#c: Jeyne

[ravellaarryns]

who: @jeynewaynwood where: the castle of the eyrie, within the private state apartments of the queen within the moon tower of the eyrie. this is set following the vale's return from the kingdom of the reach, and following the birth of princess avalon of house arryn.

the entirety of the court of the vale knew that jeyne waynwood was essentially half mad, a shadowy figure walking the halls of ironoaks when the moon ruled over the night's sky over the falcon's realm. her mind and her soul a torn up tapestry as a result of burned eyes seeing what a daughter should never see: ruined by the sight of her mother's insides splattered against the rocks ironoaks. how tragedy itself seem to run within her bones, as though that appeared to be all that was left of the woman.

and a strange pair of eyes that seemed consistently bewildered. overwhelmed. struggling. as though there were constantly something flashing before her eyes, in startling, shocking images. "sit." came her words as the lady of ironoaks was brought into the smaller reception chambers. navy and purple hues, and the smell of burning incense. and there was no sign that the queen had just delivered her first child, apart from the bleeding that continued between her thighs. no sign of a baby within the chambers of the queen, or nursemaids.

the tully princess would soon marry lord hunter, for a reason she could entirely fathom and understand: desperation was one thing, and yet ravella found herself surprised and impressed by house hunter being able to acquire the dowry of a princess. a ruined one, who was rumoured to have married a lowly guard and birthed the heir of the riverlands: how thankful the riverlands must have been that the river king did not succumb to the whims of death due to his injury.

for there was no denying the fact that someone, someone with a crown, would have taken the opportunity to advance into the riverlands and grab more land. "are there any who could challenge your claim to harrenhal?" the queen asked, her voice empty as there was an implication within her own mind. truthfully, she wished to push forward and challenge the matter with the river king: they needed to come to an agreement. for her claim was a legitimate one, all knew it.

a bloody crown, the bloody trident; such was the way their world seemed to spin. her own niece had met an unfortunate end within the bluebells on her way to be a ward at ironoaks, and all in the vale had too known of that ending. the tragic waynwood wheel, which seemed to forever spin into an ending they knew time and time again. and that was not even touching on the matter she actually wished to speak to lady waynwood about. the curse that ran through her blood from another source.

from the most hallowed of all halls.

[piperofpinkmaiden]

Oldtown was one of the most vibrant ports of Westeros, second only to King's Landing. Willem had been there on several occasions with his father. Mostly for trade deals, and tourneys, but every time he had been to the city he had had a pleasant time. Smiling when he saw the Lady Jeyne Hightower, he gave her a small bow.

"Lady Hightower, I hope all goes well back in Oldtown. I imagine things must have been bustling there before you departed for the capital. A new monarch must bring both hopes and anxieties."

@jeynehightower

[ladystoneboobs]

imo one of the biggest proofs of sansa's character growth post-agot (which seems to be overlooked) is this, where grrm makes sure we know how her perspective of the trident incident has indeed shifted. why else even say this? it's not what the tyrells wanted to know, they asked about joff's treatment of her in particular, and "he lied about the butcher's boy" means nothing without context (and even if she said the lannisters used that lie to justify killing mycah, i doubt olenna, at least, would care). but for sansa atp, joffrey's sins against mycah are worth remembering and reporting as his first crime (known to her), that incident is now recognized as evidence of joff's montrosity, the wrongs committed against mycah by joffrey personally (as in not even his death) are on par with sansa losing her wolf and being beaten by the kg. sure, she still has some classism remaining, but to say she cares nothing for the smallfolk, and is still the same girl disgusted by mycah's smellyness, who later repeated joffrey's lie about him weeks after the fact and blamed arya for lady's death more than joffrey, that's just demonstrably untrue.

[thehedonisticdragon]

Daeron sat looking at her for a few moments. He licked his lips before speaking,

"I mean this as no offense, but I hope you don't perceive me as unintelligent. You are not the first to bring that idea before me, before my council. The simple truth remains however, as of right now, he and Lord Cerwyn are the only suspects because they are the only ones with any evidence pointing in their direction. I will also reiterate my point that as of right now, I do not know if he actually did it, but I also know that I cannot say I know he did not do it."

Daeron brought his glass of water to his lips, wetting them again. "I can't say what motive he would have, perhaps the North expands their borders, perhaps he becomes further up in line to the Northern throne. There are a thousand reasons why any one person could want a war. I imagine there are plenty of people gathered who would want war. The question is, who is actually brave enough to act on that want.

Still I admire your......passion in trying to convince me that Richard is not the murderer."

"Yes, the poison may have been found in his chambers, but let me present this idea to you. We were all in the Great Hall for the festivities, anyone could have slipped out unnoticed and placed the vial in Richard's chambers as to frame him. I'm sure that you're aware there are people who would wish to destroy the peace treaty between the North and the South. What a better way to do that then accuse a Stark Prince of murder? Richard is your friend, what good would it do him to kill your father? What motive would he have?" Jeyne looked at him with pleading eyes. "You just said it yourself, yourself and Prince Stark's father are in negotiations to avoid war. Surely there is someone here who would seek to benefit from such a war. But that person is not Richard."

[dialux]

Whatever Cersei had thought of Sansa Stark, she’s all grown up now. The twittering bird has become a honey-tongued snake. A capable snake: capable enough to convince her own brother to give her the chance to kill him. [Joffrey decides to teach Sansa Stark a lesson in gratitude. Sansa learns something else altogether.]

READ THE SEVENTH CHAPTER ON AO3!

[dearestnevermore]

Happy 29th birthday, Meg!

All our ships (minus findaryen) featuring Anathema's Untouchable Part. 1. We've been on board for so long, captain! Love you with all my heart, my dearest. ♥

[west1rosi]

The   young   lady   laughs   as   he   turns   his   own   shirt   apart,   she   shakes   her   head   at   how   quick   he   had   done   so,   with   no   regard   toward   the   fabric.   Even   now,   she   makes   a   mental   note   to   make   sure   to   fix   it   up   to   the   best   of   her   ability.   "I'll   learn   how   to   do   that   myself."   Jeyne   points   out,   lingering   on   the   feeling   of   the   kiss,   humming   at   his   touch,   those   words   spoken   back   to   her   and   she   knows   she   is   truly   loved.   She   feels   it   in   his   touch,   in   the   way   his   mouth   traces   burning   kisses   over   her   skin,   and   his   mouth   claims   every   part   of   her,   just   as   his   heart   had   taken   her   own.   He   had   simply   stolen   every   part   of   her,   and   they   stopped   belonging   to   her   the   moment   she   set   eyes   on   him.   "My   first,   my   last,   my   only."   Murmur   against   the   edge   of   his   lips,   she   enjoys   that   edge   on   him,   that   wants   her   and   everyone   else   to   know   who   she   belongs   to.   Now,   what   remains   of   her   clothes   are   gone   and   she   lays   there,   feeling   like   one   of   those   sea   nymphs   or   a   merling   goddess,   being   observed   by   an   ironborn   lord.  

She   had   never   thought   of   herself   as   that   type   of   beauty,   that   could   turn   entire   naval   fleets   around,   but   in   that   moment?   Under   his   gaze   and   touch?   Jeyne   feels   worthy   of   all   of   the   attention.   Pinkness   rises   to   her   cheeks,   now   fully   naked   for   him   to   see,   her   hand   searching   for   his   own   by   the   curve   of   her   belly,   her   skin   burning   under   the   touch.   "Is   my   lord   husband   pleased   with   what   he   sees?"   She   whispers   in   turn,   a   smile   lingering   on   the   curve   of   her   lips,   despite   the   sudden   nervousness   that   invades   her.

  There   is   no   room   for   coyness   when   she   is   with   him,   but   this   is   the   first   time   he   sees   her   fully   as   she   was,   nothing   to   hide   under.   He   will   be   the   first   man   she   will   lay   with;   and   the   only   one   she   wants   to   share   it   all   with.   "I   have   little   knowledge   of   how   to   do   all   of   this.   I   just   know   I   want   you,   everywhere.   It   leaves   me   breathless   to   want   you   as   I   do."   Every   part,   his   mind,   body   and   soul   now   belong   to   her   as   much   as   she   does   to   him.

ㅤㅤㅤSTEALING HER AWAY IS THE BEST THING HE'S EVER DONE. Maybe the only thing he's ever truly done for himself, not at the will of Lord Stark or his father. Theon's actions are bound to bring trouble for both of them, but he finds he cares less about that with every passing moment. He was not made to be a voiceless ward standing off in the corner while a lord hosts his council. He was made to be lord of this isle. To sail and reave. To sit his throne and take tribute from those who know it's best to honor their lord unselfishly if they value their lives. That is his destiny. To sit his own councils, command his own men, come home at the end of the day to cover his wife's bed in gold and jewels and then fuck her on them. The thought alone is enough to make his breath shudder. That is what a lord should do, not whine and shrivel up from inaction like a toothless beast. Not like his father has.

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ A siren's song just for me. ❞ Theon pulls away to rest on his knees. The wicked grin goes nowhere as he rips his own shirt away at her urging, making a point to put a catastrophic tear in the fabric as he tosses it aside. ❝ Now we both have torn clothes. Is that better? ❞ he teases, but doesn't let the distance remain for too long before he's leaning into her, nipping at the soft skin across her breasts again. The Greyjoy only stops as he hears what she says next. I love you. Dark greys lift and stare into Jeyne's as if she's said something both entirely foreign yet utterly intoxicating at the same time. He's never liked anything more than he likes the sound of those three little words coming from her lips. ❝ I love you too, ❞ he finally responds, claiming her lips again, softer compared to the frenzy of the past several minutes, letting himself relish the gravity of it all. She tends to have that effect, he's learned; a way to break through to his core at any moment that he cannot explain. Maybe that is the difference between love and lust, the desire of the soul against the desire of the skin.

ㅤㅤㅤBut the latter is still there, and the frenzy returns shortly after, his hips grinding into Jeyne's. Attention turns back to what remains of her dress; a beautiful thing of fine handiwork, but at the moment, he can only glare at it in hatred as if it's his most fierce enemy. ❝ I need this gone. I want to see my wife, ❞ he groans, grabbing at the butchered bunches of silk and lace gathered at her waist. No matter how much of it he lifts away from her, it's not enough. It all needs to be gone. He sits up once more, pulling what remains of the dress down her hips and legs and throwing it angrily at the wall. The effort was well worth it as his eyes shift over her bare frame, and for a moment, he is content to simply look, frustration melting into a pleased smile. It's the first time he's seen her like this, he realizes. A finger touches the top of her belly, tracing gently down the curves of her body. ❝ There you are, beautiful. ❞

[vanilleandclove]

the meadow in which you lay | 1

ser erryk cargyll x arryn!reader | chapter one: the king and his men

After the tourney, your encounters with Ser Erryk have been slim to none. Yet, with your cousin's wedding festivities, you reunite with your dear knight even with the unturn of events.

word count: 2k | warnings: description of violence, innuendo to an anxiety attack.

previous - next

taglist: @holb32 @callsignwidow

When the news broke that Queen Aemma had died during her labors, your father became suspicious. Thereafter, in the dark hours of night, news of Prince Baelon's death rang through the halls, only prompting an urgent meeting on the King's succession.

"I would like to see my sister Viserys" your father spat, consumed with grief as your brother and you peeped during the council's meeting, mourning the loss of your sweet aunt Aemma. You glanced at your brother, his eyes glassy and jaw tightened, he had always been fond of your aunt Aemma as he was always taken care of by her whenever your parents had to oversee engagements in the Vale.

"Might I remind you of formalities Lord Arryn" Otto Hightower spoke in reply, only earning the deadliest of glances from your father whom cared deeply of his sister and now must see to the engagements in the Vale as Jeyne must take the seat as your father's health was faltering.

"Piss off with your shit formalities Otto, my sister dead in childbirth knowing well of her conditions and how her past births and pregnancies had been. I would prefer to see my dear little sisters corpse before she is burned" your father spat, raising his voice at the Lord-hand. Truth be told, Aemma was part Targaryen, child of your grandsires second marriage, being cremated by a dragon was a festivity.

Your father never saw his sister, though he sobbed violently at her funeral, the Kingsguard worried he would dehydrate. As you saw your dear aunt's corpse burn alongside your cousin whom never was able to live, to love. To your left you saw the Kingsguard an obscured view beneath the flames.

You chose to comfort Rhaenyra during the loss of her mother, Alicent showing empathy to the situation. Rhaenyra dismissed you during the late of night, Alicent long gone to attend to her father's summons. As you paced through the halls, searching for your chambers, you were met with heavy silver nearly knocking you off your feet.

"Are you alright my Lady Arryn?" the knight said frantically, gripping onto your waist in order to catch your fall, feeling your body as it shook erratically. Your breathing was uneven, body grown heated; you bit your lip in order to stop the flow of tears, faltering greatly and becoming putty in the knight's hands.

"I am d-deeply sorry Ser, I cannot-" your words were taken by grief and anxiety, the flow of tears never-ending. Erryk quickly wiped your tears and embraced your figure tightly, in order to stop your nerves overpowering your body. Lightly cooing in your ear to help ease your worries. Your love, deep as it may, eased every bone.

"Sshh darling, it is alright. I have you" Erryk whispered into your ear, as whimpers left your mouth and shuddered your body. You knew of Erryk's duties, as Ser Ryam's health further faltered. Yet your worries laid in the man who held you, as the Stepstones became a threat.

Near the end of the night, you could not forget the touch of your once lover. Nor could you forget a year and a half later, as you were called to court in King's landing once again as Rhaenyra's lady in waiting. After catching Rhaenyra and Lord Commander Harold, choosing the knight for a replacement in the Kingsguard.

"Cousin!" Rhaenyra smiled, hugging you deeply, "I did not think you'd journey this far, how is Jeyne?". It had been far too many moons since you've seen your cousin, within that time, your father had been kissed by death leading your mother to become a dowager. Your brother had business to attend to as he was now betrothed to one of the Tully girls. Leaving you to find your place in court, specifically that of the rightful heir, Rhaenyra.

"I might admit, the Red Keep seems quite smaller than when we last saw each other my dear cousin" you joked, greeting Ser Harold as well, "Looking rather dashing as always Ser Harold", the knight smiled and nodded his head at your words. He knew of your affections with his once squire, granted, he would be a fool to not notice the way Ser Erryk would straighten his posture as well as you would when you two would encounter one another.

"Oh! You should join my father and I to supper, he would be delighted to have your company as much as I" Rhaenyra mentioned, though her enthusiasm quickly diminished as she glanced over to Alicent, walking with none other than the King. "They spend an awful amount of time with one another" she lightly spited, she had not talked to Alicent since their prayer.

"I wish I could but the journey has me spent, may I go wash up- my princess" you spoke, Rhaenyra's temper became airy once again, she ticked her tongue.

"You do not have to use formalities, we are family" Rhaenyra smiled.

You often wondered how it would be had you be Targaryen, your hair would be pale, kissed by snow. Your irises would be purple, like that of precious gemstones. You would be closer to a god than that of a man. Though, you do not envy your cousin, having the royal duties and having to pretend almost all of the time.

You bid your goodbye's and went to your assigned chambers, not much has changed within a year; though you must note, Rhaenyra was right back Alicent's time being spent mostly around the King. You hoped, by the old gods and new, that Alicent was not hoping to be the new wife of Viserys, that her father has not sunk his fangs and claws into her yet and she has some sort of rationality.

"Would you like us to run a bath for you Lady Arryn?" one of the handmaidens spoke, their smiles always gleaming when you came, "Oh how your hair is that of silk!".

"It is ok, you all are dismissed" you nodded, "I will settle down and run my bath, you all should catch some sleep my ladies" the handmaidens were shocked at the lack of your need.

"Though, Margot" you spoke up as the others left your chambers, "Do you happen to know the status of the Cargyll brothers?". Margot, your sworn confidant that follows you everywhere, from the Vale to King's Landing. She piqued at your inquiry, smirking lightly.

"A Kingsguard is no match for a husband my sweet Lady" Margot quirked her eyebrows, "Though I heard murmurs of their duties to be sent to the Stepstones; granted I believe it is just a rumor dearest".

Your heart leaped from your body, you've heard rumors time and time again. But one that focused on the enlistment of your dear lover and his twin? God's save us all, you'd hope he'd never leave to be sent to a death sentence. Your thoughts wandered to the urgency of the Stepstones, over to the remarriage of the King, and much to that of your cousin.

For next several days, you stood by Rhaenyra's side, in her angriest of moments as the King had declared he'd to be wed to Lady Alicent Hightower. Every emotion that followed, how fear raked through her body as she wondered if she'd be overshadow by the potential children Alicent would sire her father, if the child, had they be male, if it was dismantle her claim to the throne.

The wedding, was lackluster. After all, Alicent did not feel as your friend as she once was now that she was now your cousin's step-mother and your Queen. The months that followed, Alicent became with child. Rhaenyra's hand still not given to be wed, neither that of yours which left a distaste to your brother whom has heard far too many marriage proposals for your hand. Within the turn of the year, Prince Aegon, was born. Donning the Targaryen, pale, white hair, Aegon was paraded around the Great Houses as they hoped he would be made heir, not Rhaenyra, not a woman. There were words of House Stark asking for your hand, as well as House Blackwood. Dashing, honorable, and driven young men they were, but they were not the knight of your heart. They were not Erryk.

Within the next three years, Erryk and Arryk were called to join Prince Daemon to fight in the Stepstones. Prince Aegon, on his second name day, dealt with the earnest jewels one could have on their name day, as Rhaenyra dealt with more marriage proposals than that of the Streets of Silk's finest of women. That have you, assisting your brother in his duties, the Riverlands complemented you, House Tully greatly welcomed you as your brother was now married. Now, you return once again to King's Landing to celebrate Rhaenyra's wedding to Ser Laenor Velaryon, though you must say, you never sensed they'd be match, romantically speaking.

The wedding festivities were one of fond memories you hold in the times of your youth. Your cousin and her now husband, the future consort were certainly a match, despite the boisterous interruption of the now, Queen Alicent Hightower, during the first feast. You noted the spite Alicent threw to your cousin, rolling your eyes as she feigned pride and congratulations for Rhaenyra. Though, you simply did not care towards the end of the night that was filled with dancing and feasting. You did however take into account Ser Harwin Strong and his protectiveness to your cousin, your heart fluttered as you then realized, the man loved her. As she did to him as well, just as Ser Laenor had his heart sworn to another. Duty is in fact, the death of love.

"May you grant me one dance my Lady Arryn?" Erryk questioned, as you were shamelessly eating, your mouth stuffed, looking up at the man who asked for your hand only to be met with embarrassment, he smiled, allowing you to chew and wiping the corners of your mouth for you.

"I'd be delighted" You smiled as you joined your cousin on the dancefloor, herself finding company in Ser Harwin, a gentle man he was to her.

"It has been years my Lady" Erryk murmured, you lock eyes as the song progresses, now noticing Daemon and Laena sharing a dance, Laenor off to the side with another. "I pained myself with the idea of you forgetting me I must admit".

"You truly are a sadist Ser Erryk" you giggled, holding his hand lightly, not squeezing enough for people to note intimacy, "I could never forget you my dear knight, nor that of your brother".

"Now that right there pains me" he ticked his tongue and just as you were about to bump into a Lannister, he shifted your position by grabbing a hold of your waist, "My brother and I may have been born together but we are quite different".

"I know that better than anyone I'm afraid" you teased, "One day the histories will remember me as the breaker of oaths if I continue to fancy you".

"I'd break a million of oaths to wed you Lady Arryn" he whispered, a part of you wants to believe him wholeheartedly, to know that this is not just teasing.

"You would have already done so".

"I can live without a keep to call my own" he began, "It is you I cannot fully disregard".

"But you can partially…".

"With great restr-".

The night was soon dimmed into a fight, as Ser Criston bashed the man of Ser Laenor's affections into a pulp, the graphic form of violence put a somber and unneeded memory onto the night. But how Harwin protected Rhaenyra was how Erryk protected you. You held onto his forearm tightly, fearing if you'd let go, you'd be trampled. Your heart was beating erratically, and he made his way through the crowd, not caring if one decided to fight him, but you? He'd commit murder and treason if one laid even a finger on you.

[drakaripykiros130ac]

More and more I see people questioning how the Blacks didn’t outright win and destroy the Greens in one go with all the advantages they had.

The answer is simple: The Greens were protected by plot armor.

GRRM gave the Blacks almost everything they could ask for (thereby favoring them):

1. The best allies (the Winter Wolves, the Lads, Cregan Stark, Jeyne Arryn, etc.)

2. The most Houses supporting Rhaenyra’s cause (53)

3. The largest territories (the North, the Vale and the Riverlands)

4. The largest and best fleet (commanded by the Velaryons)

5. The Velaryon fortune

6. The most dragons

Normally, with all these advantages, they should have won the war with their hands tied behind their backs. The Greens only had home-field advantage (King’s Landing) and Vhagar. That’s pretty much it.

But of course, GRRM wanted it to be a more balanced war, and despite giving the Blacks plenty of advantages, he protected the Greens so the story can actually take place.

1. There is just no way that Aegon the Usurper could have survived everything he endured (Rook’s Rest, and then battling with Baela etc.) In my opinion, he was one greenie who was definitely protected by plot armor.

2. Daemon using B&C to only kill one of Aegon’s heirs instead of eliminating everyone in that tower is also kind of plot armor for the Greens. There is no way that he wouldn’t have taken advantage to have everyone in that tower killed. It would have weakened the Greens considerably (not to mention that Alicent was the “brains” behind the operation).

3. Then you have Rhaenyra sparing Alicent after she took King’s Landing (the woman who bullied her as a child and stole her throne) for some dumb reason like “My father loved you so I am doing this for him”. Yeah right…With how much Rhaenyra hated the woman, she wouldn’t have hesitated to chop her head off.

4. For some reason, Rhaenyra decides to go to Dragonstone after the storming of the Dragonpit, instead of the Vale. Another plot convenience for the Greens. The Vale was obviously the best place to go. The Greens wouldn’t have been able to touch Rhaenyra there. The Arryns would have protected her and her child, until Cregan Stark arrived and dethroned the usurper. Happy ending, the end. But yeah, it’s Asoiaf. There are no happy endings, and GRRM had to give Rhaenyra a tragic end.

All in all, the Greens survived as long as they did because of plot armor. No, they were not politically savvy (believe it or not, that’s Daemon. He managed to convince the Red Kraken to side with the Blacks and didn’t really offer him anything in return).

Otto was a terrible Hand who got fired twice, Criston Cole was another terrible Hand who was all muscle and had no political intelligence (or any kind of intelligence), Alicent was a manipulating and greedy shrew hiding behind her sons, Helaena was completely useless, Aegon didn’t know what the hell he was doing or why he was doing it, and Aemond was a brainless psycho on the biggest dragon in existance.

Oh, and there’s also Daeron the Forgotten, who after torching Bitterbridge, managed to get himself killed by a fallen tent.

[ride-thedragon]

So the more of Rhaena we get this season is:

1. Rhaena not mourning Luke past one scene.

2. Rhaena hating her plot.

A. Not wanting to leave Dragonstone

B. Not being given her own egg

C. Hating the Vale

D. Hating Jeyne Arryn

3. Rhaena risking her life multiple times to claim a dragon off screen.

4. Rhaena feeling pitied by Baela.

5. Rhaena not getting to mourning her grandmother.

6. Rhaena starting to accept her role but doesn't because of a wild dragon.

7 Rhaena feeling worthless because she hasn't claimed a dragon.

8. Rhaena claiming a wild dragon and assuming someone else's plot. Neglecting her own.

9. Rhaena having no indication that she'll meet her own husband and his kids before she leaves the Vale.

[dimeremantiro]

"...Ravens aren't enough." Jeyne replied, sadly. "...Where are the dragons going? Is it far?" She felt like a child, asking so vaguely, but the painted table had been the first time she had seen a country-wide map. It was almost dizzying. Gods, the world was so big. She had never left the capital before Mysaria stole her away.

All Jeyne wanted was to be a mother, to dress herself and listen to songs and to attend public plays in the park, and if she dreamed more, it was to save enough to retire and not put that big of a strain on her son... to live.

Now she can see cities from skies above, so far up that people are not visible. Her son will have the same right. Her sweet boy, child of Daemon, bonded with a Dragon when Rhaenyra's youngest still is not... Best to learn as much as she can. She had once heard Dragons are part of the rider's soul. Cedric would not live to see a part of his soul ripped away. She did her best not to think about it.

"Wherever dragons go, it will come to fights." On some level everyone says laws protect envoys, but if Jeyne were a prince she would not respect it. "Who was chosen? Are the princes going?" Are you going? Gael made her feel safest out of all the riders she had met. Jeyne worried for her son and herself, and didn't want to see her go away.

@dimeremantiro

❛ Hope is the fool’s ally. ❜ -- From Jeyne!

AND YET HOPE THEY MUST, FOR ALL WILL BE LOST SHOULD THEY FALTER. Her half-brother's theft of her sister's throne cannot be left unanswered for, their father left to rot in his bed cannot be left unanswered for. The Lords of the Realm must answer the call of their rightful Queen.

(They are but cousins in truth but Gael loves Rhaenyra as fiercely as she loves Sybelle, as she loves Jeyne; As she loved Viserys despite his failures.)

"Envoys must be sent, regardless of how foolish it may seem." For it is not just her sister and her nephews' who's lives will be forfeit should they fail - should Viserys' word be upheld, it will be Gael and her children next to fall upon the usurper's ire; Heirs of Riverrun they may be, but should Rhaenyra and her children fall, they will be next in line for the throne after her.

"Dragons may be the quickest and most effective way to suss out our allies."

[syndrossi]

Halloween prompt shortlist

Just doing some inventory management aka tabulating the poll results and building the shortlist of remaining prompts.

Laenor+Rhaenys+Velaryon boys discuss the twins

More courtier reactions to Daemon and the boys

Watercooler discussion of Daemon’s prodigy children

Viserys's POV when the twins take him to task

Ser Kelwyn's POV of Daemon and the twins

Jon and Rhaegar dressing up as Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk b/c twins be twinning

Rhaenys rescues twins from Otto

Jon having another Little Lord Commander moment

Sassy and manipulative Rhaegar scene (destroying Viserys or random courtier)

POV of someone thinking how similar the twins are to their father

What if the boys wake up at age 5 and Daemon finds them earlier?

Dad-mode!Daemon instinctively rescues Helaena from a minor peril

And they we have the Syn save-list, aka the prompts I voted for that didn't win but automatically win because I say so:

Erryk, Arryk, or Harrold's POV of the twins

Laenor POV when he found out about Daemon's twins

Jeyne’s reaction to Rhea's confession

Cousins telling scary stories around a candle in the dark

The twins discovering an old spooky room lost in the tunnels

Someone “joking” that Otto is besotted with Daemon given his fixation

[ladystoneboobs]

i'd been wondering how sansa and jeyne poole's insulting names for the redwyne twins made it to cersei's pov in feast, and now i believe i've found the answer.

[Petyr Baelish, in the council meeting where he volunteered to treat with the Tyrells:]"I'll include Horror and Slobber in my party, and send them on to their lord father afterward [...]" -Tyrion VIII, aCoK

normally i'd find any instance of littlefinger creeping on sansa to be well, creepy and skeevy, and (given future events) any association of him with jeyne is especially revolting and repugnant, but there is something funny about imagining him lurking around them at some point in agot (probably during the tourney festivities), overhearing their disparaging talk of the redwyne twins and deciding he had to steal those names for himself to show off his wit with queen and council. maybe baelish's dislike of his own nickname means part of his revenge at the world at large means he can't resist any mean names for other more blue-blooded nobles he can find, and in this case he had to learn these nicknames from two 11yo girls. this pales in comparison to all his later crimes against those girls, though it does mean cersei likely thinks the names came straight from littlefinger, never knowing the true source she has to thank for shittalking the redwynes like that.

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part viii)

a/n: the 2 big C's - cregan and character deaths

With Aegon II Targaryen averred as king in King's Landing and Rhaenyra crowned queen in Dragonstone, a war among kin was brewing on the horizon. Upon Prince Jacaerys' request, it was resolved by Queen Rhaenyra that she would send her three eldest children—Princess Aemma, Prince Jace and Luke—as messengers on dragonback to remind the great houses of whom they had sworn fealty to her succession nigh on twenty years ago.

"Dragons will persuade the lords more than a raven scroll," Jace had said. "Let them see that we are the blood of the dragon and we are not to be disparaged."

It was decided that Aemma, the oldest of her siblings, would fly to Winterfell to meet with Lord Stark, given his previous inclinations in treating with her before her hasty marriage to Prince Aemond. By stealth, the queen wanted to propitiate Cregan Stark's displeasure with her daughter as a significant motivation. It was a foul thought for a mother to have, but chances were on her side.

The princess was initially defiant about being cozened into this bloodshed. Whilst her husband advocated his traitor brother's claim to the throne and her mother played her for a mummer in her siege to the throne, she preferred to bide her time. She would not be made to raise war against her husband and, moreover her dearest friend.

That evening, Prince Daemon had cornered his stepdaughter in her chambers and bore down on her.

"You, my girl, piss on compromise—I adore that. But, ambition without intellect is like a bird without wings," Daemon had said to Aemma. "Are you a chicken or a dragon?"

She had snorted. "Better that than ambition without conscience. You would lead my little brothers to slaughter and death."

"Then take no part in it. Go as the queen's emissary and nothing else." He glanced at her, slightly encouraged. "Assure safety to your kin. Do your mother good and help her raise an army."

Jace, the oldest male of the three, was entrusted with a longer and trickier task of flying to Eyrie to meet with the Lady of the Vale, Jeyne Arryn first, before making his way to White Harbour to win over Lord Manderly.

At long last, Princess Aemma attempted to advise the queen against sending her little brothers anywhere, fearing their novice would travail their situation. Jace was fifteen and Luke was but thirteen, and Aemma had noticed how her youngest brother had blanched upon her mother's decision. Luke was in no way fit to deal with those mighty lords alone.

"Both your brothers have served as squires for long," Rhaenyra pacified Aemma, bringing her aside from the great painted table. "It is you we fear for. You only mounted Silverwing three days ago. With winter’s grip tightening in the North, we cannot risk your health flaring up on the journey."

Luke silently lingered by her and squeezed Aemma's tense shoulder, sheepish to her protectiveness. "You minimize me, Emmy. I am to be the Lord of the Tides one day. I can fight as well as my brother."

"Arrax is yet a fledgling," she insisted.

"A dragon, nonetheless." But his rejoinder went by ignored.

"At least send Luke and Jace together," Aemma pleaded to her mother. "They will make each other invulnerable, protect themselves."

"It would be time wasted," her mother said.

"Then I shall accompany Luke to Winterfell, persuade Lord Stark, and afterwards proceed to Storm's End," Aemma declared firmly. She took her mother’s hand, gripping it tightly. "Arm my brother with his blade, and let him act as my ward instead."

"There will be no fighting," Rhaenyra especially prompted. "You will only go as my envoys. Remind the lords of the oaths they swore."

"Then Luke will be my knight," Aemma triumphed.

The queen hesitated, her gaze shifting between her daughter’s earnest plea and the anxious figure of young Luke standing behind her. Rhaenyra could sense the depth of Aemma’s desperation, the way she fervently protected her siblings with a fierce loyalty that had always been evident. Whether it was managing a simple supper or overseeing rigorous training, Aemma had always been protective of her younger brothers, asserting her authority with unwavering dedication. Her devotion was so profound that, if either of her brothers were not fully on board, Aemma would have upended the household to find recourse.

Daemon had once remarked that Aemma’s dedication to her brothers was a way of compensating for the absence of Aemond as if the next best thing was to safeguard her own kin with even greater intensity.

Now, as Aemma ardently defended her younger brothers, Rhaenyra found herself torn. She was caught between honouring her beloved daughter's unrelenting aims and fulfilling her obligation to the realm justly.

Finally, Rhaenyra nodded. "So be it."

Little Joffrey stepped between Aemma and his mother, his mouth twisted in disdain. They watched him incredulously, Daemon included. Rhaenyra smothered a smile at how her children lovingly doted on one another.

"I will fly on Tyraxes with Jace. I will be his knight," he offered harshly. "Let me go with my family, mummy."

Luke tousled his brother's hair, who fought off his mischief. "Sheath your steel, Joff. Daemon needs you and your dragon here, on the lookout with Moondancer."

Come undern, Aemma lingered in her chambers, feeling like a fish far from the familiar seas. The garments laid out for her—a sleek brigandine with armoured layers—were finely designed yet undeniably cumbersome. The synthetic scales and padded wadding were meant to mimic the attire of a Targaryen dragonrider, but the weight of it felt oppressive.

She sighed in frustration, tugging at the stiff jacket. When her mother arrived at the door, a knowing smile on her face, the realization dawned.

"As much as you'd like to shield me to the teeth, Mother, I'm still flesh and bone underneath," Aemma said, grumbling as she smoothed the jacket’s skirting. "Seven hells, I can barely move in this."

"This old thing was mine once," Rhaenyra revealed, her tone soft with nostalgia. Aemma turned to her, surprise flickering across her face. "Though it seems you’ve outgrown it. You’re taller than I was at your age."

Aemma tilted her sleeve, inspecting the gold stitching and intricate patterns that mimicked the form of Syrax, her mother’s dragon. Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery, a grin spreading across her lips.

"Beautiful," she murmured.

"I’ve imagined you like this since the day your tiny hand curled around my finger," Rhaenyra mused, standing beside her daughter and speaking through their reflection in the mirror. Her hands gently adjusted the braids near Aemma’s temple, a wistful look in her eyes.

"I know you wish none of this were happening," Rhaenyra continued, her voice tender. "But I am eternally grateful that you would do this, for your queen."

"For my mother," Aemma corrected, her voice barely above a murmur.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her indigo eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss Aemma’s cheek, the gesture overflowing with affection. One kiss turned into three more, each more desperate than the last as if trying to hold on to her daughter before she had to let her go.

"Hurry back to me, sweetling," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her hand lingering on Aemma’s arm as though she could keep her safe just a little longer.

The three siblings departed from Dragonstone on their dragons. Silverwing and Arrax flew north, battling the rash winds and winter, while Vermax flew west toward the Bloody Gate. Throughout their leave-taking, the entire island held its breath. Something was left amiss, for sure.

X

Prince Luke and Princess Aemma Velaryon's arrival at Winterfell was of distinction, as decreed by their northern king. Despite the daunting fire-breathing beasts that came thundering down onto their outer courtyards, Lord Cregan Stark and his few council members lingered outside the entrance gates, waiting on hand and foot.

Lord Stark was most persistent to see the Targaryen princess who had dashed his hopes, considering that he should be raising his banners against her in a war for breaking her word. For months, the young lord had heard tell of her beauty, elegance and infinite passion, and a few gossips of her paternal lineage. She had acquitted herself well to her people, kith and kin; spirited, gracious, knowledgeable, good-humoured, and treasured by the smallfolk. Out of sight, Princess Aemma had him fascinated, twisted into a wordless spell.

And now, as he saw Aemma dismount her awesome dragon, she appeared as a might-have-been. What a vision, the princess was; her eyes gleamed with the warmth that could melt a thousand winters, while the hazy evening sun bathed her in a golden glow, offering her the aura of a queen long forgotten. There was no mistaking the magnificence of her lineage, visible in the silvery sheen of her hair and the striking features of her face. In stark contrast, her brother stood at her side, lacking the same Targaryen traits but every bit as protective, his presence quietly formidable.

"Lord Stark," Prince Lucerys greeted, nervousness cloaked beneath his strong voice. "I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. This is my sister, Princess Aemma Velaryon, heir to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. We bear a message from our mother... the Queen."

Just then, the boy prince's dragon let out a deafening roar. Whilst Lord Stark's meagre council staggered back and away, the young lord stood his ground, amazed.

Aemma curtsied with a quiet greeting, her head held high. There were traces of a grin on her shivering lips—she was not dressed for such cold—and she galumphed across the snow with a tightly bound scroll.

"Good morrow, my lords," she addressed his council first, then the Warden of the North. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Cregan."

Aemma spoke exuding the integrity she wished would make up for his disfavour.

Cregan made do with a slow nod and a breathy, "Princess." He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I hope you bear no malice towards my engagements, my lord. Or that my impulsive actions are to the detriment of your ancestor's oath to my grandsire." Her silver-toned voice was faint, as if these words were only meant for him.

Cregan simply flashed her a smile, instinctively taking her scroll-carrying hand into his. He brushed a courteous kiss against her gloved knuckles before acquiring the message.

"Starks do not forget their oaths, princess," he proclaimed. He leaned closer, saying, "And believe me, your beauty is one I would raise my swords and banners against your prince husband in a blink."

Aemma managed a suave laugh. "My prince husband would rend a vein in his head if he heard your words."

Cregan arched a quizzical brow. "Who just happens to be southward, miles away, plotting his war resisting the Queen. I am compelled to assume his loyalties are hence withdrawn."

This struck home, and her jaw flexed. "They remain true, my lord. Writ in dragonglass, bound by blood."

"So I've heard," he said, barely concealing his amusement. "I meant no disrespect, princess. Even the many cold mysteries that lay beyond the Wall cannot stand to compare with matters of a lady's heart."

Aemma chewed the inside of her cheek, stifling the levity that built in her. A shiver wracked her body, and she darted a look at Luke, who stood a few steps behind her, watching his sister's interaction, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and blowing into his palms. The cold was overwhelming him, too.

"Let us pursue this matter further in a more amiable setting. Winterfell is yours for tonight, Your Graces," Lord Stark announced before Aemma could make a request. She shuffled back to join her brother's side.

"To all appearances, our summer snow does not agree with dragon blood. I'll have warm clothes sent to your chambers. I expect you'll be walking piles of quilts for supper."

Aemma burst forth a snicker, unlike Luke who was quick to take offence. He glanced his disdain at his sister, prickled by the lord's familiarity. Cregan bowed his head with a spirited grin aimed at the prince and princess before stepping aside to direct the path to the Winterfell gates.

"If it so pleases you, I would be honoured to show you around the castle," he remarked, eyeing Aemma particularly.

"For the sake of goodwill, my only request is that no one infringes on our dragons without us, my lord," Luke informed before walking forward. His tone was tinged with an immature threat. "Contrary to our gracious disposition, dragons are far less so, their mercy though a breath of fire."

Cregan acknowledged this with a courteous nod. "Very well, my prince."

"Silverwing is rather benign," Aemma interjected, striving to allay their concern. "And Arrax has been well-fed before our journey. I assure you, they will bring no harm to your people."

The lord pursed his lips, fighting a smile as he bowed his head once more.

"Your assurances are most welcome, princess," Cregan said, his tone even but grey eyes gleaming with thinly veiled mirth. "Though I must confess, it's not the fullness of a dragon's belly that troubles us, but how swiftly it empties."

X

As much as Aemma despised the bereft frost and the muddy funk the north had to offer, she could not deny how captivating their hearts were. Northmen and women carried themselves with honour above all else, bound to duty for their castle and regent. Like raw gold, they were unpolished but held a promise of brilliance once refined.

Their values glistened most promisingly in their young lord and king, Cregan Stark. At merely seven and ten, he was sized like a titan, unmatched by her athletic Aemond, and built like an ox, swathed in a dense cloak of wolf furs and leathers, amassing his ancestral Valyrian sword, Ice. His pride wafted out in vaunts of his home and his duty-bound traditions and resilience to the Wall. His accent was thick, assertive yet unfamiliar to Aemma's ears, his voice tinged with the lilting cadence of the North.

In the castle stables, they came upon the direwolves, and Aemma’s excitement was uncontainable. She had only ever known one direwolf, her own Seasmoke, and now before her was an entire pack with pups. She could hardly believe it.

"I’ve never heard of direwolves surviving so far south of the Wall," Cregan mused as he watched her awe-struck expression. The wolves, still untamed, were kept behind barricades, wild and untrained, but their presence was nothing short of glorious.

"My direwolf is named Seasmoke," Aemma said with quiet pride, her voice softening with fondness. Her eyes grew misty as the green memories awakened. "Named after my father's dragon. Aemond and I raised him as a companion. We were the only ones of our kin without dragons for a long time; Seasmoke was our solace, our friend in that loneliness."

Cregan’s lips curled into a thoughtful smirk. "I understand now," he said quietly.

Aemma turned to him, her brow furrowing slightly. "Understand what?"

"It was not haste," Cregan replied, his voice gentle but sure. "You simply married your friend. Few are so fortunate."

Aemma couldn’t suppress the smile that blossomed on her lips, warm and unbidden. "Fortunate indeed," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s expression turned serious, his gaze unflinching as he met her dark, doe eyes. "If we are past evasions, there is something I would ask freely."

"Anything."

"Is it not treachery that Prince Aemond stands with the usurpers instead of the rightful queen?"

Aemma exhaled slowly, a weary grimace tugging at her features. "This whole war is treason, my lord," she answered, her voice heavy with the weight of her thoughts. "I fear what we have begun."

A lavish feast was hosted during supper to honour the Targaryen nobility who graced the halls of Winterfell. Aemma was resplendent—tireless to win over the young lord—in striking black velvet adorned with thick furs, her pendant sleeves embroidered with intricate dragon motifs. Beside her, on the grand table overlooking the Great Hall replete with folk, Luke wore a regal black pelt draped over his shoulders in the manner of dragon scales, the red sigil of his house prominently displayed on his raven armour.

Aemma's bell-like laugh rang out louder than the chortles among the men in the hall when one of Cregan's captains had cracked a joke about most of his men puffing up like overstuffed armchairs during their harshest winter from a few years ago.

Luke stewed in silence, observant of his sister's unstinting friendliness. She had effortlessly impressed upon the lord's heart, no doubt, now remained the lingering question of his obeisance. He subtly touched his elbow against Aemma's in a signal.

Aemma glimpsed him, wiping a tear from her eye, from laughing too hard. She happily cut another slice of pie onto her plate before adding a few slices of honeycake onto Luke's.

"Must you remain so shy, brother?" She waved to a table full of boys who appeared his age, engaged in lively dialogue. "Interactions would do you good."

"Well, these interactions would be more esteemed if I..." he sighed, peeking at his sister's silvery hair and angled features. "Never mind."

Aemma laid down her cutlery to scowl at him. "Luke."

"Nothing," he hedged.

"Tell me. What's wrong?" she urged softly.

He shook his head before he mumbled, "Some guards took me for an outsider when I ventured out to see Arrax. Perhaps they anticipated a dragonrider more akin to our uncle or mother."

Subdued by sympathy, Aemma palmed his shoulder and then his cheek. "It is the mark of our lineage to defy expectations, not simply hair and skin. You carry the legacy of the Conqueror and Old Valyria, Lucerys, no matter who you resemble." She let out a disbelieving giggle, tousling his hair. "Your steed is a dragon—how many among these people can claim such a distinguished feat?"

Luke's spirits were lifted by the reminder of his place and worth. He bared her a smile, shrugging. "You."

She tilted her head. "Besides, I think some people

More than anyone else, he felt acknowledged that Aemma valued him the most despite his differences. While Jace taught him to fight back, he learned from Aemma to take advantage of his disparities.

He took his sister's hand into his and held it to his lap silently. He didn't need to impart his thanks, he would not sour their bond with such silly presumption.

Cregan smiled to himself as he quietly listened to the conversation between the siblings. What misfortune indeed, he thought. Aemma would have been an incredible match for him, as a lady and his wife. Upon first impressions, integrity became her. Now, she carried herself with the succour of a good queen. Ice and fire would have found a home to coexist between them, here in the north.

"If I may, Lord Stark," Aemma called for his attention, clearing her throat. She was going to cut straight to the chase. "Your hospitality precedes you, truly. But our time here is scarce. The realm will be in dire straits if the North fails to recall the oath sworn to King Viserys and his rightful heir."

"The North remembers, princess," he declared.

Aemma let a relieving grin spread on her lips. His further words dampened her smile.

"But my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In winter, my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King's Landing." He pressed two emphatic fingers down on the table. "I need my men here."

"The Hightowers have usurped the throne," she insisted, her tone morose. "If my mother is to defend her claim, she needs an army. War is coming, my lord, and our queen cannot wage it without your support."

Murmurs and raucous conversations around them drown out their fortuitous silence.

Feeling as if her negotiation had come to nought, Aemma shrunk her shoulders and returned to her plate, staring out her defeat. Would this have been easier if she had remained unhasty, or even secretive, and brought forward a marriage pact to the lord? Would she take to pleading? Perhaps this was her impulse's due consequence.

"I have thousands of graybeards who've already seen too many winters," he pronounced, his attentive eyes yet to have left her face. "They are... well-honed."

A flicker of triumph appeared in her eyes before it vanished to steely-nerved determination. She nodded once at him before letting a curious smirk curl on her lips.

"They are old," she mentioned.

"They will fight hard." He leaned closer, whispering, "Like Northerners."

"Our queen would be honoured to have their prowess be of service to her," Aemma praised.

"I will ready them to march at once."

When she looked at her brother over her shoulder, she offered him a victorious wink. Luke responded with a slight nod, his lips curling into a bemused smile.

X

It was Lord Stark alone who bade farewell to the princess and princeling on the morrow whilst the sunshine still drifted behind a gloomy sky. He had shed his thick furs and menacing sword for his leather coat of plates, wishing for calm winds to carry the siblings on their arduous journey east.

Silverwing trilled a soft, melodic song, her wings beating gently as the pearly snow cascaded around her like dust motes in an abandoned hall. It was as if she were welcoming Aemma home. Aemma reached up, her hand brushing against Silverwing’s snout before trailing down the horned scales of her warm, thrumming throat.

"Iksan kesīr, gevie. Lykirī," Aemma murmured soothingly. (I am here, beautiful. Be calm.)

"A she-dragon," Cregan remarked, his tone laced with newfound understanding.

Silverwing nudged her great purring maw into Aemma's stomach, eliciting a chuckle from the princess.

She glanced at Cregan, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Does she take after her rider?" she teased.

Cregan’s lips curled into a smirk. "You’re only missing two wings, princess."

Before Aemma could respond, she heard Luke call her name, "Em!"

His voice was impatient, coming from where Arrax pawed at the ground, eager to escape the biting cold. Aemma’s laugh faltered as her gaze shifted to her brother. She stilled, seeing the shock written all over his face.

Luke’s awestruck gaze rested on a small, sizzling mound of snow, no taller than his sister’s knee, its shape undeniable—like a fresh dragon clutch. Silverwing had nested here during the night.

"What do we do?" Luke’s voice trembled slightly at the sight, unnerved by the prospect of what lay before them.

Aemma, caught between awe and uncertainty, steadied herself, her mind drifting to the wisdom of their mother. Only sharp reasoning would pull them through this.

"We... should take them with us to Storm’s End," she said, almost in a daze, her voice filled with calm resolve. "Perhaps we could offer an egg to Lord Borros, should he swear his fealty to our mother. He’s a vain man, she said. This could win him without any fuss."

Luke, still rattled but reassured by his sister’s clarity, flashed her a grateful grin. Without further hesitation, he drew his dagger and began slicing through the tough membrane covering the clutch. Inside, nestled in the steaming heat, lay three perfect dragon eggs, shimmering in silver, red, and violet.

"I really have seen everything," Cregan wondered to himself.

"Not in the slightest, m'lord," Luke huffed, glancing at Aemma.

He and Aemma carefully retrieved the eggs, their hands reverent as they placed them one by one into a satchel waiting nearby.

Luke, with a serious expression, secured the flap and slung the satchel over his shoulder. The weight of the future, the hope these eggs represented, now rested on him. He would carry them to Storm’s End, where he would face Lord Borros alone.

Aemma, sensing the significance of the moment, turned to Cregan, who stood quietly by her side, observing the scene. Her eyes, warm and earnest, met his.

"You've been a gracious host, my lord," she complimented, her voice soft but laced with hope.

Cregan’s gaze softened as he looked at her. "Much obliged, princess."

"I'm certain we will see each other once again. I'd love to show you around Dragonstone," Aemma said, a faint smile touching her lips as their eyes lingered for a moment longer.

"I await that day," he promised.

X

The siblings were again on the wing, charting a course to the Stormlands. It was a gruelling many-hours-long journey, so much so that Aemma began to rub her thighs raw from straddling the saddle.

Snow gave way to storm-wracked isles, and out of the horizon, rose the crests and spokes of the Storm's End fortress, centuries old in the gusty oceans with little wear to show for it. A single, colossal edifice, buttressed to the hilt endured the impending tempest like a fist of spikes.

The sight of menacing Vhagar cloistered in the outer courtyard had Aemma gleaming with a smile. Her heart painfully clenched in her chest when she realized that they had convened as opposing sides of their factionalized families, so any chance of meeting Aemond would be null.

So Aemma pursued Arrax's path of flight, descending off Silverwing who seemed to answer the gruff roars of Vhagar with her own hollers. An apprehensive Luke dismounted a shrieking Arrax to come up on the Baratheon soldiers whilst noticing Vhagar's looming head above the bridging battlements.

"Luke!" Aemma tried to yell at him.

He turned to nod at her, wilfully showing her the silver egg he had safely tucked between his chest and forearm. "I can do this, Emmy! Wait for me!"

"Let me come with you." Too bad, her words were a mere whisper in the gales and Luke had disappeared behind the impenetrable doors. The knights went back to their positions, evident that she would not be getting through.

Vhagar's savage roar rattled the bones in her ribcage. It unsettled Silverwing, too, who thundered back in return and advanced defensively over Aemma. She stood right beneath the fiery belly of her dragon, shielded between two towering wings.

Aemma touched Silverwing's shivering scales, stroking. Silverwing's tense growls subdued beneath her careful palms.

She attempted to console the impatient dragon. "Ssh. Skoros iksis ziry, Gēliotīkun?" (Ssh. What is it, Silverwing?)

Silverwing released another uncharacteristically aggressive roar, so deafening that Aemma had to press her palms tightly over her ears. Even Arrax had sensed a strange disturbance in the air, flapping his wings and bellowing out more shrieks.

"Lykiri, Silverwing. Iksan kesīr, paktot kesir," Aemma tried again, tilting her head up to catch Silverwing's auburn eye, (Calm down. I'm here, right here.)

Eventually, Silverwing sank her great head down by Aemma's side to blink her obscure emotion at her. Unknowingly, Aemma rubbed at the curve of her coarse jaw back and forth, conveying her consolation through her touch.

"Bastard!"

A vicious seethe boomed past the doors, cutting through the gushing winds following a whip of lightning and another of Vhagar's roars. The word crushed an unfeeling weight in her heart, especially with the deep voice it came bearing.

Aemma had not noticed Luke's hurried appearance out the bolted doors. She rushed to her brother's side, blood coursing through her veins, unease catching in her throat.

Luke, still clutching the dragon egg, had his eyes round with horror. "We need to leave. We need to leave now."

"What was that—what has happened?"

He shook his terrified head, half in words and half in gasps. "He wants... He wants my eye."

"Aemond," she whispered, now totally conscious.

"He was there!" Luke blustered. "He came with Dreamfyre's clutch and then he nearly cornered me!"

She inhaled deeply, understanding the full implication of his words. She had suspected for some time now the depth of his resolve. Her dearest friend had once told her, "Better to be feared than scorned," a sentiment laced with the retribution he believed he deserved. What kind of sister would she be if she allowed her little brother to believe that sacrificing his eye would quench the burning vengeance in her husband’s heart? Aemond was not going to leave this place without shedding blood—someone's blood. And she would not allow it to be Lucerys.

Vhagar's wings stormed up and into the grey clouds, leaving their line of sight.

Aemma gulped down her dread and quickly ushered Luke forward. No time to waste.

"Quickly. Get on Arrax," she ordered.

He nodded shakily. "You?"

"You fly first. I'll follow close behind—Silverwing and I will stand guard on your tail."

He was not convinced. "What if he—"

"I will keep you safe, as I always have." She held his trembling cheek firmly. "Aemond will not get past me."

She said this with all the confidence in her heart. If one thing she was certain about, Aemond would rather gouge out his other eye than see her harmed by his hand. Because that is exactly what Aemma would do, too. She trusted him enough to trust her instincts on this.

The rains whipped at them, harsher now, as if urging them off the island at once. Luke blustered calming commands at his twittering dragon before taking up the saddle and tightening his harness. Aemma stood by and watched him fly off, and then she dashed to Silvering, who waited with her torso lowered to the ground, awaiting her.

As soon as Aemma mounted her, she shouted, "Soves, Silverwing!"

A thunderclap cracked the darkened sky, and their dragons roared. It wasn't a dance anymore—this was a full-blown war.

Up ahead, through a blurry film of clouds, Arrax bolted on, battling the rain and winds. Luke looked behind him, his fright shifting to reassurance when she spotted Silverwing, as promised, close on his tail. He would have some probability of avoidance tonight, thanks to his sister.

Vhagar threatened them from above, casting a pall over them, ten times larger than Arrax, particularly more battle-worn than Silverwing.

"Dracarys!" Aemond's vindictive growl shattered between them.

Bright amber flames gushed forth, not meaning to harm either of them, only meant to separate them. As if to kindle the vestige of doubt that flashed in her mind, Aemma gasped when Silverwing staggered, trilling in surprise.

Beyond, Luke had twisted Arrax, deftly switching his direction to find cover between the clouds. A breath of relief staggered into her chest.

"Vhagar, daor!" She heard her husband's anguished yell.

Grasping the peril in the moment, she discerned what Aemond had yelled for. There was a bigger prey to hunt for Vhagar as her wings moved forth. Wings thumping and jaw-snapping, she was coming for Silverwing now.

"Come and get me," Aemma challenged, twisting the reins around her wrist tighter.

Silverwing was swift and more agile than Vhagar, so she had the upper hand in fleeing, utilizing it to the maximum. She angled off to see Aemond, hair slicked from the rain and handsome face deformed to pain, seeming a lot like that nervous boy from her memories, control slipping from his fingers.

"No, no, no..." he muttered. What was she doing? Idiot, fool, my love, flee!

His single eye roved toward her, Aemma’s fingers tightening around the rim of her helm. Those doe eyes of hers were unmistakable—both a caution and a plea.

His gaze softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Warning her. Begging her. Anything to spare her from the madness that had engulfed them all.

Aemond's usual sharpness faded when his eye rested on Aemma and her dragon. He didn’t want her caught in this whirlwind of vengeance, didn’t want to see dread in her eyes. For a brief moment, regret clouded his expression, as if wishing to pull her away from the violent path fate had carved out.

But Aemma would never run. She would face it, head-on, so many times he had seen this. She would do anything to protect her brother. Aemond knew this, and it both enraged and pained him. What about him? What about her dear friend?

His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around his handgrips, knuckles whitening under the weight of a choice he didn’t want to make. She stood her ground, flying onward, defiant and fearless, the same fire that lived within their bloodline burning bright in her.

"Don’t do this," his voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the wind, but she caught it.

It wasn’t a command—it was a plea. He didn’t want to see her hurt, didn’t want to be the cause of it. His breath hitched, the internal struggle tearing at him, and for the first time in a long time, he was vulnerable.

Aemma, in her silent resolve, glanced upward, to the sheet of roiling clouds where Arrax soared as a silent shadow. She was her brother's shield, his protector, even when she was outmatched. The bond between them was unshakable, something Aemond could almost respect—almost envy. His heart twisted as he realized that. Aegon would never do that for him, be that for him.

But this was the world they lived in. He was bound by duty and pride, while she, unyielding and courageous, would never leave her brother's side. And in that moment, Aemond knew—no matter what he felt, this battle wasn’t his to stop.

It was then that everything happened in the blink of an eye, too fast for any to fully comprehend—save for one. Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the sole witness, would carry the weight of what he saw that day for the rest of his life. The memory would be a haunting spectre, etched into his mind like a scar never to heal.

A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos unfolding above. From out of the storm’s fury came Silverwing, her silvery-blue form cutting through the dark clouds like a blade. She appeared from the blindside, as if summoned by the tempest itself, her wings sweeping back to gain speed. With a sudden, terrifying dip, she collided with Vhagar, catching the ancient behemoth off guard.

Vhagar's massive jaws were spread wide, ready to unleash destruction, but Silverwing struck first; not in an attack, but a defence.

Her momentum was devastating—saddle-first, she slammed into Vhagar's gaping maw, throwing the larger dragon off her path. The collision was like thunder in the air, the sound of scales and bone crashing together echoing through the storm. Both dragons reeled from the impact, spiralling in the sky, their forms twisted in a violent struggle as they plummeted from the heavens.

For a moment, they seemed weightless, like leaves tossed about in a gale, their massive bodies buckling and capsizing as they lost control. Vhagar, once so fearsome and prevalent, was forced into an ungainly descent, wings flailing as she tried to recover her balance and safeguard her rider. Silverwing, though smaller, was relentless, her own wings stretched wide to slow her fall, her screech piercing through the roar of the storm.

From far above, Lucerys could do nothing but watch in helpless terror, the clash of the dragons above unfolding in a chaotic dance of survival. His breath caught in his throat. What he had witnessed would haunt him till his dying breath.

Three desperate shouts rose in the air.

"Sister!"

"Aemma!"

Aemma’s piercing, hopeless scream echoed in Luke’s ears as Aemond resurfaced from his reckless dive, now reining in the immense form of Vhagar, who had steadied with lethal grace beneath him. Aemond grunted, prepared to berate his wife from atop his dragon for such rashness.

But then he noticed Silverwing—far below, plummeting ever faster toward the turbulent seas, a pale streak against the darkness, spiralling out of control. Her familiar trill had vanished, ruined by the roaring gales.

Confusion gripped him, suspicion withering, only to be replaced by a creeping dread. His grip on the reins tightened as he pieced together the gravity of his mistake. Something had gone terribly wrong, not just in the chaos of the battle but in the very fabric of his choices.

And then, the realization struck with the force of a dagger to the heart. His mind raced back to what he had truly seen in that final moment—Silverwing’s saddle, empty.

"Aemma!" His yell was gobbled by the thrumming roar of his dragon.

It was over Shipbreaker’s Bay, the histories tell us, that Princess Aemma Velaryon, Queen Rhaenyra’s heir and dearest daughter, plunged to her death, swallowed by the unforgiving sea below. She was but sixteen years old. Her body was never recovered.

To this day, no one knows for certain whether it was her desperate haste to protect her brother that caused her to forget to fasten her harness or if it was the wrath of her husband’s vengeance, a grim twist of fate that claimed her life. The darker tales whisper of betrayal—that Princess Aemma was murdered, felled by the very hand sworn to protect her, the hand of her husband, Aemond Targaryen, whose thirst for blood ran deeper than his vows.

Regardless of which tale you believe, one truth remains clear: the light had dimmed on both sides of the Targaryen war. With Aemma’s death, the last beacon of hope, her ambitions, and her courage, all were lost to the salt and sea.

X

I promise I'm working on the next part—or do I?

[princexalaric]

Outside of his family there weren't many people he trusted, not during these times with what had just occurred. If they weren't careful something worse could befall them before they had a time to stop it from happening. As the eldest he had to keep his eyes out, further protect his family from anything else that would try to ruin the peace. "Whoever they are would not act alone, from here on out we shall be extra careful what we do and who we do it with."

Who: @princexalaric Where: The Ballroom

"I fear the same. There is someone within our midst that we can not trust. They might very well be on this dance floor as we speak. Someone able to sneak away and plant the vial of poison in Richard's chambers undetected. It bothers me to no end that we do not yet know who." Jeyne replied, eyes glancing around the room. The person could be there in that very room and no one would know. "We must be careful and on our guard."

[lemonhemlock]

What do you think about how Helena doesn’t do anything for the team she’s on in both the book and the show? It seems like the rest of the characters have the responsibility and does something to benefit the side they’re on

yeah, it's not great. they had the chance to do something really interesting with helaena and expand (at least a little) on her book version, but she somehow ended up with even less than in FB. in the books, at the very least, she was present during some political talks and she expressed a desire for restraint in the face of bloodshed that aegon heeded (alongside her mother, true, she wasn't the only voice advocating for that). but what does show!helaena do? she sits in rooms all day and embroiders. they really are so averse to giving her an activity, any activity for that matter.

rhaena, for example, is currently perhaps the least developed of the tb children, but we know how she longs for a dragon to either hatch or to claim. she goes to the vale. she has at least the sliver of an objective: keeping jeyne arryn as an ally. meanwhile helaena is not even recognised as a dragonrider, even though she also claimed dreamfyre when she was nigh a child. dreamfyre is never even referred to as helaena's dragon, let alone visually depicted next to her. thank god we have a scene with dreamfyre and aemond, though! and this was such an easy thing to do, they could have made her a horse girl (dragon girl) and had her at the dragonpit tending to all the stray, riderless dragons.

i have always said that they could have leaned into that little tidbit about her being beloved by the smallfolk and showed her getting involved in charity works or sponsoring events or infrastructure projects, something that would work towards her maintaining a good image in the city. it's not like these are things autistic-coded people are incapable of doing!

it's so frustrating bc they gave her the gift of prophecy only for it to have no bite and no stakes. she utters vague, weird metaphors to her interlocutors and they look spooked or confused for a couple of moments. cassandra motif, yes, but what are they actually doing with this trope other than the most basic, descriptive, straightforward depiction of it? i understand that ewan has hinted that aemond will investigate (?) this gift of hers, but will this end up being just another instance in which helaena's arc is subsumed by someone else's?

when does she do anything for herself? when is she an initiator of anything? they turned her into this passive observer that exists so that alicent could feel bad about her life choices, aegon could act awkwards towards and aemond could covet. what's her opinion about the war? about rhaenyra? about becoming queen? it's so infantilizing. it's like their image of an autistic person is someone who sits alone in a room all day and waits for things to happen to them.

in a way it is weird because it's not like she lacks character traits, she just doesn't do anything with them

not even getting into the b&c debacle and how little impact the most traumatizing concept in asoiaf-verse ended up having on her. but, you know what? even so, with this decision to minimize this torturous event, what exactly is the pay-off here? why are they still writing her in such a static way? her arc is going nowhere, because she never seemed to have one in the first place.