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dulcewrites · 1 year ago

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Whole different type of delusion that I see in this fandom is how helaemond shippers act. All they say is everyone should support Helaena cheating on her unfaithful husband because if you someone doesn't, it's misogynistic, but when you mention Alicent having sex with Criston in season 2 they are furious and say Alicent is not Rhaenyra to sleep around 😂

For them it's like helaemond makes sense because Helaena was smarter than Rhaenyra so no one knew Aemond's the father.

And then when you point out they behave exactly like daemyra stans they are surprised 😂

I knew Alys will be hated in fandom because of 2 things. By Blacks because she was better Queen at Harrenhall than Rhaenyra was for 6 months time and Alys have no supporters and no dragon and no Aemond by her side because he was dead then. And by Greens because she is the opposite of Alicent and Helaena who are stuck and doomed and living in the cage.

But the one truly doomed is in fact Alys. She is lowborn bastard and women, so she means nothing and can be used by her family as they please. And yet she survives and makes the best out of Dance. All without any political machinations, she just took power over Harrenhall and no one took it away from her. If this isn't the best character of this show I don't know who may be.

I think in general people in this fandom, and this is something I must remind myself as well, need to program their brains to stop relating every single thing that happens to a woman in this story to a man. Especially romantically

It is pretty clear that one major point at the base of hotd is patriarchy and how way men often use the girls/women in their lives as pawns or martyrs. Whether people think it was well done or not is their choice, but it is clearly there. That conversation I get, and think we need to have. But the way people are so hellbent on ‘pairing’ women in this story with someone, specifically men, can get exhausting.

Why is the most horrid thing that happens in the dance, something that fundamentally breaks Helaena as a person turned into an argument to either uplift/tear down Aegon or Aemond?? Why is her taking her own life out of grief and fear about her brother(s)???

Why does Alicent, someone who clearly has been through sexual trauma in her life at the hands of men - someone who already has creepy psychosexual relationships with men in her life, have to sleep with criston?? Hell, why does criston someone that’s been taken advantage of by nobility (depending on how you read that scene in ep 4) have to sleep with Alicent, his queen???

If Helaena wants to be unfaithful to her husband, I will support her bc Aegon is not a good husband lmao. But the idea she needs to be with her brother, and he had those kids with her is… very odd to me. I don’t see it and idc if that makes me a hater. In general, I think people’s insistence on taking one of the few targ characters that doesn’t have incest as a major footnote in his story (Aemond) and making him into someone he isn’t, is annoying.

People (rightfully) point out how horrible targaryen girls/women are treated but then perpetuate the one thing that has led to many targ women’s downfall: The idea that they are property to the men in their family.

As for alys, she was going to be hated on several reasons : 1. Ageism (people call show and book Alicent a hag despite show Alicent being in her 30s and book Alicent being in her 40s). 2. The fact that aemond is now the fandom fanfic bike aka he gets ridden/shipped with everyone and him having a canon love interest pisses people off. 3. Low born or bastard born women get treated very differently by the fanbase than their male counterparts. 4. The murky relationship between her and Aemond. Now as someone who is excited to see where they take alysmond, even I can understand why people may put off by it. First you have the age difference on the side of her taking advantage of him. Especially now that in the show it has been implied Aemond delt with his own s.a. But by the time they meet, Aemond is Prince Regent. Clearly in a position of power over her. It is dubious and it’s ok to point that out.

But I’m sure as hell not gonna be reprimanded by daemrya or helaemond shippers on that. They clearly don’t give a shit about what is above board 💀💀. At at the very least, every alysmond shipper I’ve personally come across is very open and clear about alys and Aemond’s relationship, and the possible stipulations. I can’t say the same for the other two camps.

Every woman in this story, nobility or low born, has been through shit. That’s the whole point and the bitch of patriarchy. It affects every woman to a certain degree. Of course someone like Rhaenyra or Alicent has lived a very different life than Alys, and that needs to pointed out. All women are not on equal playing field. But all of them have been trapped or stuck at one point or another. How these women maneuver this world is important because of how differently each live, which is why it is dumb when people advocate for their stories to be cut (Sara, nettles, alys). These characters being vehemently hated by ANYONE is weird asf to me.

I enjoy team green, I write for team green, but people take this ‘team’ stuff too seriously sometimes. Well.. when it comes to the women. The male characters can get it lmao. I personally don’t like the rhetoric around how most women in story get spoken about. People are so focused on whose winning or shipping that the point of the story gets lost. And frankly regurgitating the same points and arguments sucks the fun out a show…shame. If people hate everything about it or have to make up crazy theories for it to work… just don’t watch 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️

#power is not the be end all to end all for women #we see that in the noble women #no matter how much power one acquires they are still a woman #I’m sorry if I seem annoyed it’s not you anon #it’s more this fandom #a fandom overly obsessed with sex and shipping #people just pulling stuff out of thin air for shipping reasons #and idc if this makes sound like a ‘puriteen’ or whatever cringe word a grown ass adult made up to speak on children #idk how to tag this…#anti helaemond #I guess idk #anti daemyra #asks and requests

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elains · 2 years ago

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terror and silence (and between them, a flame)

❧ Summary: In the hour of the owl, when the Red Keep was so quiet one could hear the rhythmic breathing of its sleeping inhabitants and the furtive steps of those who reveled in the shadows of night echoing in the halls, Viserys Targaryen dreamed. Or: A dream comes to Viserys the night Rhaenyra and Daemon slip into Flea Bottom — and history changes as a result.

✾ chapter 1 — dream deliver us to dream

Read on Ao3!

In the hour of the owl, when the Red Keep was so quiet one could hear the rhythmic breathing of its sleeping inhabitants and the furtive steps of those who reveled in the shadows of night echoing in the halls, Viserys Targaryen dreamed.

He'd always been a dreamer, more so than he'd been a dragon. His interest laid not in the great beasts that were the wonder and terror of Old Valyria, but rather in the weathered, yellowed, and crumbling tomes of his family's fallen homeland. He loved the higher mysteries, the arcane; the intricate web of alliances, sorcery, and cutthroat politics that decided who lived and died by fire and blood.

Dragons were weapons of conquest, instruments of the dragonlords' will and power. Viserys admired and respected them too, just as one admired the sea amidst a storm or a volcanic eruption spewing lava and ashes from a safe distance. He wasn't like Daemon or his mother or even his own daughter, whose blood ignited and rejoiced as they weaved intricate patterns through the clouds.

Viserys never did need a dragon's leathery wings for his mind to reach the skies.

Rider of Balerion he might have been, but he was drawn to the dragon not because of his destructive might, nor for his fearsome reputation. Viserys claimed Balerion because he was the last remnant of Old Valyria; because long before he had been the Conqueror's, he had been Daenys the Dreamer's mount.

Daenys's dream had saved them from the Doom; Aegon's dream had given them a greater calling, a newfound purpose in their perpetual exile. Viserys's own dream had at first seemed like a confirmation of the right path ahead, one he had watered and pruned and cared for and watched bloom into a beautiful tree. Yet, for all his dedication and with one sole, cherished exception, the tree bore only rotten, bitter fruits. Termites found their way inside and made a home inside the tree's bark.

His beloved wife's death and Daemon's betrayal taught Viserys a bitter truth: one could not dwell in dreams, lest they forget the living. Dreams, for all their importance and burden, weren't absolute — how many tales were there of seers and prophets who had led people not to their promised salvation, but to their doom? Thus, he'd named Rhaenyra his heir and even when Aegon was born and his faith shaken, Viserys remained.

Silently, he held onto the hope that the gods would send him a new dream, one that would assuage his innermost fears. Most nights, Viserys slept to find himself immersed in peaceful darkness or in dreams that had no rhyme or reason and were forgotten as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning.

Not that night. That night, for the first time in years, Viserys dreamed.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The night was alive and filled with colors. There was music in the air, the bawdy, raucous tones favored by Flea Bottom's bards. Deft fingers plucked on the strings in the back of his mind, pulling Viserys to the past, to a time before Aemma, when he was but a Prince.

He closed his eyelids, feeling the music thrumming through his body, soothing every tired, broken crevice. His feet started to move — if by his own will or by that of another, he could not tell — and he swept through the crowd of indistinguishable faces and brightly dyed clothes in time to the beat of the drums.

A piece of new music started then: a softer, sweeter sound, fresh as a lemon cake on a hot summer evening. The colors of night brightened and danced as the melodies entwined, building on each other in perfect harmony. Slowly, the two melodies shifted, giving way to laughter — familiar laughter.

Viserys' eyes snapped open, and he turned sharply to his right. It couldn't be, he told himself, it couldn't be.

Oh, but it was. There, standing at the end of the alley and haloed in fire, were Daemon and Rhaenyra. Daemon and Rhaenyra with their hands entwined, blending into the crowd with their dull, inconspicuous disguises and covered silver-gold tresses. Daemon and Rhaenyra, drowning in each other's eyes and with smiles of quiet joy and pure delight.

Viserys's chest tightened, providing little room for air to fill his lungs. When was the last time he'd seen Rhaenyra so happy? Not for years — not since Aemma died and he married Alicent. When was the last time he'd seen Daemon so open? He could no longer recall.

"Wait," Viserys called out, reaching out for them. He took a step forward. "Wait!" They walked on, laughing, drinking from the same wineskin. "Daemon, Rhaenyra, wait—"

But they weren't listening.

Viserys pushed through the crowd, screaming their names, but with each step his brother and daughter grew more distant, their contours blurry, intermingling with the flame until they’d become flame themselves. The music halted; the colors faded. The once indistinguishable faces of the crowd crystallized into that of his mother and father and grandfather and grandmother and all those he’d lost, their sapphire stares following his every movement.

They reached out to him, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Viserys had never been strong to begin with and his illness had done him no favors, but he would not let the dead hold him down and drag him into their cold, lifeless hell. He had a duty, a burden, a purpose: the fire, the fire. He had to reach the fire. Daemon and Rhaenyra .

Viserys screamed into the cold dark. He struggled, kicked, punched, and at last, roared against the cold dark.

“You will not have me! By the gods, you will not have me!”

“There are no gods when the snows fall and the white winds blow, Viserys Targaryen,” a voice whispered in his ear, frozen fire to match a world without light, “but there may yet be dragons.”

And just like in his dream, the dream that killed Aemma, the flame still burning in the distance erupted and all dragons roared as one. The white shadows released him, screeching, melting away into pools of black that disappeared into the darkness. Viserys fell to his knees, trembling hands fisting the snow on the ground, gasping for air as the fire in his veins tried to expel the frost from his lungs.

The deep shadows gave way to a pale half-light, to a day that wasn’t a day. Around him, the snow fell quietly, unhurried. Silence reigned, undisturbed even by his labored breathing.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, shaken to his bones, kept warm only by the memory of a flame. Maybe it was the ephemeral moment a butterfly flapped its wings, over before it began, or maybe it was the undisclosed length of all eons of history. It didn’t matter - time was meaningless in a dream.

“Blood of two, joined, as one,” the voice of frozen fire echoed all around him, chanting to the melody set before the darkness, before death .

Viserys’ breath hitched and he raised his head.

He was in the Red Keep. Not the Red Keep where he’d heard petitioners that morning, but a decrepit mirror of it, one he barely recognized. The ceiling had collapsed, exposing a gray, melancholic sky; blood and ash coated the snow, painting it red and black. There was no Targaryen heraldry in this throne room, only crumbling icons of the Faith of the Seven and Seven-Pointed Stars.

“Ghostly flame, and song of shadows,” the woman – for it was a woman – continued her chant, undaunted. Her voice was a dragonglass blade, sharp and polished, cool to the touch, carrying an underlying warmth from its birth amidst flame and smoke.

It stirred in him feelings of nostalgia and loss, the familiarity of sweet dreams gone come the light of morn. Slowly, so afraid he was to hope , Viserys turned towards the Iron Throne — but there was no Iron Throne anymore.

In its place, there was only an amorphous, incandescent mound of metal, the fused iron trickling down the surface in rivulets and evaporating as it met the snow on the floor.

The woman chanting sat on the half-crumbling steps leading up to the molten throne, a maiden no older than his daughter. She was a pale, wisp of a thing, with tresses of spinned-silver as fair as her skin, tied in an elaborate braid. A headdress of dragonglass and rubies in traditional valyrian style rested atop her head, matching ceremonial black and red robes embroidered with dragon scales she wore.

A dragon lay beside her, eyes closed, curled into itself save for its head, which rested on the maiden’s lap.

"Two hearts as embers, forged in the fourteen flames,” she sang, caressing the dragon’s jet-black scales. Blood dripped along her elongated fingers, coating some of the beast’s scales in frighteningly familiar patterns.

“Balerion,” Viserys whispered, his bloodless lips parted. This was Balerion long before he was the Black Dread, the terror of all Westeros. This was Balerion at his infancy, a few years after he’d hatched from an egg picked by a young- gods have mercy . “Daenys the Dreamer.”

“A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness –” Daenys halted, hand freezing mid-air. Balerion’s eyes snapped open, pools of blood swirling with hunger and rage. She did not look up as she said, “Do you know, Viserys Targaryen, why I named him Balerion?”

“God of Flame and Bloodshed,” he replied, the answer carved into his memory since boyhood, “greatest of the Fourteen Flames.”

“God of Flame and Bloodshed, pride of the Valyrian Freehold.” She caressed Balerion lovingly, a small, sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Our glory, our power, and our great tragedy. Our beginning and our end. It suited me. It suited the Conqueror. It suited you, too.”

Viserys balled his hands into fists.

“The Houses of the Dragon will not end with me. I have a daughter and two more children besides, a realm thriving and in peace. I have a brother, rogue as he is. We will endure."

Daenys chuckled. “Look around you, Viserys. Does that remind you of endurance? Of strength?”

He had no answer for her, no time to think of one.

Daenys rose, gathering her hands behind her back. Rhaenyra — she looked so much like his Rhaenyra.

“To nurture the fire, blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen. They need each other. It keeps them alive, thriving, and controlled. The mages of Valyria understood that.” She stared at him down, pale lilac eyes almost colorless under the faint light. “You do not.”

Balerion stirred, unfurled, spread his wings. He grew larger by the moment until the Red Keep shook; the ceiling, already fragile, began to collapse. Viserys couldn’t move, an invisible chain binding him to Daenys.

“Blood must have blood,” she decreed, opening her arms wide. “The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light. Blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen. Only then will the fire of the House of Dragon survive the night.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Viserys jumped awake, a scream caught in his throat. He clutched at the soft linen of his sleeping garments, feeling the thunderous heartbeat trapped beneath the confines of his chest, lashing at his ribcage as the gods of sea and wind did to the walls of Storm's End long, long ago.

Besides him, Alicent stirred awake, propping herself up with a hand.

"Viserys?" She called, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. "Is everything alright?"

Was everything alright? He couldn't say. Buttery sunlight streamed into the chambers through latticed windows, creating a peaceful, cozy ambiance, but it did little to chase away the cold.

"Viserys?" Alicent called again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright," he whispered, covering her dainty hand with his. Inclining his head towards her, Viserys offered his wife a reassuring smile. "A bad dream, is all. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, my dear."

Alicent's brow creased and she pressed her lips together, but no words left them. They remained like that for a while, immersed in the tranquil, melancholic quietness of early morning.

Someone knocked on the door and a twin look of confusion passed between them.

"Who could it be at this hour?" She inquired, pulling her hand away from his. He shook his head.

"All I know is that no good news ever comes this early in the day." The knock came again — this time louder, more insistent. Viserys cast a sideway glance at Alicent and motioned to the YiTish folding screen near the window. "Go. This shan't take long, I gather."

With a perfunctory nod, his wife slipped out of the bed, gathering her silk robe about her as she did. Viserys rose and once Alicent had safely absconded behind the screen and disappeared, he said, “Come.”

The door opened and Otto strode in, already dressed in his impeccable court attired, the Hand of the King pinned to his chest. There was a hesitancy to his walk, an agitation to his features at odds with what Viserys’ had come to expect from his trusted Hand.

“What is it?” Viserys asked, coming to meet Otto close at main the gates of his model of Old Valyria, close to the chair where years ago he’d talked to Rhaenyra upon her return from her impromptu visit to Dragonstone.

“I apologize for the early hour, your grace,” Otto started, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I have ah –” He paused. Blinked, quickly reassessing his words. “– discomforting news. I thought it best shared discreetly before the council convenes.”

Viserys looked away, his mind racing at the possibilities. “The Sea Snake.”

Otto shook his head. “I’m afraid it concerns the princess, my king.”

Fear gripped at Visery’s heart, held firmly onto the back of the chair closest to him, purple eyes locked on Otto’s. The image of Daenys, singing softly on the foot of the destroyed Iron Throne flashed into his mind.

“Has something happened to Rhaenyra? Has she been harmed? Is she ill?”

The Hand didn’t respond immediately, exhaling sharply and averting his gaze, unable to look Viserys in the eye.

“It’s no easy thing to tell a father of his daughter’s exploits. I had considered saying nothing but –”

“Look at me, Otto,” Viserys demanded. His nails dug into the wood. “What has she done?”

Otto acquiesced, and the disquiet he spotted in the man’s countenance was genuine.

“The princess was spied last evening beyond the walls of the keep… in a pleasure house.” He looked away again but, this time, Viserys did not push.

“What of it?”

“She was carrying on with her uncle. They were engaged in behaviors unbecoming of a maiden – of a princess.”

Rhaenyra and Daemon, walking hand in hand through the streets of Flea Bottom, looking happy and free and content . Had it not been a dream, then? Had it happened?

But there had been nothing untoward in his vision, nothing unbecoming. There had been only light-hearted joy.

Unless-

Blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen.

Otto continued talking about trusted sources of information, offers of apologies, how they may yet smother the inklings of scandal if just –

Viserys closed his eyes, taking in deep, shaky breaths. He knew they’d been out last night, he had seen it. And Otto… Otto wouldn’t be here if he didn’t trust the source of information. If he didn’t think of this as an opportunity.

“Get out,” Viserys said through gritted teeth, interrupting Otto mid-rant. “Leave me, Otto.”

Otto immediately recanted. “Your grace, if I gave you any offense –”

“Offense? You had my daughter stalked, spied upon, and for what? Awaiting your best chance to destroy her reputation? To further your own selfish ambition?”

“Your grace, I had no such intent –”

“You did!” the King seethed, coming alive with the memory of Balerion. “Your designs are obvious. You so wish to see your blood on the Iron Throne that you would destroy mine own.”

“Your grace –”

“Get out,” Viserys repeated, slamming his hands on the wood. “Get out, Otto, and order Daemon brought to me. If he truly ruined my daughter, I’ll hear it from his mouth. Not from yours.”

Otto opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but seemed to think better of it and merely nodded, bowing to the waist.

“As you wish, your grace.”

Once the door closed behind him, Alicent stepped out of her hiding spot, glancing between the door and Viserys himself. The skin around her nails was red and freshly bloodied.

───※ ·♛· ※───

It had been a long, long time since Daemon had drunk himself into oblivion.

He'd overindulged plenty of times before, usually for freedom and for pleasure, for the heady, exhilarating feeling of the liquor burning down his throat. He'd even drink to ward off his dark moods, particularly after a fight with Viserys, though never to this extent.

The last time Daemon had drunk himself into a stupor simply to drown out all the unwelcome, heavy feelings twisting their way around his heart was the night his father died. He'd woken up in a rundown alley with bruised knuckles, a black eye, the grandmother of all headaches, and no recollection of how he'd gotten there.

He had no black eye, this time. No bloodied fists either, and the place he had woken to was much nicer than the last one. Courtesy of Mysaria.

Yet just like that horrible night many years before, the liquor hadn't burnt away the memories. It had given him a reprieve, an isle of numbness amidst the sea of confusion, gone as soon as dawn broke across the sky.

When he'd won the war in the Stepstones and a crown for his efforts, there was little he thought of if not returning to King's Landing and setting the crown on his brother's feet, thus forcing Viserys to recognize him. He meant to take this recognition and crush it in his hands. Daemon would draw his brother into an illusion of safety and peace and then blow it to pieces. Let him feel the same anger, the same betrayal, as Daemon had when he was exiled and abandoned, only to have an offer of rescue arrive out of misplaced, unwanted pity.

He hadn't known how to go about it, only that he would. Daemon was no Otto Hightower, patiently playing his game of cyvasse and planning five, six steps ahead. He'd rather flip the entire board as his plans went haywire and improvise from there, keeping his enemies on their toes, wondering what he was up to. If they thought of him as some kind of master schemer, all the better for his reputation.

Rhaenyra wasn't part of his initial plans of getting back at his brother. For all Daemon knew then she was still gallivanting around Westeros with Sir Crispin Couve following her like a lost puppy, listening to sheep trying to convince a dragon how they could ever satisfy her. That had changed the moment he'd spotted her weaving her way through the gathered crowd at his impromptu reception, purple eyes full of hunger.

Viserys had taken everything from him. Taken, taken, and refused to give it back in equal measure. Why shouldn't Daemon do the same, then?

He wasn't blind to Rhaenyra's interest in him. It was only natural — they were Targaryens, dragonlords of old, after all. Daemon wasn't so much of a hypocrite to deny he enjoyed her undisputed adoration, nor that he had fueled it over the years with his many gifts. Neither was he going to deny the primal, unabashed satisfaction at seeing her proudly wearing the valyrian steel necklace around her throat at the Godswood. He wondered if she'd worn it to meet her suitors, too.

So he had lured her out of the Keep, taken her hand, and led her into Flea Bottom with the promise of a night of freedom and adventure. As they threaded the streets, his gaze wandered to her, taking in her joy at the men crossing a tightrope above the alley, the bards and their filthy shanties, the vendors and entertainers performing illusions and tricks.

His niece was radiant, blindingly, devastatingly so. She pulled him in with her enthusiastic grin, her merry laughter. Her delight softened the sharp edges of his resentment and he couldn't help but share in her joy. Daemon held on to her hand, laughed with her at some bawdy joke, shouted over the crowd, and twirled Rhaenyra around as they hit up a tavern where a group of performers played a particularly riveting song.

She'd looked up at him then, flushed and sweaty and a little high, with his name on her pink lips. Daemon's heart twisted, the reason why he brought her here pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. He had a mission: ruin Rhaenyra and get back at Viserys. The path ahead was clear.

Daemon led her down to the Street of Silk to one of his old haunting places. He removed her cap, leaving all to see the silvery sheen of her hair; how it framed her lovely face. Hands together, Daemon led her down the path of damnation.

Hers or his own, he could not say any longer.

He remembered Rhaenyra's forehead pressed against his own, their lips melding together as she pulled him down, closer, closer. Her mouth was sweeter than honey, her fingers leaving scorch marks down the nape of his neck. Yes, Daemon realized, yes he could get addicted to her, to this exquisite taste of pleasure that was unmistakably, uniquely Rhaenyra's.

He pinned her against a wall, untying her clothes, her back to him. But Rhaenyra was voracious and unapologetic, a dragon just as he was, and she'd not be a quiet, passive subject of her own ruin. She'd turned to face him, eyes brimming with trust — and his resolve broke.

It was the Dragonstone bridge all over again: just as he couldn't bring himself to kill Rhaenyra there, Daemon couldn't bring himself to cross the line here either, not when she looked at him with those damned eyes. She deserved better than to lose her maidenhead in the bowels of a brothel, in sight of others, over Daemon's grudge.

So he'd left her there, walked away even as she called him, a whirlwind of fury and frustration and confusion. He walked into the nearest tavern, downing his cups faster than his body could process the alcohol. Her memory haunted Daemon's every step: her laughter, her body, her lips.

In trying to lay waste to her reputation, he'd inadvertently laid waste to himself. In exposing her in such a public manner, he'd exposed parts of himself he'd buried and avoided for too long.

He was cursed, damned, forever leashed to the memory of what he almost had within his grasp.

Daemon turned around on the cot, turmoil brewing in his heart. He supposed he ought to return to the Red Keep and see what his efforts had wrought.

No sooner had he stumbled past the gates of the Red Keep, Westerling and two others Kingsguards whose names he couldn't bother to remember came down on him.

His brother, it seemed, wanted an audience.

#daemyra #hotd #my writing #gonna post my stuff here too #ONE BY ONE #anyway

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