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humanpurposes · 2 months ago

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Karma is a God, Chapter 17: Blood is Unambiguous

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood.

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Warnings for this chapter: 18+, spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, angst, mentions of death and war

A/n: Realised I copy pasted the whole chapter rather than a snippet, and because I am that lazy, have the whole chapter.

Full chapter is on AO3

A white raven arrives from the Citadel at Oldtown; winter has begun. Luke has felt the shift of the season, the cold mornings in the training yard when she watches Joffrey swing a wooden sword under the guidance of Ser Lorent, the gloomy grey skies and piercing winds. Sometimes she can convince herself she is back at Dragonstone. Blackwater Bay roars as it tosses fishing boats and the ships of the Velaryon fleet on its surface, as it sends waves crashing against the cliff faces along the shore below the Red Keep.

In the early mornings, before she is due to rise for meetings of the Small Council, Luke watches through the eyes of her dragon as he dives for fish and eels. She feels that he is content with the familiarity of the mist and the harsher weather, and she knows that this is not merely a dream.

She’s found books in the library detailing legends from ages long gone by, of the First Men and the Age of Heroes, warring Kings, whispers of demons from the North, the children of the forest, skinchangers, greenseers, men who could see through the eyes of birds, rodents and wolves. She knows these tales from childhood; Harwin Strong knew all sorts of stories and saw lots of strange things growing up at Harrenhal, trees with faces and bleeding eyes, ghosts and living, breathing memories.

She feels the spray of the sea against her scales, the taste of fresh fish on her tongue, her wings steady through the wind as the Red Keep comes back into view…

In her moments of curiosity she hears the delicate voice of Alys Rivers in the back of her head. “Blood is unambiguous.”

When she sits before her mirror and watches her handmaiden twist her dark curls into braids, she tries to imagine herself with her mother’s silver hair, with Ser Leanor’s warm brown eyes and his sailor’s hands. When she looks at herself she sees Jace and Joffrey. She sees the man they were told not to mourn when he perished in his father’s castle. Blood of the dragon, blood of the Riverlands. A bastard in the eyes of some, a Princess in the eyes of others, now heir to the Iron Throne.

Jace had always said their parentage was of no consequence, but he had sounded unsure in that himself. Simply as a consequence of age he knew Harwin Strong better than she did and had clearer memories of him. He knew of the rumours whispered amongst the courtiers when they resided at the Red Keep. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” so long as they had their dragons, so long as they had the protection of the crown.

She’s searched the history books, mythologies and legends. Dragons are a different kind of magic, so maester Geradys says, bound to the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria with ancient blood magic, the likes of which Westeros may never know. Rhaenyra says dragons are a power men should never have trifled with, that they are not to be controlled outright. Yet Luke had been able to tell Grey Ghost to dive into the God’s Eye and pluck a body from the water. No command, no tug on his reins. She hadn’t even been sitting in the saddle, it was as if she was the dragon itself, acting on her own will.

Is that proof then? If she asked Rhaenyra if she has ever lived through the mind of Syrax would she understand? Or would she think she was mad? If she asked maester Geradys if the greenmen had ever seen through the eyes of dragons… it would be an impossibility.

Dressed in a black gown, rubies dripping from a silver necklace like splatters of blood against her skin, she determines she is ready to face the Small Council, Corlys, Geradys, Lord Bar Eammon, Lord Masey, Lord Celtigar, the Manderlys, and standing along the left side of the room, the Dragonseeds, Hugh, Ulf, Addam, Nettles.

She takes her place at the head of the table, standing above her mother’s seat. “Well met,” she says. “What news from the Reach?”

Vermithor and Silverwing had flown over King’s Landing this morning, returning from their errand.

Hugh takes a small step forward. “The Hightowers have Bitterbridge.”

The Lords murmur in concern.

“What of the Caswells?”

“Lord Caswell’s widow surrendered her castle easily enough; her children have been sent to Oldtown as captives.”

“And what of their army?”

“Some have gathered at Tumbleton, along with the Footlys. Our force there is little over half the size of the Hightower host.”

“But you did not fight?” Corlys asks.

“No,” Hugh says.

“I would have thought Silvering and Vermithor would be more than enough to match the strength of one young dragon?”

Ulf scowls. “And if the Northmen had marched when they were summoned, we might have a sizeable army by now.”

With a sharp look from Luke he is silenced.

Jace trusted Lord Cregan enough to think she would be safe with him when her body was still broken, enough to protect her. They swore oaths to each other sealed in blood. She must also trust he will come to her when the time is right.

Master Geradys speaks next. “Rather crucially, Princess, this morning I received a raven from Winterfell. Cregan Stark has begun the march south, with twenty thousand Northmen at his back.”

“At long last,” she says. It will take them a month at the very least, assuming they do not meet any resistance on their journey, which could be very well if the Riverlands are not secured. When Cregan makes it south their fates will be sealed. Armies will collide, the fields of the Crownlands will be watered with blood. The war will be won or lost. And in time she will be made his wife– the thought weighs heavily in her stomach. A month. Can we hold King’s Landing for another month?

“You will be grateful for our Lord’s support when his army comes,” Torrehn Manderly says with a pointed look to Ulf.

Luke turns to a map, upright, carved with the landscape of the continent. It marks King’s Landing, Bitterbridge, Tumbleton, Harrenhal, Casterly Rock, The Twins, Winterfell.”

“What footing are we left with in the Riverlands? Does Sabitha Frey continue to besiege The Twins?”

“She will make quick work of it now,” Lord Celtigar says, “Jason Lannister will receive no relief from the Westerlands now that the Greyjoys are attacking from the sea. By all accounts, Lady Joanna has locked the gates of Casterly Rock and will wait out the raids.”

“The path through the Riverlands should be clear then,” Luke says. While the Lannisters are overwhelmed and Criston Cole’s men are scattered, the Blackwoods and the surviving men of the Riverlands are regrouping, readying to march south.

“We’ll send a raven to Dalton Greyjoy and tell him that Queen Rhaenyra is thankful for his efforts,” Lord Corlys says.

“For raiding innocents at Lannisport?” Luke says.

“For keeping the Lannisters occupied, and so that we may focus our efforts where they are needed most.”

Her chest sinks. She cannot deny that the Greyjoy’s are doing them a service, and it surely cannot be worse than what the Triarchy did to Hull and Hightide. Fire for fire, blood for blood, an endless exchange.

She moves to the map. Her fingers ghost over Storm’s End and Bitterbridge. “Our efforts must go towards ensuring the city’s defence,” she says.

“So we will sit and wait to anticipate an attack?” Lord Celtigar asks.

Doing otherwise was Aemond’s mistake when he held King’s Landing. Without Vhagar, the city was theirs to take. She will not repeat his shortcomings. She cannot afford to. “The throne is ours to defend. We keep our strength here.”

“The dragons,” Hugh says. The eyes of the lords fall upon him as if he has stated some sort of insult.

One dragon remains against their own and armies will burn easily enough.

“Ulf and Hugh, you will go to Tumbleton and ensure the town is defended. Daeron is a capable dragonrider, but he will not make the mistake to challenge Vermithor and Silverwing together now that he is vulnerable.”

The men exchange a curious look.

“If I may be so bold, Princess,” Hugh says, keeping his hands clasped in front of him, still wearing his riding leathers from his flight on Vermithor, his silver hair pulled out of his face. “As Queen Rhaenyra now holds King’s Landing, and we all have valiantly continued to defend her throne, one cannot help but wonder about his own standing.”

“Your standing?” Luke says.

Ulf takes a step forward now. “The realm is full of traitors, Princess; Hightowers, Baratheons, Lannisters. Did Prince Daemon not say he would see an end to their lines?”

“Do you fancy yourself a new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Ser Ulf? And you?” she says to Hugh.

His face is not so severe, a little hesitant, but he finds his boldness. “I would have Highgarden.”

“Highgarden!” Lord Celtigar cries. “Now that is an ambition, when the Tyrells have sworn to take no part in this war?”

“The Lord of Highgarden is a boy, and his mother has sat idly while her bannermen have taken up arms against the true Queen,” Hugh says, only ever looking at Luke. “Would it not serve you better to have Lords who are loyal to you?”

Now she feels the eyes of the council upon her, men who need to respect her orders, her authority, her legitimacy. She slowly traces her steps back to the head of the table. “It would disturb the order of the world,” she says.

“And is that not precisely what we are?” Hugh says, letting his insinuation linger for just a moment too long, “us Dragonseeds? The Queen has established a new order, she did the moment she called upon us to claim the dragons.”

“You would do well to remember your place nevertheless,” Corlys says.

Ulf scoffs. “What of the place of your own bastards, my Lord? Would you remind them of their place?”

Addam shifts on his feet, a man with a gentle enough disposition, a fighter nonetheless. Nettles meets his eyes and shakes her head softly. All the men at the table are getting restless.

“Only the Queen has the power to grant you what you seek,” Luke says, “and alas, I am not the Queen.”

Hugh is a man of formidable strength, a blacksmith, with well worn hands that have bent metal to his will. He rides what is now the largest dragon in the world, he has the silver hair of his mother’s house, some might say the image of a King.

Luke remains steadfast. She cannot afford to be anything less. If they all share the same blood then what distinguishes them? She is the daughter of the Queen. Out of right or circumstance, the gods, in their strange workings, have placed her at the head of this council.

Hugh’s shoulders soften. “When would you have us fly to Tumbleton, Princess?” he asks.

Luke ensures that he holds her gaze. “On the morrow. Perhaps the morning will be best.”

“Very well,” he says and strides from the room, Ulf trailing behind him like a dog.

Their business continues in a solemn quiet, as if they are gathered around a grave that no one dares to mention.

Once the council has dispersed, Corlys remains seated and catches his granddaughter’s eye. “I do not trust those men,” he says. “They will keep pushing to see their demands met.”

“They command dragons,” Luke says. He knows as well as her, this cannot be undone.

After breakfast, Luke leads Joffrey down to the entrance yard. He takes up a small wooden sword and puts all his might into swinging at a stack of straw, occasionally corrected by Ser Lorent. He often makes the promise to himself that he’ll be as fierce a fighter as Jacaerys or Daemon.

“You fight well, little knight,” Luke says when he has finally exhausted himself.

He frowns, knowing he’ll be wanted inside for his lessons, a venture he finds far more tedious than swordsmanship. “Couldn’t we stay out a while longer?”

“A Prince has other duties than battle,” she says.

“Couldn’t we go to the Dragonpit? Tyraxes must miss me terribly.”

The thought makes her heart sink. Tyraxes has spent his life on Dragonstone, by his rider’s side or roaming the Dragonmount. He is still young, grieved to be alone as all children are.

“Perhaps another time.”

“Why not now?”

It can be heard in the sounds of the city. The markets are desolate. No food has come from the Reach since the outbreak of war. The Velaryon blockade has been lifted and allowed trade in from Essos, but the sea is depleted of fish and many in King’s Landing do not have the coin to pay for food. Ser Luthor Largent of the City Watch says the people of the city are becoming like dogs tearing each other apart for scraps.

Luke leads her brother back towards the Keep. “It is safer for us inside the castle walls. These are dangerous times.”

“But you still get to ride Grey Ghost.”

“Grey Ghost is wild. I do not think I could command him to go to the Dragon Pit if I tried.”

Joffrey’s head hangs as they climb the steps to the entrance hall. “Tyraxes doesn’t like to be apart from me.”

“You’ll be returned to him soon enough, I swear it.”

A distant roar pierces the air. On the battlements and beyond the walls are cries of “dragon!”

Joffrey clings to Luke’s side. She turns her gaze to the sky, unsure of what to expect.

“It is Vermithor and Silverwing!” a voice cries from the castle walls.

There is a sense of relief amongst the men, the scorpions positioned towards the sky are eased in their aim. The panic has dispersed but Luke’s grip on Joffrey’s hand tightens. On the morrow, she said, but Hugh and Ulf have brazenly disobeyed her orders.

The doors open twice a day, once as Geradys enters, and again when he leaves. The guards watch Aemond from within their armour, hands on their swords. He stares back as if he knows he could kill them with his bare hands. At least they fear him.

Geradys sees to his wounds, brings him broth boiled from bones and gritty, dry bread. He has asked for proper meat only to be old there is none for him. He might as well starve, at least he would not have to have such a poor excuse for food pass his lips.

He is restless, pacing the room, lying in his bed, sitting on the edge of it and staring down at his hands. Sometimes he stands by the window to remind himself that there is life beyond the walls of this chamber. He counts the tiled roofs and watches people moving through the streets like Helaena watches her pets through the bars of their cages. By the time he left King’s Landing he was hated by the smallfolk. What of it? They are made to obey, to revere Kings and Princes. What sort of life can Rhaenyra offer them that he could not when he wore the crown?

Otherwise he has taken to tormenting himself to pass his hours of isolation, because all he can think of is Lucerra.

She is in the same castle as him, wandering the halls, making commands of those around her, her mother’s heir. Every time he hears footsteps outside his door he holds his breath, waiting to see if the door will open and if she will enter his room.

Days pass since that first night and she does not come.

At night, when he tells himself the gods will turn their eyes from him, he clutches his hand over his throat, imagining it is hers. He feels the weight of her on top of him and pictures her legs straddled on either side of his body. He traces his fingertips along the same path down his chest, over the array of bruises around his ribs, stomach and navel.

She had been so delicate, ghosting over his skin like a gentle breath. His lips had been so close to her. If he had not been so startled he might have kissed her. An unusual impulse, one he had entertained the night his father died, and then some.

He can picture that less clearly with time, her sighs of pleasure as she slowly gave into him, the heat of her tight, wet cunt around his fingers. It made sense, didn’t it? Everything she had taken from him, wasn’t he owed something from her? He supposes now they are far past the constant exchanging.

“How many dead?” Rhaenyra asks from her throne. She keeps her hands in her lap, shrinking into herself so no part of her skin can touch the blades she sits upon.

A matter of days into winter and the violence has already begun.

“We lost at least twenty men,” Ser Luthor says, helm under his arm and his gold cloak splattered with blood. “We anticipate perhaps a hundred smallfolk have lost their lives, either in the crush or at the hands of the city watch. There may be many more injured.”

Rhaenyra remains unchanged in the face of the tragedy, beautiful and cold.

The crown’s coffers were empty when they took the capital at the orders of Tyland Lannister, as he confessed under sharp questioning. He sent the gold to a number of Green strongholds and he is yet to admit exactly which. What does it matter where the gold is? If it is in the Reach or the Westerlands, they have no hope of retrieving it.

Daemon said from the outset, the city cannot be held without gold. The war cannot be fought without gold.

Under Rhaenyra’s orders, tithes have been taken from the people of King’s Landing and the rest of the Crownlands, gold, weapons and armour, food, livestock for the dragons, all in the name of protecting the realm, ending the war, defending the throne.

This is what it has come to. A cart containing stores of grain and enough gold to pay Rhaenyra’s men-at-arms had been brought through the city and the people descended upon it like vultures to a carcass, only there were more than scraps to be had, more than slivers of rotten flesh clinging to bones. Not even the horses had been spared, ripped apart for their meat in the frenzy.

“How can the captains of the city watch have allowed this to happen?” Corlys demands, standing at the foot of the throne. Luke stands beside him.

“My Lord, we are commanded to bring order to the city. Those who attacked the cart were not deterred by our threats. Something had to be done.”

“And you chose to deal them death,” Corlys says.

“We did what we could to protect the crown’s property.”

Corlys brings his hands in front of him in defeat and disgust. He turns to the Queen and says with no amount of subtlety, “this cannot go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes full of fire. “I will put this right by ending the war.”

As the court is dismissed and disperses, Corlys leans into Luke’s ear and hisses, “a war she herself refuses to fight.”

An uncertain feeling flashes through her heart. Corlys’ doubt feels like a betrayal. “You would not suggest our Queen put her own life at risk, I hope,” she says gravely, carrying a warning in her voice.

He gives her a questioning look. “My ships still defend the city, my men are sworn to the true Queen.”

“And with your support, we shall prevail,” she says.

Rhaenyra descends the steps of the throne, the crown set upon her head, her gown heavy and scaled like the hide of a dragon, save for a cut of red fabric in the skirts, like a tear through flesh. “Come, daughter,” she says solemnly, reaching out her hand for Luke to take.

With a final look to her grandfather, and a check to make sure Ser Lorent was indeed out of earshot of their musings, Luke obeys her mother.

They walk through the castle and return to the Queen’s chambers. A handmaiden waits to remove Rhaenyra’s crown. She cannot get it off fast enough, nor her gold rings and her heavy necklace while Luke waits by the door.

“You sent Vermithor and Silverwing from King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra says.

“The Hightowers took Bitterbridge. They could be weeks way. Hugh and Ulf will hold Tumbleton and deter the approaching army.”

Rhaenyra says nothing, taking a seat at a desk by the window, facing the daylight.

“Seasmoke and Grey Ghost will defend the city well enough if Daeron tries to attack, but he will not risk it I think, not without an army.”

“What of our army?”

Luke hesitates, unsure of what Rhaenyra will know, how far she has been briefed by Corlys or maester Geradys. “Cregan Stark has left Winterfell, the Rivermen are regrouping. I thought I might send Nettles and Sheepstealer north to encourage our allies.”

Her mother has been silent for days, even a simple hum of agreement feels like a victory.

“And Baela remains on Dragonstone, we could easily summon her should we need another dragon.” In her mind it all comes together easily, as long as their allies do not delay, as long as the Baratheons continue to wait, as long as they have the dragons, as long as the city holds.

There’s a nauseating feeling in her stomach, the scent of blood lingering in her nose. Blood on a golden cloak. Blood stains at the foot of the Iron Throne.

“You are so like your brother,”

Something inside of her shatters, crumbling foundations. The space behind her eyes burns but her hands are cold and the grip she has learned to have on her own mourning slips through her fingers like water.

“He was like this too. When you were gone he knew what to do. How did he know what to do? He was scarcely a man, he had seen no battles or wars.” When Rhaenyra looks over her shoulder, the dying daylight burns like a fire behind her, catching in her silver hair. “The two of you, so pragmatic.”

Luke took no fall for Jace, no sword in her gut. No fire burned her to charred remains. Her skin was not left bruised after he died, but the pain has lingered for far longer than any other she has known. She can’t stand it, the anger it fuels. Why remind me? Why remind me he is dead?

“You should meet with the Small Council on the morrow, mother. Your Lords may begin to rue your absence.” They already have.

Rhaenyra’s silhouette against the light does not seem to shift.

Geradys comes as he always does. Aemond drinks the vile bone broth and forces stale bread down his throat. His bandages are changed, some strong smelling oil placed on his temples, honey lathered over the cut on his lip.

Then he is instructed to stand, to raise his arms as though a squire is about to dress him in armour. Instead he winces at the aching in his chest. Geradys pats his hands around the bandages. “You are making progress, I think. How is the pain?”

It is easing, little by little. “Tolerable,” Aemond says.

When night comes and he is alone, he waits for sleep to claim him so he can see the faces of his family, but even his dreams have abandoned him now. He is restless for hours, fading in and out of darkness until the first glimpses of sunrise.

What would Alys say to that, dreamless sleep? She might say the gods have forsaken him. She might say he is nothing now, a being of purely organic existence, mechanical like the life of an insect, an animal kept captive.

But what did any of his dreams mean to her? “Retribution will come with fire and fury,” she said, but in the end she meant it to come at the point of a knife wielded by her own hands. Why? Why taunt him with her visions? Why had he allowed himself to be tempted?

He had thought it meant Lucerra. If anyone should claim retribution in the ending of his life, surely it would be her.

He is not absolved and he knows this, but perhaps he has outlived his usefulness. Helaena and his mother are in the same castle as him and now their enduring lives are a matter of strategy, as Lucerra had made clear. In a silent prayer to the Seven, he wishes– begs that his brother can stay hidden, dead or alive. Just until Aemond can regain his strength, until he can fight his way out of this room, or to find some other advantage.

Since when did a locked door render him powerless?

There are two people left in the Red Keep who may know where Aegon is.

Alicent Hightower stays in her chambers. Rhaenyra allows her to keep a Septa in her company and the guards say she does nothing but weep and pray. Maester Geradys says her knees are bloody and bruised where she kneels on the stone floor, clutching a pendant of the seven pointed star until that too pricks at the flesh of her palms.

When Luke enters Helaena’s chambers the air is stone cold. No fire is lit despite the turning weather. Helaena sits on the floor amongst a collection of pillows and furs, deeply concentrated on a piece of embroidery. When she hears footsteps, her head lifts to the door, eyes are wide and more alert than they have been for months. “You’ve come to ask something of me,” she says.

The air of the room is fragile. Luke’s heart races in her chest knowing what her question will bring. She steps towards Helaena cautiously, smiling as kindly as she can, lowering herself to sit beside her.

Helaena’s hands are frozen in her work, sewing black thread into green and gold fabric, in a pattern like winged insects.

“I wish to know how you are,” Luke says.

Helaena tilts her head. Her lips are fallen and her brow is focused. Luke had never thought there was much of a resemblance between her mother and her aunt, and now she sees it. “Last night I dreamt that my son was in my arms. I rocked him though he was already sleeping and when I placed my fingers against his cheek, his skin was cold.”

“Do you know where Maelor is?”

Helaena presses her lips together. Her eyes have dropped to the fabric in her hands and she shakes her head.

“Did someone take him from you?”

“I cannot say,” she picks up her embroidery with trembling hands, tracing her fingers over the black thread. “He wasn’t with me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, not after– all I’d see when I looked at him was blood.”

After the twins, after she watched them die.

“Rhaenyra has called for his return to the Red Keep. It is our hope he will be returned to you.”

Helaena snatches her hand around Luke’s wrist. Her grip is fierce and unrelenting. It hurts and all Luke can do is look at her reddened, glistening eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Helaena, If it is in my power, I will see your son kept safe.”

“But I saw…” she frowns to herself, dragging her hands over her eyes to dry them. “Perhaps I have been mistaken.”

“Your dreams,” Luke says. Blood and water, green and black, blue and green, dragons and ghosts. The trail of blood.

“I cannot make sense of them sometimes. I saw the rats, I knew they’d want the boy but they took both.”

“When you dreamt of Maelor, where were you?”

“I saw Aemond’s death, I saw him swallowed up in the God’s Eye, and yet you tell me he is alive. I saw you at the Weirwood, with that woman, the Rivers woman.”

“Heleana please,”

“Do you think I would direct you to him even if I knew where he was?” she says sadly, sharply.

It takes Luke by surprise. “I swear, I would never wish harm upon him.”

“His life is a threat to your mother’s rule. Perhaps you would not seek to hurt him, he is only a child, he is your kin, but Rhaenyra has claimed the lives of two of my children already.”

“She never meant for them to die.”

“Should I not grieve them then?”

Luke can hardly find breath to speak. “Yes, yes of course you should. They were children.”

“But you didn’t come here to mourn Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. And if you seek Maelor then you seek his father.”

Luke knows she shouldn’t press her. She loathes herself, her own cruelty to torment her aunt in the face of her grief.

Helaena frowns, but then all the rage and sadness fades from her face. She looks to Luke with such honesty and sincerity. Her voice is a harsh whisper. “Aegon will be King again. He is yet to see victory.”

Luke had not thought Helaena capable of bluffing. She could be lying. Her dreams could have misled her. She could have said it in a moment of anger, of desperation. What does she have left? She doesn't even know where her last remaining child is, if he is safe, if he is dead or alive.

She leaves Helaena to her embroidery. The winged insects were flies, she realises.

What Helaena said cannot be true. Rhaenyra has seven fighting dragons at her disposal. Their allies are marching. The Hightowers may be inching closer to King’s Landing but the rest of the Green forces are scattered. Their King is missing, their Regent is her prisoner…

Her skin tightens at the very thought of seeing him again, braving that confining little chamber once more. To feel his eye burning into her.

But who would be able to make sense of Helaena’s musings better than her brother?

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates <3

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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greenmenbuilders · 3 months ago

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At Greenmen Builders, we believe that the quality of materials used in a project is just as important as the craftsmanship. We source only the finest materials to ensure that your remodel not only looks great but also stands the test of time.

4. Comprehensive Services

We offer a wide range of remodeling services, including kitchen remodeling, bathroom remodeling, and whole-home renovations. Our team can handle everything from minor updates to major transformations, making us your one-stop shop for all your remodeling needs.

5. Transparent Pricing

We believe in providing transparent pricing with no hidden fees. Our detailed quotes outline all costs upfront, so you know exactly what to expect. This approach ensures that there are no surprises and that your project stays within budget.

6. Local Expertise

As a local remodeling contractor in Needham, MA, we understand the unique needs and preferences of homeowners in the area. Our familiarity with local building codes and regulations ensures that your project is completed smoothly and efficiently.

WHY OUR CUSTOMERS LOVE US

At Greenmen Builders, our customers' satisfaction is our top priority. We are committed to providing a level of service that exceeds expectations. Here are some reasons why our customers love us:

Personalized Attention: We take the time to listen to our customers and understand their unique needs and preferences. This personalized approach ensures that each project reflects the homeowner's vision and style.

High-Quality Workmanship: Our team of skilled professionals is dedicated to delivering high-quality workmanship on every project. We pay attention to the smallest details to ensure that the final result is flawless.Timely Completion: We understand the importance of completing projects on time. Our team works diligently to ensure that your remodel is finished within the agreed-upon timeframe, so you can start enjoying your new space as soon as possible.

Clear Communication: We believe that clear communication is key to a successful project. From the initial consultation to the final walkthrough, we keep our customers informed and involved at every step of the process.

Competitive Pricing: We offer competitive pricing without compromising on quality. Our transparent quotes and detailed estimates ensure that you get the best value for your investment.

Greenmen Builders 399 Chestnut St, Needham, MA 02492, United States (857) 829-6258

Find us online:

Our Website: https://greenmenbuilders.com/

Google Maps: https://www.google.com/maps/place/?cid=7456657810683539521

facebook: https://www.facebook.com/innovativestonesrq/posts/about-greenmen-builders-boston-kitchen-remodeler-green-builders-was-founded-in-2/3191902754398240/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/greenmenbuildersus/?invite_code=7667c72445964e658fe9b423edbc5e32&sender=874472590054471953

Yelp: https://www.yelp.com/biz/greenmen-builders-boston-2

Medium: https://medium.com/@greenmenbuilders/greenmen-builders-fe82005b973c

Proven Expert: https://www.provenexpert.com/greenmen-builders/

The Work Tool: https://theworktool.com/listing/greenmen-builders/

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