#helaena being the only daughter means she escapes it but AEMOND

[fruitageoforanges]

my latest fic-writing revelation: luke and aemond are both middle child mama’s boys. not sure what that reveals, but it sure does say something.

[laenyrasdarling]

Hiii! Can i ask for an Haelena/ fem! Targaryen reader headcanons? No nsfw but romantic. Reader is the daughter of Rhea Royce and Daemon

.ೃ࿐helaena targaryen x fem!targaryen/royce!reader 

✦ some notes on the setting; pre-dance, with helaegon and the twins (+ aegon’s debauchery) still present, daemyra being alluded to whilst he’s married (frostily) to rhea and she to laenor, vizzy t’s in a somewhat fortunate state of health, i am here for helaena her only and the worldbuilding Shall reflect it

ׂׂૢ having spent much all of your formative years residing in the grassy hills and wild thatches of runestone with your mother and her family, your varyingly absent father’s request to depart to king’s landing not long after your coming of eight and ten felt like something not very far between a dare and a terror. 

ׂׂૢ as abbarantly furious as this suggestion had initially made your dear mother and grandsire, over the course of some weeks your gentle insinuations that some winters in the red-roofed capital may be of benefit to a silver-haired, violet-eyed lady such as yourself before she returned to her homeland to continue her path ontoward ruling runestone in her mother’s footsteps, you successfully found enough cracks in your doting family’s bronzed armour to see them abate. 

ׂׂૢ so armed with enough belongings to last you from late spring to the following summer and the strongly pressed guidance from your grandsire that this temporary dalliance was only so you’d return equipped with better skills and knowledge with which to one day rule over your true homeland, you set sail for king’s landing. knowing all at once that you were only permitted to embark on this journey for varying ploys that were not yours - your grandsire’s to see you evolve to a competent ruler, your father’s to better his standings in your all but estranged uncle viserys’ eyes - you tried to not let these meddling hands of fate dissuade you from also using this time for your own endeavours.

ׂׂૢ and none so prevalent was that mission made to you than when you first laid eyes on the princess helaena upon your arrival to the red keep.

ׂׂૢ this was around the time you first found yourself thankful for your father’s meddling, as his suggesting in his letter that you make yourself of use to your hosts and aid the lady helaena in her childrearing and courtly duties meant that you arrived pre-prepared with a reason to find yourself in her company so often. as frostily as things began, with you nervously hovering around the edge of the room as the twins played and she sewed stiffly, with suppertimes just as cold with the added intrusions of her fool husband and snide-tongued younger brother, summer had barely begun to depart on your first year when things began brightening.

ׂׂૢ your transition from outcast to dearly-held began in benign ways - jaehaera growing familiar with your shadow-still presence in the family’s quarters and growing bold enough to beckon you forth with a chubby-fisted hand, that held aloft a dragon figurine for you to join her in play with. then came your wine-fuelled back-and-forths with aemond at the dinnertable, earning you both your cousins’ delicately-balanced respect, along with that of ser otto - and later, when helaena would find herself peering from over parapets to catch a glimpse of you besting even some of the kingsguard in the training yard with your bow skills.

ׂׂૢ the gradual quality with which you immerse yourself into her life escapes even her, until she begins to find herself noticing when your relentless energy and imaginative ploys are absent from the twins’ mornings and when you deem to take ale with aemond and his goons instead of joining her and alicent for supper. 

ׂׂૢ her status as a crown princess, and one betrothed to the king’s eldest son at that, taken into account, means that it’s probably once in a blood moon that helaena needs to ask for anything. which is what makes it mean all the more than it already does when she starts asking for your company.

ׂׂૢ and oh, how unendingly glad is she that she did.

ׂׂૢ her droll mornings become filled with your endlessly interesting talk of runestone, and your studies, and the things you’ve noticed since your arrival here (much of which she may not quite understand, but loves to listen to all the same). you’re by her side for each meandering stroll through the gardens that seems to take longer and longer each passing day, for every family meal that you manage to instill life and laughter into, for each lavish ball that she no longer fears now that she has you on her arm to keep her grounded and safe.

ׂׂૢ it’s the confident ease that you carry yourself with that endears helaena to you so much. how no task, no conversation, no idea is below or above you; that you’ll see the good and the worth in everything and everyone like it’s as easy as breathing.

ׂׂૢ so really, it’s no wonder that when it’s drawing late one night and you haven’t swung by her quarters with that darling smile of yours to wish her goodnight like you always do that when she goes in search of you, she finds you having dismissed the handmaids for the night and taken to tidying up the twins’ toys and study materials yourself. in the light of the still-flickering hearth, you look as heavenly a woman as helaena’s ever seen; so she’d be forgiven for finding herself kneeling so very close to you on the stone floor as she helps you stow figurines and charcoals away, and for losing herself in your lilac eyes that she doesn’t realise she’s leaning in until her lips are already on yours.

ׂׂૢ from there, it’s another slow descent - but helaena ensures not to miss a second of it this time around.

ׂׂૢ linked arms as you stroll through the gardens become held hands and guiding palms on the smalls of backs when no-one’s looking. the sewing lessons she’s insisted on walking you through end up looking more like you sitting back against her legs, as she loops her arms around yours and guides you through each stitch with her own hand, and now it’s a heatwave in the north before you’ll trade an evening with her for drinking with her fool brothers.

ׂׂૢ and you best believe, that’s only the very beginning.

ׂׂૢ she has dreamfyre saddled for two, and laughs through your terrified screams as she takes you so high into the clouds that you fear she’ll never possibly find her way back down. but really that’s your fault, as if you didn’t hand so tight onto her waist and bury your face into the crook of her neck, she would have no reason to delight in your flights as much as she does.

ׂׂૢ none of the articles of clothing you arrived with are now without alterations from her hand. a tiny, glittering arrow on a dress sleeve, a bronze-threaded neckline that seems to merge with an emerald-toned green as it sweeps down your back, all so subtle but done with love that they ease a smile onto your face every time they catch your notice again. and that’s not even taking into account the garments that are her design and commission alone, which now make up more than half of your wardrobe - rich, silken robes in every colour you could dream of, soft undershirts better suited to the warm climate of king’s landing than the heavy cotton ones you brought with you, gowns to match hers for all the balls she now drags you to on her arm.

ׂׂૢ her demure nature accounted for, she personally rejects any talks of vows for your hand - right down to seeing to it that all visiting noblewomen who appear to find too much interest in your bright eyes or warm laughter won’t find themselves having any business being in your company again.

ׂׂૢ on nights where she really just can’t bear to part with you until the morning, she’ll have her most trusted maidservants beguile her guards with a lie about her feeling poorly and asking you to stay with her for company; ensuring there’ll be no questions if anyone were to find the princess and a noblewoman entwined in bed together, cuddled so close it’s doubtful they could ever be parted.

ׂׂૢ it’s in moments like those, so sweet and so sacred, where the safety of your arms emboldens her so that she’ll dare to speak beyond the here and now. about her dreams of renouncing aegon, of taking the twins and you and flying as far as dreamfyre will take you, until you find a place that’s safe. safe for her to take you as your wife, for all the issues of succession and war to be a distant memory, where she can be a seamstress and you a farmer and the twins whatever they so want to be.

ׂׂૢ and torturously, those moments where she feels brave enough to speak plainly are the ones you find you just don't have the heart to give her the same honesty. so you kiss her forehead, brushing back silvery strands of hair as you settle in against one another and pray that your dreams lead you both to the same place where you may be able to live out that fantasy if only for a night.

[mejcinta]

HOTD S3 PLOTLINE IDEAS INCLUDING SOME BTS HINTS BY WRITERS, ACTORS AND MY OWN SPECULATION. PS: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T CUT MAELOR OR NETTLES!!!!

Aemond struggles with paranoia following the prophecy Helaena revealed to him, initially denying it and continuing in his quest for glory. Ewan also stated in an interview (to Hey U Guys, YouTube) that Aemond could oversee the breaking of the blockade. Will he be duped by the dragonseeds and Jace moving on 2 fronts i.e the Gullet AND King’s Landing, capturing it in his absence as he’s occupied at the Gullet?

Helaena is in more danger with Aemond than ever before (Sara Hess’ words).

Orwyle alone knows of Alicent’s treason. Aemond might confront him about Aegon’s disappearance.

Aegon’s escape might trigger Alicent to admit her treason.

Helaena disapproves of Alicent’s betrayal/compromise with Rhaenyra (Phia said that news would be a 'tough pill to swallow' for Helaena) while Aemond (IF POINT NUMBER 1 DOESN’T HAPPEN) is heartbroken and angry because Alicent chose Rhaenyra over him and his siblings. There’s no time left to hold Alicent accountable for her crime and he loves her too much to harm her. Thus his departure from KL will be one of urgency.

Aegon and Larys on a turbulent ‘road trip’ while on the run to Essos.

Alicent and Rhaenyra feud because of Aegon’s escape. When Otto is finally captured by the Blacks, a bitter Rhaenyra executes him in public before Alicent in retribution for Jace and baby Viserys. This widens the divide between the two women and severs their old bond. It’s all out war from here on out.

BEST OPTION: Helaena learns she is with child (Maelor) just when Alicent thinks her sons are free from Rhaenyra’s wrath. Having a male babe would mean Helaena would have to live in fear losing another son. S2 happens in the span of 6 weeks, so Maelor’s conception can fall between the dinner in s1 episode 8 and her encounter with Aegon after Jaehaerys’ funeral. Alicent has some few sympathizers left at court (maids and/spies connected to Larys). It is these people that help facilitate the escape of baby Maelor with Rickard in disguise.

Helaena and Alicent arrange for Jaehaera to be snuck out to safety to Storm’s End.

Daemon misinterprets the vision Alys showed him, becomes obsessed with it benefitting him directly e.g he believes Dany could be his future daughter with Rhaenyra (Ryan Condal said this).

Daemon fears Helaena because he saw her in his vision. This could be Helaena’s only saving grace, especially after Jace is killed by the Greens’ forces.

Mysaria forces Rhaenyra to contend with the fact that for as long as Helaena lives as a symbol of true Queenship to the smallfolk she stands little chance of being accepted and must get rid of her.

Mysaria disapproves of Alicent’s influence on Rhaenyra and will throw a wrench in their dynamic.

(ASSUMING MAELOR IS FOOLISHLY CUT FROM THE STORY, SMH) Ser Rickard’s demise leads many to believe that Jaehaera is dead too and this might throw Helaena into severe depression.

Aegon and Larys might get intercepted on their journey to Essos and be forced to change course to their nearest least suspicious location: Dragonstone. Tom Glynn Carney stated in an interview to the Nerdist that he’s not so sure whether Aegon and Larys will end up in Essos.

Ser Alfred Broome looks to Aegon for favor because now that Daemon knows he would readily betray Rhaenyra, his safety under the Blacks is at risk. He will be the one to welcome Aegon and Larys to Dragonstone and hide them.

Baela, who by now has lost both Rhaenys and Jace, stews in rage ad vengeance. As she divides her time between Dragonstone and Driftmark in the books, I expect that she’d be left in charge of Dragonstone (with Driftmark now sacked). She grows more suspicious of Ser Alfred and his activities.

Alys’ past is delved into (one of th writers promised this, can’t tell which one) as she struggles with 100 years of loneliness following Daemon’s departure (actress said Alys desires human connection). Turns out she has much in common with Aemond, who also feels alone and abandoned by his family.

Daeron rescues Otto from his jailors (this means the old man will be captured by the Blacks later on and be executed publically later on as well.)

Daeron might learn of Aegon’s whereabouts and communicate with him.

Aemond goes to Harrenhal and clashes with Alys at first. Their relationship will take time to develop #slowburn.

Rhaena saves little Aegon from the Triarchy/Tyland preserves Aegon and when the seeds capture them, he is arrested????

OR Jace is the one who tries to save his brothers but fails. Ultimately, Vermax, wounded in battle, flies to Dragonstone and dies on the beach with little Aegon still clinging to him. This way Jace dies having saved a brother heroically.

Addam’s identity is revealed and Rhaenyra starts to doubt Corlys’ intentions. This is the beginning of her paranoia arc.

Alyn and Corlys draw closer as father and son.

Aegon questions Larys’ intentions.

Larys uses his spy network to siphon intelligence from King’s Landing and Harrenhal.

Aegon secures Jaehaera either by himself or with the help of Storm’s End to whom he gives promise of a marriage alliance in exchange.

Sunfyre escapes a hunting party sent by Rhaenyra, confirming he is alive and able to fly. He begins his journey to Dragonstone.

OPINION: Swapping Nettles for Rhaena would be DIABOLICAL because that means Rhaena would have to suffer pure hatred from the woman she calls mother. And this being what separates Daemon from Rhaenyra doesn’t hit as hard as Daemon slowly losing faith in Rhaenyra as she descends into madness and paranoia, and at the same time Daemon starts to falsely see the vision of Dany manifest through Nettles, who he brings under his wing of protection.

It would be much better for Rhaena to FAIL in her attempt at claiming Sheepstealer. Have Jeyne take her back in and try to connect her to her little brothers again, who have probably left ahead of her by this time. Develop a mother-daughter dynamic between these two with Jeyne imparting some counsel. With the guilt of putting her little brothers in danger, Rhaena tries to gain the support of the Vale for Rhaenyra by reaching a deal with the Royces, who by now are still bitter about Daemon. And Daemon, who saw visions of Laena urging him to take care of their daughters, will defend Rhaena from Rhaenyra’s anger after the Battle of the Gullet. He will try to help Rhaenyra see sense, that the tragedy would have happened anyways, whether Rhaena was present with the children or not.

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen

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Author's Note: Happy Anniversary to Maiden! I'm so happy to those of you who've been on the journey from the start and those who have found this story along the way. We are in the final few chapters of this Arc! And to celebrate, I bring you amazing plot twists! All my love and thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend for holding my hand and being with me every step of the way, and @darkwolf76 who loved this story first.

If you're reading here on tumblr, I'd love to hear from you! My inbox is open and I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

CHAPTER TWENTY - I'm In Over My Head

We finally arrive at Harrenhal, where you cannot escape the ghosts.

It was a fortnight by horseback and only six hours by Sunfyre to Harrenhal, but the royal progress along the Kingsroad took a moon. The people needed to see them, the queen had insisted, refusing to let them stay and ride out on dragonback. Instead, Helaena would stay, Ser Criston at her side, and the sworn sword would fly with the princess in a month’s time. Baela would fly out with them on Moondancer, Jace on Vermax, and Aemond would accompany the royal progress without Vhagar.

Harrenhal could only house so many dragons.

Abby was ready to be done with it all; her body felt like it would never stop jostling even when she was out of the wheelhouse. The days on horseback were better, but even those had left her aching from her inexperience. Aegon had whispered in her ear that it would be good practice for her, and how precious she looked bowlegged. The ribald flirtation had sent a rush of heat and anticipation through her, as well as frustration with him for making light of how uncomfortable she’d been. For his cheek, she’d bundled herself in the wheelhouse with the Crane twins, Merei Thorne, and Floris, the latter of which had her hold her tongue to keep from ranting.

She missed Wylla.

Wylla, she knew, would loop her arm through hers and recount all the wonderful ways they could make Aegon miserable. Jesting, of course, though the pair regularly snipped at one another.

Guilt roiled in Abby’s gut. After the betrothal announcement between Aemond and Floris, Wylla had taken the opportunity to flee to Stone Hedge to witness her brother’s nuptials to Lady Alys Bracken. It had been good that she did, Abby thought. She would be able to see her mother and other brothers, who had come down in order to attend her wedding, and Wylla did not know when she would see them next. Karhold was further north than Winterfell and her friend was giving up a great deal to come live at Harrenhal.

That said little of the other reasons why Wylla had eagerly left for Stone Hedge, and Abby thought of Helaena’s words all those months ago. ‘And I’ll be left alone while you and Aegon are busy making babies together!’ She felt like a poor friend and and even worse sister, unable to deny that as the weeks had passed, her focus had been less on duties she’d taken so seriously, of being there for those she cared for, and more focused on the making of her wedding dress, of the stealing time with Aegon with a desperate heat and wanting, of responding to well wishes and organizing a household… when she had promised to always be there for Helaena. When she had begun to foster a love and friendship with Wylla that had grown into its own sisterhood.

Jace had so easily comforted Helaena during her difficult days when Abby was pulled away or otherwise occupied. And Wylla had not even told her of the budding romance between her and Aemond - now brutally cut short in the wake of politics beyond their control. So consumed she’d been with Aegon, with everything else, things that, selfishly, were for her and her alone, and so easily she’d forgotten those she vowed to care for.

Abby would do all she could to make up for it. She would ensure that Wylla did not feel forgotten, that her and Helaena could indeed visit often. She would write, she would-

“Lady Abrogail?”

Desmera’s voice cut through the swirl of guilty words flitting through Abby’s head and she looked up at the Crane girl. Desma, Abby corrected herself. Desmera preferred Desma. She was holding the wool kirtle in her arms, the shade of green as lush and dark as the fields they passed through with red weirwood embroidery along the arms. The surcoat carefully folded on the table was half red and half blue and edged in silvery rabbit fur, among the other parts of her heraldic dress. She would not be in the wheelhouse as they came into Harrentown, and the parade that announced their arrival would be a large one. Already they had seen an uptick of traffic along the Kingsroad and the tents in the fields, the small inns filled to bursting the closer they were. With only a few hours until they approached the town, it was almost like they were approaching King’s Landing. Merchants were setting up along the way to hawk wares and Abby knew that the crowd would be thicker the closer they crept

The distant call of dragons echoed outside the tent and Abby and Desma poked their heads out the flap to crane their necks to look up.

“I can’t believe Ser Criston is riding dragonback with the princess,” Desma murmured, and Abby laughed. He had stayed behind with Helaena, and Abby knew it was to keep an eye on Jace. What Abby would have given to see the look on the knight’s face when he was told that he would fly with Helaena. Not even Queen Alicent had flown with her children, despite both Aegon and Helaena’s offers.

Abby knew how big dragons were, having been around them her whole life, but this was different. With no expansive sprawl of King’s Landing or the Great Sept to compare, they seemed even larger. Past the many tents of the camps, the moors of the Riverlands was all there was. No buildings, no great mountains or spires or monuments. Just the green, rolling hills surrounding the Kingsroad and the forest beyond.

Dreamfyre’s bulk was impressive, the blue and silver of her scales standing out in the morning light, her call warm and low, melodic in a way that was surprising for a dragon. Two smaller dragons were flying about, answering the calls, scales in shades of jade and bronze and silver as Jace and Baela danced around the great dragon.

There was another familiar call, the trilling echoing across the moor like a song. Abby’s heart swelled, hearing Aegon’s happy shout from somewhere inside the camp as Sunfyre gleamed as bright as the morning sun. How she missed him, how she missed being free in the air where nothing else mattered.

Desma tugged on her elbow, laughing. “Come back here, Abby, you’re still in your nightgown.”

Abby allowed herself to be pulled back in the tent, and was soon joined by Merei Thorne, who came bearing a plate of cold meats and bread and warm cider to break her fast.

“I’m ready to be done with all this mud,” she groused, dark hair loose and free about her shoulders, her swarthy skin flushed from the cool morning air. “Ser Rickard says the crowds up the road will be thick by the time we reach them.” Merei’s uncle was a member of the Kingsguard, and Abby was grateful that she had sought information before arriving.

She let herself be tugged out of her nightgown and a fresh chemise pulled over her head before Desma got her into the green kirtle and Merei shoved a piece of bread with ham into Abby’s open mouth. “Wylla’s sent word this morning with the rider.” Merei waved the scroll around. “Your rooms have been made ready, and Lythene and Sarra are settling in, so all you need to do is arrange things to your liking.”

Abby eagerly reached for the scroll as the girls laced her into the kirtle. It was a short message, but Wylla’s handwriting was comforting and familiar.

“Is Alys another one of your ladies?” Merei asked, moving the surcoat out of the way while Abby sat to eat. Desma opened the box of combs and ribbons and hairpins to get to work on her curls.

Wylla’s letter had mentioned help from Alys Rivers, and Abby shook her head before Desma pinched her to keep still as she carefully worked Abby’s curls.

“No, she’s a member of our household. A healer and sometimes ladies maid. She helped my mother when she was pregnant with me, but declined to come to the capital with us.” Her memories of the woman were fuzzy whenever Abby tried to look at them more closely. Dark haired with large grey eyes, Alys had been a fixture when she had visited Harrenhal over the years. “It’s good that she’s helping Wylla. I know Aunt Mya has her hands full with everything and my cousin, Deidre, is there to help.” Deidre, the future Lady Smallwood of Acorn Hall, had grown up at Harrenhal and would prove helpful in this busy time of preparation. Deidre’s younger sister, Cassana, lived at Runestone and would be arriving with Lord Yorick’s party soon.

Desma’s hands worked quickly to pull Abby’s curls from her face, winding a knot of braids along the back of her head, the rest curling down her back to her waist. It would be hours of riding, but also hours of being seen by the people who looked to Harrenhal, who looked to her family, as their liege lords. Merei pulled a delicate net of silver dotted with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds and pinned it around Desma’s delicate knotwork.

With her mother’s carnelian necklace around her throat, Abby shoved her feet into her riding boots and grabbed a last chunk of bread and ham before ducking out of the tent as her ladies oversaw the packing of her things.

The sea of black and red tents felt like a field of Targaryen poppies as she made her way through the camp. The ground was not as muddy as Merei complained, but Abby was nonetheless grateful for her sturdy boots. Already the grass was churning into a muddy mess in various places and she carefully stepped around them. Servants paused to offer quick bows and curtsies, which Abby felt awkward about. They did not need to pause in their duties to acknowledge her, but at the same time, it was strangely satisfying to be recognized, to be deferred to in some small way.

Abby was not sure how to feel about it, so she pushed the confusing feelings away and shoved the rest of her bread in her mouth.

She found Aegon where the horses were stabled, tethered to temporary posts and being fed their morning grain. The morning light turned Aegon’s curls a soft gold, his gray linen shirt tucked into a pair of high waisted, black riding pants, stripes of red embroidered with gold scales down the sides into a pair of tall, shiny black boots. He was without his own surcoat and she knew that it was just as ostentatious as her own heraldic gown: black and red and scaled as was the Targaryen way. She licked butter from her thumb as she approached, gaze raking over him appreciatively and the opened neck of his shirt, teasing the lightly freckled skin that she longed to kiss.

Kostōba was as brilliant as ever, pawing happily at the ground and rooting his nose against Aegon, clearly looking for more treats. His cream colored coat shone as golden as his master’s hair in the sun, brilliant against the caparison of red and black taffeta for House Targaryen. Aegon was busy stroking the snout of another horse, focused on checking the buckles of the halter and bit. The mare was a brilliant chestnut, so red that it matched her hair, it’s mane only a scant few shades darker. It pawed the ground beside Kostōba, nickering and also looking for treats.

“What’s this?”

Aegon turned, eyes wide as if he’d been caught, a sleepy smile on his face. She was no longer mad at him, of course, but the forced distance over their travels was frustrating, in addition to the misery of frequently having to sleep outdoors, no matter how comfortable the tents were. It made tempers shorter, and the stress of everything that was to come was fraying at her.

Aegon closed the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands, and the touch immediately had her shoulders relaxing and she sighed as he kissed her. Chastely, but it was Aegon and his teeth snuck in a quick nibble before he pulled back. She did her best to hide her pout, tasting the wine he’d had that morning on her mouth. Abby licked her lips, blushing at the look he gave her.

“Happy nameday!” he declared, gesturing to the mare. Abby blinked at him, owlish and momentarily confused.

“Nameday?” What day was it? Time had become an endless blur of bumpy roads and the creaking wheelhouse. He raised an eyebrow at her, taking her chin in hand and tilting her head to look up at him.

“It’s your nameday,” he repeated slowly as if she hadn’t heard him the first time.

Oh! It was, wasn’t it? She sputtered softly and he chuckled, pressing another brief kiss to her parted mouth.

“Happy nameday,” he repeated more slowly this time, snickering at her lapse of memory and dropping her chin to caress her shoulder and turn her towards the mare. “She’s from the same stock as Kostōba. Six years old and well trained. She’ll be gentle with you and give a hoof to the face of any who should try to pull you from her.” His grin brightened as he went on, lilac eyes crinkled in excitement as he glanced back at her. Abby could see the hope in Aegon’s face, the nerves and question of if he’d done well with the gift.

Kostōba snorted at Aegon’s shoulder, nudging at him more insistently. Aegon huffed and pulled another piece of carrot from the pocket of his black riding coat. Abby reached up to gently stroke the velvet soft nose of the mare and took the second carrot that Aegon offered. She eagerly took it with greedy teeth, and Abby giggled as the velvet nose tickled her palm.

“She’s beautiful,” Abby said, giddiness bubbling through her belly, swooping at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and surprise at how exciting it was to be given a horse of her very own. “And she won’t buck me off?”

“Well you’ve proven to be a good rider already, on dragonback no less, though it’s different with a horse, obviously. And I think as long as you keep petting her and speaking to her sweetly as you do, provide plenty of carrots, maybe even some apples? Oh, I think you’ll be just fine.”

Abby scoffed, but her smile was bright. “Endless supply of carrots and apples and oats. Understood, my prince. I will endeavor to bond her to me.” The mare huffed softly as Kostōba’s head came near hers to bump it.

“They look good together, don’t they?” Aegon asked softly, casually.

“They do,” Abby agreed with a soft laugh. “She matches my hair.”

“Exactly. That’s why I picked her.”

“And your horse matches your hair.”

Aegon shrugged, cheeks flushed pink as he scratched around his stallion’s nose. “I have good taste. Do you like her?” There was a furrow now between his brows as he pointedly asked her, her words not doing enough to convey her thanks. It was a guileless thing - Aegon wasn’t trying to tease a deeper showing of affection from her in his usual, playful way. Abby handed him her gathered skirts and he took them, confused, and she reached up to cup his face with both hands, his skin warm against her perpetually chilled fingers.

“I love this gift, Aegon. No one else has wished me happy nameday, but you did, and provided me a thoughtful gift that I love very much,” she reassured him, teeth catching on her lower lip as the words visibly washed over him. She could feel the tension vibrating through him, as if he couldn’t quite believe she enjoyed the gift, or was waiting for something to drop, or a dozen other things. She felt him shudder and relax into her and Abby hummed, thumbs stroking along the apples of his cheeks. The furrow eased, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, his gaze grew softer as he turned his head slightly to nuzzle against her touch. Her belly was warm, fingers toying with the softness of his silver hair, affection surging through her. Abby pressed up on her toes to press a soft, innocent peck to his plush mouth. “I love you, Aegon.”

“I love you,” he whispered shyly as his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. Satisfaction and ease seemed to fill him as she pulled away and took her skirts back from his hold. He cleared his throat, tossing his hair back from his face and reached up to stroke the little white star on the mare’s forehead. “Now we can go riding together - properly have a good race.”

“You want to race? Well then, we’ll have to come up with some good wagers then, won’t we?” The prospect excited her, the planning for things they’d do once the wedding was over and they could just get on with the rest of their lives; away from the Red Keep, away from the politics and the eyes that constantly watched them, away from everything that chased them in waking and in sleep.

Another bright call sounded above them and they both looked up to see Sunfyre circling, his chirps and clicks echoing down to them. The mare snorted and backed away, shaking her head at the closeness of the predator. Two of the stableboys came hurrying over to help calm her. Abby backed away, not wanting to be too close should she rear up, feeling foolish that she was unable to calm her horse, let alone understand how.

“He missed you,” she said, and Aegon laughed, bright and happy as he always was when it came to his golden boy.

“He’s a smart one, isn’t he?” Aegon grinned. “I was…” He trailed off, uncertain, and Abby pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“He would not abandon you. That menace broke out of the dragon pit to get to you, remember?” Not that Sunfyre had caused any damage outside of freeing himself from his chains, and would not return until Aegon had gone to retrieve him before they were dragged back to the Red Keep all those months ago.

“He would most certainly not.” Confidence returned to Aegon’s voice and he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting words of Valyrian and gesturing north.

Abby’s gaze drifted from the sight to look out past the horses to the rolling moors past them. The mist still hung heavy along the ground, slowly burning away as the morning grew, lending a murky sight of the forest that obscured the sight of the God’s Eye.

A twisting sensation spooled through her chest as she watched the trees. There were oaks abundant along the road, and as they drew north, there were pines dotting the landscape as well. But the great, dark forest beside them was different. The oaks here were giant things. Once, as a little girl, she’d ridden out with Harwin into the Red Wood. There were a few red oaks in the Harrenhal godswood - massive things that shot past the great height of the walls. Here in the forest surrounded by them, it felt like another world. The trunks of the trees were as big as the family dining hall in the Kingspyre. Uncle Simon said that the great round table had been cut from such a trunk.

Ancient trees that had survived the great heart wound of Harren the Black. Spirits lived in the weirwoods; she remembered those stories, and the ancient sentinels remembered too. They were here long before and would be there long after -

“Hey!”

Strong, warm hands gripped her arms and shook her. Abby blinked slowly, feeling tired and confused. Aegon was looking down at her; face pale, confused, annoyed. “What’s gotten into you? I was calling for you, Abby.”

“But…” As she meant to say she had not moved, Abby realized that she could not hear nor smell the horses, and that the sounds of camp were softer than they had been before.

“You kept walking and I thought you were going to show me something but then you stopped speaking,” Aegon went on, but his voice sounded odd - strangely muffled and then clear. She reached for him but her hand missed his arm and he reached for it, tugging her to him. “Abby, you’re freezing.”

She was always freezing.

The crowd was deafening and the drum beats of the parade only added to the din. The chestnut mare, now named Stranger, trotted smoothly beside Aegon’s stallion as the royal procession made its way through Harrentown. The scouts and messengers had not lied.

The crowd was large, not only the townsfolk but filled with those who had traveled far and wide to witness the festivities and hawk their wares. As they approached her family’s castle, the fields field with colored tents sporting the banners of the noble houses that had made their way to the God’s Eye.

Harrenton was not an exceptionally large town although little was when compared to King’s Landing. It was a trading post, a crossroads at the mouth of the Riverlands. Trade and travel that came south from Darry would stop here, as well as the trade from the south at the capital. The buildings were white stucco and plaster with the red oak timbers from the Red Wood, tiered three stories tall with steeply pitched, clay shingled roofs. Many of the ground floors were made from red bricks. Mud was in abundance here, and pottery and bricks were their foundations of trade.

Abby tilted her head up to the banners hung across the thoroughfare, the tri color streamers of House Strong interspersed with the black and red ribbons of House Targaryen. Those who could not find space along the red brick road hung out from the leaded windows, waving flags and banners, throwing out handfuls of flower petals from the winter flowers in swirling dances of pinks and purples, whites and yellows. Young children on their parents shoulders, too disinterested in whatever people were on display, giggled and reached to try to catch the petals. The people yelled for House Strong, they yelled for the name of her father, they yelled…

They yelled her name.

‘Lady Abrogail! Lady Strong! Princess Abrogail!’

Her cheeks flamed, her grin both shy and beaming, unused to the attention being paid to her. Abby glanced over at Aegon, who preened beneath his own attention, the petals that were thrown about the air catching in his silver curls.

‘Prince Aegon! House Targaryen! Lady Abrogail! House Strong!’

His lilac gaze found her, his grin broadening, all teeth and bright eyes, dimples creased in his cheeks. The breeze caught in her curls, fluttering the delicate silver veil around her face. The flower petals drifted and swirled between them, caught in his hair, in the silver and red manes of their horses, and everything felt like a dream.

Now they left the main thoroughfare and made their way up the switchback to where the castle loomed, and as they made the turn, the world dropped out as the vast, glittering expanse of the God’s Eye filled the horizon. Abby’s breath caught in her throat and beside her, Aegon audibly exhaled, momentarily halting his horse beside her to take a look. Behind them, Abby could hear Daeron’s exclamation of wonder.

The God’s Eye ate the entire horizon, glittering like an aquamarine gem beneath the cloudless blue of the sky. The only thing that interrupted the site was the distant, hazy sight of the Isle of Faces, obscured by the haze and distance.

“It’s bigger than the Whispering Sound,” Daeron breathed. “Uncle Gwayne-”

“Aye,” the elder sounded just as surprised, just as awed. “Large enough for the eye of a god, isn’t it?”

Seagulls called along with other birds along the banks and Abby could just make out a few fishing boats tiny on the water. She rose up in her saddle to take a better look, vowing that she would never tire of the spectacular sight.

“I didn’t realize how I missed this sight.” She laughed, unsure if she might cry from grief or joy.

“It’s the color of your eyes,” Aegon said softly, his gaze firmly affixed to the sight before them. He wasn’t even looking at her, just caught in wonder. It was a new expression for Aegon, and Abby was loath to draw him from it. She reached over and he must have seen her, or maybe he’d been reaching for her hand at the same time. “It’s endless, like the sky.”

He squeezed her hand and with a gentle command, their party continued.

Harrenhal was a scar against the landscape, the black stone stark against the green and blue of the landscape. With towers shooting up higher than the tallest of Maegor’s Holdfast, Harrenhal loomed as its maker always intended: Ominous and impossible to ignore. The twisted, melted stone that capped the towers were vicious reminders of the violence in the past, but life bloomed amidst the ruins. Sentinels and oaks, vibrant and lush, shot past the tops of the stone walls from the large godswood that butted up against the shore. Harrenhal held a small household guard and several called out from the gatehouse.

Making the final turn, their party was greeted by the half shattered statue of Harren the Black, only his legs and rearing mount left above the bridge. It started with stone and then switched to thick ironwood that spanned the dry moat beneath, and, as if to welcome them home, Sunfyre of all things perched above the gates like an enormous, golden hawk, calling out and declaring that this was now his domain. Stranger whickered nervously, hesitating in approach until Abby urged her on with a gentle hand against her neck.

“Seven hells,” Aegon muttered, barely caught over the sounds of the hooves on the wooden bridge and the creaking of the carriages behind them. Whatever else Aegon said was drowned out beneath the sound of Sunfyre’s trilling. The golden dragon was singing and it was a haunting tune that echoed along the stone like water over river rocks. The sound of it sent dozens, maybe even a hundred or more, bats bursting from the ruined tops of the tower. Distracted by the creatures that took to the sky, he pushed off the gatehouse, the horses rearing as stone debris fell in their path.

Abby looked at Aegon, eyebrows raised. “He can’t keep doing that.”

He frowned, half-offended and mildly concerned. “It’s not his fault the stone is crumbling,” he said, but the defense was half-hearted as he eyed the broken stone being pushed out of the way.

Aemond and Daeron, Ser Gwayne and a few of the Kingsguard followed them, the guards taking a station at the gate until the king passed through. The rest of the party in their wheelhouses were held back until the stone was removed.

The gatehouse was a great thing cut through the thick, black curtain walls. The way was lit with torches, the echo of the horses’ hoof beats giving an uncertain cacophony as the sound bounced around the tunnel. Abby’s gaze drifted up, the ceiling of the tunnel shadowed but she remembered Larys telling her the frightening tale of the dozen murder holes where they would drop oil and poisonous spiders and venomous snakes down onto those who tried to breach the castle. She’d had nightmares for weeks.

Aegon said nothing beside her, and the look on his face was one of bewildered interest. She bit her lip, a smile playing. He had only ever known King’s Landing, after all.

Tears pricked her eyes as the strange longing sensation that had harbored for so long in her chest eased. It didn’t go away, but she could feel the hooked edges of yearning, the grief, the feeling that she did not belong, that something was missing, smoothing out into something bittersweet. Beyond the great walls of the castle, Harrenhal was full of life. Beneath the great shadow of the ruined towers, a reclaiming had taken place over the years, and the notion soothed that bramble within her.

As the party passed through the gatehouse into the outer bailey, Abby’s eyes darted over the crowd that had begun to gather. Over the years, some of the ruins had been dismantled and turned into proper staff quarters. A new granary, the stables,meant to house a thousand horses, had partially been converted to a barn. Before them, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths loomed, rebuilt through the reclaiming of the ruined Tower of Ghosts, now only a few stories tall.

The focal point of the hall was the ornate, stained glass window above the colossal entrance. Along the top half of the circle, a weirwood tree was carefully placed, the red leaves a border around the top, the cream colored branches reaching wide, and the sun behind it sported the tri-color stripes of her family’s sigil. Below the roots was a mound with seven circles - each portraying the sigil of each aspect of the Seven.

The Andals had spread their faith when they had conquered, but here in the halls of her family’s seat, and through the Riverlands, folk noble and small alike found a faith made their own - to mourn the loss of the weirwoods in their subjugation, and the comfort found in faces old and new alike. Especially here, on the shores of the God’s Eye, where the last of the southron weirwoods still thrived, where whispers and tales of the Children of the Forest outside the North clung like moss to the stilts of the houses along the riverbanks.

Fluttering fabric caught her eye and Abby looked up to see the banners of their house strung between the towers, interspersed every two with the black and red House Targaryen, and every ten with the blue and red fish of House Tully, their immediate overlords. In the front of the hall, where the crowd was thickest, the short, white hair and broad frame of Uncle Simon stood out; he was clad in a rich, black coat, Aunt Mya beside him, her dark curls thickly streaked with silver, her gown red. Her cousins were there too; Garret, with his strawberry blonde curls, not much older than herself, holding his three-year-old daughter, Gwenys, just as ruddy gold as her papa. His father, Ser Edric, leaned heavily on a cane on the other side of Uncle Simon. As she went down the line, she caught sight of Wylla, clad in Abby’s colors in a gown of deep blue with a sash of green and red, beaming brightly beside Alyn Hull, who looked dashing in a jerkin of deep, blood red and black pants tucked into shiny, polished boots.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Your Grace,” Uncle Simon greeted Aegon before his warm gaze found hers. “Welcome home, Lady Abrogail.” The title address to her felt odd, but this was a formal occasion. Two stableboys glad in House Strong livery reached for the bridles of the horses, Aegon dismounting easily as Abby frowned in slight annoyance at the yards of fabric of her surcoat. She’d shifted to side-saddle before they’d entered the town in preparation for an easier dismount but it was still daunting.

“Allow me, my lady.” Alyn was there, grinning at her, his green eyes soft and Abby returned his bright expression with a relieved one of her own.

“Thank you, Mister Hull,” she said, grateful, and let Alyn help her from the horse and set her safely on the ground. She caught Aegon’s brief annoyance at being denied his gallant moment and she patted Alyn on the shoulder. “We have some things your mother and a Miss Bri had sent up to the castle.” Alyn’s friendly expression moved to a grateful surprise, and she could see the red coloring his tanned cheeks.

“And I thank you, my lady. I am most appreciative.” Abby felt a giddiness at making a good impression with Aegon’s friend, and she left Alyn to embrace her great-aunt and uncle, uncaring if it was improper. This was her family, and even though she’d only seen a few of them not long ago, this was different.

This was a homecoming.

The warmth of her Uncle’s hug made her chest ache further, and Abby tucked her head beneath his chin, squeezing him tightly, eyes shut and for a moment, allowed herself to pretend that there was no pomp and circumstance and that it was her father who embraced her. Uncle Simon would never replace him, but he reminded her so much of him that she would not feel guilty for clinging to the memory. He seemed to understand, for she felt him squeeze her extra hard before releasing her with a paternal kiss to her forehead and then allowed Aunt Mya, who exclaimed, “A chroí! Tá cuma álainn ort,” before she was wrapped in a cloud of softness and the smell of lilies from her aunt’s perfume. Her hands, shaking slightly with her arthritis, carefully touched the veil she wore and the carnelian necklace around her throat. “You’ve got that Westerland poise to you,” she observed, and though the words might have been taken as a slight, there was a fondness there. “Like your mother and that Lefford blood, but oh, you’ve got the wild river in you, don’t you.” Her hands gently cupped her face, and Aunt Mya’s dark eyes shone with tears. “They haven’t taken that from you. Good.”

“It’s good to finally be home,” Abby said, her voice thick with emotion. Joy, sadness, grief, relief, and a swirl of other things she could not identify. She cleared her throat, turning in her Aunt’s embrace to gesture to Aemond, Daeron, and Gwayne who had dismounted. “May I present Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, as well as the queen’s brother, Ser Gwayne.”

“Ser Simon,” Gwayne said, sketching a bow. “I hope you do not mind my squire and I joining the household.” His grin was bright and disarming, his hand coming to clasp Daeron’s shoulder. “My sister hopes for us to keep an eye on my nephew, but I think it will be a good opportunity for my squire to also learn from a renowned knight such as yourself, Ser.” Abby bit her lip to hold in her laugh, appreciating the look of surprise and pride on her uncle’s face. “And Lady Mya, these are for you.” He produced from his green leather riding jacket a carefully wrapped package. “Your lovely niece shared with me how you once loved lacemaking. While this could not compare what you’ve made, I do hope you find use for this.”

“From the lacemaker who made my wedding dress,” Abby chimed in as her blushing aunt took the carefully wrapped package of lace. Aunt Mya’s features shifted into amusement.

“Oh, I like this one, Simon. You can sit by me at dinner, Ser Gwayne.” Uncle Simon rolled his eyes while Daeron stepped forward, sending a look at his uncle.

“And I brought this for Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said, not to be outdone by Gwayne’s flirtation. He produced a doll from his own coat, made from soft linen with carefully made brown yarn hair, and painted blue eyes with a felt crown on her head.

“Thank you very much, my prince,” Garret said, shifting Gwenys in his arms. “Can you say thank you to Prince Daeron?” Gwenys’ eyes were large in her face, gnawing shyly on her lip as she snuggled into her father, unsure of what to make of all the strange people. Daeron held the doll up higher, taking the little hand to wave at the child.

“Hello, Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said in a silly voice, blonde hair falling into his blue eyes, his own cheeks pink at all the attention. “Will you be my new friend?”

That drew the little girl out of her shyness, bubbling with giggles and reached for the toy with grabby little fingers. “Fank you!” she shouted, squealing as she clutched at the toy. Abby felt Aegon at her back and shivered as he leaned down to brush his lips against her ear.

“Was I meant to bring a gift?” he asked, his whisper harsh with anxiety. Abby pressed her lips firmly together to hold back her giggle and turned into his hold, a kiss brushed to his cheek.

“You’re fine. There’s plenty of time. I think it’ll have more meaning after the wedding.”

Abby’s gaze briefly took in the arrival of the carriages that held the king and queen, and the small council absent Ser Tyland. He’d left court with her grandfather to Castamere where his wife, Elayna, was ready to give birth to their children. Twins had been born, according to the raven that Abby had received from her cousin, and Elayna was sorry she could not bring them, but it would be nice to see her. Lady Elayna preferred the freedom of Castamere, and Abby could not blame her, not when being here among the half ruin of Harrenhal had revitalized her in a way she could not describe.

The crowd all lowered themselves in deference as the king was helped from the wheelhouse. Travelling had been difficult for him, and the progress had taken as much time as it could in order to keep him comfortable. He clutched his cane, squinting in the afternoon sun, the light catching upon his golden crown. The expression on his pale, mottled face was difficult for Abby to read, and she wondered if he was thinking about the last time he was here, when the lords of the realm declared him king over Princess Rhaenys and her son.

Larys appeared from the next carriage with Lord Jasper Wylde and the Grand Maester, a placid smile on his own features. “Uncle, you’ve outdone yourself,” he complimented. Abby noticed then that her uncle’s smile tightened, no longer meeting his eyes as he regarded Larys.

“It has been some time since our house has something so wonderful to celebrate. Not since Abrogail’s birth, I think. After so much tragedy, these halls benefit from the festivities.”

“We are looking forward to them, Ser Simon,” the queen smiled, her hand fluttering to the king’s arm. “It has been a long journey, and the king needs rest and recuperation. We shall reconvene for supper?” It was not a request. Alicent Hightower could command with a smile, and all the authority afforded to her as the mother of the realm.

“Of course, your graces,” Aunt Mya said with a smile. She clapped her hands and there was a flurry of activity, the king’s wheeled chair being brought out while Uncle Simon explained they had easily accessible rooms for the king so his time here would be comfortable.

Then there was a flurry of raven hair and blue wool as Wylla’s decorum barely kept her from completely barrelling into Abby and she clutched her friend, embracing her tightly and burying her face into her shoulder. She smelled of cinnamon and spice, familiar and comforting.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she cried, Wylla giving her a tight squeeze.

“I’ve missed you too! You look beautiful.” Abby pulled back and Wylla pinched her chin with a playful look on her fox features, the little scar along her mouth pulling at the smile on her face. She pushed her hand away with a shake of her head, hooking their arms together.

“As do you! Is this a new dress?” Wylla hummed in the affirmative and led the way across the tightly packed gravel. Aegon and Alyn fell in behind them, and behind them, the rest of her ladies followed. The king and queen and the rest of their immediate party were being led into the closest tower - what was ominously referred to as the Tower of Dread.

It was where Athair and Harwin had died.

As she watched the king and queen enter the tower, something ugly curled in her chest. ‘Good’, she thought savagely, though altogether unlike her. She hoped the ghosts that slept there would haunt them. The queen would not treat her so unkindly if her father were still here. The king? Well, he deserved a good haunting. Let the ghost of Lord Maegor Towers terrorize him during his stay.

The main hall at the foot of the Kingspyre Tower was a bustle of activity. Servants in the House Strong livery hurried to and fro from the small kitchens beneath the tower, sending out refreshment to the new arrivals.

“As soon as we had word of your arrival, I had a bath readied,” Wylla said. “There’s the bathhouses, of course, but I thought you’d like some private time.”

“That does sound nice,” she sighed, heading up the staircase. The next floor above the hall held the galleries and the library. Precious things that her father had loved, and his father before him.

‘What if fire seeks to claim me here? As it had them?’

The fear was ugly and painful and squeezed the breath from her lungs with its sudden onset. Wylla’s voice was muffled in her ears as she stood frozen in the stairwell.

“In the black of night, the dragon did rise.”

“What?” she choked out, turning to look through the open doors of the gallery. It was not Wylla’s voice. Abby could not even be sure it was a woman’s voice. She tugged away from Wylla’s hold to the open archway but a firm grip on her arm tugged her back. Aegon stroked her cheek, drawing her attention back to him. Abby’s cheeks colored. “I heard… I thought…”

“It’s just the wind,” he told her.

“Unfamiliar sounds,” Wylla chimed in, coming to her other side, although her eyes narrowed at her friend’s discomfort. “Come, we’ll get you settled into the bath and you can lay down. A lazy lie in.”

Abby nodded, mouth shut as everyone stared at her with worry and confusion. Catching the brief look Wylla and Aegon exchanged, Abby tugged away. She felt judged, as she had felt that morning when Aegon had shaken her out of whatever haze had taken hold of her. It was one thing to have such a lapse in front of him, but now here she was in front of their household, so many eyes on her, confused and curious. Gathering her heavy skirts in her arms, she soldiered forward, desperate to get out of her gown. If she could, she would have stripped from the surcoat in the stairway itself, but she would have gotten tangled in the fabric and likely tumbled down the stairs.

What an auspicious start to the festivities; a tragic bride felled by a broken neck.

She ignored the call of her name behind her, climbing past Uncle Simon’s apartments and office to the landing of what had once been her mother’s rooms. They were rooms that might have belonged to Rhaenyra Targaryen in another life, or Sabitha Frey or Alysanne Blackwood, or any dozens of young women in the Riverlands her brother could have taken to wife.

None of this should be hers. This castle, these lands, were not her birthright.

They were drenched in ash and screams and the knowledge of this was grasping her tighter with every step she took before she burst through the doors of her apartments. Afternoon light streaked through the large doors that opened out onto the multilevel balcony that went from her rooms up to Aegon’s chambers. Beyond would be the beautiful sight of the God’s Eye, but for now, it was the brilliant blue sky and the roses that crept along the stone and woodwork. Low couches littered the space, plush rugs faded with age, and before the fireplace and its merry flame, was the large tub draped in linens and ready and waiting.

The shadows beside the fireplace moved and Abby stilled, fear freezing her limbs until the face of the shadow appeared. The woman was older, older than the queen, mayhaps, with inky black hair that hung to her waist, a square face and storm gray eyes. In her hands, she held a woven circle of twigs, and Abby looked at the stick figure coming to shape in the center of it.

“Lady Abrogail,” she greeted, her accent like Wylla’s, like her Aunt Mya’s. “Did you leave the rest of your chattering ducklings behind?”

Buzzing filled her ears and Abby pressed her hands to her chest, fingers knotting into the fabric. “I… I… I can’t breathe.”

“If you could not breathe, you could not speak,” the woman pointed out, discarding her wood weaving on the chair. She closed the distance and grabbed Abby’s hands. “You speak, therefore you breathe. I hear your gasping. So keep doing that.”

Hands joined the woman’s to help her out of the surcoat and work the laces on her kirtle. Her vision was dark and hazy around the edges and she continued to heave and gulp for air. She swooned and arms caught her.

“What did she say, Alys?” she heard Wylla ask.

“A tincture from my chest,” was the answer. “The one in the blue bottle. And the smelling salts.” Alys River tsked and her face shimmered before her as she backed Abby to the low couch. “If we shove you in that bath now, you’ll faint and are liable to drown. A bride felled by her bathwater. What a tragic end.”

Abby blinked, her mouth dry. “What did you…”

“Alys likes to be cryptic,” Wylla’s voice drifted to her through the buzzing in her ears. She let herself be shuffled around and moved as if she were no more than a ragdoll onto the chaise, her legs propped up higher than her head on a pile of cushions. Time passed in a haze as the dizziness and the rushing passed. Alys sat on the couch beside her, holding a goblet to her mouth and Abby grimaced at the strangely sweet and medicinal taste of the thin, red liquid. Her limbs tingled and the drunken feeling gave way to a more relaxed sensation. Alys’ large, slate-gray eyes filled her vision and the elder woman tilted her head, appraising her.

“I cannot call you Little Lady anymore, can I?” she asked, but Abby didn’t think it was much of a question. “Although, you are still littler than me, wee beast.”

“Oh, so she calls you that as well?” Wylla’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the couch. “Do you feel like you can get in the bath now?”

Alys helped her up and held the goblet to her mouth once more, feeding her the strange liquid. “Someone should tell the princeling that his lady is all right, I can hear him pacing.”

“Hear him?” Sarra Frey’s voice chimed in, confused. Abby smiled wanly at Wylla as the elder girl helped her out of her chemise and into the tub. The water was still plenty warm, but not the scalding, steaming heat that it had been from when she first came into the room. “But he’s so far away.”

“You’re just not listening close enough,” Alys said and passed her the goblet. “Make sure the coinín beag drinks all of this.” The door shut behind the woman and Abby settled against the back of the tub, Wylla’ pinning her hair up.

“Doesn’t Aegon call you little rabbit as well?” she murmured against her ear.

Abby did not answer.

The confused look the servant gave Jace when he asked where the family crypts were was not something that would normally bother him, but there was no reason that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be asking where the family crypts of his host were.

The look in Ser Simon Strong and his wife’s eyes upon seeing him still stuck with Jace, and he tried not to keep looking over his shoulder as he strode down the gravel pathway through the family gardens. Torches were lit along the pathway, servants and guests still milling about, and the gardens were beginning to bloom as the seasons shifted. Lady Celeste’s mountain roses crept like a great, dark beast, along the outside of the Kingspyre tower, up to balconies above. Jace stole a glance up there, at the distant, flickering light behind the windows.

Abby should be here. She should be with him. This was more her family than his. Did he even have a right?

Jace straightened.

He did. He did have a right. Ser Harwin was someone in his life he cared for, who cared for him and his brothers. He had been gentle and kind - to them, to their mother.

Ser Simon looked at him as if he’d seen a ghost.

Goosebumps bloomed beneath Jace’s black tunic. Perhaps he was one.

The Sepulcher of House Strong was largely underground, but the entrance to it was a stone gazebo, just over a story tall, with seven stone pillars carved to mimic the twisting boughs of the weirwood trees. The branches held up the circular roof, the torchlight casting long shadows over the carvings of strange creatures. There was no door, simply smooth stone stairs leading into the torch lit crypts beneath.

At the foot of the stairs were a pair of doors, heavy ironwood etched with more of the weirwood motifs and little creatures that Jace realized from this close distance were meant to be the Children of the Forest. They were different from the drawings he’d seen in his books. These were spindly things, some with fins in place of ears, with large eyes and sharp little teeth. He reached to undo the latch but the door was partially ajar. Had Abrogail come down to pay her respects? Should he leave and return another day?

His mother would be here on the morrow, and as soon as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen set foot in this place, Jace’s chance to come here would be lost.

The door made no sound as he pushed it open to slip inside and he blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the deeper gloom. Braziers affixed to the pillars were spaced out every few dozen feet or so and as he quietly walked the path his ears could just make out the distant sound of rushing water, though he had no idea where it was coming from. Stone tombs were erected every few archways, and he paused in front of the tomb of Maegor Towers before he caught sight of the dragon relief nearby.

Targaryens were not entombed, they were burned on pyres, back to flame and ash from whence they came. But Harrenhal’s last lady was honored here.

In the stone alcove, a beautiful carved relief of Dreamfyre stood, raised on her legs, wings spread and her neck arched to call out to the sky. At her feet was a pedestal with an urn in the shape of a dragon egg.

Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the Rising and Setting Sun. Mother of her beloved Aerea and Rhaella. Beloved by Prince Aegon, where their souls meet once more.

To always Chase the Sun.

The crack of a cane hitting the stone echoed violently along the walls and Jace choked on dusty air, panic taking over. The next tomb was that of Lord Osmund. There was just enough room to duck behind it and Jace crouched behind, his heart pounding in his ears.

“You are kind to accompany this night, Your Grace. I confess, when I extended the invitation, I was not sure you would accept.” The low voice of Lord Larys drifted through the quiet ghosts, otherworldly beneath the earth himself. Your grace… was grandfather also down here?

“Lord Lyonel was a good man,” the king rasped, his voice shaky with emotion. “The best of us, I think. No better servant to the realm than he.”

“Surely you yourself are the realm’s greatest servant, my king.”

“Mmmm, Lyonel offered good counsel. I did not listen to him as much as I should have.”

“My father served the realm with all the wise counsel of a Grand Maester and the knowledge of one of your vassals, my king. In the end, however… Even beneath his great wisdom, matters of succession were well out of hand.”

Heat burned along Jace’s neck and rushed into his cheeks. He pressed his face against the cold, stone tomb but it did little to calm him.

Driftmark. It always came back to Driftmark. It came back to screaming and blood. It came back to his words. Yes, the words of a child, but his words that he knew, without question, would prevent punishment.

‘He called us bastards.’

With such a simple sentence, Jace watched, clutched in his mother’s arms, as the king’s ire went from Aemond’s wound to the accusations that had chased Jace and his siblings all their lives. Words that he knew were cruel, that upset his mother, yet words that spoke true. Lord Lyonel had stood, struck and silent beside the Driftwood throne, and Ser Harwin had lingered by the door, unarmored and disheveled given the late hour it had been. As old as he was now, Jace knew. He knew. He knew.

Ser Simon had looked at him as if Jace were a ghost.

Jace reached up and gripped the edge of the tomb of his blood, feeling the burn of Vermax inside of him with every beat of his heart, loudly thumping in his ears.

“I did not want it to happen that way, Larys,” King Viserys finally spoke, his voice mournful and heavy.

“I know, my king. Only a Targaryen can truly master the dangers of flame. Mere mortals such as those who strove to follow your wishes could only wish to wield such understanding.” The sound of scraping metal grated on Jace’s nerves. He hit his head against the tomb and had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out.

“Only Ser Harwin-” the king began and then stopped. Jace could see the long throw of their shadows along the stone floor. They weren’t moving.

“Whatever tragedies befell, they have brought us here, my king. Have the wounds not healed as you had hoped? Your daughter and brother arrive here with their children after their long absence. Our houses will be joined in only a few days. The match you and my father discussed so many years ago is now far more advantageous, as is right, for the King’s first born son, given the unusual circumstances.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Lord Larys.” The scrape of two canes now. Jace pressed himself as far into the shadows as he could, straining to listen as the two men made their way back up the corridor beneath the eyes of the dead. He dared not breathe, he dared not make a single sound for fear of what might happen were he discovered. It felt like an eternity before the door shutting reverberated through the quiet.

Jace sat on the cold ground, frozen and still as Dreamfyre’s statue. His heart continued to pound in his ears as he tried to process exactly what he had just heard. King Viserys, a peaceful man, so afraid of any confrontation that his mother fled to Dragonstone to hide than maintain her presence at court. She’d sent him to do it for her.

He couldn’t escape the catacombs fast enough. His feet slipped along the damp stone as he raced towards the entrance. Ser Harwin would forgive him, he was certain. Now? Now, he needed to get away as fast as possible. He tripped hard up the stone stairs, his left knee and shin screaming in agony before he made it up and forced himself to slow down so as not to attract attention. What would it say to see the king’s heir racing through the gardens of Harrenhal? Jace’s lungs ached and he kept trying to remember to breathe. All he knew was that he had to get away.

How could he hold this? Should he tell his mother? What would she do? Nothing. She’d do nothing, forbidding them - forbidding him from speaking of Ser Harwin. Did he tell Abby?

It would destroy her.

Should he - Jace slammed into a figure, sending the two of them sprawling to the gravel.

“What the fuck, Jace!” Aegon snapped, aggressively shoving him off. He too was dressed for night in his own gray linen and breaches, dark circles beneath his eyes. It struck Jace, hard between his ribs, how much Aegon looked like Jace’s own mother in that moment. How much he sounded like his own mother. Jace’s palms scraped against the gravel and he heaved a breath. “What?” Aegon repeated.

Another breath and Jace felt the words strangling him, and could feel the tension in his face as he looked at his uncle, his childhood playmate, with wide, lavender eyes. Aegon stared at him and whatever annoyances were on his tongue fell. His brow furrowed. “What is it?” he asked again, less sharply this time.

Jace gulped once more for air and heard Aegon mutter something about panic attacks before the elder manhandled him up to his feet and towards one of the benches. “Get your head between your knees before you pass out,” he snapped, hand on his back to push him forward. In spite of Aegon’s annoyance, his touch was gentle, if firm.

Also like his mother.

“Breathe, you idiot,” Aegon said and sat down beside him, hand between his shoulder blades. Jace did as he was told, falling into the way things once were, where Aegon led and Jace happily followed. They could never return to those days, and Jace did not wish for it, but Seven Hells, it had been easier.

He did not know how long they sat there, listening to the lowing of dragon calls outside the walls and the shrieking of bats, the distant sound of water fowl amid the rushes outside the castle walls. He breathed in the cold air, let it ebb at the fire in his blood. He spat on the ground and finally sat up, aware that Aegon’s hand did not leave him until Jace settled against the bench.

“You said something but I couldn’t understand,” Aegon ventured with his brows raised in exaggerated curiosity. The quiet of the night filled the space between them, the gaps left when things had reached such a breaking point.

It always came back to Driftmark.

“The king…” Jace whispered, heat burning in his eyes. “T-the king, he… ordered the deaths of Lord Lyonel and… Ser Harwin.”

So... that was an ending. As always, I love that you're here, but the only way I know you're reading is if you comment! Comments let me know people are reading and are actively interested! So I'd love to hear what your favorite part of the chapter was, what your theories are, OR If you have no idea what to say, drop a tree emoji to let me know you were here <3 I promise, I'm glad you are. ALSO! I would LOVE to hear how you found this story! Was it through the AO3 search? Tumblr? Did someone recommend it? (if so, where?) (we might end at 24 chapters. I'm not quite sure yet, I'll have to see how the next few chapters go for pacing as I don't want to inundate y'all) Shoutout to @queen--kenobi for allowing me to borrow the lovely Elayna Reyne! Baby girl is here!

[ Next Chapter ]

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS CHAPTER DESCRIBES SELF HARM AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello angels, thank you for all your kind words and messages, you dont know what they mean to me. Just wanted to do a TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter for SH and suicidal thoughts. Please do not read this if it may trigger you. <3 Please know that you are not alone, and that if you need help there are people who can help xo

Chapter 33: A Debt

The next time the maids came to your chambers, you hid the cane away, stashing it behind the heavy wood of your wardrobe out of sight.

You did not know if they would take it from you, or report you having it, but you were not to take any chances for if it was a sign from an ally, you would not have the vipers nest turn itself inside out in search of the person aiding you.

Four days had passed, and in those four days you used the cane all day, every day, determined to strengthen yourself. And strengthen yourself you did, though at a cost.

Every evening after your hours of pacing, excruciating pain would rip through your side, and every time you thought of resting, that word would appear in your head. 

Dracarys.

You would not stop.

The clunk of the cane on the floors helped distract you from the cries from outside of your chambers. As the sun rose and fell, so did the sobs and screams of Princess Helaena.

The Princess was so stricken with grief that she had not stopped. If being imprisoned in your chambers did not drive you mad, her cries certainly would. 

You did not know how much longer Helaena could wail the way she did, before her lungs or voice would give out. Her voice cracked and broke as she cried, and each day you found the sound whittle deeper and deeper into your composure. 

Looking into the fireplace, you watched as the flames flickered and swayed, dancing with each other as they devoured the logs within.

An icy feeling poured down your back.

The sobs outside had stopped, but you could still hear crying. 

The sorrowful weeping was coming from within your chambers.

You spun from where you sat, desperately seeking out the noise in the room, looking for your aunt and where she may be hiding. 

“Helaena?” You called into the room, eyes searching about.

You pushed yourself up with your cane, and began to hobble through the room, eyes darting about desperately.

No response came. How did she get in here?

As you walked deeper into your chambers, nearing the sleeping area, you spotted a shadow.

In the corner of the room stood a small dark figure, its back turned to you, light barely reaching it. You took cautious steps towards the crying person, head stretching to try and catch a glimpse of who it was. 

As you got closer, the figure became more recognisable.

Atop its head was a small mop of brown hair, wet from rain. 

The young boy shivered as his back was turned to you, drops of water now audible in the space as they hit the stone floor below. Of each time he had been with you, not once had he cried.

You blinked, tears forming in your eyes. What had you done wrong? What has happened? Your heart raced rapidly up your throat, as you felt dread rear its ugly head within you.

“Lucerys?” You shakily whispered.

A small sob escaped your lips as you got closer. He was still in his robes that he wore to Storm’s End, still the same robes as he wore every time you saw him, but somehow tonight was worse than ever.

You wondered if you ever told him how handsome he looked that day.

Upon his robes, you could see small small stains of blood around his body, in pockets. Like he had been pierced by something, though the robes were not torn.

The small boy continued to cry, not facing you.

You inched closer, wary of the image of your brother in front of you. Why was he so loud? Why was he crying? Had you gone to madness like your aunt?

The room was uncomfortably still.

All that could be heard inside the chambers was the dripping of water, and Lucerys’ small cries as your cane echoed on the floor with every shaky step you took towards him.

Could a ghost cause you harm? Was his presence just in your head, or was he a spectre that was not conjured up by your grief but here by his own design, or the Gods?

Could you reach out to hold him?

Could he reach out to hold you?

You stood behind him, watching his shoulders shake as he cried. Hands down by his side as he stood in the corner not facing you, back stiff.

“Luc?” You tearily whispered, hand reaching out to touch him.

Please Gods, let me hold him again.

A large boom broke through your chambers. You sharply spun around, looking for the source. Outside of your windows a storm had begun to roll in, lightning flashing through the space. 

You turned back to reach out for Lucerys, but he was gone. 

A wave rose inside and then crashed fiercely atop you.

An agonised sob ripped through your lips.

Tears flowed freely down your cheeks.

You shook your head roughly. You had told yourself no more tears. But no matter how hard you tried to stop them, they still came.

Your head darted about the room in search of him, finding the space to be empty. You cried loudly, anger coursing through you as you lifted your cane to smash against the mirror on the wardrobe, the broken shards spraying across the floor, storm raging loudly outside.

How many more times would he be taken from you?

The cane was hurled across the room, your side twinging from the movement as your hand came to swipe the candles from the table, creamy wax spilling across the floor, hardening against the cool stone tiles.

You cried as you destroyed the room, each crack of thunder pushing the image of Lucerys’ death into your mind. Each booming grumble causing fear to pull at your heart.

It was just like the day you both fell.

With each boom came the jaws from beneath the clouds.

With each rumble came the laughter of your uncle.

With every strike of lightning, you saw Arrax falling beneath you into the clouds. You felt the room begin to suffocate you, becoming smaller, as you struggled to suck in desperate breaths.

Collapsing on the floor you heaved, clawing at your chest as you cried, the lightning illuminating shadows in your room. You cried, and cried until you felt yourself becoming hysterical.

“Y/n.”

Standing beside you was Lucerys.

Wet, and cold and dead.

You sucked in a shaky sob as you looked at him. His cheeks were rosy despite being soaked. Lucerys gazed down at you with a sad expression. His cherubic features making your heart clench.

“Y/n.” He said again, softer. You felt your lips shake as you looked at him, a whole new wave of tears forming.

“Dracarys, y/n.” He uttered, looking at you intently.

You gasped a cry as he spoke, hiccuping as you looked at the dead boy in front of you.

“Dracarys.” He said again.

The tears stopped as you panted, rage slowly replacing grief. 

You breathed heavy, watching him as he watched you. His presence suddenly calming you as you took deep breaths. In and out.

In and out. 

Dracarys.

The young boy slowly turned his head away from you, looking at the shards of mirror on the floor. Light from the storm outside illuminating the pieces with every crack of the storm.

You blinked at the broken shards as you slowly pulled yourself up, walking towards them.

As you stared at the pieces of mirror below you, your reflection looked back up at you. Wet tracks ran down your cheeks, your hair wild and untamed, eyes red and raw.

You watched yourself breath in the reflection, bolts of lightning illuminating you for seconds before the low candle light would replace it. 

TW:

How easy it would be to push the shards against the soft skin of your arm and slowly pull the blade down, to watch the flesh pull apart from itself as the blood would spill forth. To let your life ooze from you slowly. To finally join your brother.

To finally not be alone.

You bent at an awkward angle, picking up a shattered piece, holding it delicately in your palm. The shard was long and twisted, the tip sharp and pointy.

You watched your reflection in the shard as you breathed deeply. 

“Y/n.”

You looked up. 

Lucerys was in front of a large painting beside your bed, watching you. His small hand coming up to touch the art as he looked at you. You walked to him slowly, careful around the broken shards beneath you. 

His face was stern.

“Dracarys.” The young boy said again.

You breathed heavily as you looked at him, hand curling around the shard roughly, its sharp edges stinging your palm. 

No. You would not do their job for them. You would not give them the satisfaction. If they wanted you dead, it would be by their hand, and not yours.

"They will pay for what they did to you. I promise."

Your free hand reached out to touch him, fingertips coming to his face. Lucerys closed his eyes, your palm coming to move through him.

Then suddenly he was gone.

The young boy that had been standing in front of you was no longer there. His small face was nowhere to be seen, his drenched robes creating puddles beneath him on the floor now gone, and the stone dry. 

An angry cry ripped through your throat as you slapped your fist against the wall he had been standing by. 

Thud. 

The noise that came from the impact was dull and hollow. Your head tilted, attention coming to the wall in front of you. The hand holding the mirror tightened its grip, small drops of blood running down the shard and onto the floor, replacing the dripping of Lucerys’ robes in your ears as the storm raged behind you. 

You spread your hand against the painting, your palm feeling the rough grooves of the art as you caressed it. How many years had you looked at this art growing up? How many times had your hands been where they are now?

It felt almost like yesterday when you-

Your mind raced quickly as you stared.

How could you have forgotten?

How long had you spent moping in your chambers, forgetting the one way out.

The memory of your father flicked across your mind, of how he had snuck into your mothers chambers and spooked you both, how your mother had warned you to not use the passageways or tell anyone of them, lest you reveal their secret.

You thought of your own adventures through the passages with your uncles and brothers, sneaking through playing a game of hide and go seek.

How many times over the years of your upbringing had you been in these very walls?

Bracing your palm against the painting you pushed your body against it, only hearing the hollow thud of your body knocking on the wood. Angrily you pushed again, ramming your shoulder into it, the shard slipping slightly in your grip, slicing your fingers. 

The wall inched slightly away.

This could work.

You huffed a laugh in disbelief before ramming your body into it again. The wall moved another inch, revealing a slither of darkness behind it. 

You pulled away taking a deep breath before you hurled yourself at the painting once more, its rusty hinges groaning in the effort as you stumbled through into the darkness.

You gulped in breaths, as pain clawed its way through your side, blinking as you tried to see through the pitch black darkness of the passage. 

As your eyes adjusted, you inhaled deeply, collecting your bearings. The air smelt dusty and dry, the ground beneath you dirty from the years of abandonment and disuse. You tentatively reached out a hand, placing it against the rough stone beside you before moving forward. 

Stumbling through the dark, your eyes only just seeing the passage before you as you took twists and turns through the keep, following your instincts, as your feet led the way.

The way you had been many times before.

The further you walked, the more your pace increased until you were briskly walking through the dark, ignoring the pain in your side and your breathless gasps.

You ran your fingertips against the stone roughly whilst the other hand continued to grip the shard of mirror, a trail of blood following you in its wake.

And though you had been in these walls many times, and knew of their secrecy, you were still anxious of being found.

You did not know who or what lurked in the walls anymore.

Your heart was beating so hard in your chest, you could hear your pulse in your ears over the sound of the storm outside, and the shuffling of your steps.

How many more paces until you reached the exit point? If you could ju-

Suddenly your feet stopped, and your chest heaved.

You moved your hand desperately as your fingers felt against the wall. You had found something. Your fingers traced the groove delicately. Rubbing against the indentation, mind reeling.

Beneath the tips of your fingers was a small and crooked X that had been roughly carved into the stone. You let your fingertips trace over it again and again, a bittersweet scoff escaping your lips.

Aemond had carved that X into the stone as a child for you one day after he found you, scared and alone in the passage, seemingly taken a wrong turn and ending up in an area of the Keep you were unfamiliar with.

Your uncle had pulled the blade he always had with him out from its sheath, and carved into the stone beside you as you watched on.

He had told you that should you ever lose your way, that the X should lead you to safety.

You sniffed. 

And lead you, it did.

You thrust your other hand out to the side, the back of it roughly feeling against the stone, shard of mirror still firmly in your fist. You walked slowly as you dragged the back of your hand against the stone, its rough surface scraping against the thin skin, searching for a break in the wall. 

You walked for ten paces until you found it. 

The back of your hand bumped roughly against a ridge. You flicked out your empty hand to feel it, finding the groove of the entrance as you traced your fingertips up and down, in search of something.

Until you found the dip. 

Curling your fingers underneath you pulled, feeling the wall budge towards you. You did it again, softer this time, wary of alerting anyone on the other side to your presence. The wall shifted quietly towards you.

You waited, listening for movement behind the passage door, ear towards the crack in the opening. Straining to hear an alert of your presence.

You heard no sound from within.

You pulled the heavy door towards you as it slowly slid open, a slither of light breaking through, causing you to blink rapidly at the brightness as your eyes adjusted.

You paused, and waited again.

Nothing. 

Pulling the door towards you further, your heart raced in your chest, blood trickling from your hand down your arm as the shard of mirror dug deeper into your palm.

This was it.

You peered into the space, a low light coming from inside. There was little to no candles lit and the fireplace was gently burning in the far end of the room, which illuminated part of the darkness. 

Stepping through the door, you looked around the chambers.

Nothing but green furnishings and dark woods were inside. There was nothing to be heard but the sounds of the crackling fire, the storm outside, and your shattered breaths. 

Taking slow steps, you darted your eyes around the chambers until you found it. 

There, to your right was a large canopied bed, deep green sheets messily strung about it.

Beside the bed sat a lone candle that flickered softly, illuminating the sleeping figure. An open book lay on their chest, sleep seemingly stealing them away from their nightly reading.

Their chest rose and fell gently as you crept over to them, shard still firmly grasped in your hand. 

That wave came again and pulled you with it.

You blinked.

Aemond lay sound asleep in his bed, unaware of your presence in his chambers.

Silver hair lay gently on a pillow like a halo, eyepatch missing from his face. As you observed him, your fist tightened around the shard, blood seeping from the wound heavily now, as it dripped onto the floor beside the bed.

He looked gentle like this.

His face was no longer hard with anger, there was no sneer or smirk on his soft lips, there was just his face.

Nothing more. Nothing less. 

He looked handsome.

You watched Aemond sleep as the wave pulled higher inside of you and the fire burned hot.

Is this what it felt like when he watched you sleep?

Is this what it felt like when he hurt you?

Is this how he felt when he took your brother's life?

When he called you all bastards?

When he stole your cousin's dragon?

When he defiled you?

That fire bubbled up inside you, consuming your every being as you continued to stare at your uncle's sleeping form.

How could he sleep so soundly?

How could he live with himself after what he has done?

So many questions swirled in your mind, as that all encompassing anger and grief consumed you, until suddenly you heard it. The smallest whisper in the back of your mind, that tiny voice echoing in your head.

Your mouth opened as you took a rough breath.

Dracarys.

Your chest rose and fell as you breathed angrily looking down at him.

You blinked again, capturing the image of him like this to your memory. The boy you grew up with was not this man. The boy who was kind, was no longer here.

This man was a stranger to you.

This man was a murderer.

A Kinslayer. A brute, ill-made, unkind, a savage, second son.

He took Lucerys from you.

He took Lucerys.

You only wished your father was here to watch. And your mother. And Jacaerys. And all of Kings Landing. If you were swift enough, perhaps you could take a trophy of some sort. A souvenir from your time in the Keep.

Perhaps you would take his eye after all.

As you watched your uncle sleep, observing the rise and fall of his chest, the fire within burnt at you roughly, licking at your face, until you felt yourself sneering at the man, your chest heaving in angry breaths until you felt yourself become nothing but rage.

There were no thoughts anymore. Only that burning hot fire. You knew now.

Your fist tightened on the shard as you looked at Aemond, arm raising above you with the sharp tip pointing down at him. 

A loud bang crashed through the room.

The chambers doors swung open violently, hitting the wall behind them as Ser Criston Cole burst into the space, looking around wildly in search of something.

In search of you.

Brown eyes caught yours.

Do it now. 

You looked back down at Aemond who started to wake, the sound of the Queen’s knight racing towards you. Aemond’s eye opened and looked up at you in confusion, sleep still heavy in his face, as your arm swung down towards him.

The One-Eyed Prince’s arm came up in reflex knocking your hand away from its intended course; his throat.

Despite his defence, the sharp shard came down still with the force of your body, its point slicing through the skin between the top of his shoulder and neck, ripping through his flesh. 

The feeling of stabbing someone is a strange thing. The force needed is not as much as you would think, and if the blade is good enough, or in this case a shard of mirror, then the sharpness of the edge does most of the work.

It reminded you of when there was Lucerys' name day celebrations. There was a hunt. As there always was. And you had gone hunting. As you always did. And you had hunted.

The shard of mirror entered Aemond the same way that your blade had entered the deer.

Your wild gaze caught the One-Eyed Princes.

Was that fear?

A large weight knocked into you and suddenly you were on the floor.

The world spun as you wheezed, trying to pull the air back into your lungs. You gasped a laugh to yourself, disorientated as a blooming pain settled in the back of your head, side burning in protest. 

The sound of a sword unsheathing scraped above you.

“Stop, do not kill her.” Aemond grunted quickly.

You tried to move as two arms grasped each of yours, hauling you roughly from the ground, your head spinning making you nauseous and your side ache with the roughness of the movement. 

Two guards held your arms restrained as Ser Cole stood before you, sword drawn, the tip pointed under your chin. You grinned playfully at the Dornish man.

“There he is,” You slurred, tongue heavy, “the Queen’s lapdog.”

Criston’s face twitched as he straightened himself, sword coming to almost touch the underside of your chin. You lifted your head higher, wobbling slightly as you smiled wider.

Here was a man that had once been devoted to your mother, following her around like a love sick puppy. 

Now, he had a new master.

“Take her to the dungeons.” Came Prince Aemond’s voice from beside the bed.

Lazily dropping your head to the side, you saw your uncle. He sat on the edge of the bed as he clutched at his shoulder, thick rivulets of blood oozing from beneath his fingers as he grasped at his wound.

Got you.

All you felt, was all encompassing joy as you watched his face twist in pain, white shirt stained red from his blood. You laughed as you looked at him.

How pathetically small he seemed to be now.

His face looked the same as it did the night when his eye was taken. A small powerless boy, bested by those who were born for greatness, unlike the second son.

You grinned cruelly at him whilst slowly being dragged out of his chambers by his guards, their rough hands jerking you away from him.

He watched you with his lone eye, the other was empty.

It was not until that moment that you had realised the Kinslayer did not have his sapphire orb inside of his empty socket. The place in which it usually sat was empty. A large gaping hole, dark and scarred starred back at you.

He looked almost human.

Your feet dragged underneath you as you were pulled further and further away from him, neck craned backwards so that you could watch him as you left.

“I told you uncle,” You sang across the room to him, “You really should have killed me.” 

You watched as he blinked at you, and then you began to laugh.

A loud piercing sound as Ser Criston Cole called out for the Maesters. Your father would be so proud of you.

You would avenge Lucerys, even if it was the last thing you would do.

Your laughter echoed through the chambers, as it became shrill and almost manic. Aemond's face hardened as he watched you laugh at his expense.

"Bested by a bastard once again, uncle!" You called out to him.

His jaw set into a hard line, and the soft face that he had when sleeping, was now back to his roughened glare.

"You kinslaying second son." You growled, before smiling at him giggling again.

Ser Criston Cole watched as the knights began to haul you faster out of the injured Prince's chambers. The guard's hands tightened roughly against your arms.

"Ao enkagon iā gēlȳn." (You owe a debt.) You yelled across the room, parroting his words he had called across the skies to Lucerys.

He blinked. Sneer pulled at his lips as his fingers dug into his wound.

Your laughter rose higher and higher, and with each breath you took, the more dizzy you became.

Feeling bruises form beneath their iron grip, you were hauled out of the chambers and dragged down into the dungeons below, feet barely being able to keep up with the guard's as you laughed and half sobbed. The pain in the back of your head blooming and your side burning in agony.

But it was all worth it.

Dracarys, echoed Lucerys.

Dracarys.

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[alicentflorent]

These are the facts: Daemon had Jaehaerys beheaded, leaving Helaena vulnerable and traumatised. Rhaenyra never punished him, instead she welcomes him back with open arms. She also still demands Aegon’s head claiming “a son for a son”, wants Aemond dead because he’s the one who killed Luke and will probably go after Daeron too as he’s a threat to Jace.

Is it cruel? Yes. Should Rhaenyra care that it’s cruel? No.

Rhaenyra’s proved she’ll let Daemon get away with kinslaying, and doesn’t give a crap about Helaena’s trauma. So how does Alicent benefit from this one sided deal?

She’s not going to let Alicent leave with her daughter and grandchild, they’re too valuable as hostages. Now that she’s been branded a traitor she has no one to defend her from Rhaenyra’s wrath and Daemon’s brutality.

Nothing about 2x08 can be justified as politically intelligent on Alicent’s part: she’s signed the death warrant for the men, and left the women at the mercy of a Queen who has no qualms with her husband killing children.

!!!

even if Rhaenyra (who technically has not agreed) did let Alicent, Helaena (who I guess the show thinks will just be fine with all her male relatives dying) and Jaehaera did manage to escape they don't know how to live a simple life the likely options wherever they end up is being taken hostage and held for ransom as they've made an enemy of both factions of the war, sold into sexual slavery, robbed and/or raped (especially during a war, commoners are already being raped and killed), maybe even working in a brothel out of desperation because they'd be starving, probably homeless and a sex work is sadly the only "work" they'd be qualified to do. It would really be a dark, miserable existence and I don't think the writers understand what running off to live an "unremarkable" life would actually mean, especially for two noble ladies out there alone.

[hotdfic]

A Daughter of Towers

Summary: A lot of things at once for poor little Lyanna.

Warnings: N/A !

PART 4 OMG!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the whispers of Lyanna’s marriage began to swirl around the court, the days following the tense meeting in Alicent’s chambers felt heavy with unspoken concerns. Despite the protests of her brothers, Alicent continued to press the matter in private, meeting with Lord Otto Hightower to discuss potential matches, while keeping Lyanna largely unaware of the conversations happening around her. Though she was young, the weight of her family’s expectations hung over her like a storm cloud, something she could feel, even if no one had yet spoken directly to her about the path they wished her to take.

Lyanna, however, was no stranger to the concept of duty. She had been raised in a court where power, marriage, and alliances were as valuable as gold. She watched her brothers and her sister play their roles, each navigating the labyrinth of court politics in their own way. Yet, as much as she loved her family, she also felt a growing sense of unease about her future.

Her bond with Stormfyre, her dragon, only grew stronger with time. By now, the once tempestuous young dragon had become more formidable, its massive wings casting long shadows across the fields as it soared above the Red Keep. Riding Stormfyre had become her refuge, a way to escape the suffocating air of the court. High in the sky, with the wind in her hair and the ground far below, she could never forget, even if for a moment, that she was a Targaryen, a daughter of duty and blood.

At fifteen, Lyanna had blossomed into a striking young woman, her silver hair cascading down her back, her violet eyes sharp with intelligence. She had learned much from her family—Aemond had trained her in swordsmanship, Helaena had taught her to look beyond the surface of things, and Aegon, despite his vices, had shown her how to move through the court without being swallowed by it. But despite her growing knowledge and skill, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the choices she wanted to make might not be her own.

One afternoon, as she sat with her sister in the gardens, braiding Helaena’s hair while listening to her soft murmurs about her insect collection, a quiet unease began to stir inside her. Helaena, always perceptive in her own way, noticed.

“You’re worried about something,” Helaena said, her voice as soft as the breeze that rustled through the trees.

Lyanna hesitated. “There are rumors. About a match for me. Mother hasn’t said anything directly, but I hear whispers in the hallways.”

Helaena’s fingers danced delicately over a small caterpillar as she glanced at Lyanna, her voice a soft whisper, barely louder than the wind through the garden.

“The men of this kingdom see you as a prize to be won,” she murmured, her eyes flickering with a faraway look, “but you are born of fire and blood. A choice awaits you, Lya. If you wish to prove you are more than a broodmare… you must decide which flame to ignite.”

Her words lingered, heavy with meaning, before she drifted back into her quiet world, leaving Lyanna to unravel their significance.

“I know, Hela...” Lyanna sighed, her voice tinged with frustration.

Their conversation was interrupted by a page, summoning Lyanna to the council chamber. As she rose to leave, Helaena caught her hand, squeezing it gently. “Don’t let them decide for you. You’re stronger than they think.”

Later that day, Lyanna found herself walking the halls of the Red Keep, her heart pounding in her chest. She had always known that one day she would be married off—such was the fate of highborn women in Westeros—but the thought of being wed to someone like a Lannister, far from the lands she loved, filled her with dread. Her brothers had always promised they would protect her, but even they couldn't hold off the inevitable forever.

When she entered the council chamber, she found her mother waiting for her. Alicent stood by the window, looking out over the city. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in her posture that Lyanna recognized all too well.

“Mother,” Lyanna greeted her, stepping forward cautiously.

Alicent turned, offering her daughter a small, tight smile. “Sweetheart, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

The conversation that followed was laced with formality and the undertone of duty. Alicent spoke of the importance of alliances, the necessity of securing their family’s future in uncertain times. She mentioned the Lannisters again, a subtle suggestion of a possible match that would benefit House Targaryen in both wealth and power. Lyanna listened, her face impassive, but inside she felt a growing sense of frustration.

“I know my duty, Mother,” Lyanna said finally, her voice steady. “But I also know that I am not just a pawn to be traded for gold.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It is not just gold, Lyanna. It is power. The power to protect this family, to protect Aemond and Helaena.”

“And what of my protection?” Lyanna asked quietly, her hands clenched at her sides. “Do I not have a say in my own future?”

For a moment, Alicent was silent, her expression softening. She stepped closer, reaching out to touch Lyanna’s face gently. “I want what’s best for you, Lya. But sometimes, what’s best for the family must come first.”

Lyanna nodded, though her heart ached. She understood her mother’s position, but it didn’t make the prospect any easier to swallow.

That evening, as she sat in her chambers, lost in thought, her brothers came to visit her. Aegon, already tipsy from the day’s feasting, sprawled across a chair while Aemond stood near the window, his ever-watchful gaze fixed on his sister. The moment they arrived, Lyanna knew they had heard about the conversation with Alicent.

“Sooo,” Aegon drawled, his voice slurring slightly, “Mother’s still pushing for the Lannister match, isn’t she?”

Lyanna nodded, her expression weary. “She thinks it’s what’s best for the family.”

Aemond’s face darkened, his one good eye flashing with anger. “It’s not what’s best for you. The Lannisters are only after the prestige of having a Targaryen bride. They don’t care about you.”

Aegon snorted, raising his goblet. “Of course they don’t. Lions always go for the prize that shines the brightest.”

Lyanna looked between her brothers, feeling a surge of gratitude for their protectiveness. They had always been there for her, even when they disagreed on everything else. Aegon, despite his faults, would never let anyone hurt her. And Aemond… Aemond, who had always taken his role as her protector more seriously than anyone, would rather see the world burn than let her be forced into a marriage she didn’t want.

“I don’t want to marry a Lannister,” she admitted softly. “But I also don’t want to disappoint Mother.”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Mother will survive. And so will the family, whether you marry a lion or not.”

[writer-jamie]

Hi darling sorry to brother but I just saw this amazing video on ttk about modern hotd in this old money sucesion vibes, i want to ask for some hcs or whatever u prefer about the targtowers siblings in this vibe, if u wanna write of course. i mean their house(prob a old money manor with targaryen portraits) i also imagine that they have a billionaire company that they all fight for, aemond would try so hard to have a high position and study so hard in the best unis and would be soo mysterious, aegon would just be a rich fuckboy that have an allowance and just have cars and partys and all that, helaena is the one i imagine her more extrovert an super pretty lady that goes to party and dinners with her mom but that loves to be on nature, alicent would be the daughter of super rich businessman(also otto) she probs went to college and was very smart before marrying and just being an trophy wife mom and socialite. Also if u wanna write some dating or romantic hcs about aemond in this, i would love it. thanks darling!!

Author's Note: Oh my geeee...Yes! I absolutely love the idea of modern Targaryen's and old money with them! Thank you for your request! I'm hopeful this will be what you are looking for! I will write some more headcannons/romantic ideas for them soon if you are interested!

A E G O N

Aegon definitely gives off fuckboy energy. Like nothing would stop him from his weekend parties and lavish nights out. I feel like he would be the same as in the show though, definitely feels like a disappointment to his family and doesn't really want to inherit all the money when their dad eventually dies. He has a load of friends but only a select few who he genuinely cares about and lets in. These people he will literally protect with his life. He's also very family orientated, even though he doesn't seem it. He would protect his family, no matter the cost.

A E M O N D

Aemond is more suited to the 'well off' lifestyle. He uses his money wisely and doesn't go out as often as his brother. He believes Aegon has tarnished the family name by allowing parties to happen at their mansion, the Red Keep. He rarely dips into his allowance or trust fund, saving for the future and wanting a decent life for himself after college. He knows he has his families money to fall back on but he doesn't want to depend on anyone. The black sheep of the Targaryen family.

H E L E N A

Helena on the other hand is quite different to the show. I would imagine her as a stoner. Definitely still loves nature, bugs and is very spiritual but uses weed as an escape. She loves Aegon's parties and is always at them. I think she acts a certain way around her mother and father though. She doesn't want to be seen as an embarrassment to the Targaryen name, unlike Aegon who just doesn't care. She usually attends the most dinner parties with Alicent, mainly because the boys don't enjoy them and she hates to see her mother alone. I see her as a dreamer like she is in the show. She's into tarot cards and fortune telling.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Whooo is Daenyra? I'm aware that's a broad question, but I'm unfamiliar with this character lol . . . and there's just something so delicious with modern day aus of GoT/HotD ocs ^_^

yes yes yes okay thank you thank you thnk you!!! broad question very appreciated because I can say whatever I want lol

canon daenyra in The Prophecy (cw: incest, she's a targaryen)

the fuck canon fix-it incest au Alicent & Viserys' daughter, probably a year younger than Aemond, in an attempt to foster an alliance with the Starks, Otto arranges for her to be fostered at Winterfell but after a near-miss assassination attempt (organized by Daemon), she knows that she will not be safe. Cragen helps her escape beyond the wall, where she spends the next several years just herself and her dragon (does her dragon become an ice dragon maybe so), when Jace goes to the wall with Cragen he’s shocked to find his long lost aunt Daenyra is a dreamer like her sister and her namesake, comes from a connection to the three-eyed raven which helps her survive when she’s beyond the wall she has a vision of the war and how it all ends and spends years trying to find a solution to avoid so much bloodshed Jace finds her beyond the wall, she tells him to get his mother and bring her to King’s Landing once everyone is gathered she tells them she has a solution to their war aka, what if the two future kings simply shared a wife and mended the broken family lines their children will be heirs in order of birth not based on which man fathered them and Alicent immediately refuses, thinking she means for Jace to be with Helaena Dany is just like nope nope annul that marriage, let Helaena marry Aemond only if it will make her happy says i’m going to marry them and no one else will die Dany says no more dead Targaryens and also fuck you Otto Hightower specifically, Rhaenyra might not get to be queen but her son still gets to be king Everyone is happy except Daemon and Otto and she and i both feel like that’s an acceptable solution

modern daenyra (cw: still targ-cest, implied nsfw) – it had a fic title but then i got indecisive so tbd

in modern day Westeros, the Targaryen family owns a very, very old company. I keep debating what it is but my main thoughts are real estate or finance (specifically finance houses or hedge funds) – or the company has grown enough to have branches in a lot of fields. Viserys is the President of the company with Rhaenyra set to inherit it when he dies or retires, Otto Hightower is his VP, Daemon is tentatively chief of operations, and Alicent wants her eldest son Aegon to inherit the company instead of Rhaenyra, but Aegon does not give a shit at all. (also this leans into book lore with Alicent being older than Rhaenyra because she is not marrying Viserys at 14/15)

The Targaryen children all have far too much money and freedom for their own good, but their access to that money (and ability to live at the family house and/or in various family-owned properties) is dependent on them working for the family business I'm still world building some of the details but it is essentially our world but instead of our countries & cities & etc, it's in Westeros) The concept of Daenyra's AU specifically is that 22 year old Daenyra Targaryen, socialite nepo baby princess (except to her parents, who do not care for her) has just graduated university and returned home. Because her father doesn't really care about her, and is still sexist despite having a female heir/only liking his eldest daughter, Daenyra gets a job as Aegon's personal assistant. It's not too bad, really. Sure, it's a lot of work since Aegon doesn't care about his job and she has to basically babysit him, but he's always been her favourite relative anyway, her job is pretty simple, and she has lots of money to do things she actually likes. Unfortunately for Aegon, what she actually likes is annoying and teasing him until he finally fucks her. She knows he's been checking her out for several years now (and Targaryens are still devoted to keeping it in the family, so to speak), and she's been waiting for this moment for far too long

(also, have an excerpt conversation between Aegon and Daenyra on her first day at work

“What’s the matter?  What's the matter? You’re fucking indecent, Dany!” “I could be wearing snowpants and a parka and I would still be indecent, Aegon.  It’s a peril of being one of the most gorgeous creatures on the planet.” “One of?  I would have thought you’d consider yourself the most gorgeous.” “I am exceptionally arrogant, but that doesn’t make me blind.  I am the most tempting creature on Earth, absolutely, but I know full well that our entire family was handcrafted by God.”

[navree]

Hi, first I wanted to say that I really like your takes and how eloquent you communicate your thoughts. I could never. I aim for a 5 sentence max paragraph and end up with an essay 😅

Anyways, I’m usually not one to dwell on other’s interpretations of a character or scene, especially if I don’t agree because it’s just fiction anyways…but sometimes I just see a bad take have to rant. I came across this take (I’ll copy and paste since I don’t want to @ op. I’ll also omit some filler words just in case): “the exhale, almost like relief. Alicent will finally escape a life she’s never had a say in. She won’t have to deal with the consequences of putting Aegon the throne and the look of horror when she realizes she’s alive” and ma’am. No.

Let’s say Alicent may be suicidal/have suicidal ideation, in that moment I’m pretty sure she was terrified that her sons and daughter were about to be burned alive. Even if she wanted to die, I’m not sure she would leave her children and grandchildren behind unprotected. Also, “deal with the consequences of putting Aegon on the throne”?? I know the show basically went “lol, anyways” in regards to Alicent’s fear that’s been growing for the past 20 years but she should be relieved that Aegon is crowned. They’re all (seemingly) safe. The “only consequences” are cruel, unjustifiable acts of “revenge” aimed at literal babies.

This take annoys me even more because I know that op and co. were the same ones who ran with “Alicent poisons Aegon in the name of retribution” and “Alicent is disgusted by Aegon’s touch during coronation scene when she removes his hand from her side and holds it instead”.

I know that her children were forced on her and loving them can’t be easy, but all Alicent has are her children. Aegon and Aemond were quick and brave enough to face an angry king to spare her, Aegon accepts the crown for her and their family, Aemond wants to gift Luke’s eye to her. Helaena has never done anything wrong. She doesn’t hate them; she loves them the most.

You guys are being so sweet to me today oh my goodness!! You're too kind, thank you <3

And yeah, I saw the exact take you're talking about, and the one about the hand too, and I did have to stop myself from vaguing about it cuz it was early in the morning and I have the capacity to be mean. There's this bizarre idea people have where they decide they're fine with Alicent being more sympathetic, but only as long as she repents the things she's done and realizes that she actually Did A Bad Thing and she's so sorry and regretful guys, really. And listen, interpretation is up to the interpreter and all that, but it's a bad interpretation.

Alicent is not, in fact, semi regretful while smiling at Aegon's coronation, she was under a lot of stress and she's finally seeing her son safe from harm for the first time in his entire life and actually embracing something, she's relieved. No she's not trying to prevent Aegon from touching her during the scene, boy has a sword and is very clearly trying to push her back and behind him so he can try to protect her before she stops him and is the one holding onto his hand to make sure that he doesn't try it again. No she is not "sighing in relief" she's just accepted that there's nothing she can do in the face of a dragon but at least she's with her son, at least her first boy won't die alone, at least she'll be there for him. No she is not horrified to be alive, she's now incredibly stressed once again and also realizing that Rhaenyra's going to find out that Aegon has the crown before Alicent was able to send over a peace delegation with honorable terms to potentially blunt the blow and prevent backlash. Like I'm sorry, but did some of these people need a hospital stay, cuz I'm assuming they pulled some muscles pretty badly with all that reaching.

Alicent did not have much say in how she lived her life. And there might have been times where she might have had some sort of suicidal ideation or something similar. But for one, that is hardcore fanon because there is nothing in the text or subtext or supplementary materials that has ever even attempted to claim that Alicent has any suicidal tendencies. It can make for a good fanfic idea, but fanfiction isn't canon. For two, we don't even know if that's something Alicent would be willing to do. We don't have a clear view on some of the tenants of the Seven, but it's meant to be analogous to Roman Catholicism (similar views on women, marriage, sex, homosexuality, the works) and in Roman Catholicism, suicide's a sin, it's actually a really big sin, so it's entirely possible that Alicent doesn't have any concrete thoughts on suicide and the like because it's against her beliefs and she's kinda big on those. And when it comes to whether or not Alicent would do it when she's got kids, suicide is a complex topic and sometimes you can have the most loving family in the world but if the factors are too stacked against you in other ways, it won't matter, but likely not. Alicent is a person who puts duty over everything, who literally lays her own body on the line in the defense of her children, she's probably not going to think about doing something for herself even if it'll make her happy so long as she's got the kids.

And yes, sorry to some people, but Alicent loves her children. Very, very dearly. I've discussed it many many times so I won't repeat it in detail again for anyone who's sick of it, but Alicent takes an active part in raising these kids, she is their primary parent, they clearly rely on her love and support, and she's very willing to defend them at all costs. She attacks Rhaenyra for Aemond, she demands Criston take Helaena to safety, she literally places herself between Aegon and a dragon. And Alicent's children love her, Aegon clearly does and half of his issues come from feeling that this love might not be reciprocated back, Helaena doesn't seem to mind her mom wanting to engage more in her interests, and the scene in episode 9 where she shies away from her touch is because she's aggravated no one's understanding her prophecy, and Aemond of course adores his mother through and through likely more than anyone else in his entire life (until Alys comes along).

When it comes to Alicent wanting to avoid consequences of putting Aegon on the throne, again, no? Alicent is not stupid. Alicent is very aware that there are going to be consequences to putting Aegon on the throne. That's why she and Otto lock the castle down, that's why she immediately calls a meeting of the Small Council, that's why she wants Aegon found and brought to her first, that's why she makes sure to talk with Aegon in private about Rhaenyra on their way to the Dragonpit. Alicent has been the de-facto ruler for nearly ten years, and she's the one spearheading a lot of this, she is textually aware of the consequences. There are consequences that we know are coming, like Vhagar going off script or Daemon deciding to indulge in some child murder, but those aren't consequences that anyone who isn't the book-reading audience could have ever foreseen. So let's also add "Alicent is not worried about facing the consequences when she's got the King, the King's government, the entire capital city, multiple dragons, and several powerful and influential Great Houses behind her and she's got a clear view on how to deal with the foreseeable consequences of this decision" to the list.

A lot of these takes come from the idea that Alicent can only be likable if she's constantly self-flagellating herself for her choices and is in constant self hatred mode for anything done against the characters they actually do like, or a view that Alicent is, I guess, the dumbest person on the planet who can't see further than two feet in front of her. But Alicent isn't constantly hating herself, she might hate her life but she does view herself in the right more than she does in the wrong, and she's smart and capable, and she's allowed to, you know, have ambition for her son and love her kid and want to stay with her family and protect them to the best of her abilities.

And of course, this was a take found on Twitter. Some of the Team Green side of HOTD Twitter is good, the rest of HOTD Twitter, literally the site is basically a disease at this point. There's a reason I frequently delete the app off my phone and try to limit my use, and I actually need it for work and connections.

[tatticstudio55]

DREAMFYRE, DAENERYS AND…

Let’s talk about the dragons in Fire and Blood, especially the dragons of the Dance.

On the night Rhaenyra fled King’s Landing, ten thousand men (and women), at least, broke inside the Dragonpit to slaughter the four remaining dragons inside. One of those dragons was Dreamfyre, and she made a lot of damage before she died.

At the time, Dreamfyre must’ve been the oldest dragon in the world, at least if we don’t count the wild ones on Dragonstone. She was only ever ridden by women: the “queen in the West” Rhaena was the first, and queen Helaena Targaryen the second (and the last). When Helaena died, Dreamfyre “rose suddenly with a roar that shook the Dragonpit, snapping two of the chains that bound her” (F&B, 506). Dreamfyre herself was half-blinded by a crossbow bolt moments before her own death, two nights later. Although it wasn’t the crossbow that killed her. But I’ll get to that in a bit, after I’ve listed all the dragons who died from, because, or shortly after an eye injury:

Meraxes, Queen Rhaenys’s dragon, was struck in the eye by an iron bolt in Dorne.

Aemond One-Eye, riding Vhagar, fought and killed his half-brother Luke (who was riding Arrax), for Luke had taken one of Aemond’s eyes in a fight a few years earlier.

Urrax took a spear in the eye during the “Butcher’s Ball”

The final battle between Daemon (on Caraxes) and Aemond One-Eye (on Vhagar): it’s not mentioned that the dragons themselves were clawing at each others’ eyes, but Daemon killed Aegon by shoving his sword into Aemond’s blind eye. Then there’s also the fact that the fight took place above the Gods Eye.

Morghul died after being speared in the eye repeatedly.

Dreamfyre, half-blinded by a crossbow bolt on the same night.

Moondancer, blinded by the brightness of Sunfyre’s fires.

Mere days before he died from his wounds, it was said of Sunfyre that “where his right eye should have been was only an empty whole, crusted with black blood” (F&B, 540)

Digging a bit on the side of the metaphorical, maester Aemon, who renounced his dragon heritage, died blind.

And, on the other end of the spectrum, when Daenerys gave life to her dragons, sight intertwined itself with the magic happening:

The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE? – Daenerys, AGOT

On the night of the bloody riot in King’s Landing, Dreamfyre crashed against the pit’s dome in one last attempt to escape her slayers. The dome came crumbling down and it killed everyone beneath, including Dreamfyre, in a very Samson-esque fashion.

For a bit of context, Samson was a character from the Ancient Testament, possessed of a surhuman strength that was bestowed to him by God. Samson couldn’t cut his hairs, however, for if he did, he’d lose his strength. Samson’s secret was eventually discovered by his enemies, who cut his hairs while he slept, then gouged out his eyes (this is important!) and carried him in chains inside a stone temple. What did Samson do next?

Samson prayed God for his strength to be restored one last time, so he could destroy the temple and kill everyone inside, himself included. Which is exactly what happened.

Samson’s story is also reminding of the dothraki custom to cut their hairs when defeated in battle. Long hairs (or braids) mean strength. That doesn’t relate to Dreamfyre per say, but the dothraki are related to Dany (who braid her hairs in the dothraki fashion). On the matter of eyesight, it might be that eyes are to dragons what long hairs were to Samson, that a blind dragon is like a short-haired Samson. Daenerys is an inverted case when it comes to hairs and magical empowerment. Her hairs burn when her dragons are born, and again when she mounts Drogon for the first time. Yet if Dany were to die like Samson and Dreamfyre (as many are theorizing that she’ll sacrifice herself in the “Big Battle”), it would make for interesting parallels… not that I’m sold on this entirely.

I am, however, sold on a few other things. Setting aside endgame predictions, Dany’s beginning roughly evoke the fates of Dreamfyre and Samson. She’s a dragon in chains in A Game of Thrones: no agency, treated as property by her brother, who keeps talking about “waking the dragon”. Daenerys starts pushing on the temple’s pillars and crashing against the pit’s dome the moment she takes a step toward Drogo’s pyre. Viserys couldn’t wake dragons, but Dany woke from her own “dreamfire” after miscarrying Rhaego, and we all know what happened next:

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and Dany was showered with ash and cinders. And something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling, to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, yet dimly through the firefall Dany heard women shriek and children cry out in wonder. – Daenerys, AGOT

God gave Samson his strength back because Samson was willing to die crushed beneath the stones and rubble of the temple alongside Gods’ “enemies”. And, as pointed out by @turtle-paced before, the magic behind the hatching of the dragons probably came from Dany’s willingness to walk into the fire.

(I’ll put the pic reference in the comment 👇)