#fierce-fire-dayne

[dragongirlsnout]

Sorry if this is a weird and out of left field ask, but as the creator of Dashboard Unfucker, you seemed like a logical person to ask so. Patreon has just overhauled their UI (desktop & app) and killed their chronological feed among a bunch of other just awful changes, and I was wondering if you knew if it would even be /Possible/ for someone to fix it with an extension/tampermonkey script/magic sigil etc. or if they've fucked it too much to Unfuck? Also much love and appreciation for Dashboard Unfucker, you're a saint.

Maybe? I've never used Patreon so I have no frame of reference. For all its faults, Tumblr at least has a free API, no clue about Patreon, but if it did it would likely simplify the process.

[novaursa]

The Broken Crown (1/2)

- Summary: Aegon the Conqueror's youngest sister, Y/N Targaryen, once bethrohed to Torrhen Stark, is forced into a marriage with her brother after he calls off her engagement out of jealousy. Struggling with her lost future and the life she never wanted, she repeatedly refuses Aegon's attempts to consummate the marriage. When she tries to escape to Essos on her dragon, Visenya intercepts her, and Aegon, in an act of control, chains her dragon to prevent any further rebellion, leaving her feeling trapped and broken.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 200+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

- A/N: Unexpected post. Let's see how it goes.

The wind howls outside your chambers, filling the air with the distant sounds of restless dragons, their cries melding with the deep, rolling growl of the sea beyond Dragonstone. The fire crackles in the hearth, sending flickers of light dancing across the walls. You sit alone, staring at the flickering flames, lost in thought. The glow reflects off the dark red and gold silk of your gown, the rich colors echoing the deep hues of Tesaerix's scales.

It has been weeks since your marriage to Aegon—your brother, your king—and yet your chambers remain cold. You know why he comes to you. You know what he desires. Yet every time, you turn him away, the bitterness of your broken future thick on your tongue.

You were supposed to be wed to Torrhen Stark, the former King in the North. A marriage of fire and ice, binding the Targaryens to the cold and ancient lineage of the Starks. You had imagined a life in the North, the fierce honor of the Starks, the warmth of a hearth shared between husband and wife, and the promise of a family. Torrhen would have been yours and yours alone. His loyalty and affection were clear in every letter, in every word whispered between couriers.

But Aegon... Aegon grew jealous. He called off the betrothal without a word to you, with a simple, royal command. And now, you sit here, a queen in name, yet more of a pawn than ever before.

The door to your chambers opens softly, the sound of boots upon stone barely audible over the crackling of the fire. You do not turn. You know who it is.

"Y/N," Aegon's voice rumbles low, rich with the quiet authority of a conqueror. He does not have to ask permission to enter; this is his castle, and you are his wife.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say quietly, your eyes still on the flames. "Not tonight."

"And yet, here I am." His voice is closer now, and you feel the heat of his presence behind you. "You’ve denied me time and time again."

You stand, your hands tightening into fists at your sides, still refusing to face him. "Because this was not meant to be. You took my future from me, Aegon. Torrhen was—" Your voice cracks, though you try to hold your composure. "I was meant to marry him. I was meant to be his only wife, to have his children. You stole that from me."

Aegon steps around to face you, his violet eyes, so like your own, burning with a mixture of frustration and something deeper. His silver hair, shining in the firelight, falls loosely about his shoulders, making him seem more a dragon than a man.

"You speak of duty as if you do not know it, sister," he says, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Do you truly believe you could have lived in the North? Away from your blood? Away from me?"

His words send a chill through you, a reminder of the bond that ties you both. You were born into the same fire, raised together, shared in the same dreams of conquest. But his love, twisted as it has become, feels like chains wrapping around your heart.

"I would have learned," you whisper, your throat tight. "For Torrhen, I would have made a home there."

"And you would have grown cold," Aegon replies, stepping closer, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. "The North would have frozen the fire in your blood. You belong with me, Y/N. We were meant to rule together."

You yank your arms away from his grip, taking a step back, your eyes blazing. "No, Aegon. You and Visenya, you and Rhaenys, were meant to rule. I was an afterthought. You married me out of jealousy, not love. You couldn’t bear the thought of me in the arms of another man."

Aegon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you see the flicker of anger in his eyes. He steps forward again, but you hold your ground.

"You speak as though I do not care for you," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I made a banner in your honor. You fly your own colors, the colors of Tesaerix, because you are more than just my wife. You are my queen, my equal."

"I never asked for that," you snap, your voice rising, the pain and anger finally spilling over. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon. I wanted a life. You took that from me when you sent Torrhen away."

He is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some hint of the sister who once stood by his side, unwavering in her support. But that girl is gone now, replaced by a woman hardened by the reality of her fate.

"Perhaps," he says finally, his voice softer now, almost resigned. "But we cannot change the past. You are mine, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not."

You turn your back to him again, the weight of his words pressing down on you. You hear him move toward the door, his boots heavy on the stone floor. For a moment, you think he will leave. But then, his voice breaks the silence once more.

"One day, you will come to understand why I did what I did. And when that day comes, I will be here. Waiting."

The door closes behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness of your chambers. You are left alone once more, the fire burning low, its warmth doing little to chase away the cold that has settled deep in your bones.

You sink to the floor before the hearth, staring into the dying flames, and wonder if there will ever come a day when you can forgive him—if you even want to.

The grand hall of Dragonstone feels heavy with silence as you sit at the long, stone-carved table. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of Old Valyria, the ancestors watching with cold, lifeless eyes. You sit between Rhaenys and Visenya, with Aegon at the head, his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. The air is thick with the unspoken weight of your marriage, lingering over the table like a shadow.

The food before you remains untouched. Plates of roasted meats, rich gravies, and spiced wine fill the room with tempting aromas, but you have no appetite. Your mind is elsewhere, churning with thoughts of the future that was stolen from you. Torrhen’s face, sharp and distant like the North itself, lingers in your memory.

Visenya breaks the silence, her voice sharp and direct, as is her way. "Y/N," she says, her violet eyes piercing as they settle on you, "when will you finally do your duty to our brother?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon you. Rhaenys shifts beside you, her warm, gentle nature a silent contrast to Visenya's cold command. You take a slow breath, gripping the edge of your goblet, the cool metal pressing into your palm.

"If this is about duty, sister," you reply, your voice calm but edged with steel, "then Aegon should come to you. Isn’t that what you care for most, Visenya? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes narrow, her lips a thin line. "It is our duty to secure the future of our house. You were born for this. You were married for this."

"I was married," you cut in, the words sharper than you intend, "because our brother couldn’t stomach the thought of another man having me." Your gaze flickers to Aegon, who has remained silent, watching the exchange with his usual unreadable expression. "Or is that something none of us are supposed to speak of?"

Rhaenys’ soft, musical voice tries to ease the tension. "We are family, Y/N. Aegon is trying to—"

"To what?" you interrupt, turning your gaze on her. "To make me love him as you do? If our brother seeks love and soft caresses, he should come to you, Rhaenys. You always give him what he desires, don’t you?"

Rhaenys flinches at the harshness of your tone, her eyes lowering to her untouched plate. You almost feel a pang of guilt for your words, but the storm of emotion inside you doesn’t let you stop.

Aegon’s gaze finally lifts from his plate, meeting yours. His violet eyes, usually so hard to read, flicker with something—anger? Hurt? Perhaps both. But he says nothing, allowing the silence to deepen, allowing you to stew in the consequences of your words.

Visenya’s voice cuts through again, colder than before. "You may think you are different from us, Y/N, but you are not. We all carry the same blood. We all have the same purpose. Do not forget that."

You push your chair back abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone breaking the silence. The sound echoes through the hall, reverberating off the high ceilings. You rise, standing tall, your hands clenched at your sides.

"I haven’t forgotten," you say, your voice bitter. "But perhaps I was never meant to be part of this."

Without another word, you turn and leave the table, your untouched meal forgotten behind you. You walk swiftly through the hall, your footsteps muffled by the heavy carpets, and once you pass the threshold, the cold air of Dragonstone greets you like a slap. It chills your skin, but you welcome it. It’s a reminder that despite everything, you are still free to make some choices. Even if only in small rebellions.

As you make your way down the corridor, the sounds of your siblings fade behind you. You are alone once more, with nothing but the distant cries of dragons and the pounding of your heart to accompany you.

The hall feels emptier once you’re gone, the echo of your departing footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the space. For a long moment, no one speaks. The air is filled with your absence, and the untouched food on your plate remains a quiet accusation of all that was left unsaid.

Aegon sits motionless, his hands resting on the table, fingers curled around the goblet he hasn’t touched. His shoulders slump slightly, the weight of something far heavier than a crown pressing down on him. His face, usually impassive and stern, is now unguarded, a mixture of frustration, pain, and an unfamiliar vulnerability etched into his features. The Conqueror, the dragon lord, looks fragile—broken, even.

Rhaenys watches him, her eyes full of concern, though she remains silent for once. Her gentle attempts to soothe the tension earlier had been met with resistance, and now she seems at a loss, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Visenya. Her hands rest lightly on her lap, fingers trembling just slightly as she resists the urge to reach for Aegon.

Visenya, on the other hand, is still as stone. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes remain cold, unreadable. The eldest of you, always the embodiment of purpose, of resolve, watches Aegon closely but makes no move to comfort him. Her hands, wrapped around her knife and fork, remain steady, continuing her meal as though nothing had happened, though she chews slowly, her eyes calculating.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, though it is barely more than a whisper. "She hates me."

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. Aegon’s grip tightens around the goblet, and one can see the whiteness of his knuckles as though the tension might shatter the cup. His head is bowed, and for the first time, he looks… lost.

"She does not hate you," Rhaenys says softly, her voice thick with sympathy. "She’s angry. Hurt. But hate?" She shakes her head, her dark curls catching the firelight. "That is not what this is."

Aegon’s lips twitch, a bitter smile flickering at the corners. "She does not love me, Rhaenys. And she never will."

Visenya’s voice is sharp, cutting through the fragile moment like the edge of a blade. "Love is not why she was wed to you, brother. Love was never the purpose." She sets her knife and fork down deliberately, the clink of metal against the plate unnervingly calm in the face of Aegon’s turmoil. "You knew that."

Aegon’s head lifts, his eyes wet and shining with unspoken emotions. He looks at Visenya, his usually hard gaze pleading now, searching her face for some kind of answer. "But I wanted it," he says, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I wanted her to love me, as she would have loved Stark. Is that so wrong?"

Visenya’s expression doesn’t change. Her voice remains cold, unwavering. "You are her brother, her king. You were never meant to be her lover in the way you want."

Rhaenys, sensing the deepening wound, reaches across the table, her hand hovering just above Aegon’s arm. "She’s young still, Aegon," she says softly, her voice filled with her usual warmth. "She has not yet come to terms with her place. In time, perhaps…"

Aegon pulls away from her touch, his hand falling from the goblet to rest heavily on the table. "No," he mutters, shaking his head. "She will never come to terms with this. She will always look at me as if I am the one who destroyed her life." His voice breaks slightly, and he presses his palms into his eyes, as though trying to hold himself together, to keep the pain from spilling out.

"Then stop chasing her love," Visenya says, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Do your duty. Take her to your bed, sire her children, and end this farce of a romance you have created in your mind."

Aegon’s hands drop from his face, and he looks at her, stunned. "Is that all you see in this? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes meet his, cold and unwavering. "That is all there ever was for us."

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Aegon turns his gaze to the fire, his shoulders sagging even further under the weight of Visenya’s words. The great conqueror, the king who united the Seven Kingdoms, is reduced to this—a man who sought love from someone who could not give it.

Rhaenys, her heart breaking at the sight of her brother in such despair, shifts in her seat, but she knows that no words of hers will soothe him now. Aegon has always carried the burden of their dynasty alone, but tonight, it has grown too heavy, even for him.

"You have us," Rhaenys says quietly, though her voice trembles with emotion. "You will always have us, Aegon."

But Aegon does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on the flames, and for the first time in your life, you see him not as the Conqueror, not as the dragon lord who tamed the world, but as a man—lost and alone in a castle full of people who love him, yet none who can give him what he truly desires.

And so the meal continues in silence, the clatter of cutlery and the crackling fire the only sounds in the hall. The untouched plates before you all bear witness to the shattered remnants of your family’s fragile bonds, while outside, the wind and the sea howl against the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

The sea winds howl outside your chambers, the sound haunting and relentless, like the cry of some distant, wounded beast. You sit by the open window, gazing out into the dark night, the vast ocean stretching far beyond the horizon, endless and full of promise. Your mind wanders to Tesaerix, resting in her lair below. You imagine her golden and cream scales shimmering in the moonlight, the crimson undertones beneath them gleaming like freshly spilled blood. She is your escape, your one chance at freedom.

You toy with the thought, turning it over and over in your mind—leaving this place. Far from Dragonstone, from Westeros, from the suffocating weight of duty and broken promises. Essos calls to you like a whisper on the wind, a distant land where dragons are still revered and feared, where you could carve out a life for yourself far from Aegon’s reach. You could mount Tesaerix tonight, ride her across the Narrow Sea and never look back.

The idea pulls at you, tempting you more with every passing moment. To be free of this cursed marriage, free of the bitter silence and the constant reminders of what you’ve lost. But it’s not just the present that haunts you—it’s the past, the memories of a love that was torn from you before it had the chance to bloom.

Your mind drifts back to Torrhen Stark, the man you were meant to marry. The King in the North, a man of honor and quiet strength, so different from the fire and chaos of your family. You think of the first time you met him, after he had bent the knee to Aegon. He had refused to take you as a war prize, refused to make you his by conquest, despite the whispers of your brothers. He had chosen to see you as something more, as someone worth knowing, worth loving.

You remember the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, the way his gruff voice had gentled whenever he spoke your name. It had been a brief time, but intense—your feelings for him had grown quickly, like a wildfire racing through a dry forest. You’d fallen in love with him, hard and fast, and he with you. It was supposed to be an alliance not only of fire and ice, but of hearts.

You can still hear his deep, steady voice, promising you a future in the North. A future where you would be his only wife, where you would bear his children, where you could have the kind of life you dreamed of—one filled with love, respect, and loyalty. It had seemed perfect, a rare gift for someone of your blood, born into a family where duty always outweighed desire.

But then Aegon had taken that from you. He had changed his mind as suddenly as a storm sweeping over the sea, without explanation, without reason. One moment, your future with Torrhen had been certain, and the next, it was gone. Aegon had called off the betrothal, declaring that you were to remain in Dragonstone and marry him instead.

Your world had shattered in that instant. The life you had planned with Torrhen, the love you had begun to build, all of it ripped away before it had the chance to take root. You had cried out, fought against it, pleaded with Aegon to reconsider, but his decision was final. The bond between fire and ice, the life you had dreamed of in the North, vanished like smoke in the wind.

The memory of Torrhen’s face, when you told him of Aegon’s decision, still haunts you. His features had hardened, the quiet grief in his eyes breaking your heart all over again. He had not blamed you; how could he, when you had been as much a victim of your brother’s jealousy as he had? But the pain in his silence had cut deeper than any words could have.

You wonder, sometimes, what might have been. What your life would be like now, had Aegon not interfered. You can imagine yourself standing beside Torrhen in Winterfell’s great hall, the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth, the cold winds of the North howling outside but unable to touch you. You would have had a home there. A real home, with Torrhen by your side, with the love you had begun to build blossoming into something strong and unbreakable.

But here, in this cold, dark castle, you are alone. You are Aegon’s wife, yes, but in name only. There is no love here, only duty, only the weight of expectations and a future you never wanted.

Your gaze shifts to the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The pull to leave is stronger now. You imagine the wind whipping through your hair as Tesaerix soars above the clouds, the world falling away beneath you as you fly far, far from here. Essos, the Free Cities, perhaps even beyond the Shadow Lands. Anywhere that is not here, anywhere that is far from the suffocating grip of your brother and the life he has forced upon you.

You stand, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you move toward the window. Tesaerix waits, her powerful wings and fiery breath ready to carry you to freedom. All it would take is a single command, a whispered word, and you could be gone. You could leave this place behind, leave Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys and the weight of their expectations, and start a new life far from the shadow of the Iron Throne.

But then Torrhen’s face flashes in your mind again, and you falter. The North is lost to you, but would running away truly be any better? Would it bring you the peace you crave, or would it only leave you even more adrift, without even the faint hope of reclaiming what was taken from you?

Your hand rests on the stone window ledge, cold and hard beneath your palm. The choice stands before you, vast and open like the sea. Stay and endure, or fly away and risk everything for the chance at a new beginning.

For now, you remain. The wind howls, but the decision is not yet made.

For two weeks, Aegon comes to your chambers each night, his steps soft but purposeful as he approaches the door. You always hear him before he arrives, the distant echo of boots on stone corridors signaling yet another attempt. Every time, he brings something—a token of affection, as if material offerings could mend the chasm between you.

At first, it is fine silk from distant lands, robes embroidered with dragons and flames, the kind of luxury that would make others swoon. Then, he brings rare books, scrolls of knowledge written in the ancient Valyrian tongue, words meant to remind you of your shared heritage. One night, he brings a necklace of rubies, its deep red glistening like dragonfire in the low light. The next, a golden ring with the Targaryen sigil engraved on it, a symbol of the dynasty you are bound to by blood and duty.

Each gift you receive with a polite, distant nod, setting them aside, your heart unmoved. The weight of his gaze is always upon you, a mixture of hope and frustration lingering in his violet eyes. His words are softer now than they were in the beginning, his anger quelled, replaced by a quiet desperation. He is trying to win you, but the harder he tries, the more distant you feel.

The final gift he brings is a crown—delicate, finely crafted, with jewels of crimson and gold embedded in the pale metal. It is beautiful, a queen's crown, meant to match his. When he places it on your lap, he watches you with an intensity that makes the air thick between you, waiting for something—for approval, for gratitude, for love.

But you only stare at it, unmoving.

"This is yours," he says, his voice almost pleading now. "You are a queen in your own right, Y/N. Not just my sister, but my equal. You deserve this."

Your fingers brush the cold metal of the crown, but it feels like chains, not a symbol of power. You lift your gaze to meet his, your voice steady but firm. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon."

The hurt flickers in his eyes, but you have nothing left to give him. He leaves, the crown sitting abandoned on the edge of your bed, gleaming in the dim light as if mocking you.

One day, his words change.

Aegon enters your chambers, but there is a new tension in the way he moves, a sense of finality in the air. He doesn't bring a gift this time, only the weight of a decision made. You watch him, already knowing something is different.

“We leave for King’s Landing soon," he says, his voice more formal than it has been in weeks. "Aegonfort is ready for us. It will be our new home, where we will build the future of our house."

You feel the words like a cold wind sweeping over you. Aegonfort, the seat of his conquest, the beginning of the new kingdom he is carving out. The idea of leaving Dragonstone—leaving the sea, the cliffs, the only place you’ve ever truly known—sends a chill down your spine. Aegon might see King’s Landing as his victory, but for you, it feels like another cage.

"I don’t want to go," you say, your voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Aegon pauses, as if he didn’t hear you properly, as if he can’t comprehend that you would refuse. “You have to go,” he says slowly, as though speaking to a child. "You are my wife, my queen. You belong at my side."

You rise from where you’ve been sitting, facing him fully, your heart racing with the surge of rebellion that has been growing inside you for weeks. "I belong here," you say, gesturing to the stone walls, to the island that has been your sanctuary, even in the darkest times. "I do not want to go to King’s Landing, to sit in that castle you built, watching you and Visenya and Rhaenys pretend that everything is perfect."

He steps toward you, his face tightening, a flash of anger returning to his features. "You think you can remain here, alone, while the rest of us build our kingdom? This is not a choice, Y/N. You are my wife."

"I never wanted to be," you snap, the words finally breaking free from your lips, bitter and sharp. "You made me your wife, but you never asked me what I wanted. You took me from the future I could have had, from Torrhen—"

"Stark, again? Torrhen is not your future," Aegon interrupts, his voice hardening now. "I am."

"You stole my future, Aegon," you retort, your voice trembling with the weight of your grief. "You took away the one thing I had, and now you expect me to be grateful for this life you’ve forced upon me? You expect me to follow you to your new castle and wear this crown and play the role of your queen?"

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches between you, tense and suffocating. Then, slowly, he steps back, his eyes dark with something you can’t name—anger, yes, but there’s more. Regret? Hurt?

“You will come,” he says finally, his voice low and rough, almost a whisper. “Whether you wish it or not, Y/N. You will come with us.”

You turn away from him, your back to the man who has taken everything from you. You hear him leave the room, his footsteps heavy and final, but the emptiness he leaves behind feels like the deepest cut of all.

You are alone once more, staring out the window at the distant sea. Tesaerix calls to you from the depths of your soul, her distant roars echoing in your mind. The thought of running away comes back to you, stronger now than ever. But for now, you remain, standing at the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

The sun is high in the sky as you and your siblings take flight, the winds rushing past as your dragons soar over the shimmering sea. Below, the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone grow smaller with every wingbeat. Tesaerix flies gracefully beneath you, her golden and cream scales glinting in the sunlight, the deep crimson undertones flickering like blood in the wind. For a moment, you feel weightless—free. The burden of your marriage, of your crown, seems far away in the skies.

Ahead of you, Aegon leads the way on Balerion, the massive black dragon casting a long shadow over the sea. Rhaenys is beside him, her Meraxes keeping pace, and to your left flies Visenya, Vhagar’s powerful wings slicing through the air. The three of them are focused on King's Landing, their eyes set on the growing kingdom they are about to build. But your heart is elsewhere.

You glance down at the sea, endless and blue, stretching toward Essos. The temptation has been gnawing at you for weeks, the thought of breaking away, of flying far from here. Away from Aegon, from the fate that has been thrust upon you. The wind rushes through your hair as you tighten your grip on Tesaerix’s reins, your mind made up.

With a subtle shift in pressure, you command her to turn, pulling away from the formation. Tesaerix tilts her wings, veering off course, away from King’s Landing, away from your brother. Your heart races, a mix of fear and exhilaration filling your veins as you set your sights on the horizon, where the lands of Essos lie in the distance, beyond the reach of Aegon’s grasp.

Behind you, Aegon’s voice rises above the wind, calling your name, desperate and commanding. “Y/N! Turn back!”

But you don’t. You don’t even glance behind you. The sound of his voice fades as you fly farther, the space between you growing wider with every passing second. Tesaerix roars beneath you, as if sensing your resolve, her powerful wings beating faster as she surges toward freedom.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel alive. The weight of duty, of marriage, of everything that has kept you chained to this life begins to slip away, carried off by the wind. The open skies of Essos call to you like a promise, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you believe you might make it.

Then you hear the deep, thunderous roar of Vhagar.

Visenya.

You glance over your shoulder, and there she is—Visenya, fierce and relentless, closing the distance between you with terrifying speed. Vhagar, far larger than Tesaerix, cuts through the air with powerful, determined strokes. Visenya’s face is set in cold determination, her eyes locked on you with the same intensity she wears in battle.

“Y/N, stop!” she commands, her voice cold as steel, cutting through the wind like a blade. Vhagar roars again, a sound so deep and menacing it sends a shiver down your spine. But you do not stop. You push Tesaerix harder, willing her to fly faster, to escape the inevitable.

But Visenya is not one to be outrun.

Vhagar catches up, pulling alongside you with terrifying ease, her massive bulk dwarfing Tesaerix. Visenya leans forward in her saddle, her voice filled with authority. “Turn back, Y/N! Now!”

Your jaw clenches, your heart pounding in your chest. You meet her gaze for a moment, the defiance in your eyes clear. But Visenya does not waver. Her eyes are cold, unforgiving, and in that moment, you know she will force you back if she has to. She will not let you leave.

The wind whips around you as you pull Tesaerix to slow her flight, the moment of freedom slipping away from you as Vhagar looms beside you, a reminder of the chains that bind you. Visenya’s gaze does not leave yours, and she waits—waits for you to surrender, to accept the inevitable.

With a heavy heart, you tug on the reins, guiding Tesaerix back toward King’s Landing. The dream of escape fades into the distance as you turn, the pull of duty dragging you back toward the life you never wanted. Visenya does not speak again, but her presence is a silent command that you dare not disobey.

As you fly back toward Aegon and Rhaenys, the open skies of Essos behind you, the taste of freedom lingers on your tongue like ashes.

The moment Tesaerix touches the ground, the reality of your failed escape crashes down upon you like a wave. Her powerful wings fold at her sides, but there is no pride in her stance now—only the stillness of submission, forced upon you both by Visenya and Vhagar’s dominance.

You barely have time to catch your breath when Balerion descends, the great shadow of the Black Dread falling over you. His monstrous bulk blocks Tesaerix’s path back to the skies, his massive wings spread wide like an impenetrable wall. Aegon sits atop him, his expression dark, stormy, and unreadable. Rhaenys and Meraxes circle high above, silent witnesses to your humiliation.

The ground trembles as Balerion lands, his roar a deep, earth-shaking sound that makes the ground beneath your feet vibrate. You can feel Tesaerix shifting beneath you, uneasy but still under your control—for now. But even she can sense the finality of what is about to happen.

Aegon swings down from Balerion’s saddle, his steps heavy as he approaches you. His face, usually so composed, is a mix of anger and something close to disbelief. When he speaks, his voice is low, cold. "You would abandon us. Abandon me."

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat like a hammer against stone. "Aegon, I—"

"You fled from your duty, Y/N," he interrupts, his voice growing harsher. His violet eyes bore into you, as if he’s searching for some understanding of why you would run. "What were you thinking? Were you going to Essos? Were you going to leave us all behind?"

His words cut deep, the sharpness of his accusation stinging more than you expected. But you lift your chin, defiance still burning in your chest. "You took everything from me, Aegon. You took my future, my choice, my life. I wanted to escape—to find something that was mine."

For a moment, his expression softens, as though he might understand. But then, his gaze hardens again. He turns to the soldiers who have gathered nearby, his voice carrying a command that makes your blood run cold. "Chain her dragon."

You feel the words like a physical blow. "No." Your voice is a whisper at first, and then louder, desperation filling it. "No! Aegon, you can’t—please, don’t do this!"

But he does not waver. The soldiers begin to move toward Tesaerix, and she growls low in her throat, sensing the threat. You scramble down from the saddle, running to stand between the men and your dragon, your heart pounding in your chest. "She’s done nothing wrong! You can’t punish her for what I did!"

Aegon’s face is hard, his jaw set. "She’s your dragon, Y/N. You tried to flee on her back. This is to ensure it doesn’t happen again."

"I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t chain her," you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. You look into his eyes, hoping—praying—that somewhere inside him, the brother you once knew still exists. "Please, Aegon. Don’t take her freedom. She’s not like Balerion or Vhagar—she’s mine. Please."

But your pleas fall on deaf ears. His gaze flickers, but his resolve does not falter. "This is for your own good. You will not leave us again."

You watch in horror as the chains are brought forth, heavy iron links meant to bind Tesaerix’s limbs and wings. She lets out a deep, angry roar, thrashing against the soldiers who dare approach her, but they move swiftly, well-practiced in subduing dragons. The weight of the chains soon drags her wings down, grounding her in a way that feels like a betrayal to everything she is—a creature of the skies, bound to the earth like a prisoner.

You fall to your knees, tears streaming down your face as you reach out to touch her, your hand trembling as it presses against her warm scales. "I’m sorry," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I’m so sorry."

Tesaerix rumbles softly, her eyes meeting yours, but there is a sadness in her gaze, a reflection of the helplessness you both feel.

Aegon watches from a distance, his expression unreadable now, but you can see the faint trace of guilt in his eyes. He turns his back to you, as if unable to bear the sight of your anguish.

Visenya remains mounted on Vhagar, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She offers no comfort, no sympathy. This is what must be done in her eyes, a necessary lesson in control. Rhaenys, still observing from above, does not intervene either. Her silence speaks volumes, but her presence feels distant, like she is struggling with the sight of your suffering.

The chains rattle as they secure the last link, the sound like a death knell in the still air. Tesaerix lowers her head, defeated, and your heart shatters along with her spirit.

You rise slowly to your feet, wiping the tears from your face with trembling hands, your eyes hollow as you look at Aegon one last time. "You’ve broken her," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Just as you’ve broken me."

Aegon does not respond. He does not even turn. And in that moment, you know that the brother you once loved, the brother who might have understood your heart, is gone—replaced by the conqueror who cannot allow defiance, not even from his own blood.

[ilynpilled]

Bran

He was clinging to a tower miles high, and his fingers were slipping, nails scrabbling at the stone, his legs dragging him down, stupid useless dead legs. "Help me!" he cried. A golden man appeared in the sky above him and pulled him up. "The things I do for love," he murmured softly as he tossed him out kicking into empty air.

He thought of the golden man and the three-eyed crow, remembered the crunch of bones between his jaws and the coppery taste of blood. "I don't have dreams. Maester Luwin gives me sleeping draughts."

"Is that what scares you, the falling?" The falling, Bran thought, and the golden man, the queen's brother, he scares me too, but mostly the falling. He did not say it, though. How could he? He had not been able to tell Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin, and he could not tell the Reeds either. If he didn't talk about it, maybe he would forget. He had never wanted to remember. It might not even be a true remembering. "Do you fall every night, Bran?"

Jaime

Jaime curled up beneath his cloak, hoping to dream of Cersei. But when he closed his eyes, it was Aerys Targaryen he saw, pacing alone in his throne room, picking at his scabbed and bleeding hands. The fool was always cutting himself on the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne.

In his dreams the dead came burning, gowned in swirling green flames. Jaime danced around them with a golden sword, but for every one he struck down two more arose to take his place.

Jaime saw green flames reaching up into the sky higher than the tallest towers, as burning men screamed in the streets. I have dreamed this dream before. It was almost funny, but there was no one to share the joke.

Bran

He was so skinny, just skin stretched taut over bones. Had he always been so thin? He tried to remember. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining with light, golden. "The things I do for love, " it said. Bran screamed. The crow took to the air, cawing. Not that, it shrieked at him. Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away. It landed on Bran's shoulder, and pecked at him, and the shining golden face was gone.

Jaime

"You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop being you,"

"the steel of his breastplate turned cherry-red before the end, and his gold melted off his spurs and dripped down into the fire. I stood at the foot of the Iron Throne in my white armor and white cloak, filling my head with thoughts of Cersei"

"let them have the meat, and you go far away."

Yet he heard himself whisper, "Let them do it, and go away inside."

"The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing... go away inside."

Jaime lost himself in her flesh. […] The pale marble was smeared with blood. Jaime wiped it clean with his sleeve, then bent to pick up the candles he had knocked over. Fortunately they had all gone out when they fell. If the sept had caught fire I might never have noticed.

Bran

Bran was going to be a knight himself someday, one of the Kingsguard. Old Nan said they were the finest swords in all the realm. There were only seven of them, and they wore white armor and had no wives or children, but lived only to serve the king. Bran knew all the stories. Their names were like music to him.

Bran nodded, trying not to let his fear show. He had not been outside Winterfell since his fall, but he was determined to ride out as proud as any knight.

Broken, Bran thought bitterly as he clutched his knife. Is that what he was now? Bran the Broken? "I don't want to be broken," he whispered fiercely to Maester Luwin, who'd been seated to his right. "I want to be a knight."

And he would never walk, nor fly, nor be a knight.

Jaime

And me, that boy I was...when did he die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys's throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead.

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Players Wanted:

House Martell ❂❂❂ Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken

House Martell of Sunspear, the ruling family of Dorne, exemplifies the fierce independence, pride, and resourcefulness that define the Dornish spirit. Unlike the rest of Westeros, House Martell embraces equality between men and women, ensuring that their principled belief in freedom and resilience is reflected throughout their ranks. Their words, "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," serve as both a rallying cry and a reminder of their refusal to be conquered or diminished. In their golden spear piercing a red sun lies a symbol of their authority and unyielding tenacity. Skilled diplomats as well as warriors, the Martells navigate the complex politics of Westeros with wit and subtlety, ever-mindful of their fierce loyalty to their people and their land. Though whispers speak of long-buried feuds and hidden ambitions, House Martell’s strength lies in their unity and adaptability, as they balance peace and conflict with a steady hand on Dorne’s neck.

A Song of Golden Fire and Black Blood is especially seeking the closest younger sister of the Ruling-Princess Aliandra, Princess Coryanne Martell, as well as their mother and the former-Regent now Dowager-Princess of House Martell, Lady Loreza Dayne, and her good-brother, the younger brother of the late-Prince Qoren, Prince Edric Martell.

Learn more about House Martell HERE, send us a raven with any questions and when you're ready to apply, join our Discord to chat with our players who want to see more from House Martell, and reach out to our only active member of their house so far, the Ruling-Princess Aliandra Martell (Rust!) at @theprincessofd0rne

home — navigate — wanted — discord — apply — directory — faq

[ride-thedragon]

At this point I think as a fandom, we've lost some of the crackship charm we once had. I can look up Ashara Dayne and Ser Davos and find results, But Nettles and Helaena have nothing. It's time to rectify that for my favourite girl and try to inspire some fanfics. Feel free to add more.

1. Daeron and Nettles

Think Enemies to Lovers, Captive of War drama like Jaime and Brienne or just some good old Gwen and Arthur-inspired love. Ivy by Taylor Swift coded, a She's all that inspired affair. I genuinely think that he's just trying to be there for her with this one. It happens and neither of them realise until You're in Love starts playing.

2. Baela and Nettles.

They would give the pot calling the kettle black in every argument. The Princess Bride-esque dynamic between them. Very Graham and Megan from but I'm a Cheerleader. Sapphic Pinning and Resentment should be its own genre. Sir Chloe's Michelle is my vision. We can even make a throuple with them and Jace or Alyn. Truly, I think they but heads until they kiss, building on resentment. I also think they would be the coolest couple.

3. Addam and Nettles

Kaz and Inej core.

But in all seriousness, I think Addam being loyal and Duty bound and Nettles challenging that idea is delicious. Solider of Duty x Solider for the People. A modern-day Persuasion story but gender-flipped if we put our minds to it. See you Again Kali Uchis and Tyler the Creator, that's all.

4. Nettles and Helaena

They just deserve better. That's all. Give me cottagecore sapphic romance with my best girls involves. Like the young lesbians from Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Lesbians raising kids together. Sheepstealer and Dreamfyre hatching eggs for the nieces and nephews. I just-

It would be so cool, I will by Mitski sentiment is already attached.

5. Alyn and Nettles

Now that we are here obviously she apologized for Sheepstealer, she doesn't need to but she did, He tries not to like her but can't help it. She wins him over and they hatch him an egg or something idk. Think The Princess Diaries: Royal Engagement, Mia and Nicholas, Flipped the movie if you will. Jealously plots would slay. For the song choice think Shameless Camila Cabello. Please remember that Alyn is younger than Netty by 3/4 years though.

6. Rhaena and Nettles

See now this is classic Friends to Lovers, Emma and Harriet if gay, perhaps, Bend it Like Beckham core definitely. Sofia by Clario inspired. Nettles doesn't leave Rhaena out because she's without a dragon and the same happens inverse. Sapphic confusion however, like Rhaena doesn't understand at first why she feels that way.

7. Nettles and Jace.

Now for the Mr Knightley and Emma Woodhouse of our time, the Kate and Anthony of Westeros. The potential for her just not listening to him when he tries to tell her how to ride a dragon. Or when she talks to him about the people he'll rule over eventually, Ygritte and Jon style. She's also the only bastard who doesn't look Targaryen, he can relate to that a bit. I think she's Fierce and he's Stubborn. Ungodly Hour by Chloe x Halle for them.

8. Nettles and Alys.

The Fire Witches of Westeros. I think they will be perfect as a ship. American Horror Story-esque characters. The two Witches in the story are obviously my favourites. It would be Jennifer's Body meets, the craft meets, and Suspiria. Willow by Taylor Swift becomes them.

This one was also a bonus more or less.

Anyways I just need to start to get a baseline story for my girl by the time the show gives her to us. So we have a general sense of direction, I'm tired of the mischaracterization of my baby. She's smart, resourceful, Cunning, Fearless, and not entirely loyal. She also curses, enough for it to be a character trait. Please remember this for her, I'm tired. I also know that Daemon loved her but she's too much fun as a character to limit her to him romantically in all her fanfictions, it is an interesting narrative to explore while we don't have exact answers but he gets romantic ships with anyone. She deserves more.

[baashirdayne]

The Dornish War || The Valyrian War

Month 1: The Fall of Alicent

Week 1: Alicent dies in the infirmary, with Doran Uller playing a role in her death to prevent her from leaving the West. Her discovery sparks a series of covert actions.

Week 2: First Minister Baashir Dayne's brother impersonates him to maintain the facade of stability while Lord Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood sneak off to the Crownlands disguised as men of House Marbrand.

Month 2: Chaos in New Valyria and the Marches

Week 1: In New Valyria, chaos erupts as smoke and flames rise, igniting the pit. An explosion occurs, leading to crumbling walls and widespread panic, attributed to Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood. Simultaneously, the keep of Hayford is set ablaze by Lords Dastan Allyrion and Ryon Wyl, who have returned to Dorne with valuable secrets.

Week 2: The Wyl of Wyl returns from the Westerlands, where the fighting intensifies in the Dornish marches. He captures a Dondarrion lord as a hostage, signifying a shift in tactics with intentions to take more captives.

Week 3: Lord Deimos Velaryon also captures a Dayne brother in the Marches, escalating the situation further.

Month 3: Siege and Naval Conflicts

Week 1: Lord Wyl and Fowler manage to break the siege at Nightsong, discovering the young Caron lord dead, though the Caron line persists.

Week 2: The Summer Islanders provide ships to Dorne during their visit. These vessels are utilized to launch an attack on the Weeping Town, unaware that Lord Tarth has been guarding the seas.

Week 3: A naval confrontation ensues as Lord Tarth and forces from Houses Wylde and Swann push back against the Wyl men at sea and in the town.

Week 4: In the Marches, First Minister Baashir Dayne and Lord Armaan Yronwood find themselves engaged in a tough battle against the Unsullied, with both sides stalemated. A temporary lull occurs as Silverwing appears in the sky, prompting the Dornish to retreat underground and conduct night attacks.

Month 4: The Wrath of King Jaehaerys II

Week 1: King Jaehaerys II Targaryen dismounts his dragon, intending to join the fray himself. He rallies his troops, engaging in fierce combat with the Dornish fighters. As the battle intensifies, he signals his dragon to take to the skies for a brief respite, planning for her to fly away and rest before returning.

Week 2: However, as Jaehaerys II fights on the ground, the dragon is forced back into action. She swoops down, unleashing fiery destruction upon the Dornish lines, incinerating clusters of warriors. The Dornish forces are compelled to regroup to prevent the Unsullied from advancing too deeply into their territory.

Week 3: In a desperate countermeasure, a coalition forms among the Dornish leaders. Prince Ravi Martell, First Minister Baashir Dayne, and Lord Doran Uller each oversee the deployment of giant crossbows, known as Scorpions. These massive weapons are strategically positioned to target the dragon as she reigns fire from above.

Week 4: The tension reaches its peak as the battle rages on. As Jaehaerys II’s dragon soars above, the three leaders coordinate their efforts, launching a volley of bolts into the sky. The sound of the Scorpions firing echoes across the plains of Dorne, with each bolt seeking its mark as the Dornish forces hold their breath in anticipation.

Climactic Moment: Suddenly, one of the Scorpion bolts strikes true, finding its target. The dragon emits a deafening roar before plummeting from the sky, engulfed in flames and smoke. Chaos ensues on the battlefield as soldiers scramble in shock. It remains unclear whose bolt delivered the fatal blow—whether it was Prince Ravi's forces, Baashir Dayne's, or Doran Uller's—that finally brought down the beast.

Aftermath: The death of the dragon shifts the tides of battle. Dornish fighters, now emboldened by their victory, push back against the Unsullied, reclaiming lost ground. The atmosphere is charged with a mixture of triumph and sorrow as the Dornish forces honor their fallen while preparing for the challenges that lie ahead, knowing the conflict is far from over.

[ Note: All muses in Dorne and New Valyria (Males Only for New Valyria) can take part in the fighting happening in the various locations in the Dornish marches. This is a timeline for about three months in the time after leaving the West. A post of plotting and planning from the New Valyria side ]

[steelfyre]

࣪𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         melisa asli pamuk,  33,  cis woman,  she / her.    announcing  the  arrival  of  alara  of  house  dayne,  the  heiress of starfall.  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  fierce  and  vindictive  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  archery.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  the  light  of  the  full  moon  illuminating  an  oasis  where  huntress  waits  with  a  silver  bow  held  in  steady  hands  ,  its  arrow  ready  to  strike  ;  a  change  in  the  winds  carrying  the  promise  of  divine  reckoning.  she  does  not  tremble  but  smiles  ;  galloping  across  the  desert  on  a  white  stallion  ,  you  were  never  made  for  ivory  towers  and  needed  no  knight  to  save  you  ;  a  beauty  more  wild  than  serene  ,  more  sharp  than  gentle  -  something  mythical  lingered  within  mortal  flesh  ,  waiting  ,  raging.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  dorne.

basic information.

official name: alara dayne. nickname: none. noble title: heiress of starfall , lady of starfall. date of birth: march 24. age: thirty-three. birthplace: starfall , dorne. home: starfall. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. orientation: bisexual , biromantic. monikers: starmaiden , lady starfire / starfyre , the star of dorne. languages: the common tongue , fluent. familiar with some essosi dialect. accent: a traditionally dornish accent spoken in a steady , gentle tone infused with warmth.

physical information.

faceclaim: melisa asli pamuk. ethnicity: rhoynar. hair: brown with soft gold highlights. eyes: golden brown. height: five feet , ten inches. build: taller than most women of westeros with a hunter's build, lean, not bulky, muscles visible, particularly in her arms, but not detracting from the lady's elegance. dominant hand: ambidextrous. allergies: none. scars: none. distinguishing features: her height and the birthmark above her lips. clothing style: traditional dornish style regardless of where she currently resides. favors loose and light dresses in warm shades on normal days but oft chooses more revealing outfits when attending events. can also be spotted in pants and shirts when training, horseback riding, or hunting. the jewelry she wears is not excessive, normally limited to a necklace and bracelets. she also has a pair of favorite hairpins that double at daggers in case danger unexpectedly arises.

personality.

positive: fierce ,  resilient ,  dauntless , charming ,  protective , forthright. negative: vindictive ,  prideful ,  headstrong , mistrustful , obstinate , temperamental. label: the huntress , the tempest. mbti: entj - the commander. enneagram: 8w7 , the maverick. element: fire. star sign: aries. temperament: choleric. moral alignment: chaotic good. deadly sin: pride , wrath. heavenly virtue : diligence. godly parent: artemis.

drives.

hobbies: archery , horseback riding , hunting , stargazing. religion: very loosely follows the faith of the seven. alliance: house dayne , dorne. personal goals: to protect her son, particularly from the targaryens and anyone who might try using him as a pawn, and free dorne from the targaryen reign. would they choose family or power?: family.

family ties.

father: ruling lord alvar dayne. relationship: tba. mother: ruling lady thalina dayne. relationship: tba. sibling: lord/lady/liege utp dayne. relationship: tba. sister: lady laina dayne. relationship: tba. son: davios sand. relationship: tba. third cousins: house dayne of high hermtiage. relationship: tba.

history.

the darling heiress was never the image of the perfect lady, headstrong and adventurous from a young age, but those of starfall never minded. her parents encouraged her to pursue her interests, teaching her how to ride horses the same time she learned to walk and gifting her a bow and arrow when alara gravitated toward that skill. the responsibilities of heir wasn't nonexistent - she was still expected to attend more traditional lessons, but a balance between freedom and expectations was found. a relief for the lady alara's temper was also observed from a young age after a particularly loud squabble with the septa, who was then quickly replaced, trying to instruct her.

lady thalina, after not having children with her first husband despite trying, adored her daughter, and alara admired her mother in turn. in her youth, wherever the ruling lady went, the heiress often followed. her mother's shadow. her mother's apprentice. though alara wasn't a silent shadow; there were many times that she would voice her opinion during meetings or if she felt her mother was being disrespected, wouldn't hesitate to say so. as alara grew older and was able to travel more, her presence at her mother's side decreased but all it would take was a raven to call the heiress back home, which her mother occasionally did when she wished for her daughter's assistance or perspective and letters wouldn't do.

while she loved starfall, alara felt the pull to see the world beyond. first it was dorne that she explored from the red mountains in the west until she reached sunspear on the eastern coast. but the world stretched beyond her beloved desert so alara continued on, venturing north into westeros and then eventually across the narrow sea. her travels were splintered across the years. she could never be away from home for too long and did not wish to be either.

places where the dragons frequented were often avoided whenever possible. living under targaryen rule had forever been distasteful, and she hoped that within her lifetime, dorne would be free of their beastly overlords. however, a chance encounter with the crown prince and a night shared left alara pregnant. alara did not expect marriage ( could think of no worse fate ) but she hadn't expected that the prince would refuse to acknowledge his son's existence. rage, empowered by motherhood, burned hotter. she remained in dorne since learning she was pregnant, which caused some whispers as she'd become a commonly seen figure in society, and after giving birth to her son, a boy with lilac eyes but, thankfully, medium brown hair. her appearance at the royal wedding was the first time she attended court since she fell pregnant. and whispers now spread like wildfire.

important: while muses can, and likely do, suspect that davios is the prince of dragonstone's son, the only muses who know of his parentage for certain are the dayne family ( and possibly some royal targaryens / council members if they're in the know ) as alara has kept it a secret from everyone else.

headcanons

an excellent horsewoman. alara has pretty much taken over the stables at starfall where she raises her horses. she often goes riding at least once and can grow very restless when her duties or court prevent her from venturing outside a keep's walls. her prized horse is a white mare named dune.

while she does know how to fight with a sword, she does greatly prefer a bow and arrow. she's an extremely skilled archer, both in a fight and when hunting, and can maintain her accuracy when shooting from horseback.

always carries at least one dagger with her, normally strapped to her thigh and hidden from sight.

so, so prideful. she will not forget a slight and is very hesitant to forgive. forgive and forget? no, resent and remember.

is capable of adapting to court and being extremely charming when she wants to be. but her patience for courtly etiquette is limited, though it has grown as she has gotten older. holding her tongue is difficult but she knows she must do it for her family's and dorne's sake. however, she has had a few incidents over the years where a noble has pushed her past her limits and she has snapped at them.

well known for her beauty, which has resulted in her having a handful of flings over the years.

she's still very close to her mother and will go to her when she needs advice. they often discuss matters together, ruling starfall as a team in preparation for the day that alara will be ruling lady.

alara has no desire to put her son on the throne. in fact, she doesn't want the targaryens anywhere near her son. had they actually acknowledged davios when he was born, she might feel differently but now she is steadfast in keeping them away from davios. he is only a dayne in her eyes and once dorne gains there independence, she would want to legitimize him as a dayne.

that being said, alara does believe her son has every right to a dragon egg and does want to see him have a dragon of his own - one that would protect dorne.

wanted connections. | established connections.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

From the Ashes Pt.17

Pairing(s): Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, one-sided!Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Cersei Lannister

Warnings: slow burn fic, changing povs, Selmy & Tyrion POV

Words: 2262

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 3.5  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 16 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42

Book Two of Dārilaros hen ōrbar se perzys (Heir of Ash and Fire)

Lady Ashara Dayne was as beautiful as the day Barristan had first met her. The most beautiful woman in the entire world, at least in his eyes. There was an undeniable flutter in his chest as his palms began to develop a film of sweat. And it wasn’t due to the Dornish heat. Even little Tyrion gazed at the mistress of Starfall with enchanted eyes. Their journey through the Red Mountains had been long and excruciating as the glare of the sun bore down on them. Only to be relieved when they neared the shores of the cooling Summer Sea.

Playful lilac eyes that reminded him of the Targaryens, Ashara welcomes them with open arms. “This is quite the surprise. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? I hope it doesn’t have to do with my brother.” Her smile falls. “Arthur is okay, right?”

Barristan purses his lips in uncertainty. “To be honest I do not know, my lady. I have heard no news on Rhaegar’s front.”

Concern filled her pretty face but she relented with a nod. “I see. Knowing Arthur I can only assume that he is doing okay. . .”

“He is one of the best knights in all of Westeros.” Tyrion happily points out.

“Ah, I see you have acquired yourself a young squire.” Ashara smiles down at Tyrion. Nothing on her face showed displeasure at the sight of the dwarf which surprised Tyrion.

“Yes. This is Vaiko Hill.”

“A strong name.” Her long dark hair falls over her shoulder like a silk curtain. It made Tyrion perk up and shyly blush.

“My lady, I’m afraid this visit isn’t one of leisure.” Solemnly, Barristan breaks the news of their mission and shows Ashara the chest they are to deliver to Essos.

She examines it, running her hands over the worn out wood and metal trim. “You have not mentioned to whom you would be delivering such an important package to. If it were for anyone normal surely you would have just left through Blackwater Bay, yes?”

Barristan became all too aware of Tyrion’s presence. “I have been given instructions not to say the recipient’s name. It’s a rather delicate situation.”

Ashara was smart. Much smarter than Barristan gave her credit for. “You must understand my hesitation to let you board one of my ships. You have still allied yourself to Aerys, the man my brother is trying to overthrow. What if this item is meant to destroy the efforts of Arthur and the rest of Rhaegar’s army? I can’t let that happen. My family comes first, Ser. I will not take part in my own brother’s undoing.” There was no need for a sword to make Ashara fierce. One of many reasons why Starfall was left in her care since her nephew Edric was too young to rule. When she wanted, she could emanate fear. It reminded Selmy of the young Cersei Lannister; lovely yet there was a terrifying aura about them.

It made Barristan swallow back the immediate nerves that had surfaced. “This matter has nothing to do with the war, I swear on it.”

His words do little to convince her as she stands her ground. “Then you won’t mind if I join your company to Essos.”

Gawking now, he stammers over several excuses. “My lady, I assure you-”

“Your assurance means little to me. Not when I know that you are still loyal to the Mad King.”

Tyrion squirmed beside his knight as he felt the storm of tension brewing over head. A fact that Tyrion had forgotten was that Selmy was indeed still loyal to the current crown. If the rumors he heard were true, then Aerys had a hand in (y/n)’s death. He felt the tips of his ears grow warm as anger settled in. The man he had been traveling with for weeks was in charge of protecting a monster. His sister was dead and Barristan was shielding the murderer. How could he have forgotten? Truth be told, Tyrion quite enjoyed traveling with the older knight. They got along fairly well and Tyrion was enthralled by the stories he told. Barristan was the father Tyrion never had. How could he continue to follow this man though when his liege possibly murdered his beloved sister? It would be a dishonor to her memory.

He couldn’t say any of that out loud. At least not in front of Ashara. He wasn’t Tyrion Lannister. He was a bastard with a name of a hero he had read about in a Valyrian story. Even though it pained him, Tyrion kept his mouth shut and glared down at his leather boots.

With a grimace and a reluctant sigh, Barristan agreed. She would find out sooner or later who he’d be traveling to. As would Tyrion.

Satisfied, the smile returns to Ashara’s face. “It’s settled then. We leave for Essos tomorrow morning. Oh! Both of you must have had quite a long journey. Lets get you some food and a comfortable bed.”

“How long will you be gone for?” Allyria asks her older sister. Young Edric Dayne had attached himself to Vaiko like a lost duckling. Vaiko didn’t seem to mind too much as he entertained the lordling with tales of his journey while his master washed up. The sisters watched them as they spoke quietly to one another.

A few of Starfall’s knights, when hearing Vaiko tell Edris how Selmy was teaching him the art of the blade, wanted to test the dwarf’s skills. Unafraid, he wielded a makeshift sword made of wood. He showed off the stances that Barristan the Great had showed him, earning a stare of admiration from Edric.

“I don’t know. A month possibly.”

That causes Allyria to groan. “Why did you have to insist on going?”

Ashara crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I am doing my part in protecting our brother. We can’t trust him if he still allies himself with Rhaegar’s enemy.” Then in a softer tone she adds “I don’t want to lose another brother, Allyria. I won’t be able to survive. . .”

Allyria’s heart melted and she wrapped her arms around her sister. “I know. Adriyan died too soon.”

Returning her sister’s embrace, Ashara sighs. “I can’t do much, but at least I can keep an eye on Aerys’ most trusted knight. Make sure that he truly won’t do anything that could make the war end in Aerys’ favor.”

She nods, lavender eyes cast to their clasped hands as Allyria ran her thumb over one of Ashara’s rings. A shiny opal in the shape of a multi-pointed star, the same one she had on her pinky. “It can be a dangerous journey.”

That didn’t deter Ashara as she lets go of Allyria’s hands. “The world can be a dangerous place. However, it can also be an exciting one filled with adventure.”

“At least try to be careful. I know you can be reckless at times.”

It makes her older sister laugh. “Of course. I intend on returning to Starfall. Make no mistake about that, Allyria.”

Returning to observing the two young boys, Allyria finds herself frowning. “Is that really Ser Selmy’s squire?”

“Vaiko? Yes.”

“Is he. . .”

Ashara already knew what her sister was thinking. “Yes. That doesn’t seem to stop him though. I quite admire little Vaiko. As far as I know, there has never been a dwarf squire let alone a knight. I’m eager to get to know him better.”

“I hope the boy prospers under Selmy’s tutelage.”

“If anyone can make Vaiko a true knight, it’s Barristan Selmy. The only other man who could possibly beat Arthur in a duel.”

A sly coil of a smile sneaks up on Allyria. “Oh? What about your northern lordling?”

She refuses to meet Allyria’s teasing grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Chin atop the back of her hand, Allyria knew she had cornered her. “I suppose you wouldn’t be interested then in Ned’s most recent act of bravery.”

Try as she may, Ashara couldn’t keep up the facade of disinterest. “I’m sure its an enthralling story.”

A handmaid shortly came in to announce that supper was ready.

Watching the dock hands load the cargo onto the ship, Ashara gazes at the horizon of the Summer Sea. Seagulls wailed above, pestering fish below as they dove into the blue water. A small layer of fog covered the dock in the early morning, bringing a slight chill to Ashara’s bare shoulders. Her intent gaze watched as Selmy carried the chest he had showed her. What was in there? From when she had examined it, there was no latch or even padlock.

An excited Tyrion follows close behind Barristan, the thumping his boots made against the wooden deck sent tremors in his chest. He had never been on a ship before. Whenever he did travel it was always by carriage, to keep him hidden from public view. The vast ocean ahead of him looked daunting at first. Deep breaths soothed any fear he had. Tyrion would prove to his father that he could do this.

A pat on his shoulder startles him and Tyrion quickly turns to find Barristan. Behind him, Ashara is making her way aboard with a few Starfall knights that would be accompanying her for safety.

“Are you sure it’ll be okay that Lady Dayne is accompanying us?”

Not liking the idea much either, Barristan sighs. “It shouldn’t make much of a difference. From here it will be a straight voyage to Volantis. She’s rightfully suspicious.”

The question was out of his mouth before Tyrion could reel it back in. “Why are you still in the Kingsguard?” Aerys is a bad man. Everyone knows how unstable he is.” Resentment was laced in there and looking at Tyrion’s cold eyes made Barristan feel uncomfortable. The real question was ‘why do you still protect my sister’s murderer?’

“I took the oath before Aerys became king. Under his father Jahaerys. A lifelong vow of loyalty. As long as I am alive, I am to defend and protect whoever sits on the Iron Throne. No matter what. . . To do otherwise would be treasonous.” He tried to explain to Tyrion, but even Selmy knew how pathetic it sounded. He resented himself for still serving Aerys, what could he do though? If he were to go back on his oath, Selmy would possibly be stripped of his knighthood; even executed.

“Your vow is more important than your morality.” Flatly claimed Tyrion.

Irked, he glares at the young boy. “What do you know of morality? You’re just a boy.”

“That may be so, but I know the difference between right and wrong.” Briefly he remembers Cersei’s voice talking quietly with another. Scheming and plotting. That is what Tyrion heard throughout Casterly Rock when he was left to his own devices. Supporting a man that killed innocent people on a whim was definitely wrong.

Before Selmy could even come up with a reply, Ashara interrupts them. “The captain says the weather bodes well for us. If the winds are kind we should be there in a week or two.”

Barristan stiffly nods. “Thank you, my lady. We couldn’t do this without you.” From the dock he could make out Allyria Dayne and the pale haired Edric who happily waved at the ship’s passengers. “Will Starfall be okay without you?”

“Do not worry about Starfall. It is in good hands.”

The yelling of the dockhands up to the crew alerts them that the ship is about to set sail. A childish sense of wonder seizes Tyrion as he watches the sailors hurriedly get to work. The hubbub of commands was enthralling as they stood off to the side.

“Is this your first time sailing, Vaiko?”

“Yes my lady.” His glittering eyes are still trained on the busy crew. The joy of a child was infectious as both Ashara and Barristan enjoyed gazing at Tyrion. Another painful reminder to the knight of the boy’s restricted upbringing. He was experiencing so much; things that anyone else at that age had already experienced.

“Why do you look sad?” Her question makes Selmy jump partially as he had been stuck in his own melancholy thoughts.

He tells the partial truth. “Before becoming my squire, Vaiko didn’t have a good life. His father resented him due to his dwarfism and hid him away from the world.”

Brows furrow looking at the happy boy now. “How terrible. Some people are so small minded, especially in Westeros.”

Not disagreeing with that statement, guilt starts to ebb at him; recalling how Tyrion had glared at him accusingly moments ago.

Sailing away from Starfall’s docks, it soon becomes but a small blur behind them. Now for the difficult part of their journey. Sitting and doing nothing for a week. It’ll at least give Tyrion a good opportunity to practice his sword play and maybe Selmy could teach him how to properly utilize that small knife of his as well. In a fight, a knife wasn’t completely useless, just tricky and possibly dangerous if one doesn’t know what they’re doing. The most important thing was adapting to Tyrion’s height and teaching him how to utilize it to his advantage. Barristan prided himself on his patience that helped greatly in figuring out a proper training lesson for Tyrion. He would not fail this boy like his father had. When they returned to Westeros, Tyrion would have everything he needed to survive on his own.

Taglist:

@boywivlove

@esposadomd

@domoron

@yentroucnagol

[theredpharaoah]

That’s the hard part; discerning what could be a metaphor vs what’s just a name or part of something else. The Orphans of The Greenblood and The Rhoynar don’t seem to play much of a role in the main story at any point in the series. Even during The Wroth and the Dornish Wars, The Martells are moreso Dornish than they are Rhoynar by then. Arianne even tells us in a chapter(when she’s talking to Myrcella) that while they’re all Rhoynar, the true Rhoynar are the Greenbloods. Furthermore, the Martells have historically persecuted the Greenbloods on various occasions. I don’t think we can say Nymeria burning their ships was really persecution, as they were still Rhoynar then and she did what she thought was best for her people. However, The Red Princes outlawing speaking Rhoynish was definitely persecution. And then The Martells married into House Targaryen three times over now and had planned a 4th: Arianne and Viserys or Quentyn and Daenerys. Regardless, all Targs have a Martell ancestor now anyway. Probably a couple considering Dyanna Dayne was married to Maekar I as well. A Dayne married Nymeria(her third husband I believe) and they’ve probably been marrying the Martells since. Going off of this, I think we can rule them out as being part of this “Green = bad” metaphor for House Targaryen.

The Green Grace of Meereen is interesting. She’s helpful to Dany but she’s also obviously not truly her supporter either. She says Dany is dead and that her dragons should die as well. A claim which makes no sense since they all saw her fly off on Drogon. She could - to me - possibly represent the envy of Ghis towards Valyria. The conceptualization of Ghis makes no sense to me. I think I might about this later since you have me thinking about it now. If I remember.

I don’t think that Rhaegal is necessarily a bad sign because of their color. I think that Dany’s dragons are all rebirths of the original 3, but only Drogon is lauded as such. We’re gonna go off on a bit of a tangent here.

Drogon’s scales are black slashed through with scarlet red. He has scarlet red wings and horns. His eyes are red as coals. His fire is black shot through with red. Balerion was all black(we don’t get an eye color) and his fire was sometimes shot through with red. Balerion was the largest and fiercest of the post-Doom Targaryen dragons. One person told me that he was regarded as the “King of The Dragons” I don’t remember if that’s an actual quote or not. But considering Drogon is the largest and most fierce of the currently known living dragons in the known world, I think it’s safe to say he’d be considered the current holder of that title.

Rhaegal is a green and bronze dragon. His dark scales and wings are jade-green, and his eyes are described as bronze. His dragonflame has been described as being yellow, red and yellow, and "orange-and-yellow fire shot through with veins of green". Vhagar was "bronze with greenish blue highlights and bright green eyes". But in the show, they went with Green. GRRM did advise on HOTD(though they don’t listen) and he never said anything about taking issue with Vhagar’s coloring. Rhaegal is also the second largest of Dany’s dragons and the most vicious after Drogon. Vhagar was the second largest dragon after Balerion in House Targaryen, as Meraxes died at an age almost 100 years younger than that of which Vhagar died at. She was also the most powerful and vicious after Balerion as well because of this.

The majority of Viserion's scales are cream, but his horns, wing bones and spinal crest are gold colored. His teeth are shining black daggers. His claws are black and sharp. His eyes are two pools of molten gold, and his flame is pale gold shot through with red and orange. Although his true color is cream, he is often referred to as "the white dragon". We know the least about Meraxes and get a very brief description: Meraxes had golden eyes and silver scales. Viserion and Meraxes have the same eye color and very similar scale color. Viserion’s “true color” is cream - to me - means that someone who can get close to Viserion would be able to tell his true color is cream. Dany and a few others are the only ones with this capability. Everyone else sees Viserion from afar and they view him as “white”. I’m betting that Viserion’s scales looks akin to a cream silk-satin dress going off the vivid and probably iridescent nature of dragon scales. He also looks very silvery-cream-white in most of the official and fan art. So I think he’s close enough to be considered a reincarnation of Meraxes. We don’t know anything about Meraxes’s temperament, but - tbh - I don’t think the dragons really have temperaments. At least not the way they’re described before Dany’s dragons who we see interactions with. The dragons before the Death of Dragons are described by others and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they are pretty much described as being identical to their riders. Or that almost every she-dragon is regarded as docile or more tolerant of humans(Bar Vhagar and Meleys) than the he-dragons. That being said, I think we can go off Rhaenys I’s character description to get a feel for how Meraxes was. Rhaenys was kindhearted, graceful, playful, curious, impulsive, and given to flights of fancy, with a mischievous aspect to her personality. I think Viserion shows some of these qualities as he’s the most personable of the three dragons.

Controversial take here; I don’t think anyone else is gonna ride Dany’s dragons. Dany isn’t just a Targaryen come again, she’s special even by Targaryen, and possibly High Valyrian, standards. Dany’s birth of the dragons is something we could assume hadn’t been done since the very early days of Valyria - if ever. As we don’t know of any instance of the dragons having died out before the current one. We’ve never seen a Targ hatch multiple dragons. We know that they seem to be able to make other dragons listen to them, but we don’t know if it’s as powerful as Dany’s bond. We know Rhaena fed her husband to Balerion(he would’ve known her already cuz she’s Aegon’s eldest granddaughter). We know Baelon smacked Balerion on the snout. I could’ve SWORN Viserra would play in the pit with the dragons and she made squires out their head in dragons’ mouths for a chance at her hand. Either she put the bet forward but the DK’s stopped it, or they actually did it and she was able to control the dragons to such a degree that they didn’t bite. We know Daemon led Vhagar back to Driftmark when Laena was pregnant too. But Dany’s the only one to birth three dragons and maintain a close bond with them all the way up to their juvenile age. Even when Quentyn goes down to try and tame Viserion - Viserion is looking for Dany. Usually when a Targ hatches an egg it bonds to that dragon. Dany hatched three eggs so maybe she’s bonded to all three. Her feeding them at her breast could be considered a form of blood magic in itself too. She might let others ride them, but I don’t think they’ll ever bond to anyone else. I think she’s bonded to all three. I don’t think Euron/ Victarion’s gonna get a dragon. Moqorro is a red priest sent to guide Dany. They worship Dany. The only one out of the loop is Melisandre. Quaithe warns Dany about him, but that could be just because he’s a fanatic and you don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t think he’s gonna help the krakens take a dragon. He might regard that as blasphemous even. I’m not even sure those horns work. It seems kind of stupid that the Valyrians would make those and give others the ability to use them or get around the kamikaze aspect. It’s even dumber that nobody managed to use one to steal a dragon during Valyria’s 5000 years of domination and oppression. If fAegon gets one, I feel like it would be the dragon’s act of rebellion. They’ll get to dancing above KL and then the dragon will just decide that the fun’s over and shrug fAegon off. Then the blue-haired idiot will realize he’d never truly bonded to it. That would be funny. But we don’t know until GRRM writes it so🤷🏾‍♀️.

Totally forgot about the Greenseers. I don’t think they’re against the Targs at all. Especially since the last Greenseer is a Targ(Brynden Rivers/Bloodraven). I think they’re just called the Greenseers because the magic of the Singers(Children of The Forest) is supposed to be Earth based.

There’s something to be said about House Targaryen and Green; Vhagar, The Greens, Wildfire. All spelled the downfall of the dynasty. And then the Trident. I could’ve sworn there was a quote about the green banks of the Trident. I know there’s the Green Fork, but I don’t know if that’s where Rhaegar died. I just know the Ruby Ford is what they call the place where he died. Anyways, I wonder if the color green and all these bad events was something done intentionally by GRRM.

[abd-illustrates]

Hey dude, I was just wondering, how much money are you getting from the sales of WEST? I'm assuming the site's obviously going to be taking a cut, so how much do you get from each one? Sorry if this's a weird Q I'm just real curious

As it stands I get around £7 per sale :D

(You’re indeed right, the site that hosts it takes a cut of each sale due to printing and manufacturing costs - which is fully fair of them as it would be impossible for me to handle printing, production and shipping on my own. I aimed to price it at a rate that would be fair on my end as the creator of the work but still be reasonable to you guys as the readers :D)

[little-voe]

Dan dude you're looking so great! (Not that you've not always been lookin' fly) IDK maybe it's the early affects of the T or just mental shift of finally being on it being shown through your posture IDK but you're looking hella good man!

Awh thanks so much, friend! I think I was just being a bit of a poser but your kind words always mean a lot!! I hope you’re having a great day! 💖

[novaursa]

Fire and Blood (reader's choice)

- Summary: For as long as Maegor could remember, you were denied to him by others. By his own father, by his half-brother, by the gods themselves. They saddled him off with a barren bride and locked you away on Dragonstone. And once Aenys died and Maegor has returned from exile to take the crown, he also takes you, as was his right. But before the wedding could happen, you disappear. You never arrive at the capital with your royal procession. And Maegor tears the realm apart.

- Paring: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The air was heavy with the heat of the afternoon sun, and the sky above King's Landing was an expanse of pale blue. The waters of Blackwater Bay sparkled under the light, and the wind carried the scent of salt and stone, mingling with the hum of the city behind. The Red Keep loomed in the background, a skeletal structure still rising from the hill, its walls unfinished, its towers yet to scrape the heavens as Maegor intended. The clatter of hammers and the creak of scaffolding were distant echoes, reminders of the power he was building, brick by brick.

But today, all of that faded into insignificance. Maegor Targaryen stood with his mother, Visenya, the only one who had ever stood by him. His bannermen, royal retainers, and lords stood at a respectful distance, their whispers nothing but gnats in his ears as he stared out at the empty horizon. You were supposed to arrive today, your royal procession expected any moment, the ships that carried you from Dragonstone cutting across the bay.

You. His bride. His blood. His right.

His gloved hands tightened around the pommel of Blackfyre, the ancient sword of his house, as his mind drifted, despite himself, back to all the times you had been denied to him.

His father, King Aegon the Conqueror, had made the first refusal. Maegor had been young then, but old enough to know what he wanted. You were young too, of course, but even then, Maegor saw the fire in your eyes, the way the blood of Old Valyria ran through you. You were his match in every way. He had stood before his father, demanding you be betrothed to him.

"It is not your place to demand, Maegor," Aegon had said, his voice calm, but his eyes cold. "Your brother's daughter is not for you. Aenys' children will be wed to strengthen the realm, not to satisfy your desires."

It was the first time Maegor had felt the sting of denial, but it would not be the last.

His half-brother, Aenys, had been no better. When he became king after Aegon’s death, Maegor thought surely now, with the crown on his brother’s head, he could finally claim what was his. You had grown by then, blooming into a woman with the beauty and strength of their ancestors. Maegor had approached Aenys, who sat upon the Iron Throne, looking every inch the weak ruler he was.

"You will not have her," Aenys had said, shaking his head. "She is promised elsewhere."

"To whom?" Maegor had demanded, his voice laced with barely contained rage. "Who could be more worthy of her than I, her blood and kin?"

"A match will be made in time, but not to you, brother," Aenys had answered, his tone patronizing. "I have other plans for her."

Other plans. The words still tasted bitter on Maegor’s tongue, as though they had been spoken only yesterday.

He had begged. Yes, even he, Maegor the Cruel, had begged. But only to one person. His mother, Visenya. The warrior queen, the woman who had conquered Westeros by Aegon’s side. The only person who had ever truly understood him.

"I will not be denied her," he had told Visenya, pacing the halls of Dragonstone in frustration. "Father, Aenys, the gods themselves conspire against me. They will not give her to me."

Visenya, regal and fierce, had looked at him with those sharp, violet eyes of hers, the eyes of a dragon, and she had smiled—a cold, knowing smile. "They fear you, my son," she had said. "They fear the strength of your blood. Aenys and his ilk think they can control you by keeping her from you, but they are fools. They do not see what I see."

"And what do you see, Mother?" Maegor had asked, desperate for the answer he knew only she could give.

"I see the future of our house," she had answered, stepping close to him, resting a hand on his armored shoulder. "And I see you at its head, with her at your side. The dragons of Old Valyria will rise again, Maegor. And no one—no one—will deny you what is yours."

Her words had kept him sane through the years of exile, through his marriage to Ceryse Hightower, a woman who had proven barren, and a marriage that had been nothing but a chain around his neck. All the while, he had thought of you. You, locked away on Dragonstone, hidden from him by his enemies, the gods, the world. But now, none of that mattered. Aenys was dead, the throne was his, and soon, you would be too.

And yet... the ships did not come.

The sun was sinking lower, casting ghastly shadows over the unfinished Red Keep, over the city of King's Landing, over the assembled lords and banners. Maegor’s patience was wearing thin, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface like wildfire ready to consume all in its path.

"They are late," he growled, his voice low, but his anger clear. "Where are they?"

Visenya stood beside him, silent and still as ever. Her presence was the only thing that soothed him, that kept him from mounting Balerion and flying to Dragonstone himself. But even her patience had its limits, and he could see the tightness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. She felt the delay, the insult, as keenly as he did.

"They will come," she said, though there was a note of uncertainty in her voice that Maegor did not like.

And what if they did not? What if something had happened? What if your brother, Aegon, or even that fool Rhaena, had interfered, whisked you away before you could reach him? The thought sent a surge of fury through him, and he gripped Blackfyre tighter, his knuckles turning white beneath his gloves.

"No one will keep her from me," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Not this time."

Visenya turned to him, her sharp gaze cutting through his anger. "If they try," she said, her voice cold and final, "then we will burn them all."

Maegor’s heart beat with the promise of fire and blood. They had all denied him for so long. His father. His brother. The gods themselves. But he was king now, and no one could deny the King of the Iron Throne.

You would be his, one way or another. The realm would tremble at his wrath if you were not.

But still, the horizon remained empty.

Maegor’s patience shattered like glass underfoot. The stillness of the harbor, the absence of the royal procession, and the delay that felt like a deliberate insult boiled within him until he could bear it no longer. His fury was a living thing, a fire in his chest that demanded release.

Without a word to anyone, Maegor turned sharply on his heel and stalked away from the gathered lords and his waiting bannermen. Visenya's gaze followed him, but she did not call him back. She knew what was coming, and she would not try to stop him. No one would.

He marched through the half-constructed Red Keep, past the workers who hastily moved out of his way, their eyes wide with fear at the sight of him. His blood thundered in his veins, his mind consumed by a singular thought: you. You were not here. Someone had kept you from him again, and he would have answers. One way or another, he would have answers.

Balerion waited for him, the great black beast shifting restlessly as though sensing the storm of rage within his rider. Maegor did not hesitate. He approached the dragon without a word, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he climbed onto Balerion’s back. The dragon’s scales were hot beneath his hands, and the air filled with the smell of smoke and brimstone as Balerion opened his massive jaws, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the air.

"To Dragonstone," Maegor commanded, his voice sharp and cold as steel.

With a mighty beat of his wings, Balerion launched into the air, and the city of King’s Landing fell away beneath them. The wind roared in Maegor’s ears as they ascended, higher and higher, until the Red Keep and the harbor were nothing but distant specks below. His eyes narrowed against the rush of air as they flew toward Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a place that should have been your prison but was now the key to your disappearance.

The journey was swift. Balerion’s immense wings cut through the sky, and soon, the looming shape of Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, its dark, foreboding towers rising from the volcanic island like jagged teeth. The familiar silhouette of the castle did nothing to soothe Maegor’s fury. If anything, it fueled it. Whoever had dared to take you from him was hiding here, he was certain of it. And they would pay.

Balerion descended with a roar, his massive form casting a shadow over the castle courtyard as he landed with a thunderous crash. Maegor dismounted swiftly, his boots hitting the ground with purpose, and strode toward the keep without hesitation. The guards, clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, scrambled to stand at attention, but Maegor paid them no mind. His eyes were fixed on one figure—Alyssa Velaryon, Dowager Queen, widow of his late half-brother Aenys.

She stood at the entrance of the great hall, flanked by her own royal guards, her expression calm but her eyes wary. She had been expecting him.

"Where is she?" Maegor’s voice was thunder, echoing across the courtyard as he approached. His gaze was locked on Alyssa, his hands still resting on the hilt of Blackfyre at his side.

Alyssa’s lips thinned, but she did not answer immediately. Her silence was an insult in itself.

"Where is she?" Maegor demanded again, his tone darkening, his patience long gone. "The ships have not arrived. My bride is not here. Where is she?"

Alyssa lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his with a quiet defiance. "I do not know," she said, her voice steady, though her guards shifted uneasily around her. "She is not here, Maegor. I swear it on the blood of my children."

His anger flared like a flame doused in oil. He stepped closer, towering over her, his eyes burning with rage. "You lie. Do you think me a fool, Alyssa? Do you think I will believe your false words? You know where she is. Someone here knows."

Alyssa did not waver, though there was a flicker of fear behind her eyes. "I do not lie, Maegor," she said, her voice firm. "Your niece is gone, but I do not know where. You think you can demand answers, but the gods have taken her from you."

"The gods?" Maegor spat the word as if it were poison. "The gods have no power here. I am king. I am the only god that matters in this realm."

He drew Blackfyre from its scabbard with a vicious hiss of steel. The sight of the ancient Valyrian blade, its edge gleaming in the waning sunlight, caused Alyssa’s guards to stiffen, their hands moving to the hilts of their swords. But Maegor did not care. He had faced armies and dragons alike; these men would not stand against him.

"You will tell me where she is," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I will take this castle stone by stone and burn it to the ground. I will burn you all."

Alyssa stood her ground, but her defiance was waning. Still, she did not answer.

Maegor’s grip on Blackfyre tightened. "Very well," he said, his voice cold and final. "If you will not speak, then I declare war on you, on this entire realm, and on the gods themselves. I will rip the truth from your dying lips if I must."

He raised the sword high, and Balerion let out a deafening roar, his fiery breath licking at the sky, as if in answer to his rider’s fury. The ground beneath Maegor’s feet trembled as the beast’s wings unfurled, casting the courtyard into shadow once more.

"Do you hear me, Alyssa?" Maegor shouted, his voice carrying across the castle walls. "I will bring fire and blood to this land until she is returned to me. Every house, every banner, every village will burn. No one will be spared."

Alyssa’s face paled, but she held her tongue, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his rage.

With one final, furious look at her, Maegor turned and mounted Balerion once more. The dragon’s wings beat against the air as they took to the skies, leaving the castle of Dragonstone behind, but not forgotten.

War was coming. The realm would know the full wrath of Maegor Targaryen, and nothing would stand in his way.

Not even the gods.

The sky had darkened with storm clouds, a fitting shroud for what was to come. Maegor could feel the death in the air as Balerion, the Black Dread, flew low over the countryside, the sound of his massive wings beating like the drums of war. Beneath him, the land stretched out in peaceful ignorance—green fields, small villages, and the occasional hamlet, all unaware of the doom that was about to descend upon them.

His fury had not abated. If anything, it had grown, simmering inside him like the flames that Balerion carried in his belly. For days, he had waited—waited for some word, some message, some whisper of where you had been taken. But there had been none. Not from Dragonstone, not from King's Landing, not from any corner of the realm. Silence. It was as if the earth itself conspired to keep you hidden from him.

And so, Maegor had decided to speak in the only language he knew would reach them all—fire.

The town below was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of his rule. It had no great lords, no strategic importance. It was nothing more than a farming village, its people simple, its streets quiet. But that did not matter to Maegor. He was no longer a king seeking strategy. He was a dragon in search of blood.

Balerion let out a growl as they descended, and the townspeople, who had begun to gather in the streets, looked up with wide, terrified eyes. They had heard tales of dragons, but few had seen one in the flesh, let alone the Black Dread himself. Some screamed, others fled, scattering like ants before a boot.

But it was too late.

Maegor did not speak as they approached. He did not announce his arrival or give them time to prepare. His rage did not allow for such mercy. Instead, he gave the only command he had come to deliver.

"Dracarys."

Balerion unleashed his fury with a deafening roar. Flames erupted from his jaws, a torrent of fire that engulfed the first row of houses in an instant. The wooden structures went up like kindling, the dry summer heat making them burn even faster. Screams filled the air, high-pitched and desperate, as people fled their homes, only to be caught by the flames that licked at their heels.

The fire spread with terrifying speed, consuming everything in its path—roofs, walls, fields. The village was alight, a beacon of destruction visible for miles around.

Maegor watched from above, his face cold and impassive, his grip on Balerion’s reins tight as the dragon circled over the burning town. The people below looked so small, like insects scurrying for cover, trying to escape the inevitable. But there was no escape. Not for them.

A handful of soldiers, likely from a nearby lord's keep, arrived, rushing into the chaos with spears and shields. They might have hoped to protect their people, to fight off the monster in the sky, but it was a hopeless effort. Balerion roared again, and another wave of fire descended, swallowing the soldiers in flames before they could even raise their weapons.

Still, Maegor felt nothing. No satisfaction, no relief, just the same gnawing fury. This town was but the first of many. If no one would give him what he demanded, then they would all burn.

Balerion landed in the town square, his massive form crushing the few remaining carts and stalls beneath him. The fires crackled and raged around them, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Maegor dismounted, his black armor gleaming with the reflection of the flames, and strode through the smoldering ruins. The people who hadn’t already fled or died in the fire cowered at the edges of the square, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their eyes wide with terror.

One man—a farmer by the looks of him, his face blackened with ash—dared to stand before Maegor. His legs shook, and his hands trembled as he held out a crude pitchfork, a pitiful weapon against the man who wielded Blackfyre.

“Please!” the man cried, his voice cracking. “We’ve done nothing! We don’t know where she is!”

Maegor’s gaze fixed on him, cold and unfeeling. “Then you are of no use to me.”

With a swift motion, he drew Blackfyre and swung. The blade cut through the air with a whistle, and the man’s head rolled to the ground, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed. Blood pooled at Maegor’s feet, mixing with the ash and dirt.

He turned to the remaining villagers, their tear-filled eyes pleading for mercy. “Where is she?” Maegor demanded, his voice cutting through the crackling flames. “Tell me, and you will be spared.”

But there were no answers. Only silence, punctuated by the occasional sob or gasp. They knew nothing, and he could see the truth of it in their frightened, helpless faces. These people had never laid eyes on you. They did not know your name. They were caught in a storm that was not theirs, a storm they could not hope to survive.

“Then burn,” Maegor said, his voice flat, his heart devoid of pity.

Balerion roared once more, and fire swept across the square, swallowing the villagers where they stood. The screams of the innocent echoed in the night, but they were distant to Maegor, drowned out by the roar of the flames. He mounted Balerion again, his mind already turning to the next town, the next village. There would be no end to his wrath until you were returned to him.

As they lifted into the air, the once-quiet town was a sea of fire below, the smoke rising in dark plumes that would be visible for miles. The next town would see the flames and know what was coming. They would know the price of silence.

But as they flew over the burning ruins, a grim thought gnawed at Maegor’s mind: even this, even the screams of the dying, had not brought forth any word of you. No ravens, no messengers, no spies. It was as if you had vanished from the face of the earth.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes hard as stone as he looked out over the darkened horizon. Let them hide you. Let them try to keep you from him. He would burn every inch of this realm to ash until they had no choice but to deliver you back into his hands.

War had come, and the realm would know the full measure of his wrath before it was over.

And still, you remained lost to him, as distant and unreachable as ever.

The halls of Oldtown’s grand keep were filled with the scent of burning torches and incense, the air heavy with the weight of old stone and old gods alike. Maegor strode through the corridors, his armor clinking with each step, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The lords of the Reach had gathered in the great hall ahead, awaiting his arrival, their banners lining the walls like silent witnesses to the war he was bringing to their doors.

He would have their armies. He would have their swords and their oaths. And soon, the realm would bleed for keeping you from him.

Yet, as he approached the towering doors of the hall, he was intercepted by a voice that grated on his already thin patience.

“Maegor.”

He halted but did not turn immediately. He recognized the voice, the cold, haughty tone that had once filled his ears with promises of alliances and power. Ceryse Hightower, his wife—the woman the Faith of the Seven deemed his lawful bride. The one who had failed him, who had borne him no heirs, no strength. She was a chain, an anchor from a life he despised. And now, she stood between him and the destruction he sought to bring upon the world.

With a slow turn, he faced her. She stood in the narrow corridor, her expression as cold as the marble pillars that flanked her. Her gown was white and gold, as befit a woman of her station, but there was no warmth in her. She had never had any warmth for him, nor he for her.

Ceryse’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her chin lifted in defiance. "This madness must stop, Maegor. What you are doing—it is unholy. This war you wage for your niece, this obsession, it will bring the gods’ wrath upon you. Upon us all."

Maegor’s eyes, dark and brooding, bore into hers. "The gods?" he scoffed, his voice laced with venom. "Which gods, Ceryse? The Seven who gave me nothing but a barren wife? The gods who have denied me my rightful bride and my throne time and again? They are nothing to me. I am the king, and I will take what is mine."

"You are the king," she snapped, stepping closer, her voice rising, "but I am your wife. The only true wife you have before the gods. I was wed to you under the light of the Seven. I am your queen, not some girl you lust after because she shares your blood and your fire."

Maegor’s lips curled into a sneer. "Do not speak of things you do not understand. She is more than fire. She is mine by right, by blood, by destiny. You are nothing but a symbol of a failed marriage and the weakness of the Faith. Your gods mean nothing to me, Ceryse. They have never meant anything."

Ceryse’s face flushed with anger, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “The Faith is all that holds this realm together. The Seven bless our rule, and you spit on their favor. Do you truly believe this war you’ve started will end with your niece in your arms? The realm will turn against you, the Faith will rise—”

“The Faith?” Maegor’s laughter was dark, a cruel sound that echoed off the stone walls. “The Faith cowers beneath the strength of dragons. I have already broken their High Septon, and I will do it again if they dare stand in my way. Do not speak to me of the Faith when they have already bled under my blade.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “And what of me? Do I mean nothing to you, Maegor? I am your queen. I stood beside you when the world was against you, when you were exiled, when you returned to take the throne. I have endured your temper, your ambitions—everything. And yet you throw it all away for her, for a girl who should never have been yours.”

Maegor stepped closer, towering over her, his voice low and filled with menace. “You have never stood beside me, Ceryse. You have stood in my way, like all the others. The day you failed to give me an heir was the day your use to me ended. You are not my queen. You are a symbol of weakness and failure.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but her pride would not allow her to shrink before him. She held her ground, her chin raised defiantly. “This war is blasphemy. Even your late father would not stand for it. You break every sacred vow for this—this madness. And for what? For a girl who may be dead already, taken by the gods to punish your arrogance.”

Maegor’s hand shot out, gripping her throat, though not enough to truly harm her. His eyes were burning coals, his patience long gone. “Speak of her again,” he growled, his voice dangerously low, “and I will end you here and now, wife or not.”

Ceryse’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch, even with his hand at her throat. “Do it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady. “Do it, and see how the realm turns against you. They already whisper of your cruelty, your madness. Kill your wife, and you will become the monster they fear.”

For a long, tense moment, Maegor said nothing. His grip tightened slightly, the temptation strong, but he released her with a shove, sending her stumbling back a step.

"You are a fool if you think I care for their whispers," Maegor said, his voice filled with disdain. "I will rule through fear if I must. The realm will submit to me, whether they love me or hate me. And you will stay out of my way, or you will burn like the rest of them."

Ceryse straightened, her hand to her throat, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and fear. She had pushed him as far as she could, and she knew it.

“You will destroy yourself,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to hide it. “This war, this rage... it will consume you.”

Maegor turned his back on her, his cloak swirling in the dim torchlight as he moved toward the doors of the great hall. "Then let it," he said coldly, without looking back. "I would rather burn the world to ash than live in a world where I am denied what is mine."

The heavy doors of the great hall swung open before him, and Maegor strode inside, leaving Ceryse standing alone in the darkened corridor, her hands shaking, her heart pounding with a fear she had never known before.

The lords inside turned as one to face him, their faces pale with the knowledge of the man they served. Maegor took his place at the head of the long table, his eyes sweeping over the gathered men like a predator surveying its prey.

"You will gather your armies," he said, his voice echoing through the hall, "and you will march with me to war. I care not for the gods, nor for the Faith. Those who stand against me will burn, and those who submit will live. But I will have my bride, or I will see this realm consumed by fire."

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared defy him. They knew the price of disobedience under Maegor’s rule.

"Are there any who would challenge me?" Maegor demanded, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light.

Silence fell over the hall, thick and suffocating. Not a single voice rose in opposition.

"Good," Maegor said, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Prepare your men. The realm will bleed until she is mine again."

And with that, the great hall of Oldtown descended into preparation for war, while outside, Ceryse Hightower stood in the shadows, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her words had fallen on deaf ears.

The battlefield stretched wide before Maegor, a patchwork of torn earth, trampled grass, and bloodied banners. His army stood in sharp contrast to the smaller force across the field, led by his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a bloody hue over the land, as if the gods themselves had abandoned all hope of peace.

Balerion, the Black Dread, shifted beneath him, his great black wings stretching wide as the dragon growled, sensing the impending battle. Maegor’s grip tightened on Blackfyre, the weight of the ancient sword familiar in his hand as he surveyed the field below. The banners of House Targaryen and Velaryon fluttered in the wind, a cruel mockery of what should have been unity between their blood. But unity had long been shattered.

On the opposite side of the field, Aegon sat astride Quicksilver, his dragon a flash of silver-white scales that shimmered in the dying light. Aegon’s army was smaller, but it was fiercely loyal—men who believed in the legitimacy of his claim, men who called Maegor a usurper and a tyrant. Men who were willing to die for a boy who had been denied his crown.

Maegor’s jaw clenched as he gazed across the field at his nephew, the boy who had dared to raise arms against him. Aegon had your blood running through his veins, and that alone made Maegor’s rage burn hotter. But it was not just Aegon’s challenge to the throne that stoked Maegor’s fury—it was his insolent defiance in keeping you from him.

The armies stood still for a breath, the wind carrying the sound of clinking armor and the distant neighs of restless horses. Maegor’s soldiers waited, their faces grim, their hands tight on their weapons. His bannermen were eager for the bloodshed to begin, eager to crush the boy who dared challenge their king.

But Maegor had eyes only for Aegon, who met his gaze across the field with the same cold intensity. Even from a distance, Maegor could see the steely resolve in the young man’s face. Aegon was no longer the boy he had once dismissed, and that truth gnawed at him.

Without a word, Maegor spurred Balerion forward. The great dragon let out a thunderous roar, his massive wings lifting him from the ground in one powerful sweep. The air around them seemed to hum with tension as Balerion soared into the sky, circling high above the battlefield, casting an enormous shadow over the armies below.

Aegon wasted no time. With a sharp command, he urged Quicksilver into the air, the silver dragon shooting upward with graceful speed. The two beasts circled one another in the sky, the gathered armies below looking up in awe as dragon met dragon.

Maegor’s eyes locked onto Aegon, his blood boiling with the need for victory. He would crush this boy, as he had crushed all who had stood in his way. Blackfyre was already in his hand, the sword gleaming as he prepared to strike.

Quicksilver let out a high-pitched roar and dove toward Balerion, claws outstretched. Aegon, no doubt thinking speed would be his advantage, urged his dragon forward with a deadly precision. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon—he was the Black Dread, the most fearsome of all Targaryen dragons, and his size alone was enough to instill terror in any opponent.

With a bellowing roar, Balerion met Quicksilver head-on, jaws snapping as the two dragons collided in a flurry of wings, fire, and claws. The sky around them lit up with dragonflame, bright orange and yellow in the fading light. The sound of their clash echoed across the battlefield like thunder, and Maegor felt the familiar thrill of battle pulse through his veins.

Aegon swung his sword at him, their blades clashing as Quicksilver veered away, trying to outmaneuver Balerion. But Maegor was relentless. He urged Balerion onward, following the silver dragon, breathing down its neck with every beat of its wings. Aegon was skilled, but Maegor could see the hesitation in his strikes, the uncertainty in his eyes.

"You will never have her, Uncle!" Aegon shouted over the roar of the wind and the battle below, his voice laced with both fury and desperation. "She is free of you! The gods will never let her fall into your hands."

Maegor’s face twisted into a snarl, his fury consuming him as he swung Blackfyre toward Aegon with all the strength he could muster. Their blades met again, the force of the strike sending sparks flying between them. "The gods be damned!" Maegor roared. "You think they care for your claims, boy? I will have her, and no man or god will keep her from me!"

Aegon’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You’re a fool if you think she would come to you willingly," he spat. "She despises you. She will never be yours."

Maegor’s rage flared hotter than dragonfire. He urged Balerion forward, closing the distance between the two dragons, but Quicksilver darted away, its speed giving it the advantage. Maegor’s strikes were powerful, but Aegon’s precision allowed him to evade, always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

Below, the armies had clashed. The sounds of battle—clanging steel, screams, and the thunder of hooves—rose from the ground, but Maegor cared little for what happened below. His focus was entirely on Aegon, on the boy who had denied him his rightful bride, on the nephew who dared to defy him.

Suddenly, Quicksilver darted upward, high into the clouds, and Aegon disappeared from sight. Maegor cursed, pulling Balerion up after them, but by the time he broke through the clouds, Aegon and Quicksilver were gone.

A howl of frustration escaped Maegor’s throat. He scanned the skies, his eyes searching for any sign of the silver dragon, but Aegon had vanished, leaving nothing but the roar of the wind and the distant sounds of the battlefield below.

"Damn you, Aegon!" Maegor bellowed into the empty sky, his voice echoing across the heavens. His blood boiled with fury, his vision clouded with rage. Once again, Aegon had slipped through his fingers, just as you had been denied to him time and time again.

He descended with Balerion, landing amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his soldiers still locked in fierce combat with Aegon’s forces. But it was not enough. The battle, the bloodshed, the cries of dying men—all of it paled in comparison to the rage burning inside Maegor. He had come for victory, for vengeance, for you—and he had been denied once more.

The soldiers around him fell to their knees, their faces streaked with blood and mud, their eyes filled with terror at the sight of their king. But Maegor’s gaze was distant, his thoughts consumed by the promise Aegon had made before vanishing into the clouds.

You were free of him, Aegon had said. You would never be his.

But Maegor was not a man who accepted defeat. Not now. Not ever.

The realm would continue to burn until you were in his hands, and not even his nephew’s empty threats would change that.

With a final, chilling glance at the battlefield around him, Maegor mounted Balerion once more, his mind already racing with thoughts of what was to come. The war was not over. Aegon may have escaped, but Maegor would hunt him down. He would tear the realm apart, piece by piece, until there was nowhere left for his enemies to hide.

And in the end, you would be his.

Whether you wished it or not.

The second clash between Maegor Targaryen and his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned, was inevitable. The gods had no place on this battlefield; only dragons, fire, and blood would decide the victor. Beneath the clouded skies of the God's Eye, the two riders faced one another atop their colossal beasts. Quicksilver, the pale silver dragon, hovered in the air with Aegon astride him, eyes blazing with defiance, while Maegor sat atop the mighty Balerion, the Black Dread, a shadow over the land, a force of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

Aegon was no child, but neither was he the match of his uncle. And yet, as they circled high above the waters of the God's Eye, you could almost feel the weight of his resolve. Maegor could sense it, too—a determination to stand, to fight, to protect what little remained of his claim. But Aegon was a fool to believe he could stop what was coming. Maegor had returned, stronger than ever, and no man, no dragon, no usurper would deny him what was his—neither the throne nor you.

The dragons roared and circled, Balerion’s immense shadow darkening the sky. Maegor’s heart was black with fury, the rage of the denied, of one betrayed by his own kin. For years, he had been denied you, stolen from him by a weak brother and a cowardly nephew. Aenys had never been strong enough to hold the kingdom together, nor had he the will to make the hard choices. Now Maegor would show Aegon the price of such weakness.

“Tell me where she is,” Maegor bellowed, his voice a force of its own, carrying across the winds between them. “Tell me, and I’ll make your death quick.”

Aegon’s expression hardened, but his lips remained sealed. He said nothing, his jaw tight, the defiance in his eyes unbroken. It was clear that he would rather die than betray your whereabouts, and for a brief moment, Maegor almost admired the boy's stubbornness. Almost.

But that would not save him.

Quicksilver lunged first, his bright scales gleaming like molten metal in the dim light. His teeth snapped, his wings beat the air, and Aegon drove him forward, spear in hand, hoping to catch Balerion’s flank. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon, and Maegor was no ordinary rider. The Black Dread twisted mid-air with terrifying speed, jaws snapping shut around Quicksilver’s wing. The smaller dragon shrieked, a sound that echoed over the lake like thunder, and his body faltered as he was dragged downward, closer to the earth.

Balerion's fire erupted, black and red flames that swallowed the sky. Quicksilver was engulfed, his silvery scales turning black as smoke and ash filled the air. Aegon fought back, his dragon resisting, but it was clear to all who watched that there could only be one outcome.

With a final, sickening crunch, Balerion’s teeth sank into Quicksilver’s neck, tearing through flesh and bone. The dragon screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing cry that seemed to go on forever. And then, with a sickening crash, Quicksilver and Aegon were flung into the earth below, the ground trembling from the impact.

Maegor descended slowly, his eyes never leaving the crumpled form of his nephew. The once-proud Aegon, Uncrowned and unbroken, now lay battered and broken beside his dying dragon. Maegor dismounted, stepping down from Balerion’s back as if descending from a throne. The grass beneath his feet was scorched from the battle, and the air smelled of death and fire.

Aegon coughed, his body shattered, blood pouring from wounds too numerous to count. His breaths were labored, each one a struggle. Maegor stood over him, the weight of his fury and triumph heavy in the air.

“Where is she?” Maegor demanded once more, his voice like steel.

Aegon lifted his head weakly, his eyes meeting Maegor's with the last of his strength. Blood bubbled on his lips as he smiled—a bitter, bloody smile.

“You’ll never find her,” Aegon rasped, defiance even now.

The anger that surged through Maegor was all-consuming, a wildfire burning through his veins. He had half a mind to rip his nephew’s head from his body then and there, but he knew Aegon would welcome such an end. No, his death would come soon enough. But it would not be swift, nor merciful.

With a final look of disgust, Maegor turned his back on the dying boy, mounting Balerion once more. There was no more time to waste on the Uncrowned. He would find you, with or without Aegon’s cooperation. And when he did, nothing and no one would ever separate you from him again.

After the battle, as Maegor's forces regrouped, a rider approached him. The man, bloodied and worn from the fight, bowed low before his king.

“My lord, we have received word,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “It is said... she is being held in Lys.”

Maegor’s eyes narrowed, his blood roaring in his ears. Lys. So far away, beyond the sea, beyond his immediate reach. But no distance was too great. He would cross oceans, burn cities, and tear apart entire kingdoms if need be.

“Prepare the fleet,” Maegor ordered, his voice like iron. “We sail at once.”

Balerion let out a low rumble, as if sensing his master’s intent. There would be no peace until you were his, no rest until the blood debt was paid in full. The dragons were coming, and all of Lys would burn if it meant bringing you home.

The sun had long begun its descent when the black sails of Maegor's fleet appeared on the horizon, darkening the waters that surrounded Lys. The city, gilded with beauty and wealth, stood as a gleaming jewel in the far east. But to Maegor, it was a den of thieves—those who had dared to steal what belonged to him. As Balerion descended from the skies, casting a vast shadow over the city, panic spread like wildfire through its streets. The people of Lys had never seen the likes of such a beast, nor the wrath of a king who had come to reclaim what was his.

You had not expected him so soon.

The small tower in which you were held offered little more than a view of the sea and distant freedom, but you knew that no bars or walls could hold you forever. You had seen the men sent to guard you, faces hardened by greed and violence, yet even they had begun to whisper in hushed tones over the past days—of dragons, of black sails, of the King who would come. Maegor.

For weeks, you had wondered if it was only a matter of time before your captors sold you to another—or worse. But it was not the men of Lys who had taken you—it was Aegon. Your own brother. He had sent you here, far away from Maegor, far from the throne. He believed it was for your own good, to keep you safe from the king who had burned through the realm to take the Iron Throne. To keep you from the man who had claimed you as his.

But your brother had gravely underestimated the lengths to which Maegor would go to have you back.

And now he had come.

The tower trembled beneath your feet as Balerion’s roar split the sky, shaking the very stones of Lys. The dragon’s fire lit the horizon, the harbor a hellscape of flames and destruction. You could hear the distant cries of men fleeing from the wrath of the Black Dread, and in that moment, a strange calm settled over you. You knew Maegor. You had known him since childhood—his strength, his darkness, and above all, his possessiveness. He would burn this city to the ground for you. He would raze every last building, tear every stone apart brick by brick, until he had you back in his grasp.

The door to your chamber flew open, splintering as it slammed against the wall. The guard who had been stationed outside was gone, replaced by men bearing the black and red sigil of House Targaryen. They moved aside without a word, and there, standing in the doorway, was Maegor.

He was just as you remembered him, but now there was a fierceness in his gaze that you had never seen before. His armor, still streaked with blood from battle, glinted in the dim light. His silver hair, windswept from the flight atop Balerion, framed a face carved from stone, hard and unyielding. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes burned with a hunger, an obsession, that had only grown stronger with time. He had come for you.

Without a word, Maegor strode into the room, his presence filling it like a storm. He did not wait for pleasantries, nor for explanations. He reached for you, his hand closing around your arm with a grip that was firm but not painful, his eyes searching your face as if to assure himself that you were real, that you were truly here.

"You’re coming with me," he said, his voice low and rough. There was no question, no hesitation, just the ironclad certainty that had always driven him.

"Maegor," you began, your voice quiet but steady. The words you had rehearsed in your mind seemed to dissolve as you looked into his eyes. The fury, the relief, the need—it was all there, laid bare. He was not a man to be denied.

"You will never be taken from me again," he growled, his fingers tightening slightly around your arm as if to emphasize his point. "I’ve burned half the world to get to you. No one will stand between us now."

You had heard tales of what he had done—of how he had torn through Aegon’s forces at the God's Eye, of how he had set the seas aflame in his pursuit of you. But you never imagined that it would come to this—that your own brother would try to keep you from him. And now that he stood before you, towering, unyielding, you realized that there was no escaping the inevitability of what came next.

"You were mine from the moment you were born," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And they kept you from me. All of them—my father, your brother, the gods themselves. But no more. You will be my queen, and no one will ever take you from me again."

His words, raw and fierce, echoed in the space between you, and for a moment, all you could hear was the distant roar of Balerion outside, the great beast that had carried him across the skies to find you.

You met his gaze, and in that moment, something shifted within you. You had known Maegor your whole life. You had seen the violence in him, but you had also seen the man beneath it—the one who, for all his ruthlessness, had always looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. And now, standing before him, you understood that there was no escaping him, not now, not ever.

"Then take me," you whispered, your voice soft but clear. "I’m ready."

Maegor’s eyes darkened, and in one swift motion, he pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours with all the pent-up fury and longing that had driven him to Lys. His kiss was fierce, possessive, and you knew then that the man who had come for you was not just the king, but the dragon itself—untamable, unstoppable, and wholly yours.

When he pulled away, his hand still cradled the back of your neck, his eyes locked on yours. "We leave now," he said, his voice a low growl. "There’s nothing for you here. Nothing but ash."

He led you from the room without another word, the tower and all its horrors fading behind you as you stepped out into the night. Balerion waited, his massive form dark against the sky, and as Maegor helped you onto the dragon's back, you knew that whatever fate awaited you, it would be by his side.

And so, with a single command, Balerion’s wings unfurled, and together you soared into the night, leaving Lys in flames behind you.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Catelyn VI (Chapter 45)

She [Brienne] would have been happier riding to war with Edmure, no doubt, but even walls as strong as Riverrun's required swords to hold them.

Can’t wait to see what happens in the next Bran chapter. 😐

+.+

I gave Brandon my favor to wear, and never comforted Petyr once after he was wounded, nor bid him farewell when Father sent him off. And when Brandon was murdered and Father told me I must wed his brother, I did so gladly, though I never saw Ned's face until our wedding day. I gave my maidenhood to this solemn stranger and sent him off to his war and his king and the woman who bore him his bastard, because I always did my duty.    

gave my maidenhood to this solemn stranger

There are people in this fandom that believe Catelyn gave her maidenhead to Littlefinger, despite what’s sitting on the page right in front of them.

+.+

She knelt before the painted marble image of the Warrior and lit a scented candle for Edmure and another for Robb off beyond the hills. Keep them safe and help them to victory, she prayed, and bring peace to the souls of the slain and comfort to those they leave behind.

Dueling prayers to the Warrior in back-to-back chapters.

+.+

"Knights die in battle," Catelyn reminded her.

Brienne looked at her with those blue and beautiful eyes. "As ladies die in childbed. No one sings songs about them."

You never know, there might be a song or two about Lyanna Stark and her son, by the time this story is finished.

+.+

"Save Cortnay Penrose," Catelyn murmured. She had never met the man, yet she grieved to hear of his passing. "Robb should know of this at once," she said. "Do we know where he is?"

"At last word he was marching toward the Crag, the seat of House Westerling," said Maester Vyman.

+.+

Catelyn read the letter again after the maester was gone. "Lord Meadows says nothing of Robert's bastard," she confided to Brienne. "I suppose he yielded the boy with the rest, though I confess, I do not understand why Stannis wanted him so badly."

"Perhaps he fears the boy's claim."

"A bastard's claim? No, it's something else . . . what does this child look like?"

Tee-hee. I’m sorry Catelyn. It will work out, I promise.

+.+

She found herself thinking of Jon's mother, that shadowy secret love her husband would never speak of. Does she grieve for Ned as I do? Or did she hate him for leaving her bed for mine? Does she pray for her son as I have prayed for mine?

They were uncomfortable thoughts, and futile. If Jon had been born of Ashara Dayne of Starfall, as some whispered, the lady was long dead; if not, Catelyn had no clue who or where his mother might be.

I’m starting to think everyone in Westeros failed geography.

+.+

Still, she was struck again by how strangely men behaved when it came to their bastards. Ned had always been fiercely protective of Jon, and Ser Cortnay Penrose had given up his life for this Edric Storm, yet Roose Bolton's bastard had meant less to him than one of his dogs, to judge from the tone of the queer cold letter Edmure had gotten from him not three days past.

Funny. Edric Storm isn’t Cortnay Penrose’s bastard...

Seems like the only father you’ve named is the one that’s the dickhead.

+.+

He hoped His Grace would weigh that against the crimes of his bastard son, whom Ser Rodrik Cassel had put to death. "A fate he no doubt earned," Bolton had written. "Tainted blood is ever treacherous, and Ramsay's nature was sly, greedy, and cruel. I count myself well rid of him. The trueborn sons my young wife has promised me would never have been safe while he lived."

That’s correct. Enjoy.

+.+

The Mallister bowmen sent a storm of fire arrows hissing across the river, strangely beautiful from afar. One man, pierced through a dozen times, his clothes afire, danced and whirled in the knee-deep water until at last he fell and was swept downstream. By the time his body came bobbing past Riverrun, the fires and his life had both been extinguished.

Really loving the imagery used to describe a battle on the Red Fork.

+.+

"Arise, ser." Catelyn seated herself. "I know no grandson of Walder Frey would be an oathbreaker." Unless it served his purpose.

+.+

"Lannister will exchange Arya and Sansa for his brother?"             

"Yes. He sat on the Iron Throne and swore it."

"Before witnesses?"

"Before all the court, my lady. And the gods as well. I said as much to Ser Edmure, but he told me it was not possible, that His Grace Robb would never consent."

"He told you true." She could not even say that Robb was wrong. Arya and Sansa were children. The Kingslayer, alive and free, was as dangerous as any man in the realm. That road led nowhere.

That’s fine, you don’t have to, I’ll say he was wrong.

+.+

Catelyn thought back to that terrible trek through the Mountains of the Moon, and the way Tyrion Lannister had somehow seduced that sellsword from her service to his own. The dwarf is too clever by half.

Am I living in an alternate reality?

+.+

He closed with the song he had written about Robb's victory at Oxcross. "And the stars in the night were the eyes of his wolves, and the wind itself was their song." Between the verses, Rymund threw back his head and howled, and by the end, half of the hall was howling along with him, even Desmond Grell, who was well in his cups. Their voices rang off the rafters.

Oh god, the howling. Not the last time sounds will echo off the rafters.

the wind itself was their song. Hmmm.

+.+

"There was always a singer at Evenfall Hall when I was a girl," Brienne said quietly. "I learned all the songs by heart."         

"Sansa did the same, though few singers ever cared to make the long journey north to Winterfell."

Remember that week when a bunch of people from that side of the fandom decided Brienne and Sansa aren’t similar? That was hilarious.

+.+

I told her there would be singers at the king's court, though. I told her she would hear music of all sorts, that her father could find some master to help her learn the high harp. Oh, gods forgive me . . .    

Gods forgive him.

+.+

"Did you sing for your father?" Catelyn asked.      

Brienne shook her head, staring down at her trencher as if to find some answer in the gravy.

"For Lord Renly?"

The girl reddened. "Never, I . . . his fool, he made cruel japes sometimes, and I . . ."

"Someday you must sing for me."    

Uh, okay Sandor. Jesus, that’s ominous.

+.+

In her father's solar she found a heavy leatherbound book of maps and opened it to the riverlands. Her eyes found the path of the Red Fork and traced it by flickering candlelight. Marching to the southeast, she thought. By now they had likely reached the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush, she decided.

She closed the book even more uneasy than before. The gods had granted them victory after victory. At Stone Mill, at Oxcross, in the Battle of the Camps, at the Whispering Wood . . .

But if we are winning, why am I so afraid?

:(

I’ve been following Tywin’s movement, and it seems obvious he’s getting pushed towards King’s Landing. Is his arrival during the Battle of the Blackwater even that big of a surprise for first-time book readers? I wouldn’t know.

Final thoughts:

Did everyone forget about Theon? Why is nobody questioning where he is, and why they haven’t heard from him?

-> return to menu <-

[throneshq]

welcome  to  king’s  landing  capella  dayne,  inan  mormont,  roland  arryn,  theon  greyjoy,  aylin  drumm,  &  lysander  baratheon,  the  king  has  been  expecting  you  !  please  send  in  your  account  within  the  next  twenty  four  hours  !  charithra  chandran,  mark  rowley,  devon  terrell,  travis  fimmel,  aslihan  malbora,  &  ben  barnes  are  now  taken  .

*     ──     [   charitha  chandran  ,   cis  woman  ,   she  /  her  .   ]   :   in  the  frays  of  king  aerys  iii's   reign  ,  therein  remains  capella  dayne ,  the  twenty  one  year  old  lady  of  starfall  .   rumor  has  it  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  martell  and  they  are  for  the  targaryen  reign  .   they're  so  generous  +  outgoing  that  it  makes  sense  ,   but  most  seem  to  look  past  their  naive  +  scatterbrained  nature  .   when  they  come  up  in  conversation  ,   i'm  always  reminded  of  pastel  pinks ,  floral  perfumes ,  and  pearls  .   [   abbie  ,  18  ,   est  ,   she  /  they  .   ]

*     ──     [   mark  rowley  ,   cis  man  ,   he  /  him  .   ]   :   in  the  frays  of  king  aerys  iii's   reign  ,  therein  remains  inan  mormont,  the  thirty  two  year  old  ruling  lord  of  bear  island  .   rumor  has  it  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  stark  and  they  are  against  the  targaryen  reign  .   they're  so  principled  +  steadfast  that  it  makes  sense  ,   but  most  seem  to  look  past  their  reclusive  +  irascible  nature  .   when  they  come  up  in  conversation  ,   i'm  always  reminded  of  scars  that  tell  a  thousand  tales  ;  exhausted  lines  across  tired  orbs  reflecting  fires  and  the  sparks  from  metal  clashing  ;  humble  beginnings. and  humbler  ends  .   [   em  ,  24  ,   est  ,  she/her  ,   &   n/a  .   ]

*     ──     [   devon  terrell  ,   cis  man  ,   he  /  him  .   ]   :   in  the  frays  of  king  aerys  iii's   reign  ,  therein  remains  roland  arryn,  the  twenty  eight  year  old  lord  of  the  vale  .   rumor  has  it  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  arryn  and  they  are  against  the  targaryen  reign  .   they're  so  charismatic  +  loyal  that  it  makes  sense  ,   but  most  seem  to  look  past  their  thrill  -  seeking  +  carefree  nature  .   when  they  come  up  in  conversation  ,   i'm  always  reminded  of  a  disarming  grin  paired  with  a  set  of  bright  eyes ,  the  rush  of  adrenaline  in  trying  to  perform  risky  acts   all  in  the  name  of  adventure  and  self  -  gratification ,  a  fiercely  burning  loyalty  towards  loved  ones  .   [   isa  .   ]  *already discussed with eden him being a legitimised bastard

*     ──     [   travis  fimmel  ,   cis  man  ,   he  /  him  .   ]   :   in  the  frays  of  king  aerys  iii's   reign  ,  therein  remains  theon  greyjoy,  the  forty  two  year  old  high  king  of  the  iron  islands  .   rumor  has  it  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  greyjoy  and  they  are  neutral  to  the  targaryen  reign  .   they're  so  practical  +  driven  that  it  makes  sense  ,   but  most  seem  to  look  past  their  calculating  +  controlling  nature  .   when  they  come  up  in  conversation  ,   i'm  always  reminded  of  souls  dashed  on  rock  and  risen,  lungs  full  up  with  purpose  given  voice  to  those  left  living,  uneasy  lies  the  head  which  wears  a  crown  .   [   scout  ,  25  ,   pst  ,   they / she  ,   &   n/a  .   ]

*     ──     [   aslihan  malbora  ,   cis  woman  ,   she  /  her  .   ]   :   in  the  frays  of  king  aerys  iii's   reign  ,  therein  remains  aylin  drumm,  the  twenty  three  year  old  lady  of  old  wyk  .   rumor  has  it  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  greyjoy  and  they  are  neutral  to  the  targaryen  reign  .   they're  so  perspicacious  +  resourceful  that  it  makes  sense  ,   but  most  seem  to  look  past  their  impassive  +  pessimistic  .   when  they  come  up  in  conversation  ,   i'm  always  reminded  of  the  bone  -  chilling  mist  that  comes  up  from  the  sea  and  devours  all  forms  in  sight,  encompassing  them  in  quiet  darkness  ;  the  sensing  of  a  storm  on  the  horizon  of,  on  the  face  of  it,  clear  skies  .  she’s  more  than  she  appears  ;  ashen  hand  changing  the  tides   .   [   em  ,  24  ,   est  ,   she/her  ,   &   n/a  .   ]

*     ──     [   ben  barnes  ,   cis  man  ,   he  +  him  .   ]   :   in  the  frays  of  king  aerys  iii's   reign  ,  therein  remains  lysander  baratheon,  the  forty  five  year  old  lord  of  storm’s  end  .   rumor  has  it  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  baratheon  and  they  are  neutral  to  the  targaryen  reign  .   they're  so  intelligent  +  persuasive  that  it  makes  sense  ,   but  most  seem  to  look  past  their  sarcastic  +  cocky  nature  .   when  they  come  up  in  conversation  ,   i'm  always  reminded  of  a  crack  of  lighting  that  flashes  so  bright  before  disappearing  completely,  tomes  of  books  read  over  dozens  of  times,  a  cocky  smile  that  never  fades  .   [   honey  .   ] claira lannister’s betrothed wc + master of laws for the southern council ! * adopted

[tacitwhisky]

Jon of Dorne, pt 1

Dornish Jon. Or, the story of how Jon was raised in the water gardens of Dorne beside Arianne Martell and the sand snakes. When Oberyn journeys to Kingslanding Jon goes with him. There he meets Sansa and secrets her back to Dorne / AO3 Link

---

Jon is eight when first he’s brought to the water gardens.

His mother had held him tight in the shadow of Starfall’s high tower the day he left. As around them bannermen tightened saddlebags and gathered their horse’s reins in hand, she’d pressed her mouth pressed to the crown of his head. “Never forget you’re mine, Jon,” she’d whispered into his hair, “mine and only mine.”

Jon had nodded into the soft linen of her dress. His eyes had stung, but he’d known he was too old to cry, and so instead he’d willed his voice strong as he imagined his uncle ser Arthur Dayne’s had been. One day you will be the Sword of the Morning just as he was, his mother has promised, and he clings to that knowledge now.

“Don’t worry, mother. I’ll be back soon. Won’t I?”

In place of answering his mother gathered Jon’s face in her hands. Any other mother would lie, would soothe his worries by telling him he would be, but his own mother’s violet eyes had flashed as only Ashara Dayne the Lady of Starfall’s could, and for that Jon had loved her desperately. “Doran will keep you at the Water Gardens as he will. He knows more than he should, but there is nothing to be done for that now. Keep your eyes open, Jon. Watch and wait. And always remember, come what may or what you’re told, you are my child. Remember I love you. Remember you are of Dorne.”

They are the last words she ever speaks to him.

---

Areo Hotah waits for them at the dock at Sunspear, a bearded giant tall and powerful, the curved blade of his polax gleaming under the Dornish sun, a pair of guardsmen in copper scales standing to either side of him.

Beside Jon, Sansa tenses, her fingers tightening on the ship’s railing. “Is that…?”

“Areo Hotah.” Of course Oberyn sent word ahead of us. He should’ve known the Red Viper of Dorne could somehow find a way to outpace a ship fleeing Kingslanding. Or perhaps it is one of Doran’s many eyes. “He’s the captain of prince Doran’s guard.”

Sansa nods faintly, the sea breeze playing with the stray of her hair. Her eyes dart to Jon, then away. “Will he send me back?”

“Hotah?” Jon shakes his head. “He only does as he’s tasked to and no more.”

Sansa nods shakily and brushes back the strays of her hair, the faintest tremor to her fingers. “And prince Doran?”

Jon pauses, less sure how to answer. A week at sea they’ve followed the coast southward from Kingslanding to Sunspear, but in most ways Sansa is still a stranger to Jon, cousin in name alone. He does not know how how much truth to answer this strange and shy pale creature so unlike the brash and bold women he was raised beside all his life: Obara who was like to answer any offer of help with a bruise, Tyene whose every courtesy was laced with venom sweet as syrup, Nym who laughed and mocked with little mercy, Arianne…

Arianne who is fierce and wild and as impossible to grasp as the desert wind.

“Doran is a good prince,” Jon says slowly, “fair and just. He has no love for the Lannisters , but above all else cares for Dorne. If I can make him see that keeping you here in Sunspear and not returning you to the Lannisters is for the good of Dorne then he will give you his protection.”

“And if you can’t?” Sansa fingers whiten as she tightens her grip on the ship’s railing. “If he sends me back to Kingslanding?”

Something strange wells in Jon’s chest, painful and sore, something he does not understand, something that urges him to take her hand and swear to protect her from whatever will come.

“Sansa.” Jon catches her gaze in a long, steady look. “I swore I would protect you from the Lannisters. If Doran sends you back I’ll go too."

“Why?” Sansa swallows. “I know I’m a stranger to you, Jon, even if we are cousins by blood. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to-”

“But I will.”

Sansa’s lips part as she searches Jon’s eyes. “Why?”

Jon shakes his head, unable to answer. A moment later the ship shudders as it pulls into its berth, and he wordlessly offers his hand to Sansa. Her eyes search his for another moment before she takes his hand, fingers slim against his palm.

Hotah stands imobile as they descend the lowered gangplank, black eyes watching impassively, the red silk threaded through the spikes of his helm playing faintly in the breeze.

“Ser Areo Hotah,” Sansa dips in a curtsy when she reaches the end of the gangplank, her voice so light and sweet that if it were not only moments before Jon would never remember the tremble of her fingers. “My cousin tells me you serve prince Doran.”

“I have that honor.” Areo Hotah’s voice is a rumble. He regards Sansa a moment before turning to Jon, face distant and impassive as though it were carved from stone. “Prince Doran has summoned you.” He gestures and one of the other bannermen behind him brings forward a trio of horses. “He would see you at once.”

After a week at sea there is nothing Jon would like more than to collapse into a bed, but he knows better than to protest. Still, when he glances at Sansa and the dark rings under her eyes he nearly does all the same, the same pang as before rising in his chest. But...

You will be doing her no favor making Doran wait. Prince’s dislike that. And we need all his good will.

The horses' Areo has brought with him are of the prince’s own stables, a pair of sand seeds swift and lithe. Jon helps Sansa onto hers before vaulting on the other. The sun’s gaze has turned the saddle’s leather scorching, and Jon unwinds the loose weave cloth from around his neck and offers it to Sansa whose pale skin is already pricked with sweat. It smells of the sea’s salt, he knows, but...

“It will shield you from our Dornish sun,” he tells her, “a little, at least.”

Sasna accepts it with a shaky nod. She wraps it in a half hood over her hair and gives Jon a questioning look. He smiles in answer, an expression that belies the unease filling his gut, and turns his horse away from the sea and towards the desert and water gardens where prince Doran Martell waits to pass judgement.

---

Jon is eight when first he’s brought to the water gardens.

They gleam pink under the desert sun, a palace of cool marble and palm fronds and lapping blue pools. Children Jon’s own age shriek and splash in the pools, and though after the long dusty ride through the desert Jon wants nothing more than to jump into the cool water beside them, the guard he trails behind leads him away from and above the pools to a balcony shaded with orange trees. At the entrance to the balcony stands the tallest man Jon has ever seen, a silent and bearded giant with a polax tall as he in one hand, coal black eyes regarding Jon impassively.

“Come closer,” calls a voice beyond the bearded giant. A man sits at the edge of the balcony in a chair with wheels, watching the children below. A richly embroidered blanket drapes the man’s legs, but beneath the tasseled hem Jon catches a glimpse of red and angry lumps round as fruit bubbling from his ankles and toes like blood oranges ripe enough to burst. The man doesn’t turn from the pools, only waves an absent minded hand at Jon. “I would meet the bastard of Starfall.”

Jon glances at the bearded giant, but the man’s eyes do no more than watch him impassively. Warily, Jon steps around him to stand before the man in the wheeled chair, and raises his chin. “Your grace.”

Prince Doran Martell’s eyes rise from the pool and settle on Jon. Kind eyes, gentle creases at the edges, but somehow distant as they study Jon. “You don’t have the look of your mother.” Doran’s lips purse in a faint smile. “Or perhaps you do. I never did gaze upon the girl myself.”

There’s some jest in Doran’s words, some hidden thing that Jon does not understand, and he has heard enough whispers and giggling from the other children of Starfall to mistrust jests of any kind. He lifts his chin higher, meets Doran’s gaze squarely like a man should, like he knows his uncle Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning would’ve. “They say I have the face of a Stark, but I am Dayne too-”

“Not Dayne,” Doran interrupts mildly. “Bastard. But bastard Sand or bastard Snow?”

“Bastards are named for where in the seven kingdoms they’re born, your grace.”

“That is so, but which is your blood? Sand or snow? The sun of Dorne or the cold of the north?” Doran’s eyes drift away, seeming to harden as they settle once again on the children splashing in the pool below. “They say prince Rhaegar dishonored my sister Elia with a Stark girl. That after he stole her your… father… Brandon Stark rode into the Red Keep baying for Rhaegar’s blood. Perhaps he thought the ice in his blood could protect him from Aerys’ flame, but he should’ve known better. When fire and ice touch only one remains, and ice has no place north of the Neck, not for the thousand years since the Long Night.”

Jon’s shuffles his feet. Sand, snow, fire, ice: none of it makes any sense. Always keep your eyes open, his mother had told him before he left Starfall. And so Jon does, watches and waits as Doran gazes at the pool below despite the urge to fidget and say anything to break the silence. Finally, the prince looks up again. “Your lady mother tells me you are fond of stories of your uncle. A Stark slew him too, did he not? Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning murdered by Ned Stark, the Usurper’s right hand.”

Jon prickles. He’s known the story since he was old enough to sit on his mother’s lap, but there is something different in the way Doran says it. Vague unease washes over Jon, but though he is only a child, he refuses to be cowed for something he does not understand. He draws himself up, wills his voice strong and proud as his mother’s. “He did, your grace, but afterwards lord Stark rode to Starfall to return my uncle’s bones to our crypts and deliver Dawn to my lady mother.”

It is the wrong thing to say. Jon knows it immediately, a sick feeling welling in his gut as Doran blinks. “Of course. Honorable Ned Stark. Honorable enough to return a man’s bones; not enough to punish the murder of women and children.” The prince waves a hand, lumps of gout swelling white and red and angry from the joints of his fingers. “But enough talk of old dead men. You should be with others your age.”

I didn’t- Jon nearly starts, the sick feeling in his throat, but behind Doran the giant man stamps the butt of poleaxe against the floor, the toll of a bell marking the end of Jon’s audience.

Jon bows to the prince and flees.

---

The sun is dying as they reach the Water Gardens, pink marble turned to pale blood in the orange light. Jon jumps down from his horse and helps Sansa down from hers. Her fingers grip his hand tightly, though he does not know if it is from exhaustion or fear. She doesn't relinquish her grip as her feet touch the ground, and he merely squeezes her hand tightly in answer, not letting go as they turn to follow Areo Hotah.

Hotah leads them through the winding path between water pools, the murmur of lapping waves at high tide so different from the shrieking and laughing of children that filled them during the day. Familiarity hollows Jon as he walks between the pools; the long and shallow one where he’d split his lip when he tripped, the smooth bottomed one where Sylva had rode his shoulders to victory against all the other children-

-the one with the craggy edge where he’d watched the gulls circle above the day he’d learned his mother had thrown herself from the high tower of Starfall.

Doran waits for them at the same balcony from all those years before as though he never moved. Areo Hotah stamps the butt of his axe to announce their entrance, and only then does Doran stir to life. So late in the day Jon can see milk of the poppy in the slow way he blinks; the pale haze to them as they stir to life. “Should you not be in Kingslanding squiring with my brother?”

“I was, your grace. But he bid me return to Dorne.”

“This was his plan, then?”

Jon bites his lip. For a fleeting moment he is tempted to lie and say it was. But that is a coward’s path, so instead he draws himself up. “It was mine, your grace. I rescued the lady Sansa alone.”

Sansa steps forward, hands unconsciously smoothing her skirts. During their flight from Kingslanding she has worn simple linen in the way of any of the smallfolk of Kingslanding, and the day’s riding has left it wrinkled and ragged. Poor fare to present before a prince, but her curtsy is as easy and graceful as the one at the dock. “I am Sansa Stark, if it pleases you, your grace.”

“Stark?” Doran does not turn from the balcony. “I thought you Lannister now, my lady. Were you not married to Tywin’s dwarf son?”

“I was, your grace.” Sansa bites her lip. “I was their prisoner then though, and could not refuse.”

“A prisoner they will be wroth at losing.” Doran finally turns to Sansa. “You are a valuable prisoner, my lady, the last living Stark and wife to the man standing trial even now for the murder of our good king.”

“Sansa is a prisoner no more.” Jon steps beside Sansa, voice sharper than it should be when addressing a prince of Dorne. “Theirs or ours.”

Doran tilts his head to the side, eyes cooling as they study Jon. And for a moment Jon is just a boy again, lost and homesick, a bastard child with no right to kindness and no home. Y ou will never be Dornish to him. Always some Stark’s whelp, always an outsider no matter how long you live beneath the Dornish sun. Jon clenches his jaw and meets Doran’s gaze squarely, forces himself not to fill the silence.

After a moment Doran’s eyes drift to Sansa and he gives her a distant smile. “Of course you are our guest, my lady. Areo Hotah will find you a room so you can rest. You have had a long journey, no doubt.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Sansa curtsies again. She glances at Jon, and he nods, the two of them turning together to leave.

“Jon.” Doran tilts his head towards the balcony edge. “Stand with me.”

Sansa’s eyes dart to Jon again. He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile and nods to Hotah. “You’ll be safe with him.”

Hotah’s poleaxe thumps the ground as he leads Sansa away, and only once it’s faded does Jon move to stand beside Doran at the balcony edge. The sun is gone, the sky left a blue so dark as to be black in its wake, only the silver light of the moon tracing the pale marble of the Water Gardens. The sea breeze is a cool caress after the day’s heat, its touch turning the fronds of the palm trees between the pools into murmuring shadows. Below them servants light lamps and copper braziers, pools of gold among blue shadows.

“It’s a dangerous kind of guest you’ve brought us.” Doran’s voice is tired. “Were she anyone else I would send her back to Kingslanding tonight and you with her. When the Lannisters learn she is here they will think us responsible for Joffrey’s murder.”

“The Lannisters never need know it.” Jon leans forward. Meticulously during their week at sea he’d fitted the pieces together, the pieces to a plan salvaged from fleeing with Sansa, a plan that Doran might accept. “No one need know who she truly is. I could keep her hidden. Her hair is already dyed, and we are half a world away from the Lannisters. Only you, Oberyn, and Hotah know the truth for now. When the time comes, I could-”

“You will do nothing.” Doran’s voice is sharp. “You have done enough already. It was folly to let Oberyn take you as his squire. What you have done has endangered us all. For the love of my daughter I will not send you back to the Lannisters for them to do with you as they may, but do not doubt that I will not forget what you have done.”

Jon draws back, ears ringing as though he’d been slapped. “What I did, I did for the good of Dorne. Sansa is valuable. She is the last Stark.”

“And what would you know of the good of Dorne? It is not your place to decide what is or is not for the good of our land.”

Of course it is not my place. Bitterness knifes through Jon, keen and cruel. Do you think I don’t know that? That I would ever forget I will never truly be of Dorne in your eyes? That I will only ever be some Stark’s whelp? Born in Dorne, but never of it, not truly.

“Will that be all, your grace?” Jon cannot keep the vicious bitterness from his words. “I would take your leave.”

Doran waves a hand, dismissing him. “Tomorrow you will return to Sunspear. Keep the lady Stark hidden until I say else. Whatever your folly in taking her, she is our guest now.”

Jon bows to the prince and turns to take his leave. He has only made it a few steps though before Doran speaks. “Why did you take her?” Doran’s voice is soft, barely carrying above the murmur of the orange leaves above them. “The truth this time, Sand.”

“I could not leave her.” Jon swallows, throat dry, and knows it’s the truth, the truth he couldn’t speak to Sansa on the ship, the truth he couldn’t admit even to himself. “I had no choice. She’s my blood.”

[amaximumtastemakercollection]

Dany, Catelyn and the Seven Colours of the Rainbow.

RED:

"We will have it all back someday, sweet sister," he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. "The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King's Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back." Viserys lived for that day. All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.

(Daenerys I, AGOT)

Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. "Ned," she called softly.

(Catelyn I, AGOT)

ORANGE:

The heart was steaming in the cool evening air when Khal Drogo set it before her, raw and bloody. His arms were red to the elbow. Behind him, his bloodriders knelt on the sand beside the corpse of the wild stallion, stone knives in their hands. The stallion's blood looked black in the flickering orange glare of the torches that ringed the high chalk walls of the pit.

(Daenerys V, AGOT)

Flickering torchlight danced across the walls, making the faces seem half-alive, twisting them, changing them. The statues in the great septs of the cities wore the faces the stonemasons had given them, but these charcoal scratchings were so crude they might be anyone. The Father's face made her think of her own father, dying in his bed at Riverrun. The Warrior was Renly and Stannis, Robb and Robert, Jaime Lannister and Jon Snow. She even glimpsed Arya in those lines, just for an instant. Then a gust of wind through the door made the torch sputter, and the semblance was gone, washed away in orange glare.

(Catelyn IV. ACOK)

YELLOW:

The trickle he started soon swelled to a flood. Trader captains brought lace from Myr, chests of saffron from Yi Ti, amber and dragonglass out of Asshai. Merchants offered bags of coin, silversmiths rings and chains. Pipers piped for her, tumblers tumbled, and jugglers juggled, while dyers draped her in colors she had never known existed. A pair of Jogos Nhai presented her with one of their striped zorses, black and white and fierce. A widow brought the dried corpse of her husband, covered with a crust of silvered leaves; such remnants were believed to have great power, especially if the deceased had been a sorcerer, as this one had. And the Tourmaline Brotherhood pressed on her a crown wrought in the shape of a three-headed dragon; the coils were yellow gold, the wings silver, the heads carved from jade, ivory, and onyx.

(Daenerys III, ACOK)

As the long fingers of dawn fanned across the fields, color was returning to the world. Where grey men had sat grey horses armed with shadow spears, the points of ten thousand lances now glinted silverly cold, and on the myriad flapping banners Catelyn saw the blush of red and pink and orange, the richness of blues and browns, the blaze of gold and yellow. All the power of Storm's End and Highgarden, the power that had been Renly's an hour ago. They belong to Stannis now, she realized, even if they do not know it themselves yet. Where else are they to turn, if not to the last Baratheon? Stannis has won all with a single evil stroke.

(Catelyn IV, ACOK)

GREEN:

Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords

(Daenerys I, AGOT)

In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.

(Catelyn I, AGOT)

BLUE:

. Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire. . . . mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . . Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . .

(Daenerys IV, ACOK)

"Lady Catelyn, you are wrong." Brienne regarded her with eyes as blue as her armor. "Winter will never come for the likes of us. Should we die in battle, they will surely sing of us, and it's always summer in the songs. In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining."

(Catelyn II, ACOK)

INDIGO:

Viserys, was her first thought the next time she paused, but a second glance told her otherwise. The man had her brother's hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. "Aegon," he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. "What better name for a king?"

(Daenerys IV, ACOK)

The eastern sky was rose and gold as the sun broke over the Vale of Arryn. Catelyn Stark watched the light spread, her hands resting on the delicate carved stone of the balustrade outside her window. Below her the world turned from black to indigo to green as dawn crept across fields and forests. Pale white mists rose off Alyssa's Tears, where the ghost waters plunged over the shoulder of the mountain to begin their long tumble down the face of the Giant's Lance. Catelyn could feel the faint touch of spray on her face.

(Catelyn VII, ACOK)

VIOLET:

"A gift from the Magister Illyrio," Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. "The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess."

(Daenerys I, AGOT)

And they told how afterward Ned had carried Ser Arthur's sword back to the beautiful young sister who awaited him in a castle called Starfall on the shores of the Summer Sea. The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes.

It might be interesting to note that Dany and Catelyn are the only two POV characters, (as far as I can tell, I only had a quick check, so I could be wrong) who have all seven colours of the rainbow referenced at least once in their chapters.