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targaryenrealnessdarling · 10 days ago

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One - The Price of Victory | Series Masterlist

Summary: As a deposed Aemond licks his wounds from a long fought war, Lady Rosaleen embarks from Raventree Hall to meet her husband-to-be | Word Count: 7.1k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage

The throne sat empty.

The great Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror loomed above, its twisted, jagged shadows flickering in the candlelight. Aemond stood before it, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his single violet eye fixed on the seat his brother had died fighting to secure.

He had once seen death, stared it right in the face that bore Daemon Targaryen's likeness, all for the worthiness of ruling from that very seat.

And yet he still did not possess the authority to sit it. Despite the fight through the flames, the blood, the agony. The sacrifices.

The war had been won, the Blacks were defeated, scattered or dead. And yet the realm was far from whole. He had thought the Green victory would bring order, that their triumph would be enough to heal the scars left by his brother’s rule and Rhaenyra’s rebellion. But Aegon’s sudden death had shattered the fragile stability they had only just begun to claim. Without heirs to secure what his brother had left behind.

He had returned to King’s Landing bloodied and battered, prepared to embrace whatever welcome awaited him. But his mother, his dear, grief-stricken mother, had not greeted him with open arms and cries of joy. She had wept and railed against him, her voice breaking as her fists struck his chest, powerless but furious. The Dance, with all its death and fire, had torn her heart to pieces, and though she had welcomed him home, the weight of her grief had been clear.

“Do you see what we are left with?” she had asked him, her voice rough and hoarse from the nights of mourning. Aemond remembered the rawness of her face, the pale grief etched into every line. “A land left in ruin. A son who cannot sit the throne. And my girl…my only girl…”

He felt the blood that remained in his weakened body drain from his face. He had heard vague murmurings of Helaena's sorrow after the death of Jaehaerys, but no one had prepared him for the truth that now burned in his mother’s haunted eyes.

At least Rhaenyra had taken mercy on little Jaehaera. She remained, not unlike Rhaenyra’s own sons, locked away, but now protectively in Alicent’s wing of the Keep under the close eyes of her grandmother. Aemond himself felt a responsibility toward his niece, she was a small, fragile thing, with Helaena’s soft eyes and gentle manner, bearing the scars of tragedy but untouched by the fire and vengeance that had consumed her kin.

She was but a child. But her presence was a silent, solemn reminder of the sister he felt he had failed.

The damage from the Dance was more severe than any one man could hope to repair. Rhaenyra had left the realm in disarray, her supporters either dead or reduced to whispers of rebellion. Houses that had once stood tall were now in ruin, their lands burned and loyalty frayed. Aegon’s death had formed a dark power vacuum, and already, ambitious Lords, eyes glimmering with the sweet promise of power, were already pressing their influence and claims.

Of course, there was still the question of Rhaenyra’s two trueborn surviving sons. Aegon the Younger and little Viserys. Glorified prisoners, yes, but their very existence cast a long shadow over Aemond’s claim. Both boys, with the ability to inspire rebellion in those who still held a candle to Rhaenyra’s long lost claim. The Council ceaselessly debated what to do with the boys in the tower, under guard, whether they might be kept as hostages, or if the crown would be safer without them drawing breath another day longer than necessary.

He found himself thinking of Alys, who said she had been with child and indeed appeared as such the last time he had seen her.

Alys had known him too well, perhaps better than he’d ever allowed anyone else. She’d known what fuelled him, what burned within him even when he’d barely grasped it himself. He had abandoned her for what he thought could have been his last moments above Gods Eye Lake. She had looked at him that final time with something unspoken in her gaze, with weight of words she hadn’t voiced. She had sworn she was carrying his child, and he’d believed her, if only because Alys Rivers had always known how to see truths that others could not.

When word had first spread of his fall, when the ravens bore news of his assumed death, she had slipped away, disappearing from Harrenhal without a trace. Even if she had birthed his child, the council would not care for another bastard to claim any place in his line, nor would his mother or his brother have allowed it. Aemond knew this, he had known it even when he had found comfort in Alys’ arms, seeking something to fill the gnawing emptiness.

He could only assume she was either gone, or dead. And the child? If there ever was one. Were they dead too?

He clenched his jaw, willing the thought from his mind. Alys belonged to the past, like the ghosts of every flame he’d left smoldering in his path.

Aemond found himself alone, pondering to himself, without even the energy to write his warring thoughts on paper. What was there to write about anymore? The war was over. This was a time to rebuild. To heal. And yet he felt the cold, claw of guilt at his throat, no closer to the throne than he had been before.

The Small Council chambers felt barren, and Aemond’s position was heavily felt, having not been granted his seat at the head of the table this time around. He rolled his shoulder, the scars where Daemon had plunged Dark Sister through flesh and muscle stretching uncomfortably. The Maesters had said he’d be left with less mobility, but that it should not affect his duties.

He was not sure whether to be pleased about that.

Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Larys Strong, Ser Jasper Wylde and Maester Gerardys sat in silence, their expressions carefully measured. At the far end of the table sat his mother, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze steady. It was a wonder to Aemond the men that sat around this table were not dead following Rhaenyra’s short but tumultuous reign. He wondered if the shadows of war had made them distrustful of one another. In this there was no doubt. If Aemond himself were to have an opinion on anyone, it was Maester Gerardys, now more a prisoner than an ally, unable to flee King's Landing after the Pretender and Aegon’s death.

It seemed this opinion was shared, for several pairs of eyes carefully scanned the room. And he was not left without a lingering glance himself, the Kinslayer.

“We need the Riverlands pacified,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice broke through the silence, his eyes scanning the room. “The lords there are restless. House Tully may have bent the knee, but it was under duress. Loyalty is fragile.”

“The Tullys are irrelevant,” Aemond growled, his eye narrowing as he leaned forward. “They supported Rhaenyra. They will suffer for it, as will every house that stood against us.”

“And yet we need them,” Tyland insisted, “the Riverlands cannot be held by fear alone. We must bring them back into the fold, to rebuild what has fallen.”

Aemond caught the judgmental glimpse in Alicent’s expression. The corners of her lips were turned downwards. It was no wonder, she had lost her two eldest children, and by extension perhaps blamed Aemond partly for it. In fact, there was no doubt in his mind that she did, though she dare not voice it.

They were already fractured enough as it was.

“I have reduced the Riverlands to ash, burned their keeps and their armies, and yet you stand here telling me I need to beg for their loyalty?”

A soft voice cut through the tension. “That is not what they mean, Aemond.”

Alicent’s voice was gentle, but firm, and the council fell silent as she spoke.

“They do not question your strength,” she continued, her green eyes meeting his. “They question the realm’s ability to follow. A marriage, an alliance with the right house, will show the lords that the crown offers stability, not just fire and blood.”

Aemond stared at his mother for a moment, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Alicent, ever the pragmatist, was right. Without a wife, without an alliance, the crown would slip further from his grasp.

“You would see me tied to a family that fought against us,” Aemond said slowly, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. “You would have me wed a traitor’s kin. Some whore who seeks to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“I would see you rule, Aemond. Truly rule, not as a weapon to be feared, but as a king to be respected. And to do that, we need allies.”

“And who, exactly, do you propose I marry?” Aemond asked, his voice cold.

Tyland cleared his throat. “The Riverlands are still unstable. House Tully has suffered greatly, but they remain the strongest house in the region. Grover Tully’s granddaughter is of age, though her appearance leaves much to be desired. A marriage such as that would secure their loyalty.”

“The Tullys.” Aemond spat.

Tyland shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing the prince’s temper. “It is not ideal, I admit,” he said carefully, “but their support is crucial if we are to stabilise the Riverlands.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust. “No. I will not be tied to the Tullys. I’d sooner burn what’s left of their lands than share my bed with one of them.”

A tense silence filled the room as the council exchanged glances. Alicent watched her son closely, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She knew Aemond’s pride, his thirst for vengeance. But there was more at stake now than settling old grudges.

After a moment, Lord Larys Strong spoke up, his voice as soft and measured as always. “House Blackwood, though they suffered under war, there remains both a sister and cousin of the late Lord Willem Blackwood. Women of good health and said to be pleasing to the eye. The Blackwoods supported the Pretender at first, yes, but their rivalry with the Brackens runs deep. It would not take much to sway them to our side, especially with the promise of a marriage alliance.”

Tyland hummed, “The Blackwoods... their lands are a stone’s throw from Harrenhal, are they not?”

“Indeed,” Larys replied, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “They hold Raventree Hall, a strong seat. Though damaged, they are still a proud family, and their loyalty would go a long way in solidifying our control over the Riverlands.”

Aemond considered this, his anger still simmering beneath the surface, but the suggestion intrigued him more than the idea of wedding a Tully. The Blackwoods were an old family, their lineage stretching back to the First Men. And unlike the Tullys, they had the potential to be turned, to be controlled. He could see a use in them.

“Alysanne, the sister,” Aemond murmured, his lips twisting slightly. “She has a temper. Is that not so?” He glanced at Lord Larys, who inclined his head ever so slightly, confirming it with an almost imperceptible smile.

“A reputation, yes,” Larys replied smoothly. “But they say she is fierce in her loyalties as well.”

“Fierce,” Aemond repeated, with a faint note of disdain. “We need stability, not fire in my bedchambers. If I am to wed, I require someone who knows restraint.”

Tyland tilted his head thoughtfully. “The cousin,” he interjected. “Lady Rosaleen. Younger, unwed, and without Alysanne’s...spirited reputation. It’s said she has a measured disposition, more practical.”

“And this cousin,” Aemond said slowly, his gaze returning to the council, “she is... acceptable?”

Tyland nodded quickly, seizing the opportunity to move the conversation forward. “From all accounts, yes. A match with her would be seen as favorable to the Blackwoods, and the lords of the Riverlands might look more kindly on us if they see a prominent house backing your rule.”

Alicent, who had remained silent thus far, finally spoke, her voice calm and deliberate. “The Blackwoods may not have the strength of the Tullys, but they are more easily brought into the fold. And they have ties to the Vale as well. It would be a stronger alliance than it first appears.”

Aemond listened, his jaw tight as Alicent spoke. How calm she was, how assured, as if this were all some grand plan of her own design. It was as though they believed they were managing him, holding the crown above him like a carrot, promising him power only if he agreed to be led like a child.

He was a Targaryen prince. He had brought the realm to its knees, put cities to flame, fought on dragonback while others schemed in dark rooms. And now, these men, the same who had depended on him to break Rhaenyra’s forces, were telling him he needed a marriage to prove his worth?

“Very well,” he said, his voice firm. “If Rosaleen Blackwood is suitable, then send word. I’ll not spend weeks deliberating over this.”

Tyland and the other councilors nodded, clearly eager to push forward without provoking his anger further. But Alicent held his gaze, her eyes full of a quiet resolve that only deepened his resentment.

“Power must be won and held,” she said softly. “A wise ruler knows when to fight, and when to accept what the realm demands.”

Aemond’s lip curled slightly. “I need no lessons on ruling from those who never took up the sword themselves,” he replied, his voice low, his words laced with a veiled challenge.

Alicent’s face remained still, her expression unreadable, but he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Good, he thought bitterly. Let her see what she had turned him into.

Lord Tyland shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, sensing the tension in the air. "If there are no further questions, my prince, we shall proceed with sending word to House Blackwood," he said cautiously, glancing at Alicent as he stood, signalling to the other lords.

One by one, the men nodded their obedience and filed out, though each cast a furtive glance at Aemond as they went, as if wary of stirring his already simmering ire. When the doors finally closed, Alicent alone remained, her gaze fixed on her son, unreadable but purposeful.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he returned her stare, waiting for her to speak first. And when she did not, his voice came firm. “If you have something to say then do.”

"Aemond," Alicent began softly, her voice calm but with a mother’s authority. "You will listen to me on this matter. I did not orchestrate this alliance to spite you, nor do I take pleasure in it. It is meant to steady your rule, to make the people look upon you as something other than..." she hesitated, then continued, "other than the prince who left them in flames."

Aemond’s jaw clenched at her words, and he felt a surge of resentment well up within him. “It is the council, and you, who seem to think my claim is not enough, that I must be leashed to a wife for the sake of ‘stability.’ Do you think that will fix what’s broken?” His voice dropped to a low hiss. “Or do you fear what I might do if left unattended?”

“You know very well I do.”

A tense silence followed, her words sinking in, and she took a steadying breath, her voice laced with something colder than he had ever heard from her before. “Do you think this is what I wanted for you? You were once my smallest son, sensitive and watchful. You had no dragon, and you bore your lack of one as if it were a wound carved into your very soul. When you lost your eye, I defended you against your father and Rhaenyra both. I demanded justice for you. I would have gone to war for you then.” She paused, her gaze piercing, unrelenting. “But I did not know that you, too, would someday thrive at war, against all the blood that is ours.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered as her words cut through him, and Alicent pressed on, each sentence ringing with controlled pain. “And Lucerys, Aemond. A boy. A boy not much older than you were then. And you watched your brother maim himself in pursuit of a throne he barely understood.”

“It was not me who put him there–”

“The throne. All these horrors in its name, and you still cling to it. You are not that boy who sought justice anymore. I cannot treat you as if you are, because you, too, are changed. Changed beyond anything I could ever have imagined.”

She took a long breath, her expression softening only slightly. “I know you have lived your own horrors, seen and endured things I’ll never understand. But that does not release you from what you have done. This realm is broken, Aemond, and I do not have the luxury of turning a blind eye any longer. If you wish to rule, you will do so not as my boy but as a man who understands the destruction he has wrought and the lives he is responsible for now.

“And you will do so with a wife, of our choosing, at your side.”

"You speak as though I have any choice in the matter," he said, his voice low and controlled, though the bitterness was unmistakable. His single eye burned into hers, searching for any trace of the mother he had once known, the one who had stood by him when no one else would.

How was it that this woman could make him feel comfort and resentment in the same breath?

Alicent held his gaze unwavering, her own resolve as firm as stone. "You always had a choice, Aemond.”

Aemond stood in silence, the weight of her final words pressing down on him like an anchor. There would be no turning back. No reclaiming the innocence of his youth, no undoing the choices that had irrevocably altered the course of his life. But Aemond would not forget her role in this, nor the way she and the council wielded his title like a weapon to keep him in line.

He was a Targaryen, and he would have his due, with or without their approval.

Since that night Aegon had humiliated him, Aemond hadn’t set foot on the Street of Silk. The thought of returning filled him with distaste. He could still feel the shame that had burned through him that night, searing hotter than any physical pleasure he might have found there.

Any lingering need had fizzled away, replaced by something colder, harder. The women in those dimly lit chambers had meant nothing to him then, and they would mean even less now. He had no desire to seek warmth in the arms of strangers when he had seen, firsthand, how shallow and fleeting those comforts could be.

When it would come to his new bride, would he even feel it then?

The Blackwoods, the Riverlands, a marriage alliance, these were the scraps thrown to a prince who had taken up arms and shed blood for the realm.

As dawn crept over the Red Keep, Aemond resolved himself to the path laid before him. He would marry Lady Rosaleen Blackwood, claim the title that was his by right, and bring the Riverlands into submission. But they would not break him.

He was fire and blood, a Targaryen prince, and he would see his will done, even if the realm itself had to bend to him.

The first morning light broke over the twisted, ancient branches of the great weirwood in Raventree Hall’s courtyard. She stood by the open window of her chamber, allowing the cool air to fill her lungs as she watched the courtyard stir to life. Despite her resolve, there was a fluttering anticipation in her chest.

The summons had come suddenly, a raven delivered in the dead of night, sealed with the unmistakable mark of the crown. She, Rosaleen Blackwood, was to wed Prince Aemond Targaryen. A prince known for his ferocity, his scars, and his dragon.

This would change everything.

There was no one in her family who truly expected her to embrace the idea of a Targaryen husband. She was willful, outspoken, a trait her dear late mother said would lead to her ruin one day. But for Rosaleen, she had seen too many Blackwood women fade into quiet, thankless marriages to lesser lords.

Surely, Rosaleen thought, there was more to life than that.

A knock came at her door. “Cousin?” called a familiar voice, light and lilting. “Are you prepared to greet your new future with a crown on your head and steel in your heart?”

Rosaleen smirked and turned from the window. Her cousin, Alysanne Blackwood, stood in the doorway with a mischievous look in her eyes. Alysanne was slender, quick with her wit, and one of the few people she could say she truly trusted. Her cousin’s easy humor balanced Rosaleen’s own seriousness and had kept her sane through many difficult times.

“Steel, perhaps,” Rosaleen replied with a half-smile. “I’ll not be donning a crown just yet, Aly. And I’ll thank you not to go spreading that nonsense, either.”

Alysanne grinned, unfazed. “Come now, surely you see the humor in this. A Targaryen prince, no less! Though from what I hear, he’s as likely to bite your head off as he is to kiss your hand.”

Rosaleen rolled her eyes. “I imagine he’s as dangerous as they say. I just wonder if the prince is worth the legend they’ve made of him.”

“I don’t know that you’ll be in the habit of judging such things as worth or value,” Alysanne teased. “But you’re right to be wary. These Targaryens, fire and blood, they say. Not exactly the family motto one would choose for a quiet, married life.”

“A quiet life was never in my plans, cousin, and you know it. This marriage will be many things, but quiet is not one of them.”

The confidence in her voice gave way to a faint gleam of excitement.

“Of course,” Rosaleen said, her thoughts settling on her decision, “I’m taking you with me, along with several of the girls. They’re packing now.”

Alysanne raised her brows in mock surprise. “Is that so?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Rosaleen replied, her tone pragmatic. “My ladies will be my eyes, my ears, and my voice in King’s Landing. I’ll not go into that place with only strangers and stiff-backed lords watching me.”

“The prince may not be pleased to find his bride arriving with such strength in numbers.”

Rosaleen shrugged, unconcerned. “If he’s displeased, then it will be the first of many he’ll have to learn to bear.”

Alysanne nodded approvingly, clearly delighted at the thought of the Targaryen prince squirming. “I’ll pack my wittiest retorts.”

Alysanne’s laughter echoed down the corridor as she left, the sound fading as Rosaleen returned to her walls, donned with decorations, lost in thought. She knew there would be whispers, even accusations of ambition. She was no fool, she understood the risks involved. Marrying into a family of dragonlords was no simple task, especially when her family was deeply rooted in the traditions of the Riverlands.

Yet, she could not deny the thrill that had taken root in her heart. A Blackwood married to a Targaryen. It was a match that would change the fortunes of her house, potentially even the future of the kingdom itself. And if Aemond expected her to cower in the shadow of his dragon, he would find himself sorely disappointed.

The night was cool and quiet, as if in mourning. The moon cast pale light across the yard, making the gnarled branches of the dead weirwood glisten like skeletal fingers reaching up to the seven heavens. Perched along the branches, dozens of black ravens watched her with beady eyes, heads cocking as she neared, almost as if they recognised her.

This old tree had been known to her family for generations, its twisted, pale trunk and dark, blood-red leaves a constant reminder of their allegiance to the Old Gods. Who they were. Though the tree was long dead, the ravens still came, roosting among its branches as if drawn to its silent power. They had been her confidants since childhood, and tonight, she felt a pang of sorrow leaving them behind.

"Rosaleen."

The familiar voice came from behind her, soft and steady. Her father’s tone held a subtle mix of warmth and worry, the same note she had heard in his voice ever since the raven had brought the news of her betrothal. Rosaleen turned to face him, meeting his serious gaze, flickering slightly to the cane held firmly in his grip. In the dim moonlight, his face was shadowed, lines of worry etched deep into his weathered features. He looked at her as if he wanted to memorise every detail of his only daughter’s face before she departed for the dangers awaiting her in King’s Landing.

“This will be my last night with the weirwood for a while,” she replied, managing a small smile. “I thought it only fitting to say my farewells.”

Her father hummed, smiling, but bittersweet, “I wish I could go beyond seeing you off, my sweet.”

It was no surprise that her father was not well enough to accompany her to the capital. For as long as she has known her father his body had been fragile, and the pain in his leg had only travelled north to the rest of his ageing body. It was not worth holding against him, Rosaleen thought, she was his only child, and it was heart wrenching enough for him, she thought, to watch her fly the nest.

“It is alright,” she replied, “Aly has a sharp tongue and wit, she will make sure I am there safely.”

Her father hummed, half-amused, stepping closer, his eyes scanning the ancient branches above them. “I don’t need to tell you that this life is…dangerous, Rosaleen,” he began, his tone both gentle and firm. “The Targaryens aren’t like us. They’re like fire, burning bright but unpredictable. What may seem like warmth today could become a blazing inferno tomorrow.”

Rosaleen’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had no illusions about what awaited her in King’s Landing. Marrying into House Targaryen was no mere arrangement of names and alliances, it was a bond with an ancient family that wielded fire and blood as its inheritance.

But she was not afraid.

He was but a man.

Her father studied her, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. “You are strong-willed, daughter. I know this. But should there come a time of need…” he stepped closer, urgent, “send a raven to me with a black feather. Whatever the message, I shall know what it means. And I will come with an army to fetch you, come what may.”

Her heart ached, but she didn’t let the emotion show. She knew he needed to see her strength now more than ever.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You know I shall not be calling on this lightly.”

“I know, Rosaleen.” He gave her a sad, quiet smile. “But I also know that you are still my daughter, no matter whose court you find yourself in.”

A raven above cawed, the sharp call echoing through the silent yard. She felt the shadows of her ancestors around her, felt the weight of their legacy in her blood and bones. And she felt, in that moment, a swell of both pride and bittersweet finality. Her father had given her everything he could.

Tomorrow, she would leave Raventree Hall, but she would carry all of it with her.

Her father gave her one last long look, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Make them remember that fire may scorch the land, but the rivers remember their own.”

With a final nod, he left her to the night, leaving only the ravens and the weirwood to bear witness to her silent vows.

There was little privacy to be found within her retinue. With her father too ill even to make the two-week journey to King’s Landing, the responsibility of her male escort had fallen to Maester Carwyn, a young and less-experienced maester, but one who could be trusted to serve her family’s interests.

The older, more skilled healer had remained at Raventree Hall to tend to her father, whose health could not afford his absence. But Rosaleen knew that Carwyn’s loyalty was unquestionable, and, in time, should she have children, she would feel secure knowing that it was Carwyn overseeing their care. And hers.

The journey south was slow, the landscape unfolding before them in bleak tones of ash and ruin. The scars of war marred the Riverlands, fields once green and fertile now charred to barren emptiness, village after village reduced to smoldering ruins.

Rosaleen watched the silent devastation with a hard-set jaw, her gaze lingering on the skeletal remains of homes and the blackened husks of trees that stretched to the horizon. This was Aemond Targaryen’s doing, he and his dragon, Vhagar, had unleashed their wrath here. And now she was being offered to him as a balm to soothe the damage he had wrought.

As they neared Harrenhal, its twisted, melted towers looming on the horizon, Rosaleen found herself lost in thought. The ominous fortress held a particular weight in her mind, not just for its reputation, but because this had been the place where Aemond had nearly met his end in the bloody war.

She had heard the stories of his injuries, the months he spent in agony. How strange, she thought, to be heading to meet him now, healed, yet still scarred by the same war that had left the Riverlands in ruin.

"Look at this wasteland," Alysanne muttered under her breath, loud enough for Rosaleen and their cousin, Arianne, to hear. "The Targaryens scorch the very earth they rule over and then wonder why we don’t all bow down with gratitude.”

Rosaleen gave her a warning look, though inwardly she shared the sentiment. "Careful, Aly. The journey is long yet, and King's Landing is still ahead of us.”

Alysanne’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. "I’ll say what I like. I’m a Blackwood, not some Targaryen leech. And I’m sure your husband-to-be would do well to remember that.” Her tone was more playful than bitter, but Rosaleen could tell that her cousin’s words carried an edge.

She would have to be careful of that.

In contrast, Arianne, her cousin on her mother's Piper side, had a softer presence. Where Alysanne’s remarks came wrapped in thorns, Arianne’s were gentle, as if she considered the feelings of each listener before she spoke. She wore her femininity openly, her manners delicate, and her voice always lilting with warmth.

“Surely it’s better to look forward now. The war is over. What good is it to dwell on all this destruction?” Arianne said softly, casting a glance around at the desolation.

“Better to look forward?” Alysanne scoffed. “Yes, to look forward to watching my dear cousin bound to a man who thinks the Riverlands are his to burn on a whim.” She shook her head, tossing a rebellious lock of dark hair from her face. “Forgive me if I don’t swoon over the thought of Rosaleen sharing a bed with Aemond Targaryen.”

“And why not? I hear he’s quite… striking. People say he wears a sapphire where his eye once was and hides it behind a leather patch, so he doesn’t frighten the women at court,” Arianne countered gently.

Alysanne let out a derisive laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Striking, perhaps, if one finds it charming to bed a man with blood on his hands. The very same hands that set these villages to the torch.”

Rosaleen had to press her lips together to keep herself from smiling. If she were to save her practicality, she would have to reign Aly in no doubt. “It’s the match I was given, and the match I must make. Railing against it won’t change that.”

Alysanne snorted. "Of course. But I will not hold my tongue in front of any man.”

Rosaleen smiled faintly. “If it’s your goal to ruffle feathers in the Red Keep, I have no doubt you’ll manage.”

She beamed with pride at the notion, whereas Arianne turned once again to her book, peering amongst the faded pages. She knew better than to quell the fiery personality of her kin.

It was only when they were south of Gods Eye Lake that anyone was able to see the sprawling landscape before them, and King's Landing sat proud in the distance. Mighty and grand.

He is there. Rosaleen though, the beating of her heart elevated slightly with anticipation.

Since halfway through their journey, Aly had stayed in the same carriage as Maester Carwyn, suffering with motion sickness from the ceaseless rocking. So Rosaleen glanced at Arianne, who watched with equal interest as the gates of King's Landing came into view.

“Are you nervous?”

Rosaleen wet her lips, dry from days of travelling. She thought of little more than the idea of a nice warm bath. “I think you are more nervous than I, sweet cousin.”

Arianne gave a tight lipped smile, and looked away, clutching her book, “I suppose I am. I have never ventured this far, and I am worried for you.”

“Do not worry for me,” Rosaleen replied, reaching over to place a comforting hand atop Arianne’s. “I knew what I was to face when we left Raventree. This marriage,” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “this marriage is my duty to our house. I do not fear the Targaryens, nor King’s Landing.”

Arianne sighed, her gaze drifting to the sprawling city. “It’s just that I don’t understand… how you can be so calm. There are so many stories about this place, about the people here, and the court. And Aemond—”

“Yes,” Rosaleen cut in softly. “But stories have a way of growing beyond the truth. I will judge him for myself when we meet.”

“I suppose you’re right. But if you ever need someone, anyone… well, you’ll have me here.” She managed a small, encouraging smile.

Rosaleen returned the smile, her fingers still gently clasping Arianne’s hand. “And I’m grateful for it. We may find we need each other more than either of us expects in this strange place.”

As the carriage rolled through the city gates, the noise of the capital filled their ears, the bellowing of merchants, the shouts of city guards, and the rustle of countless people moving through the winding streets. Rosaleen watched as they passed narrow alleyways, the crowded market stalls, the curious eyes of passersby who glanced at the small procession from Raventree Hall.

Above the din, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and Rosaleen realised with a start that the Keep itself loomed closer, its high stone walls towering above them as they passed through the final gate. It felt like stepping into another world, a world that pulsed with its own heartbeat of secrets, dangers, and alliances yet to be forged.

The carriage came to a halt, and Rosaleen straightened her spine, taking one last look at Arianne’s worried face before the door opened. They shared a brief, comforting smile before Rosaleen descended, feeling the heavy air of the capital settle over her.

This was to be her new home.

The great gate of the Red Keep loomed before her, the sunlight shimmering over the cobbled courtyard where her retinue assembled, heads low in a mix of awe and wariness. Her own eyes swept over the towering walls before settling on the figures awaiting her arrival.

At the forefront stood Lady Alicent Hightower, her expression poised and watchful, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her, Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, regarded her with an unreadable gaze, his features giving nothing away. He dipped his head in a formal greeting as Rosaleen approached flanked behind by her ladies and Maester Carwyn.

"Lady Rosaleen," Wylde greeted, his voice cool and authoritative. "Welcome to King's Landing. On behalf of the council, we thank you for your journey."

Rosaleen curtsied deeply, her gaze briefly catching his. “Lord Wylde,” she said, her tone measured yet firm.

Alicent stepped forward, features softened. “Lady Rosaleen,” she said, her voice gentle but layered with authority. “It is good to finally meet you. I trust the journey treated you well?”

She offered her a deeper curtsy, her ladies doing the same with a small bow of their heads. “The road was long, Your Grace. But I am grateful to be here at last.”

A small, approving smile touched Alicent's lips, though her eyes remained sharp. “I’ve arranged for you to refresh yourself, and your chambers have been prepared to your family’s specifications.”

Rosaleen noted the formal tone, the careful selection of words, this was a woman as deliberate as any lord, accustomed to weighing every detail. “I shall endeavor to make myself worthy of the honor.”

Alicent nodded, her face betraying neither warmth nor indifference, only the weight of years spent managing such exchanges.

“I was sorry to hear of Lord Blackwood’s condition,” Alicent continued, “I have sent word to wish him well.”

A flash of surprise passed Rosaleen’s gaze. Whether it was a cold formality or a genuine gesture to extend courtesy to her family, it shocked her either way.

“Thank you, Your Grace, that's very kind.”

Her retinue had already begun to carry her personal belongings inside, diligently guided by servants of the Red Keep alike.

"Aemond is occupied this morning with matters of council," she continued smoothly, "but he looks forward to meeting you in the gardens once his duties are concluded."

There was no doubt that Alicent’s words were meant as both an apology and an expectation, a signal that her son’s duties came first, even before his own betrothed. But it did nothing to sway Rosaleen. A prince of the realm, this is exactly what she expected.

Lord Wylde spoke up, his voice carrying a hint of warning masked beneath polite formality. “You’ll find King’s Landing can be as unpredictable as the river currents of your homeland, my lady. But with such resilience as yours, we have no doubt you’ll thrive.”

Rosaleen met his gaze, giving nothing away. "The Riverlands are not so easily shaken. My lord. And nor am I," she said, a faint smile touching her lips.

If she were to look behind her, Arianne would be none the wiser, and Alysanne would be pressing her lips together to keep herself from giggling.

Alicent’s mouth too twitched, perhaps in approval, perhaps in caution. “Come,” she said, her hand gesturing toward the towering gates. “We’ll escort you inside. You must be eager to rest.”

Rosaleen followed Lady Alicent and Lord Wylde through the towering gates, their footsteps echoing in the vast stone corridors of the Red Keep. She felt the immense weight of the Keep settle around her, a sprawling, ancient place that loomed with shadows and secrets, its stone walls seeming to pulse with a life of their own.

They passed through grand halls lined with tapestries woven with the sigils of the great houses, the Targaryen dragons fierce and proud among them. Rosaleen’s eyes took in the details, the fine, intricate designs of each banner, the threads as precise as the histories they represented. She marvelled at the craftsmanship, at the reminders of both bloodshed and legacy. The Red Keep was beautiful, but intimidatingly so.

This is your new home, she reminded herself, feeling a tightness settle in her chest at the thought. She was no stranger to vast halls, for Raventree Hall had its own deep roots and ancient mysteries, but here the walls seemed to lean in, to judge her even as they welcomed her.

There was a coldness to the Keep that Raventree’s worn stones lacked, a reminder that here, she was an outsider.

As they ascended a wide staircase, Lady Alicent glanced back at her, observing her carefully, perhaps to gauge her reaction.

“You will find the Keep to be as boundless as the city itself,” Alicent said, her tone precise and measured, “though I daresay it can feel smaller than it truly is.”

She nodded though the Dowager Queen did not see. But she understood how a place as vast as this could be confining in its own way.

Eventually, Alicent led her up another staircase and down a quieter hall. “These will be your chambers,” Alicent said, pausing before an oak door, “most recently held by my daughter, Helaena.”

Rosaleen inclined her head, feeling the weight of that knowledge settle over her like a shroud. Helaena, the gentle princess, and then a queen, who had known her own tragedies, her life a mystery and a sadness to most of the realm. Rosaleen looked at the door, wondering if the walls within held her ghost still.

Alicent’s face softened, if only briefly, and she gestured for Rosaleen to enter. Her retinue were placing various items personal to her in indistinguishable piles, her ladies long since taken to their own suitable chambers. The furnishings were elegant yet subdued, and though the bedchamber was fit for a queen, it bore an undeniable emptiness, as though awaiting something, or someone, to bring it back to life.

Rosaleen turned back to Alicent and inclined her head respectfully. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused, taking in the faint sadness that seemed to shadow the Queen Dowager’s eyes. “I am deeply sorry for her passing. Her loss is felt beyond these walls.”

Alicent’s expression softened, though her gaze remained guarded, like she was accustomed to protecting her grief. For a brief moment, a glimmer of pain surfaced, a rawness in her eyes that she quickly concealed.

“Thank you,” Alicent replied, her voice quiet and even. She waited a beat before she nodded, gesturing to the walls around them. “Make it your own,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “In time, you may come to find comfort within these walls, as my daughter did.”

A reply was ready on her lips. But Lord Wylde, who had stood at the door, cleared his throat.

“If I may, Lady Rosaleen, Prince Aemond will be expecting you in the gardens shortly.”

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