chapter and she learns about her father’s jealousy about Tywin and Joanna’s marriage. 

And bonus: she also wishes that Daario to take her away like Rhaegar did with his Stark lady. So in her wedding chapter she mentions the love between a Targaryen prince and a Stark lady. 

But she also knows that no one is coming for her. 

And Jon chapter follows this chapter. And he talks about: his dislike for Selyse and Melisandre, kinslaying, daggers in dark, the grey girl. So he won’t like Daenerys either, kinslaying is an important hint (both for Dany-Viserys and Jon-Daenerys) and I bet that Grey Girl is Sansa. 

Now we know that Dany is Aerys 2.0 with dragons and she will end what her father has started by burning down KL. So in this triangle Dany is Aerys. 

And who are Joanna and Tywin? 

The first J+T pair she’ll meet will be Aegon and Arianna probably. They are cousins too and Aegon chose not to be just a consort to his aunt by marrying her, so he’ll probably choose Arianne to gain Dorne’s support. I always consider Aegon (fake or not) and Arianne as a warning for Daenerys about Jonsa. Aegon has parallels with Sansa and Jon (secret identity with different hair color and secret Targ parentage etc). And Arianne has parallels with Sansa (The girl in the tower trope). So those two will be a test for Daenerys before she meets with Jon and Sansa. But her main test will be with Jonsa.

Jonsa fit into Joanna/Tywin pair more. They are cousins and they grew up together and after them being reunited they will be very important for each other. 

And let’s not forget about the fact that Tywin was the Hand of Aerys and he betrayed him and his son Jaime killed Aerys in the throne room... We are all aware of the parallels between Jaime and Jon already. But Jon was also her adviser and she wanted to rule the 7K with him. But in the end he betrayed her. I believe that Jon’s Ygritte arc might be useful for him to lure Dany into some false trust. But him sleeping with her and loving her and later lose her in his arms sounds like a cheap copy of Ygritte/Jon plot and it makes no sense. 

I think Dany will be taken with him and he’ll use this but it doesn’t mean that they will be lovers. Because it seems like Grrm is going to use RLJ in Jon’s romantic life (like he planned in the original/first outline with Jon-Arya romance). And RLJ has no effect on j*nerys. They can still f*ck and marry... 

I mean Grrm even put an uncle-niece marriage (Jonnel-Sansa Stark!!) in the Stark family tree to show that Starks have no problem with marrying with their uncles/aunts etc. Grrm only considers the marriages between siblings and parent-children as incest. So j*nerys is not a doomed love. But for jonsa; RLJ makes everything smooth. Therefore RLJ must be used in jonsa plot.

So Dany is the Aerys of the triangle and no Targaryen prince will come for her because they are busy with their Stark ladies. (Rhaegar- Lyanna and also maybe Jacaerys and Sara Snow?) 

To explain the early Jonsa political marriage, I must say that I was inspired by the Grand Northern Conspiracy. According to this theory, Howland Reed is the keeper of Robb’s Will about Jon and he is also the one who knows about RLJ. 

It does not go north with Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont, who expressly carry false letters, and is often feared lost at the Twins in the chaos following the Red Wedding. Another possibility, however, is that the document was secreted away in Hag’s Mire and has now been retrieved by Lady Stoneheart. Who in turn, for a real kicker of an ironic twist, delivers the suspected proof of Jon’s kingship to Greywater Watch for safekeeping, care of Howland Reed, who then knows more of the crowns Jon’s entitled to than any other man living in the world of ASOIAF.

https://zincpiccalilli.tumblr.com/post/52748381148

Let’s accept this theory and say that Howland has the Will. Without his proof other lords can’t just announce Jon as the KITN. I believe that Howland will be present at Winterfell to show the Will. But Howland was also a friend of Ned Stark. And he is loyal to House Stark. He kept RLJ as secret for years to protect the Starks and Jon from Robert’s wrath. But Robert is dead and he has no reason to keep this secret anymore. And I can’t imagine him sitting quietly while other lords declare Jon as the King while a true born Stark (Sansa) is sitting right there. He wouldn’t betray Ned’s memory like that. So he’ll spill the tea with RLJ too. And after that maybe Sansa will finally have some agency for her choice of husband. So them together will be the one answer of North’s all wishes. 

And let’s not forget that GRRM said he knows which characters will end up married. But in the show there was no marriage. So I am still waiting a marriage. 

And even with an early Jonsa marriage, Jon and Dany might still meet. Imagine S7 with a married Jonsa. Jon leaves Sansa to fight a battle. It would be a great parallel with NedCat. Ned left Cat while she was pregnant to go to war. And maybe there will be rumors about Jon and Dragon Queen just like how Ned betrayed Cat. But like Ned, Jon would be loyal to Sansa and North too in truth. 

Maybe Jon will gain Dany’s trust and help her against Aegon. And return she’ll accept to help North. But in the end I don’t think that Dany will come/or stay in North. Also in the Jon chapter that comes after Dany one, Jon was warned against Dragons:

“Salladhor Saan?” “The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne’s war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well. On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons.” “Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit.” “My lord jests. You will forgive me if I do not laugh. We Braavosi are descended from those who fled Valyria and the wroth of its dragonlords. We do not jape of dragons.” No, I suppose not. “My apologies, Lord Tycho.”

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

Maybe Dany will want sth more from Jon and will be jealous of Jon and Sansa just like her father was jealous of Tywin and Joanna. Maybe Jon will betray her in most unexpected time just like Tywin betrayed Aerys. 

Btw I am still waiting for a battle between Daenerys and Jon in Trident after he betrayed Dany. (You know Dany dreamed about a fighting against an usurper in ice armor in Trident... Jon will be the Usurper because he’ll be the King of North and Dany will see North as a part of her Kingdom.)

So my timeline would be like this:

- Jon and Sansa reunite and take North back

- The Will and RLJ happen and they unite their claims by marriage

- A dance between Aegon and Daenerys and she loses a dragon

- Jon gains her trust only to use her and pacify her to protect the North during the Dance

- Him refusing the bend the knee and them becoming enemies

- Daenerys loses one of her dragons

- Daenerys and Euron being a chaotic duo for Westeros

- Daenerys burns down KL and marches to North for revenge

- North (aka Jon) vs Daenerys in Trident

- Daenerys dies and Drogon gets hurt

- Jon refusing the throne so he can go back to North (the Duncan of Dragonflies jumped out)

- Bran becomes King

- Jon returns North to fight against the Others etc. (I refuse believe that he’ll be punished and sent back to Wall? Grrm literally has to kill him to free him from Night’s Watch so I don’t see him returning there)

- Epiloge. 

***

Well I talked too much about too many things but I hope my answer was not such a bullsh*t :) 

Thanks again for the ask. Let me know your thoughts.