#honeyholt

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

What a lady of house beesbury would wear

[jaenaratargaryen]

Pamela of Houses Beesbury and Velaryon

Daughter of Lord Moren Beesbury of Honeyholt

Wife of Addam Velaryon

Mother to Jaena and Nerissa Velaryon.

Though she was not the Lady of Driftmark and was merely wife to the second son, Lady Pamela held great influence, having served the Tyrells and then House Targaryen with her daughters. Nerissa would become the Lady of Driftmark as wife to her cousin Lord Monterys and Jaena would one day become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as wife to King Rhaegar I. Pamela served Queen Daenerys I until the end of her days, and helped in raising their shared royal grandchildren. She outlived her own son in law, overseeing the coronation of her grandson King Baelon I and Queen Jaenara. She died on the ninth day of the ninth moon of 352 AC whilst visiting with her daughter Nerissa on Driftmark.

[endless-ineffabilities]

sapphire-hearted (part two)

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

After his betrayal, the reader is determined to forget about Aemond. But her attempts at entertaining a potential suitor seem to be thwarted at every turn, by none other than... who else?

themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, angst, third (and fourth) parties involved but not really

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

a/n: the title changed, yes! Also, can you believe I actually thought this would remain a mere oneshot? But no, I got hungry for more angst and jealousy and all the good stuff. Much love to all my fellow angst lovers for breathing new life into this fic!

When the whispers started, you knew they would eventually reach Aemond.

You were rumoured to be entertaining Lord Ramsay Beesbury, the youngest son of the late Lord Lyman Beesbury.

His older brother, Braxton, was your initial suitor many moons ago. But you refused him, of course. For a certain one-eyed prince.

Lord Braxton had been the one who became Lord of Honeyholt after his father and he has just recently taken a wife. Unlike his father, however, he opted to side with the Greens and to back Aegon's claim.

Ramsay began to seek you out himself, not long after finding out that you are now more receptive to marriage proposals.

Everyone knew. Well, it seems that way, at least. It is common knowledge that you and Aemond were closer than to be expected of mere friends. Any Lord who might ask for your hand knew not to expect to be met with warmth and eagerness. They tried anyway, and failed.

Because each time, and without even needing to say so, they knew that you were choosing Aemond.

"I don't know why you would think that," you lie with a sweet smile, when Ramsay presents his concern about you and Aemond. "Prince Aemond and I are acquaintances, and that is all there is to it."

"Oh." Ramsay smiles, evidently pleased with your response. "My lady, I am glad to be spending this afternoon with you here in the gardens. After some time, I would hope that we can join our Houses, as humble as mine might be." He averts his eyes shyly. Ramsay is surely a gentle lad, as far as you have seen.

"You need not be concerned, my lord. My House is just as humble. But we make do, don't we? At the very least, we do not have to busy ourselves with all the politicking the more nobler Houses seem to get into."

"That is true, my lady." He grins, and you notice lines burst around his eyes, though he is merely five and twenty. Ramsay has spent a life imparting and partaking in laughter.

Unlike a certain sullen, brooding Targaryen. Could you get used to Ramsay? Surely. Could you love him? Perhaps so.

"So what shall we do on the morrow?" Ramsay closes the distance between the two of you on the bench, and his knees brush against yours under your skirts. He takes your hands in his, "I propose - "

He stops, his head whipping to the side, looking toward the treeline.

"What is it, my lord?" you ask, looking in the same direction. But you see nothing.

"I thought I heard something." He whispers, then looks again to you. "Where were we - "

"Fine weather we're having." You nearly jump out of your skin in surprise, as Ramsay is interrupted yet again. Aemond stands about a foot away from your bench, hands clasped behind him in usual commanding stance.

"My prince." Ramsay stiffens, your hands still held in his. You see that Aemond's attention has been drawn to this, his lips curling in distaste.

You both rise from the bench. Ramsay is no longer touching you, but still stands close.

Closer than Aemond would like. His hand clenches into a fist behind his back. He muses about whether it is unbecoming for a Targaryen prince to sock a young Lord in the jaw unprovoked.

He does not much care either way.

"It is, indeed," Ramsay says. "Which is why I thought to take the Lady out for a walk in the gardens."

"And a fine idea it was," you add, purposefully looping your arm around Ramsay's. "It's best that Lord Ramsay and I get to know each other well, if we are to wed soon."

Aemond decides not to punch the young Lord Beesbury. Not just yet. Clearly you're provoking him and he is not going to give you the satisfaction.

"A wedding in the middle of war?" Aemond hums. "Do you not think such a union foreshadows plenty of discontent and strife, my lady?"

You scoff, "Oh, what does it matter? When will we ever not be in a war, in some form or another? That should not stop us from marrying whom we please. From loving whom we please."

Loving. Love. Aemond's heart sinks. You mention love in front of him, when you have yourself wrapped around another man. One whom you plan to wed.

How can you speak of love, when you are planning to sacrifice it? Aemond might transgress with Alys, but at least he is doing it for the realm. For you.

Is he not? Then why does it seem like he is losing you?

Ramsay beams to Aemond, "My lady is truly clever, is she not, my prince?"

"She is." Aemond genuinely agrees. He only has eyes on you, running over the planes of your face which he has committed to memory, all those nights of watching you sleep next to him. He looks upon you with longing.

With love.

For a moment, everything feels right. You and your love gaze upon each other, all else forgotten. Your arm slides down from Ramsay's in your brief reverie.

Then Ramsay clears his throat. "What are you doing here, Prince Aemond? Can we help you with anything?"

"Oh, I don't think you can," Aemond says pointedly, clearly pleased with himself.

"P-pardon me?"

You interrupt the exchange, your voice icy, "Not busy today, my prince? No plans of battle to discuss? Grand spells to concoct?"

"No." Aemond merely shakes his head. "I've no use for those at the moment."

"What a surprise," you sneer.

Ramsay glazes over your mention of spells, thinking he misheard things. He then addresses Aemond, "It seems that the tides have turned toward our favour, my prince. The Greens' favour. I can only hope that the aid my House provides has played a part, albeit small."

Aemond does not mince his words, disdain clear in his voice when he says, "Surely the barrels of honeyed wine that your great House provides has been crucial in advancing our cause, my Lord. If you yourself possessed any mettle, then you would be out there in the battlefield. Instead you sit here in the gardens, wasting your days trying to covet something of mine. "

Unbelievable. Your mouth nearly falls open in shock at his demeanour. "Aemond..."

"I need to speak with you, my lady."

"I am occupied at the moment, my prince." You respond through gritted teeth.

"It's alright," Ramsay nods to you, clearly disheartened. But he holds his ground, and bravely takes your hand in his. Completely aware that Aemond watches, he leans down and plants a kiss on the back of your hand, eyes on yours the entire time.

Aemond feels his restraint dissipating, hanging on by the flimsiest of threads.

"Come with me," Aemond takes your hand, the very same which Ramsay just kissed, and begins pulling you away and walking towards the tall hedges.

You can feel his thumb brushing against your knuckles, as if trying to eliminate any trace of Lord Ramsay.

"Stop - " you say, but to no avail.

When Ramsay is no longer in your line of sight, you pull your hand from Aemond's grip. "What is wrong with you? Ramsay did nothing to deserve that."

"Ramsay," Aemond rolls his eye. His shoulders are stiff, and you can easily tell he is angry.

"I should go find him, and apologize for your behaviour. Clearly you will not."

"I do not need to apologize for anything to that weak-willed, little - "

"Then apologize to me," you interject, voice breaking.

"Whatever for?" He reaches for you, but you stand still. Doing nothing as his hand cradles your face.

"For everything... for being with someone else... for not choosing me."

"But I choose you. I always - "

"You chose Alys."

His face scrunches at that. Aemond thinks that he did not choose Alys, he merely chose to use her powers for his gain. But it will never be her over you.

"Just apologize to me," you shrug. "Or don't. It does not change anything. We can soon set all of this behind us."

You watch him intently, drinking in every slight change in his expression. The curve of his lips. The way his eyelashes brush against his skin when he looks down.

If you have to let him go, you will always want to remember him. To remember everything.

He says nothing for the longest time, just holding your face in his hands.

Until you step away. His arms fall to his sides.

"I have to choose Ramsay, Aemond. I have to do this for myself," you say.

Still, nothing. His gaze is trained downward, and he feels helpless as he can feel you slipping away from him.

You finally muster up the strength to say goodbye, "I'll be seeing you, my love."

Your feet feel heavy as you walk away, crunching against the small rocks on the path.

"What if we were to wed? What then, hmm?" He suddenly says, making you stop in your tracks.

He continues, "Will you choose me?"

Will Aemond finally give up Alys? Will he marry the reader even if it will be frowned upon and seen as an unfit union? *shrugs* you tell me

Will Aegon make an appearance in part three? *nods* yes. Yes, he will.

In my mind, Ramsay is played by Callum Turner or Jonah Hauer-King. Just a thought. Aemond's got some competition *laughs evilly*

I hope I managed to include everyone in the taglist!! If not, just let me know 🖤

taglist: @immyowndefender @bellameshipper @aemondswifeisme @bash1018 @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstoms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @youtoldalie @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @whitejuliana1204 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

[viperixsworld]

Born to die

━━ Benjicot Blackwood x oc

Chapther one : the riverwoman

Year 126 A.C.

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Sometimes, Lucrezcia thought to herself how easy it would be to escape. The Arbor was an island wonderfully connected to practically the entire world known to man. Volantis seemed like a good destination, all she needed was a ship, of which she had thousands at her disposal.

But there were several factors that deprived her of such a plan. First, her father was as tenacious as she was, and would find her and drag her back so that he could marry her off to whomever he offered.

The second, and at that moment more important, Lucreczia was sitting in a carriage, on her way to her first audience with her possible future husband. Her father, sitting opposite her, seemed to be trying to ignore her by any means possible. Lucrezcia, for her part, tried to annoy him, making noises with her rings.

"Could you, my child, stop being a nuisance for a few moments?"

The girls stopped her movements, to offer a sarcastic smile to her father.

"Oh, excuse me dearest father, it must be pre-marital nerves".

"Are you always so unbearable?"

I have someone to look like

But she preferred to swallow her words. Lunch with Lord Tarly's niece had been most victorious for her lord father. Julianna Tarly was a slender and tremendously young girl, no older than Lucrezcia herself. The young Redwyne found her stepmother-to-be irritating and exceedingly sordid. A childish girl who could compete in immaturity with her nearly five-year-old sister.

The irony of the gods, he was getting rid of a daughter to return to a wife who might be confused by one of his offspring.

Luckily for her, she would not have to put up with the new Lady of the Arbor, as she would be married by then in any corner of the fucking continent.

Honeyholt was the home of the Beesbury house, sworn to the Hightowers. With their lord at King's Landing as part of King Viserys Targaryen's council, it was Lady Beesbury, who had kindly offered to host the court. Not out of charity, of course, but out of business with one of the richest houses in all of Westeros. Lucrezcia was just a pawn, just like in her father's chessboard.

The Reach was undoubtedly a beautiful place, filled with flowers of all kinds and palaces that looked like something out of a book about knights in shining armour. Lady Beesbury greeted them at the entrance, an elderly, petite woman with an unbridled taste for pie and tartlets. Lucrezcia tried to smile and look delighted at the auction of her person to a bunch of usurious lords, as the old woman led her into the garden where the tea was to be held.

They say that you are not aware of your destiny until it is staring you in the face.

That's how Lucrezcia felt when she set foot in the garden, becoming the centre of everyone's attention. It seemed that they had deliberately arrived early, to make her entrance more conspicuous. Pairs of eyes scrutinised her as if she were one of the cakes on the table.

So far, the trip had served to psych her up, but the possibility that her future husband might be among these men made her want to vomit horribly.

"Cheer up, dear, they're watching you," her father's voice echoed behind her.

Fuck off

A strange tingling settled in her spine. She approached the small table with the cakes, while her father stood talking to some men in pompous clothes.

Lucrezcia contemplated that apart from herself, the only other woman at the soiree was the elderly Lady Beesbury (except for the maids who went to and fro). The rest were men. Tall, thin, short, fat, ornately dressed, full of jewels. With the balance on the side of men of her father's generation rather than her own.

She wondered if her mother suffered such a thing, being from the Iron Islands, they probably put her on a ship straight to the Arbor in a wedding dress and called it a day.

She didn't know if it was worse than what she was going through at that moment.

"My lady"

Lucrezcia gobbled down the raspberry pastry in her hand before turning to the person who spoke to her.

A short, chubby man with a terrible grey moustache and little hair in the centre of his head, he took the hand that previously held a pastry and planted a kiss on the back of her hand.

"My name is Lord Daryl Florent"

She watched him wordlessly, chewing the pastry exaggeratedly. Lord Florent began to talk about his life, still holding her hand. When the man stopped talking, seeing that the girl did not answer, he said to her.

"You would be prettier if you smiled."

A spark lit up the girl's eyes. She tugged at the corners of her mouth, preparing a flamboyant smile. A smile that showed all her teeth covered in the raspberry filling of the pastry.

Lord Florent made no secret of his displeasure as he let go of the young woman's hand and walked indignantly towards another group of men watching the interaction.

Preach the word, fatty.

The afternoon was summed up in a series of frustrated attempts by different men to approach her in an attempt to woo her. When the man was old to begin with, her tactic was to be disgusting, play with food and make comments that implied she was a woman with ideas.

When they tried to elicit information about her interests, Lucrezcia didn't bother to lie. She liked to hunt, enjoyed wine and ale (no surprise, being the daughter of the leading exporter of ale in all of Westeros), could barely do needlework, and was very interested in the political situation in the realm.

Most did not endure up to that point in the conversation, but the few who did, asked the golden question.

"And you are an avid reader from what your father says. What is the last book you read, my lady?"

"A caution for young girls, my lord"

That used to be the final strike.

Who wants a wife who reads about sex with the intention of self-pleasure rather than to give heirs?

With the many horrified looks from the gentlemen, Luther could only resist the urge to slap his daughter in the middle of the garden.

Night fell upon them, and Lady Beesbury invited them into Honeyholt's great hall. Lucrezcia watched as less than half of the large crowd of men who had been there at the beginning of the evening remained. It was clear that the great hall table was almost empty, apart from Lady Beesbury, her father, herself and some nine suitors.

The food was extremely sweet for her taste. The girl chewed in silence as her lord father spoke to the few remaining men.

Unfortunately for her, most of them were old men who had not succumbed to her tactics. She was very bored. The dress of salmon-coloured fabric was particularly itchy, the belt of thick golden thread cut off her circulation. The hairstyle that Nyssa had done for her this morning was pulling at her brain cells.

The kingdom was in the springtime, according to the maesters. The Reach's crops were thriving, but Lucrezcia wished at the moment that everything would freeze over. At the very least, for a breeze to blow. She felt like she was in the middle of Dorne's Red Desert.

In those moments of desperation, she considered faking a fainting spell. She could pour some wine over herself, lie on the floor and hope that her father would get fed up with this fanfare and decide to return to his island.

Oh, her island. Lucrezcia had always dreamed of leaving it, but now she missed it more than anything. The walks through the vineyards, going to the Ryamsport harbour market to watch the seafarers' festivals, skinny-dipping on the beach with Nyssa at an hour her father hadn't allowed.

Even her palace on the cliffs of the Arbor, right by Starfish Harbor. The library's stained glass windows, its chambers overlooking the sea, the passageways to the kitchens and stables where she could go out with her pack of hounds.

How she missed her puppies.

She hoped to transport them to wherever she was getting married.

The last litter had been of 8 puppies, 5 of which survived. Now with the perfect age and training for a good hunt. They were fast and strong, they could tear a fox apart in a few seconds.

Surely their dogs were more loyal than all these men sitting at the table. She wondered if she could use them as bait for her little puppies. As a form of training.

Nah, they'd be too easy prey.

In her reverie, Lucrezcia ignored the doors to the great hall and it was not until Lady Beesbury rose from her seat at the end of the table to greet the new visitors.

"My Lady Blackwood, what a surprise, I was not expecting you yet."

That made the Redwyne girl look up from her plate of gooseberry duck. The sight stunned her.

A tall, slender but athletic woman with a cascade of obsidian-black hair curling like tornadoes. Behind her, six men, all somewhat rough-looking, dressed in the same clothes as her. Riding clothes, black and crimson.

The men looked hungry, staring at the bloody roast duck as if they hadn't eaten in days. They reminded her of her dogs, waiting attentively at the woman's command.

"I hope I have not interrupted with our entry" said the woman "We have a long drive to Oldtown and Lord Beesbury had offered us accommodation for the night".

Lady Beesbury did not look very pleased, but she could do nothing against her husband's orders.

"Well... I guess you may sit down, please, please, you must be starving" said the old lady.

Lucrezcia sent an amused glance at her father, who looked tense but intrigued as Lady Blackwood's men swept through the feast.

"And tell me, Lady Blackwood. What is your business so far from the Riverlands?" asked her father, sipping from his wine glass.

"Our maester fell ill a couple of moons ago. We were travelling to the Citadel to request reinforcements at Raventree Hall. My Lord Brother sent me on his behalf".

"I understand" said her father.

As the rivermen gulped, Alyssane looked at her father.

"And what are you doing, Lord...?"

"Lord Redwyne" interrupted Lady Beesbury "Lord Redwyne of the Arbor and his daughter, Lady Lucrezcia, are here as my guests, as are all these distinguished gentlemen".

Black Aly surveyed the table, the distinguished gentlemen looking rather uncomfortable at the presence of her men. She then looked at the girl in the salmon-coloured dress. Lucrezcia felt a little self-conscious, but smiled at the new guest. She smiled back.

The woman from the Riverlands could not be more than ten years older than her. And she was not stupid. The picture was so obvious that asking the question was totally unnecessary.

The dinner went as smoothly as possible. With the suitors gradually withdrawing as Lucrezcia's father and Lady Alyssane had an arduous conversation about the politics and succession of the realm, with the recent birth of Prince Joffrey.

Lucrezcia learned there that the Blackwoods were a Riverlands family of considerable prestige, the only one in their lands to practice the religion of the Old Gods. Lord Luther had long sought to expand into the interior of the continent, exporting mostly to coastal cities.

Any occasion is good for business, Lucrezcia supposed.

Her maid, Nyssa, was quick to come and fetch her as the hour of the wolf approached. As did Lady Beesbury.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lucrezcia," Alyssane said goodbye. "I had hoped that tomorrow we might be able to breakfast together in the gardens, if Lady Beesbury sees fit for your... matchmaking".

The old woman didn't seem to agree, but after the disaster with her first twenty suitors, she figured that giving the girl the morning off would be a good idea.

"The pleasure was all mine, Lady Alyssane," said the girl before following Lady Beesbury and Nyssa to her chambers.

Once the girl was out, only Lord Luther, Black Aly and an empty jug of wine were left in the hall.

"She is a beautiful girl, you are very lucky, Lord Redwyne," congratulated the woman.

Luther wanted to laugh in her face. Yes, his third daughter was beautiful, a light brown-haired beauty with huge green eyes, a fine face and a pretty composition.

"She'd make an ideal wife, if she wasn't a problem with legs." The man began as Lady Alyssane listened " The girl is the smartest of my four daughters, and the most ambitious. Nine septas she has cost me in less than four years, they say she is incorrigible" the man massaged his temple "I had hoped a husband would soothe her spirit" he lamented.

In his deepest dreams, Luther regretted that Lucrezcia was not a man. She would have been the perfect heir, but sadly the laws and her own opinions deprived her of that status.

Luther had to marry off his daughter. That was the custom and the law.

Black Aly listened with attention, scheming in her own mind.

Lucrezcia reminded her of herself, a young woman who just wanted her place in the world. Though Aly had been luckier in the family, from what she was hearing. While her father described his third with a mixture of resentment and pride, as she noticed, the girl did not remind him only of her.

A highly intelligent, cool-headed young noble who enjoyed risk but knew how to keep her composure. She couldn't help but compare her to her own nephew.

Benjicot Blackwood had just turned six and ten, a year younger than Lucrezcia. The boy was proper and somewhat shy among his own kind, but lately quarrels with the Brackens had him in a mess, hanging out with his grooms at the tavern, brawling and neglecting his lessons.

He needed to wise up.

He needed a new goal.

He needed a wife. Her brother, and father of the boy, Lord Samwell Blackwood, had tried to bring up the subject several times, perhaps this was the right occasion.

"I believe, my lord, that I can offer clarity on our problems," the woman commented. "My own nephew, Benjicot Blackwood, future Lord Blackwood and heir to Raventree Hall, may stand as a suitor for your daughter," she explained.

Luther seemed to sober up suddenly. It was a good way to make contacts with the Riverlands, as well as sending his daughter far away.

"How much do you want for her?"

He knew it wasn't smart to send it to the first person who would offer. But she had been on the marriage market for years and nothing. It was a golden opportunity, both for him and for Blackwood.

"I shall write to my brother first thing tomorrow morning. He will discuss with you the details of the dowry, the wedding and so on".

"As tempting as it sounds, I know my daughter, she is capable of galloping away if I promise her to a complete stranger who has never seen her life".

"And for that, my lord" Black Aly leaned her elbows on the table to approach the lord in front of her and say "She'll think it's her idea".

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tag list: @erysione @asteria33 @shifter-101 @drwho-ess

[marthawrites]

Congrats Martha!! 🎉🎉

Could I request Rhaenyra x reader with the prompt “Spread your legs for me, I want to see all of you” pretty please?

Thank you 😍

Absolutely, Fae my darling! I hope I brought your prompt to life and gave it justice! 💖

Honeyed Promises

Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem reader

Word count: 2.8k+

About: While visiting your great uncle, Lyman Beesbury, at King's Landing, you weren't expecting secondhand stress to affect your lord husband so. Princess Rhaenyra takes notice and is happy to steal moments away with you.

Includes: Unhappy political marriage, mentions of verbal fighting, and smut. Featuring reader's first sexual experience with a woman, oral sex, vaginal fingering, and scissoring

Note: Hello lovely reader ❤️ This is my very first time writing a wlw fic - ahh! It's a complete honor to do it as a request for Fae! Story takes place during Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor. It is implied she hasn't had children yet. Reader is nondescript. As always, I hope you enjoy this story!

Cross posted on ao3 too!

-

Little had changed since your last visit to King’s Landing when you were a young girl. The Red Keep, in all its sprawling glory, loomed just as large as you remembered. A rarity, you were beginning to understand – for things you thought grand as a child were all but normal to you, now. The Keep was a being of its own, however. Almost a living, breathing, sentient thing. For an outsider its walls seemed to morph into the dark; changing, shifting… holding onto its secrets like the dragons its Kings bonded with.

You weren’t a stranger to politics. But, you were a stranger to the volume of aristocrats which surrounded the Targaryen dynasty. Lyman Beesbury, your great uncle, served as master of coin on King Viserys’ small council, and before him, King Jaehaerys, and was as deep into politics as a man of a smaller House could be.

A great honor.

-

Uncle Beesbury extended an invasion to his nephew, your lord husband, to attend a royal affair at the capital. He gladly accepted. Using it for not only an excuse to get out of Honeyholt for a while, but also to catch up with family, the long journey felt worth it.

Your marriage had yet to bear fruit. Little love bloomed between you and your husband. It was a marriage of duty rather than love, and it showed it more ways than you two cared to admit. If only you could swell with his child to put an end to all the talk of furthering the bloodline.

Each passing day at King’s Landing showed you a different side to your husband. Whatever he and his uncle conversed about in private soured his mood, and his harsh tongue somehow grew harsher towards you. No matter how you tried to soften him with gentle touches, tender words, and initiating marital affections, he was unsatisfied and dour.

“Your lord husband seems quite the ray of sunshine, my lady,” princess Rhaenyra whispered to you one night during dinner. Her voice lilted with sarcasm and her violet eyes dazzled with amusement when she met your gaze. She held it with confidence. With a softness. Knowing.

“Is it that obvious, princess?” You asked with some of her same amusement. “He was so excited to come here. I thought he’d be happier than…,” you waved your hand in a sweeping gesture, adding, “this.”

She smiled softly. “Have you had the chance to explore? There are many wonderful things here to distract you from tetchy husbands,” she said and tipped her goblet towards you, sipping to hide her smirk.

“Perhaps on the morrow I will,” you said, heat and butterflies filling your blood at her tone and implication. Could the princess be… flirting? Your heart quickened a tick. Surely you’re mistaken. Your bedtime stories of suave knights must be getting to you.

“I’ll gladly show you around. I too could use a distraction from the small council.”

She didn’t touch you, but the way her gaze lingered from your neck, up to your lips, and down to the exposed swath of your chest, made gooseflesh pebble your skin as if she had.

-

Nearly a week went by and unfortunately Rhaenyra had yet to keep true to her word. You couldn’t blame her, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt. Each day passed with a sting. The only thing that made it better was the conversations you were able to steal at dinner. The lingering looks, the briefest of touches, Rhaenyra reaching to brush away dust from your gowns… you thought your heart might truly leap from your throat when she wetted the corner of her napkin with her mouth to clean a drop of sauce from your chest. 

And, all the while, she sat by her husband, Laenor Velaryon, and you sat by your lord husband; the men either uncaring or none the wiser to the simmering attraction and tension between you and the princess.

The following day, after a particularly curt argument in hissed voices, you stomped away from your lord husband and left him in one of the numerous corridors. You didn’t stop your angry pace until you were standing in the gardens. Unchaperoned, unguarded, and completely alone. Just how you wanted to be. Heavy gray clouds began to gather over the castle. It didn’t deter you from wanting to make the most out of the remaining blue sky.

Your mood lightened by the minute. Flowers, shrubs, and trees bloomed everywhere. Heady scents filled your nose and it made you yearn for home. King’s Landing was lovely. But, to you, there truly was no place like home. 

Akin to your married name, you quietly followed a trail of honeybees until you found their hive. Deep and hidden in the gardens, you wanted nothing more than to simply stay there for the remainder of the day. Perhaps even the rest of your stay. Honeybees were busy and gentle creatures. As long as you didn’t disturb them or their hive, the working girls were unbothered by your presence.

Finally, with one final whisper of goodbye to the bees, you left the secret spot and began to make your way back to the Keep. Raindrops started to fall and you knew a full on downpour wasn’t far behind.

Then, right there in your path, stood Rhaenyra. Her head was tipped back, her eyes were closed, and her palms were open up towards the sky as if in prayer. You felt like you were interrupting something sacred. Excitement jumped to your throat and before you could stop yourself, you asked, “princess…?” 

She turned to look at you with partially lidded eyes. “What ever are you doing out here right now?” She asked with genuine confusion.

“I needed a breath of air. My husband, he…” 

Before you could finish she held a hand up and offered a small shake of her head. “Needn’t worry to explain, then,” she said, appearing to come back to herself. “If the storm didn’t brew out of nowhere, and if I knew I’d run into you, I’d insist on taking you astride Syrax with me,” she said as she stepped into your space, eyes bright and dark alike. She freely reached for your hands and grabbed both of them. “There’s nothing quite as thrilling as dragon flying.”

This is more thrill than I’ve felt in a long time, you wanted to say. You wondered if the words flashed across your face. Briefly flustered, you smiled. “I, uhm… thank you, truly, princess. But I much prefer the ground.”

“That’s because you’ve never tried being in the sky,” she said, voice soft, so soft, as she leaned into you. “You cannot deny something so quickly if you haven’t tried it…”

Desire, excitement, and wonder filled her pretty eyes. Violet, and silver, and always donned in the loveliest gowns, you understood how the rumors of Targaryens being closer to Gods than men traveled all over the Seven Kingdoms. She was close enough that you felt her breath tickle your face. Smelled the oils of her skin. Something electric pulsed between your almost pressing bodies. “This is the closest I’ve been to a dragon and I am positively thrilled,” you whispered in reply, gently squeezing her hands.

“Sweet girl…,” she cooed as she tilted her head and pressed a delicate kiss to your waiting lips. Whatever pulsed between you before thrummed to life like a wardrum, now. You returned her kiss and that’s all she needed. Both her hands cupped your face as she deepened the affection, savoring the smoothness of your lips. Your tongue.

Just then the sky opened and emptied warm rain on the city. Within moments you were both soaked. Shock led to laughter as you both ran to find cover. Rain water dripped from your nose as you looked at Rhaenyra with renewed delight. “It came out of nowhere!” You said once in the dry safety of the Red Keep’s walls.

“Which part?” Asked the princess, mischievousness alighting all her features. She pulled you along, now, looking over her shoulder and daring you to keep pace with her. 

Challenge accepted.

Arm in arm, you kept pace with Rhaenyra and paid little mind to any onlookers who might be giving you curious glances. She was light and quick on her feet and you were beginning to have a hard time keeping up with her. Still, the light air of playfulness danced around both of you.

An ornate door was guarded by a single man and the princess was quick to say, “you may be relieved from your post for now, ser.” He offered a bow before turning to leave. She opened the door and latched it once you were both inside. Locking it, she turned to face you with a smirk that had you giddy.

“What of your husband, princess? And mine?” Despite it only being the two of you in her private bedchamber, you whispered.

“Laenor and I have… we have found common ground with a pact, you see. He would be happy that I found joy and thrill in chasing you. No one will know of our kiss. That, I promise,” she said, mirroring your tone, as she traced the backs of her fingers along your jaw. Your neck. Whispering them over your collarbone. “As for your husband? Well… I haven’t even seen him kiss your cheek since you’ve been here. Such a shame.”

Your heart was doing flips in your belly. Your lord husband never made you feel like this. Not even on your wedding night. “Th-this–,” you started, uncharacteristically stammering, “–I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve only ever been with my husband.” Heat warmed your cheeks and you hoped she didn’t see it.

“That’s okay,” she purred. “Let me show you, my lady.” Her eyes searched yours. As soon as consent passed between you, she began to help you out of your wet gown. You helped her out of hers, too, and before too long you stood in front of each other in only your chemises; thin material doing little to hide your bodies.

Now on her bed, your curious fingers trembled over her skin as you explored her body. Your lips shuddered atop her flesh as you grazed tentative kisses along her. Your breath caught in your throat when she did all the same, and more, to you. She was so soft, and so warm, and so unlike anything you’d experienced before. Her hands on any and every part of your body had you melting further into her mattress. “Can you.. Can I…,” you said dreamily. “Can I feel your skin on mine?”

Grinning like a cat, Rhaenyra pulled your chemise over your head. She tugged hers off too. Leaning down, she balanced her weight atop you as she crashed her mouth to yours in the neediest hungriest kiss you’d ever experienced. Your breasts squished together, and your bellies, too, and it was the single most exciting thing you’d ever felt. “Can I finish taking all your clothes off?” She asked, half breathless, one hand snaking down to the ribbons of your smallclothes.

“Yes,” you panted. “Please,” you begged.

Having neither the will nor the want to keep you waiting, she obliged. She tugged the ribbons open before sliding the final garment down your legs. Kneeling on the edge of the bed she looked from the center of your body to your face, violet eyes dark with desire. “Spread your legs for me. I want to see all of you.”

A wave of shyness washed over you. Now, you were praying doubly that she didn’t see the blush of your face. Your legs parted with hesitation; butterflies roared from your scalp to your toes. It shouldn’t be embarrassing. It shouldn’t make you timid. But the intimacy, the lewdness, made your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

Rhaenyra watched all the while. Despite the clawing arousal in the pit of her own belly she let you go at your own pace and made no move to hasten or startle you. “Men often don’t appreciate the true beauty of a woman,” she said, low and gentle. “But I am no man and you are beautiful. Be a good girl and open them further. It will be worth it, I promise.”

Her words struck a chord in you. Before you fully realized what you were doing, your legs spilled open to expose the fullness of your eager cunt. It glistened with your arousal. The pink at your very center begged to be touched. To be spread. To welcome whatever Rhaenyra might bless you with. “Will you also take yours off?”

“Soon,” she answered all too quickly, already leaning forward between your parted thighs. “But first I want to kiss this pretty cunny.” And she did. She kissed the tender flesh at the inside of your thighs, your mound, your budded pearl. Her smooth mouth kissed again and again until you were squirming beneath her, and it was then, and only then, that she traced her warm tongue up your slit.

Your breathy gasps turned into a choking mewl at the sensation of her tongue. “Gods…!” You looked down at her and burned even hotter at the sight. “Please don’t stop, princess. Please don’t stop.”

Rhaenyra licked and lapped again and again, making no move to stop even as you shuddered beneath her. You were too warm, too lovely, and too responsive for her to even consider stopping. When she eventually ceased her licking, she instead sucked on your clit until she felt your entire cunt convulse and throb. Your sounds of pleasure were everything she imagined and more. As soon as you relaxed from your first peak she slid two fingers into your empty cunny. Working her tongue and digits in tandem, she gave you another climax. The natural tang of your body gave way to the sweetness of orgasm, and with that taste on her tongue she finally crashed her mouth to yours once again.

You whimpered into the affection, smiling and purring like a spoiled cat. “You’ve got a magical mouth, princess,” you said dreamily.

“How do you like your taste?” She asked, kissing you again, slower, deeper.

“Like I want more,” you said. “Let me taste you. You can guide me along. Show me how to make you feel good like you just did me.”

She giggled into your neck. “I know a way to make both of us feel good at the same time. Do you trust me?”

You nodded, the darkness of your eyes glittering with desire.

Rhaenyra discarded her smallclothes and positioned herself between your legs. “Relax and let me show you how to hold your legs, yes?” She spread yours a little wider while moving one of her own beneath your leg. She spread her other one wider and hooked it over your waist. 

It was an odd position, one you’d never been in before, but one that immediately sent your blood soaring. She rolled her hips once. Once. And that’s all it took for you to feel the slickness of her cunt slide against your own. If you thought her mouth was magical it was only because you hadn’t yet felt her cunny against yours. You gasped sharply. “More,” you croaked, eyes black with lust.

“Move your pelvis with me,” she said thickly, lust darkening her features just as much as yours. 

You happily obeyed. Your pleasure was her pleasure, and hers, yours, as you both rolled and ground your hips and pelvis in a delightfully obscene rhythm. Moans and whimpers were accented by the slick echoes of your centers. Your breasts started to bounce with the effort; both of your hands pressing and digging into any soft flesh it could find. You felt drunk. High. Buzzed on the saccharine scents of her skin and your combined arousal. 

The shared pace grew firmer, quicker, sloppier. Sweat sheened your bodies. You both chased your high on the other’s cunt. You tumbled into orgasm first, white hot fire exploding out from your belly to every nerve of your body. Rhaenyra quickly followed.

You both rode it out slowly. Intensely. Savoring every second that passed between you.

When your limbs finally managed to untangle, she collapsed beside you and smiled. After a few moments of breath catching, she asked, “which was your favorite, my lady?” Her words breathless, her tone playful.

You hummed in thought. “I don’t quite know… I think I’ll need a reminder again, just to be sure.”

“I think we can arrange that,” she said with a laugh.

“Can we do this again?”

“As many times as we can sneak away together, I am happy to explore with you.”

You laid together for as long as you could, until the golden hour summoned you to the day’s final meal where you both said next to your husbands; relaxed and sated.

-

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[arabellasleopardcoat]

MAD (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Chapter summary: Aemond makes his move. You change the game.

Warnings: Non consensual kiss. Rough grabbing. Mature language. Manipulation. Accidental knife kink. Toxic dynamics.

A/N: It's a wrap, folks!

Previous parts here.

7

It’s not like you have been playing Aemond. Or at least, not on purpose. It’s much easier to forget that you are not meant to love him when you don’t have him right in front of you. Through letters, it’s easier to detach the calculating prince from the young man who’s interesting and witty.

Without him in front of you, you do not feel as defensive. It’s easier to let slip tiny details about your daily life. He is not winning any awards for the most devout knight or something, but he is both entertaining and thoughtful.

After the fast-paced weeks of life at court, you find yourself missing the hurry that came with it. There was always something to do, a bug to catch, a Prince to hide from. While you love Honeyholt and thrive among the good weather and your family, you do miss the constant stimulation of life at the Red Keep.

Aemond proves himself to be a master of distraction. He has a great memory, never forgetting any of the things you tell him. You wonder if he saves your letters as you do his. In your mind’s eye, you see him hunched over his desk, rereading your letters, searching for a passing remark to make a note of.

You are not in love. But you certainly are struck with love’s arrows. It is a wonderful feeling. One that makes your days more entertaining, and it’s only that why you allow it. It warms your body inside out, fills your stomach with nerves each time a messenger reaches you, has you hurrying out of dinner to read his letters.

In time, he gets bolder. Begging you to be his mistress, for an evening only. Begging to be able to hold you to him. Those sorts of letters anger you. You like pretending you are friends, or perhaps something more. But all the allusions to bedding you are like being drenched in cold water.

Aemond doesn’t want you. He just wants to ruin you, that’s all. When confronted with the fact that you are no more than a piece on a Cyvasse board, being played by him and Otto Hightower, you feel dirty. Used and discarded.

It hurts more than it should. His attention is flattering, but your rational mind knows that this is a bad idea. It’s a confusing feeling. The things he speaks about in his letters, even the more crude ones, hold a certain appeal. After all, you are a young, unmarried woman. Just like anyone else, you do feel desire. How could you not? Aemond is handsome and smart, and always paying attention to you.

One week, the letters stop. You do not hear of him for a few days, and while you should be relieved, you can’t help but worry. Has he simply grown tired of this game and decided to give up? Are you worth so little to him? Or are they planning something?

Bad luck, for you, always comes in threes. And three unusual things happened in Honeyholt that day. One, a letter from King's Landing arrives, and it’s not from him. It’s from your grandfather. Two, Lord Hightower appears on your doorstep and prevents your father from reading the letter, imposing his presence on your hall. Three, it’s raining.

The whole ordeal, in all, it’s very dramatic. It’s an unusual choice for a liege lord to decide to hold court in one of his vassals' halls. But Lord Hightower does. That ensures Honeyholt’s hall is filled with people that come to petition him. The perfect public for what it’s to come.

Unable to go out in the grounds due to the rain, you find yourself drawn to the hall. Your father says it’s good for your education or something, to watch him and Lord Hightower pass judgment.

It’s around mid-morning when a great commotion is heard outside. You get up from your chair, and walk towards a window. Dread fills your stomach when you realize what lies outside.

A dragon. And not just any dragon. Vhagar. Aemond’s.

“My lord!” One of the servants rushes inside. Both your father and Lord Hightower stand. Not even the servant knows whom to address, his eyes moving panicked between the two men. “There is a dragon outside!”

More and more people rush towards the windows, looking outside. Most of your tenants have never seen a dragon before, but have heard of them. The sight scares them as much as it fascinates them.

Your father’s face morphs in a second. From benevolent lord, to utter rage. He has known of your correspondence with the prince. It’s sort of hard to miss, considering there is a new letter for you each week. Safe to say, he doesn’t approve.

“Stay here!” He barks. “Do not go outside.”

You nod, helplessly. One part of you wants to rush outside and greet him. You weren’t aware of how much you missed him until you had him in front of you and found yourself unable to go to him. Another part of you knows, though, that your father is right. It’s not in your best interests to go to him.

Lord Hightower gives him a polite smile. He looks uncannily like his brother when he does so.

“Is there something wrong, Beesbury?”

“Just an unexpected guest.” But stopping to answer him has slowed him down, and soon, another startled servant appears.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen.” He announces, wide-eyed. Your father looks like he is sucking a lemon.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach. Your heart beats harder in your chest. Impulsively, you smooth your hair down and fix the bodice of your dress. Then, you feel silly for doing it and fix it again, so it lays just as it did before.

Aemond enters the room, barely acknowledging your father or his great uncle. He is in his usual leather attire, even with the pouring rain. Some things never change, you think fondly.

He crosses the room in two large strides, standing right in front of you. The look in his eye makes your smile falter. Pure, cold determination. Nothing else. Aemond grabs you by the arms, pulling you to him.

Your hopes are crushed. You know that whatever it’s about to happen, it’s going to hurt. And the worst thing? All your tenants and the minor houses from The Reach are going to watch it happen.

“How long has my heart longed for you.” His voice is loud, yet flat. As if he doesn’t really men the words he is speaking. You raise your hands, trying to push him away. You only make contact with his shoulders before he is kissing you.

His mouth. On yours. Hungrily, demandingly. Trying to coax you into melting into it. Your shock buys him a few precious seconds that he doesn’t let go to waste, even taking the chance to grope your rear.

It’s that, more than the horrified sound from everyone in the room, what shakes you out of it. You push him away and slap him, uncaring of the consequences. The crunch your hand makes when it hits his cheek is as satisfying as you had hoped for.

Aemond takes the hit with pursed lips. He stares at you, darkly.

“Forgive me, my Lady. For I could not contain my passion for you. Your letters have awakened…” The words, again, are spoken loudly. It’s very well executed. It would be impressive if it weren’t for the way you have just been thoroughly ruined.

Mutters break around the crowd. You can barely make out your father’s voice, calling your name. You gather your skirts and run out of the castle.

The first drops of rain against your skin feel cold and disorienting. Your vision is blurred, eyelashes wet. You are uncertain if it is from the tears or the rain.

“Are you insane?” Aemond is hot on your heels. His tone is one of concern. Bitterly, you wonder how much of it is for your audience and how much it’s for his own selfish desire to remain dry. “You are going to catch your death out here.”

“Leave me alone.” You shriek, turning towards him. Surprisingly, he is alone. Not even your father has gone after you. It only makes you feel worse. Does your father think less of you now? Does he think you are ruined, too?

You didn’t know it then. And you are hurting too much to think of it on your own. But Lord Hightower has advised your father to “Let the youngsters fix it on their own.” And being his vassal, he hasn’t been able to refuse.

Aemond steps closer, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. He seems remorseful. His eye is full of compassion for you. It does nothing to appease your anger. If anything, it only makes you want to slap him again. You lift your hand, ready to strike.

His fingers curl around your wrist. His grip is strong enough to stop you, yet not enough to hurt.

“Please.”

“How could you!” You scream, fingers twitching with the urge to slap at him and tear him apart. You want him to hurt. Hurt as much as you do.

Aemond’s grip on your wrist tightens. A warning. It betrays his real feelings. His face, instead, depicts only confusion. The gall.

“I thought… I thought…”

“Save it! I have known what game you're playing since the start, but I thought… Oh, more the fool to me, I guess.” Despite starting out angry, your tone quickly turns pitiful. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Game? What are you talking about?” Aemond keeps playing dumb. It makes your insides burn with fury. He could come clean now. There is no point in denying, the deed is already done. The Hightowers have their revenge. There is no point on stretching it further.

Unless… Unless he wants to salvage what he had with you. The hope that blooms in your heart makes you feel stupid. Oh, what a fool, what a fool you were. Thinking you had control over this, you were not in love.

If you were not, would it have hurt this much?

“I know this is a political ploy against my grandfather.” You answer, bitterly. How you long for him to deny it, yet you know it’s not coming. He is either going to lie or admit it, without any feelings of guilt. You wonder what’s that like. To be so self possessed, so convinced of your importance, you do not mind toying with other people to get what you want. “What’s next, then? How else will you two corner him so Princess Rhaenyra doesn’t become Queen?”

“I… You will marry me.” Aemond looks flabbergasted at being caught. The words are uttered in complete shock. For once, he is wordless. As if the thought of anyone discovering his plan was an unusual one. Good gods, how much of a fool did he think you were? He would have never even looked your way were it not for your grandfather’s position at court.

“No!” Because whatever this is, you won't allow him to ruin your life further. Marriage is too big of a commitment to enter with someone like him.

The rejection seems to finally break his patience because Aemond grabs your jaw, roughly.

“You sure seemed to want it, the past few weeks.” His eye glints dangerously. He leans in, trying to use his height to intimidate you. “You will marry me, make no mistake.”

“No! What is this, even?” You try to squirm out of his grasp, but Aemond refuses to budge. Your jaw throbs, slightly. He is starting to hurt you. You give a small yelp, trying to get Aemond to stop. “I thought we were friends.”

Aemond's grip on your jaw softens at the sound of pain. His shoulders drop, and his face turns apologetic.

“We were. We still are. But you need to understand, I am not playing. I want you.” His other hand comes up to gently brush your cheek. You do your best not to startle. “I love you.” His voice is sincere. He presses his forehead to yours, looking into your eyes. “I love you.” He repeats, pleadingly.

The words you so wanted to hear. But not like this, never like this. You start to tear up.

“You are playing me, again.”

“I am not.” Aemond kisses your cheek, your eyes, your temples. “Come. Give in. You can't say you don't want me. You need me. I know you do.”

He kisses your jaw, so tenderly you think you might start crying. It's a tempting offer. It would fix your now ruined reputation. Aemond would protect you from others. And you can tell, by the anger at your rejection, he does care about you.

But you can't trust him. Not now. How to know you are not being deceived again?

“I will never marry you.” You push him away, roughly. “I could never want someone like you.”

The words hurt him. You can see it in the way his face drops before his shoulders square up again. His hands grab at your arms, lips curling into a dangerous smile. When he speaks again, his voice is full of venom.

“We will see about that.” Aemond glares, and kisses you on the lips. It's a closed mouthed, cold thing. Then, glancing towards the path. You do too. Seems like your father has freed himself from Lord Hightower. “It seems I have overstayed my welcome. But worry not, betrothed. You will hear from me very soon.”

You do. Not even an hour later, a messenger gets there, carrying a letter from Otto Hightower, authorized by King Viserys. You are to marry Prince Aemond.

You are pretty sure your screams of rage would be heard even in the Red Keep.

8

“… She let him kiss her, though.” The voice carries through the walls, unmistakably feminine. Aemond lays his head on the arm of the loveseat he is on, groaning.

Why was it that every time he wanted a quiet moment to himself, someone decided to scream in the hallways? It was as if no one had heard about inside’s voices.

“More than kiss her, a lover’s embrace if cousin Oakheart is to be believed. She wrote to me as soon as she saw it.”

The mention of House Oakheart grabs his attention. Once he hears it, his annoyance vanishes, replaced by curiosity. Are these two gossiping about you?

Aemond closes his eye. He has found when he does, his sense of hearing gets more acute.

“No!” One of the women says, in mock shock. “You know, I always thought she was a bit… Wide.”

They can’t be insinuating what he thinks they are insinuating. He would never.

“Do you think..?” The other woman giggles.

Annoyed, Aemond rips out his eye patch and steps out of the sitting room. He looms by the door with crossed arms. It proves very satisfying, seeing them squeal in fear, bow and trip all over themselves in their haste to get away.

Aemond remains leaning against the door frame, giving a satisfied hum. A shame he can’t reprimand them. They didn’t even apologize for the slander they are spreading about you.

Currently, his feelings towards you are complicated. Your rejection stung, but he cannot help but be glad he gets to marry you anyway. It means he has a chance to win you over, again.

Aemond did it once already. How hard can it be to do it a second time? This time, his chances are much better. You are permanently stuck to him, after all. If necessary, he will ask for you two to share chambers after the marriage.

You were sent back to the capital. Aemond saw you arrive this morning, wearing a dark cloak that covered you from head to toe. Your shoulders were tense, and you kept glancing at your grandfather for reassurance, as if hoping that any time now, he was going to tell you it had all been a misunderstanding.

Next to you, Lord Beesbury was the picture of defeat. Never had your star risen so high, never has he been more powerless.

Aemond has heard all about his attempts to get you out of it. He has begged Rhaenyra to help you, but his sister has not. Lord Hightower, as the good overlord he is, refuses to let you out of the contract unless a better match is proposed. It’s an impossible task. There is no way for Rhaenyra to help you, short of betrothing Jacaerys to you.

His sister won’t do that. Not only are you already ruined by Aemond’s touch, but you are also no one in the great scheme of things. You will not help secure his claim to the Iron Throne, nor will you help to make him look less like a bastard.

As for you finding a better match than him, to Aemond seems like a highly unlikely possibility. What were you going to do, if not marry Jacaerys? The only other Prince he was aware of was Qoran Martell, and he was both too old and too proud for you.

Yes, things had fallen into place quite nicely. Aemond would even call himself happy, were it not for the fact that you are avoiding him and haunting the halls of the Red Keep as if a little ghost. Perhaps it’s a bit premature to say, but you seem eager on avoiding him.

Why were you so upset, really? You wanted him. He wanted you. It was a win-win situation. Most people didn’t get the luxury of marrying someone they loved or even liked. You should be ecstatic. Not only did you get to marry the man you loved, but he was also a prince, capable of protecting you. Talk of marrying up.

Even if you weren’t in love, it was an easy thing. Giving yourself to him in exchange for protection and care. A better life, and companionship. He wasn’t asking for anything more.

While the kiss in public might have been embarrassing for you, it had been a much kinder thing than what his grandsire had planned. You weren’t actually ruined, that was just what he had made everyone believe. Your maidenhead was intact.

If you had known since the start, as you claimed, there was no reason for you to be upset. Unless, of course, it was out of loyalty.

Loyalty is a motivation Aemond understands well. He is steadfast in defense of those he loves, like any dutiful man should be. But unlike you, he doesn’t let it cloud his judgment.

Aemond understands what it is like, not wanting to betray someone you love. He would never, no matter how much he and Aegon fight, let his brother be dealt with by Rhaenyra. He would protect Aegon until the last consequences. The same was true for Helaena and Daeron, even his mother and grandfather.

But the thing about his loyalty? It was corresponded. Aegon would fight for him, Aemond knew. The same for his mother and Helaena. Your grandfather had barely even fought for you. Were it his daughter, Aemond would have been knocking on the Martell’s door himself or trying to smuggle you out of Westeros.

Why be loyal to a man that couldn’t protect you? That wasn’t loyal to you? Aemond, as your future husband, would keep you safe until his dying day, and would make provisions for you even after his death. He would kill for you. Your grandfather, instead, had proven himself completely lacking in that department.

Aemond needs to mend things. He liked how you were before, witty and carefree. This woman who haunts the Red Keep, a shy thing, afraid of her own shadow, it’s not you. Unfortunately, there is no manual on regaining your lady’s favor. If that knowledge was in a book, Aemond would have acquired it already.

He goes for the next best thing. Advice.

“May I ask you something?”

Aegon sets down his cup. While the bedroom is not the ideal place for such a discussion, beggars can’t be choosers. Aemond deftly avoids the wrinkled sheets, and sits on his brother’s bed. On the clean side, of course.

“Yes? Since when do you ask permission?” Aegon leans back on his pillows, scratching his belly. “You didn’t even do that when entering my rooms. I could have been busy.”

Aemond fights off the urge to snort. Busy. Bedding a maid, perhaps. He doesn’t say it out loud, too worried Aegon might withhold whatever wisdom he has to spare.

“How do you get your paramours to stop being cross with you?” He says, instead. If anyone knew, it would be him. Women, mysterious as they were, never proved to be a hardship for his brother.

Aegon smiles.

“This is about your bee.” His tone rises a bit at the end of the sentence, teasingly. Aemond frowns, heats starting to heat up. He doesn’t like admitting weakness, but it isn't as if he has another choice here.

“Of course it is.” Aemond scoffs. “Now answer the damn question.”

“Aren’t you meant to disapprove of my paramours?” Aegon lays down on his side. “Pass me another blanket.”

Aemond rolls his eye, but obeys regardless. The more time he spends in Aegon’s presence, the harder it is for him to take his advice seriously. Perhaps this was not his best idea.

But who else to go to? His grandsire was already exhausted by the topic. His mother was angry, and so, Aemond had taken to skillfully avoiding her. He didn’t want a lecture. Even sweet Helaena had taken the time to reprimand him.

The only two people who were not angry at him were his uncle and Aegon. Daemon had even patted him on the back for it, saying that perhaps he was not as much of a cunt as his brothers were. Not exactly a glowing endorsement, but Aemond would take it.

Despite it, it was not like he could ask Daemon. First, he didn’t appreciate hearing Aegon and Daeron were cunts. Aegon sort of was, but it was not allowed for Daemon to say it. Second, Daemon thought what he had done was the right thing. Grab a woman you like and take what you want. It clearly showed the way the older generation thought.

A more modern approach was needed. One that came with an open mind and a bit more understanding of carnal urges. If any, Aegon wasn’t going to judge him. He had done much worse.

“Well, yes. Of course, I disapprove.” He mutters, half-heartedly. In truth, he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like Aegon is ruining his reputation more than it already is, and the girls are all lowborns. No one cares about what happens to them.

“Yet you want the juicy details.” Aegon laughs. “Worry not, little brother. I will teach you all you need to know to please your little bee.”

Aemond, remembering quite traumatically what had happened the last time Aegon tried to teach him something in that area, shook his head.

“I don’t want the details of your bedroom activities. I just want my betrothed to stop being cross with me.”

Aegon cleared his throat, awkwardly. Whatever he had expected of this conversation, it was not this. He was clearly uncomfortable at the thought of regaining his lady’s favor. Perhaps, Aemond should have reminded earlier that his lady was his sister wife. It was a bit late to backtrack now, though.

Aegon’s cherub face started to turn red. “I do not have paramours, Aemond. I have whores. Money and gifts tend to do the trick. Give it a try.”

“She is not a whore!” Aemond protested, urged to defend your honor. Aegon gave him a pointed look, as if saying it was his fault. Which, fair. If all Westeros thought you were a whore, it was probably Aemond’s fault.

“Of course not.” Aegon squeezed his arm, trying to apologize for his harshness. “But she is a girl. Girls like shiny things, right?”

Without nothing to lose, Aemond decided to follow his brother’s advice. He started by sending you flowers. They were returned to his rooms, after you allegedly said the smell gave you headaches and made you sneeze.

Next, he tries with a slice of lemocake. You leave it on the tray, for the servants to take away back to the kitchens, with no explanations. Starting to get impatient, Aemond sends you a compliment filled letter and a pearl necklace that once belonged to his grandmother, on the Hightower side.

It’s then you make your own, belligerent little move. It happens late at night, after receiving the necklace.

“Prince Aemond.” A servant knocks on his door, meekly. While they are usually frightened of him, it’s highly unusual that it is to this degree.

“Yes?”

“Lady Beesbury sent you this.” The man places a tray near the foot of his bed and scurries out of the room.

“Wait!” Aemond calls out, but it’s too late. The servant is gone.

Aemond approaches the tray. On it, rests a pile of ashes. Among them, there is the pearl necklace. There is a note to go with it.

“Prince Aemond.” He reads, trying to understand your hurried writing. “Please kindly take the ashes of your letter and shove them right up… Oh!”

Your words anger him more than you could have hoped to. He marches out of his rooms, so angry, Aemond fears that if he catches you, he might strangle you. This constant rejection hurts. He is trying to mend things, but you don’t seem to want to mend the bridge between the two of you.

Lucky for you, you are not in your chambers. Or so the guard outside them says. Aemond storms towards the library and finds you there.

It's the first time in weeks he gets to gaze upon you. You hold yourself different, like a hurt animal. Your hair has lost a bit of its shine. No longer are you the happy and carefree girl you once were, rambling incessantly about bees. Instead, you sedately pour over a book on some insect or another, clearly preparing for Helaena’s lessons tomorrow.

You see him. You close the book. He crosses the distance between the two of you, and grabs your arm. Aemond is too angry to know what he is hoping to achieve. Perhaps, shake some sense into you?

But you flinch, and get a panicked look in your eyes. It’s then Aemond realizes exactly how badly he has gone wrong. Your sense of safety, your trust in him, it’s all shattered. No longer your eyes gaze upon him as if he is the greatest man in the world, but instead, they are fearful. As if waiting for him to pounce on you and force you, right here.

You slip out of his grip. Helpless, he lets you go, in absolute mutism. Aemond wants to grab you and force you to stay. He is angrier than he has ever been. Do not leave, he wants to scream. Do not leave and force me to make you stay.

Yet, even with your back turned, as you disappear into the hallway, Aemond can see the heartbroken look in your eyes. It plays again and again in his mind. So, instead of following, he goes to the only person who warned him that he was playing with fire and was about to get burned.

“Mother.” Aemond steps inside her chambers, the picture of defeat. He has not felt this humiliated since he was a child, being presented with the pink dread. “I fear have muddled everything up and have no idea how to fix it.”

His mother looks up from her prayer book. She closes it.

“Aemond. You utter fool.” Alicent places her book down. Despite her harsh words, she taps the space next to her invitingly.

Aemond sits next to her and allows her to gently embrace him. Just like when he was a child, he needs it. Too often in these past weeks, he has felt adrift, but was too proud to come ask for her help.

“I know.” Aemond didn't want to hear his mother tell him I told you so. Because she had, repeatedly. Besides, there was the fact of how terrible, how beastly the whole thing must seem to her.

Alicent is not dumb, after all. She is the daughter of Otto Hightower. She knows something is amiss. And his mother has a weakness for young ladies in tough spots, especially for ones from the Reach.

The care you had shown for Helaena had been enough to win her over. The longing you had shown for him, enough to make her pity you.

Knowing both Aemond and her father, she had not taken long to understand this was a multi-layered plot.

“I will not pity you, Aemond. You knew tricking her would hurt her. And now you trapped her into a marriage she doesn’t want.” His mother rubs his back, soothingly. Her tone remains scolding, which is precisely what Aemond deserves. By the Seven, how could he be so blind? Not only has he disappointed you, but also his mother.

Still, it is not like it is so terrible. We are not talking here of an old man forcing a young woman to marry him, or of a cruel act of coercion and abuse. You had been in love with him, after all. Aemond had just… Hurried things along.

“She does!”

“Does she?” His mother arches an eyebrow. Suddenly, Aemond's resolve and security wavers. Did you truly not want to marry him? His mother, unaware of how much turmoil she is causing, keeps speaking. “You did something terrible.”

“You got married like that.” Aemond half says, half pleads. It's the wrong thing to do. Alicent's face turns gray. “What would you have wanted father to do?”

“I wish someone had apologized to me.” His mother looks away. “A real apology. A nice one.”

And Aemond gets the sense they are no longer talking about Viserys.

“I am so sorry, mother.” Aemond says, softly. “For everything.”

9

It’s late. You are sitting inside your chambers, the door wide open. To prevent any more rumors from swirling around. You feel miserable. Your wedding has been moved up by Lord Hightower.

You try to focus on your reading, but the words all seem blurred away. Your eyes are full of tears. Despite having the door open, you are not ashamed of your crying. You deserve to feel sorry for yourself.

It is in that state that Aemond finds you. He enters without knocking, and awkwardly clears his throat.

“You weren’t announced.” You say, dumbly. You wish you could do more. Insult him, perhaps. Yet, you can’t because now your destiny is tied to him. Your grandfather has made it very clear, that while you are allowed to make your displeasure known, you can’t enrage Aemond. Not only would it be bad for your health, now that you are little more than property, but it would hurt the rest of your family.

The stunt with the burned letters had earned you a thorough scolding. “Make the best of a bad situation.” Your grandfather had said. “The boy loves you, but he won’t wait forever.”

And he was right. Whatever you had with Aemond could turn even worse if you drove him to resentment. There was no way out of this. Being angry wouldn’t help. You had decided to forgive him. It didn’t mean you weren’t going to make him work for it, though.

“I thought it would be worse.” Aemond speaks again, pulling you out of your musings. What was he talking about, again? Ah. Being announced.

“Perhaps.” You keep reading your book, uninterested.

“Won’t you even look at me, Lady Beesbury?”

You pass another page in your book. Childish, but effective. Aemond sighs. Then, he kneels in front of you. The dull thud of his knees against the rock floor makes you look up. His face is pained.

“Are you alright?” You ask, slowly. You close your book. By the sound of it, it must have hurt.

“Just fine.” But his face is pained.

“Should I get you a rug? Or fetch a Maester?” You get up, intent on exiting the room. It’s as good an excuse as any. You can’t bear to look at him. Not now. Not ever.

You are too afraid of snapping at him. Or starting to cry.

“Stop trying to run from me, dammit.” His voice is raised. Angry. Loud. The guards on your door peer inside, curiously.

Aemond’s eye is narrowed in annoyance. He stays on his knees. It’s that, perhaps, what makes you stop and linger inside the room. As you close the door, your hands shake.

“I beg you forgive me, my Lady. For I have been the biggest of fools.” The words come out in a tumble, rehearsed. Almost as if they were word vomit, more than something he sincerely means. You eye him warily.

“What are you doing?”

“I have broken something sacred, but I hope I can mend it still. If you were so gracious as to allow me to court you again.” Aemond keeps at it, tone flat. You frown even more. It sits wrong with you, as if this apology it’s just part of his plan. It doesn’t feel genuine.

“What use is it? We have to get married anyway. Your grandfather won’t stand for anything else. Nor will the Queen.” You spit out, between clenched teeth. You want to slap him so bad your palms itch for it. Yet, you can’t. Not if you intend to survive this.

“I… I know.” And in that pause, that small stumble in his words, you finally find what you need. A hint of sincerity, of the fragile human that hides behind his armor. “But you flinched when I touched you.”

His voice is pleading. The flinch it’s not something you remember doing. It was a reflex. A passing gesture. You guess it must have been when you met at the library. But no matter that you can’t pinpoint when it happened, it clearly was significant to him. Your fear had rattled him deeply.

Aemond bows his head. His posture is slouched down, so supplicant on his knees, his forehead would touch the ground if he were to lean down any further. It’s a sad sight. Much like a kicked puppy. If puppies were murderous, dishonorable beasts, of course.

No. You have to resist. Aemond certainly didn’t show you any compassion when you were suffering. He just expected you to bounce right back, plaster a smile on your face and pretend nothing happened. Pretend you were honored that he tricked you into marriage.

“Another trick? What for?” You start to pace. “How else will you trap my grandfather?”

“Not to trap your grandfather, my Lady.” Aemond reaches a hand to touch the skirts of your dress. The image remembers you of something, deep and jarring. The way dirty children in the slums of King’s Landing would reach towards Lords and Ladies, begging for a coin. It turns your anger into sadness. You stop your pacing and face him.

“It would still trap him.” It’s said in a subdued tone. Just facts, nothing else.

“I would keep you safe.” He hugs your legs and in truth, it shows how much Aemond doesn’t understand you. Here he is, pleading for you to stay, thinking guaranteeing your safety will be enough. As if when his father dies, it will be enough to whisk you away from the front lines, as if it’s not going to be two of the people you love the most on opposing sides.

Because you love him. Only now you are willing to admit it, but it’s undeniable.

“It’s not enough.” You start to tear up, much to your dismay. “Not enough. Aemond, for the Seven’s sake. No… I can’t.”

Aemond stays quiet for a few seconds, still hugging your legs. His head leans against your thigh. You stay there, frozen.

“I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I intend to earn it regardless.” He pulls away and takes his dagger out of his belt. He offers it to you by the handle. “Take it.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. What does he want you to do with the dagger?

“Take it, little bee.” His face is determined. His eye meets yours without any hint of fear.

You take the dagger with a shaky hand. Since the pommel it’s what’s offered to you, as soon as you take it, it’s as if you are holding Aemond at dagger point.

“Actions speak louder than words, right?” He laughs a little, but it sounds off. Too nervous. “You deserve a real apology.”

“And you intend to do so as I threaten you?”

“You hold all the power now. Was it not what you wanted?” And it sounds so damn cocky, coming from him. When he could have you flat on your back if he so wished. You had seen him train with Ser Criston. No matter if you hold the dagger, he has all the control.

You scoff.

“Let’s not delude ourselves. There is still a power dynamic between…”

“So?” Aemond interrupts, and it pushes you beyond your breaking point. You press the dagger to his throat, a hand on his hair, pulling back his head in an almost punishing grip.

“You are our overlords, Aemond.” He goes with the motion, not fighting your grip. It feels good, to have him kneeling and scared for once, even if it’s all pretense. You force his back to arch, almost cruelly.

“It concerns you. And it’s only right. It shows me that you are smart. I wouldn’t have fallen for a fool.” His voice sounds a bit breathless, his pale complexion rapidly coloring. His lips part, his pupil is blown wide. Aemond is not afraid, no. He is aroused.

“Yet you would have married her anyway.” You dig the dagger deeper into his skin, almost breaking it. He pants slightly, but looks at you in defiance.

“I am giving you a choice. I won’t marry you, if that’s not what you want.”

“Oh, if it were up to me, I would leave you standing alone on the Sept.” It’s cruel, you know it is. Your stomach twists at the change in his expression, and you feel filled with the urge to comfort him. From playful to absorbing the blow. Aemond’s eye closes. “I would rather not let your grandfather get the upper hand. But you ruined me already. It’s an impossible dilemma. You backed us into a corner.”

At that, Aemond perks up. You know him enough by now to know he is a problem solver. He delights in thinking himself the smartest in the room, the one that can figure out the ways out of a tricky situation, make the puzzle pieces fit.

Helaena has told you he has always been like this. Proud of his intellect. As a child, he had been brave, bold. But a childhood without a dragon had made for a lonely one, and so, he had delighted in games of wit and inventiveness. He excelled at Cyvasse, too. How much was him, you wondered? How much was the need to prove himself worthy?

“There is no way out of the labyrinth, you say?”

“Yes. I suppose.” You agree because you have spent hours thinking, praying, obsessing over this. There is no way out. Nothing can mend the rift between the two of you. Nothing that can make this a relationship of equals and not a relationship of Liege Lord and the daughter of a Vassal.

“There is”.

And then, he leans in and whispers something in your ear. A secret. Something so bad, it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“And does your grandfather..?”

“No. But I am willing to put it in writing.”

He has just given you the key to the ruin of Otto Hightower. The dagger drops out of your hand, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Neither of you pay it any mind, too engrossed with looking at each other’s eyes.

“You know hold the power of life and death over me, my Lady. It’s in my hope that this will keep you safe and that you will forgive me, one day. But even if you don’t, I will not force you to share my bed.”

“You did a terrible thing.” You brush a piece of hair behind his ear, softly. His eye closes, delighting in the touch.

“I was a fool.” He was. He is still. But there is a path out of this, you know it. The secret he shares is not enough to afford your family’s neutrality in the war to come, but it is enough to ensure that whatever sacrifice Otto Hightower asks of you is a minor one.

If you manage to earn Aemond’s loyalty, of course. If you do not, he will not protect you from his grandfather when you make your move.

“You were.” You drop to your knees too, legs spread over him. Straddling his lap. Overall, it’s not about love, but practicality. You do love him, and you do feel hurt and raw still, but you need to move forward if you want to keep your head. “I have not forgiven you, yet.”

“But it’s a start?”

“It is.” Aemond hugs you to him. He peppers your face and neck with kisses, before hiding his face on the soft curve where shoulder meets neck. As you melt against him, you cannot help but feel as if you are the one who is moving the Cyvasse’s pieces now.

[thehauntingofharrenhouse]

if you liked house beesbury of honeyholt you are going to LOVE house peasebury of poddingfield

[goodqueenaly]

In your opinion, would it have been a good option to solve Saera's scandal, for her parents to solve the problem by marrying her to Braxton Beesbury?

In the end, it seems to me that making her Lady of Bessbury was a better option for her so that her children could inherit Honeyholt.

Greetings

Good for whom?

As an aristocratic Westerosi daughter (and the daughter of Jaehaerys I - more on him in a moment), Saera had neither the agency nor the liberty to choose her romantic/sexual partners in the ordinary course of events. While she answered, somewhat blithely, that she would likely be married to one of her lovers once her parents discovered her relationships (we'll put aside her comment on marrying all three), it does not appear that Saera had a deep interest in marrying any of them, Beesbury included. Rather, what Saera seems to have wanted was the freedom to do as she liked with her sexuality - a choice fundamentally incompatible with Westerosi marriage, where not only would Saera be cut off from the possibility of any romantic/sexual relationships beyond that with her husband, but also where she would have been required to be available to that husband for sex whenever he decided.

Jaehaerys, for his part, was not simply a patriarchal Westerosi father, but a particularly violent misogynist, one whose love for his children (and his female relations generally) seems to have been not only limited but defined by those biases. If there is some precedent in Westeros for aristocratic fathers covering up their daughters' sexual scandals (as Westerosi society sees them, anyway) through quick marriages - see, say, Delena Florent's marriage to Hosman Norcross, or Amerei Frey's marriage to Ser Pate of the Blue Fork - I don't believe Jaehaerys had any interest in such a marriage for Saera following the revelation of the affair. To marry Saera to Braxton might imply, in the king's mind I think, that Jaehaerys almost post facto approved of their sexual relationship. To satisfy that violent misogyny, Jaehaerys would instead redefine both parties in a way which both absolved him of blame and allowed him to channel his fury: Braxton became the criminal knight who had "seduced and despoiled" a royal maiden - who had, in effect, taken from Jaehaerys the ownership of Saera's virginity and sexuality - while, simultaneously, Saera was retroactively defined as a "whore", to be punished and shamed as Westerosi society so often does sex workers.

And all of this is in the context of a king (and queen) who seem to have cared little if at all for the political advantages any of their children's marriages might have brought. Indeed, Jaehaerys' pleasure that "[t]hey would not need to scour the realm to find a match for Saera, when three such promising young men were here at hand" speaks to how little Jaehaerys contemplated the diplomatic alliance Saera's marriage might have represented: Braxton was the heir to an old but relatively minor family of Hightower vassal lords, hardly as high-ranking as Saera herself (and in fact, perhaps not even of the same rank as his two fellow suitors, both of whom were the lords or heirs to seats directly sworn to the crown's paramount vassals). Any good, in a purely geopolitical sense, that might have come from the marriage of Saera and Braxton Beesbury would have been at best speculative and limited by lack of power, ability, and influence on the parts of both House Beesbury and Braxton personally.

[isefyres-archive]

𝔑𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔡:

Lord Quenton Qoherys: was the first Lord of Harrenhal and the head of House Qoherys Ser Quenton was the master-at-arms at Dragonstone during Aegon's Conquest. He was named Lord of Harrenhal by King Aegon I Targaryen after Aegon had extinguished House Hoare during his conquest. Lord Quenton had two strong sons and a plump grandson to continue the family line, but as his first wife had died from spotted fever in 1 BC, he agreed to wed a daughter of his liege lord, Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. In 9 AC, he died from a fall from his horse and was succeeded by his grandson, Gargon. Conquest Era.

Prince Aemon Targaryen: was a member of House Targaryen. He was the third born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Aemon was married to Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. Together, they had a daughter, Princess Rhaenys. Aemon was a dragonrider whose mount was Caraxes. His mother Alysanne would often say, while laughing, that Aemon's first word had been, "Why?". In 62 AC, King Jaehaerys formally granted the seven-year-old Aemon the title of Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne. At the feast that followed Aemon's appointment, Queen Alysanne sat Aemon beside Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. The two children spent the entire evening talking and laughing together. He is the father of Princess Rhaenys. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Saera Targaryen: the ninthborn child and fifthborn daughter of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Saera was a courageous and clever, girl, in her own way as clever as her brother Vaegon. She was just as strong, quick and spirited as her sister Alyssa. Saera was tempestuous, demanding, and disobedient. Her first word was "no", which she said often and loudly. She quickly had three favorites of all the men who attended her: Jonah Mooton, the heir to Maidenpool, Roy Connington, the Lord of Griffin's Roost, and Ser Braxton Beesbury, the heir to Honeyholt. Instead of hiding within the Seven Kingdoms, however, Saera had found passage on a ship at Oldtown, which had brought her to Lys. Saera, infamous but wealthy, left Lys for Volantis a few years before 99 AC. In Volantis, she became the proprietor of a famous pleasure house. She had at least three bastard sons, who would be the dragonseeds of House Blackfyre in Essos. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Gael Targaryen: was the thirteenth and last child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Born during winter, Gael was also called the Winter Child. After her sisters Alyssa, Daella, and Viserra had died within the span of five years (82–87 AC), Gael became a comfort for her mother Queen Alysanne, along with her older sister Maegelle. Gael became Alysanne's constant shadow, and even slept with her in her bed. In 99 AC, Gael disappeared from court. It was announced that she had died of a summer fever. After the deaths of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, it was revealed that Gael had been seduced and impregnated by a traveling singer. Gael had given birth to a stillborn son. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Viserra Targaryen: was the tenth-born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Viserra was the most beautiful of Queen Alysanne Targaryen's daughters. She had deep purple eyes and silver-gold hair, flawless white skin, and fine features. serra was a vain girl. Once, when a young squire called her a goddess, she simply agreed with him. The attention of great lords, famous knights, and callow boys fed her vanity until it "became a raging fire". Viserra delighted in playing one boy off against another and setting them on foolish quests or having them perform contests. According to Alysanne, Viserra desired to become a queen, and therefore aimed to marry her brother Baelon, not for love but for ambition. Viserra then turned to Baelon, hoping for him to rescue her according to court gossip. One night, she slipped past Baelon's guards and climbed naked into his bed. Jaeherys Era.

Lady Alarra Stark: Alarra Stark was the daughter of Lord Alaric Stark and his wife from House Mormont. According to her father, Lord Alaric Stark, Alarra was "as sweet to look upon as any southron lady. Despite her father's initial dislike for Queen Alysanne, Alarra had been kind and gentle to the queen, often reminding the Queen of her own daughters. Alarra did became aware of the affair of her father and the queen but kept the secret. When Queen Alysanne Targaryen visited Winterfell in 58 AC, Alarra and Alysanne became particularly close. Near the end of 58 AC, Alarra came to King's Landing with her two brothers to attend the tourney celebrating the tenth anniversary of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen's coronation. At this time, Alarra also became a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Jaeherys Era.

Lady Megga Tyrell: is a member of a junior branch of House Tyrell. She is the granddaughter of Ser Quentin Tyrell, a cousin of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, and is the only daughter of Ser Olymer Tyrell and his wife, Lysa Meadows. Megga has two older brothers: Raymund and Rickard Tyrell. Megga likes to play kissing games with boys and sometimes her cousins. While not a great singer, Megga plays the lyra and piano wonderfully. Megga is one of Queen Margaery Tyrell's ladies-in-waiting. Almost all of the men named as Margaery's lovers have denied the accusation or recanted, so she and her cousins, including Megga, are handed over by the High Septon to the custody of Lord Randyll Tarly. Tarly swears a holy oath to return them for their trial. Song Era.

Sera Flowers: Sera tends to take things less seriously than Mira does, like casually playing with Margaery's seating plan for the Purple Wedding and stealing Queen Cersei's wine. Mira can confide in her, though Margaery seems to be in Sera's best interest rather than House Forrester's. Sera is revealed to be a bastard, she is Mance's bastard but the Tyrell covered that with the surname Durwell. She confesses that she is attracted to both Jaime Lannister and Oberyn Martell, and Mira has the option to agree, though she sounds unsure. Sera escaped before the cousins and Margaery ladies were taken and ran to the Reach, her biological father is unknown to everyone but Lady Olenna. Song Era.

King Stannis Baratheon: Stannis Baratheon was the younger brother of King Robert Baratheon and older brother of Renly Baratheon. On account of the revelation of Robert's supposed children's true parentage, Stannis declares himself the rightful king after Robert's death as his rightful heir, and begins a campaign to take the Iron Throne. After assassinating his younger brother Renly using bloodmagic, due to Renly also having claimed the throne despite being the youngest brother, Stannis almost succeeds in taking King's Landing at the Battle of the Blackwater, but is ultimately repelled by the armies of Tywin Lannister and House Tyrell. As his wars drag on, Stannis falls further and further under the sway of the red priestess Melisandre. After saving the Night's Watch from Mance Rayder's wildling army in the battle for the Wall, Stannis marches on Winterfell. Song Era.

Lady Shyra Errol: is the Lady of Haystack Hall and the head of House Errol, her unlike stormlander looks come from her father marrying a woman from the westerlands. Because of this, she sees no proof in the rumors regarding Princess Myrcella rumors, as she is a stormlander with unlike features, and golden hair. Lady Shyra supports Renly Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings. She has one son who she acts as Regent as well and after the death of Renly, she remains on the Stormlands. Currently, her castle is under the attack of the Golden Company. Song Era.

Lady Liane Vance: Liane Vance is a noblewoman of House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest. She is the eldest daughter of the heir of Wayfarer's Rest, Ser Karyl Vance. Liane's grandfather, Lord Vance, dies at the battle below the Golden Tooth. Ser Karyl Vance becomes the new Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, and Liane the heir of her house. Liane becomes a field nurse for everyone after the red wedding and travels to House Bracken and House Blackwood to tend to the injured, she is said to have magic in her as she carries a piece of weirwood tree in her, always. Song Era.

Laena Longwaters: Laena is the recognized bastard daughter of Thena Celtigar and Rennifer Longwaters, marking one of the few times Velaryon blood and Celtigar mix. Due to this, Laena has dragonrider blood as well access to the Celtigar cell with the secrets of Valyria and the keys of the long night as well the coming battle of the dawn. OC. Song Era.

Lord Kaento Qoehrys: The remains of House Qoehrys from Harrenhal, they had been in Lys and Volantis gathering their own forces and money and they are travelling with Prince Aegon and the Golden Company to reclaim Harrenhal as their ancestral home. Despite his refusal, his daughter would be travelling in the second command of the ships, however, she is delayed with the arrival of Queen Daenerys Targaryen in Lys. Kaento is known to be able to use a flaming sword and has stock of dragonglass. OC. Song Era.

Lady Merea Qoehrys: Daughter of Kaento. She wants to travel with her father in the Golden Company, which he promises he will send word once Aegon takes House Connington and a few Stormlanders Houses. When news arrives, it marks the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen to Lys and intrigued, Merea wants to talk to the woman, without her father's approval as she always had her doubts of Prince Aegon's real heritage. Merea only wishes for their family to return home. She takes kindly to sing some old Valyrian songs to Dany's dragons. OC. Song Era.

[daenystheedreamer]

2 & 3 for the asoiaf ask!

2 A minor (or extinct) house you need more lore on

HOUSE HOARE... we have the basics from TWOIAF but i love the evil vikings. also house durrandon. both of them and house gardener get basic "and after king legolas the legless it was king saruman the unsightly" like can we get some fun stuff pwease... also house fisher i want more riverlands lore. love u riverlands. speaking of riverlands house whent too i wanna now the tragedies they were marred by.

3 Favorite sigil/house words

for sigils a bunch cos i cant pick: house corbray and blackwood for the raven realness, toyne and staedmon beautiful hearts, house tarth stunning iconic gorgeous, house dondarrion and dayne cos i like purple. dorne has a bunch gargalen blackmont toland. drumm wynch saltcliffe iron islands slay... greyjoy is my favourite of the great houses i think... the black and gold with the kraken hello showstoppers. there's also this minor house, house hawthorne, which is: "A ring of black thorns and a ring of pink flowers, interlocked, on green" look it up its so good and for this minor house with no characters no mentions no nothing??? sorry i cant pick!!

for words. winter is coming iconic nothing can beat her. house swyft chicken house "awake awake" girl u dont need to commit to the bit so hard no one is laughing. come try me of house plumm okay frat boy. i always think its funny when they REALLY commit to a theme. house waxley of wickenden with candle sigil words "light in darkness". house beesbury of honeyholt with beehive sigil words "beware our sting". penrose of parchments quill sigil words "set down our deeds". this is just three there are so many...

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - Chapter 85: A Vow of Fire and Blood

Preview

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.” As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies—friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near—a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death.  “I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

[writingsofwesteros]

I like the courtesan thought for her tbh! She may have been married off to Lord Beesbury, but that doesn't mean she forgot how she was living before. Maybe she has a special talent, like she's a VERY good singer and dancer? What if she was kinda like Saera Targaryen in a way, only instead of being a brothel whore she was more of an entertainment. That's what catches both the boys' respective attentions. Her Lord husband doesn't care much because, to him, she simply sings and dances with sensuality, men don't touch her, and if she doesn't feel shame in getting gifts and riches from men both high and low born in exchange for seeing her perform then that's her business, as long as its in KL and not Honeyholt he doesn't giva a fuck. That's what he thinks anyway, there are 2 men that she does in fact let do whatever they'd like to her after performing and shooing her other dancers/musicians out of the room oops.

Oh you know she has the most jewels ; and sometimes dances for her hands in only those sparkling gems .

THIS

[amberthefantasy]

and the dragons danced?

chapter nineteen: RHAENYRA V

Rhaenyra ran her hand gently over her stomach. Her little Visenya was active today, kicking and moving against her skin. A knock at the door caught her attention. “Yes?”

“The Prince Aemond, your grace,” Ser Lorent’s voice called through her door.

Rhaenyra sat up, eyebrows furrowed. “Let him in.”

The door to her rooms opened and Aemond stepped inside. He was dressed in similar black leathers to those he always wore, and his eyepatch covered the place where his eye used to be. “Your grace,” he intoned.

“Aemond,” Rhaenyra leant forward. “What brings you here brother?”

“I wish to speak with you of our future,” Aemond said, voice tight.

“Our future?” Rhaenyra repeated in confusion.

“Yes,” Aemond cleared his throat. “Aegon says you are committed to our family, and I-”

“-Doubt that?” Rhaenyra nodded. “Aegon did too, for a few days. What do you need to hear to convince you, valonqar?” Aemond paused for a moment, eye darting around the room. “Do you need an apology brother? Because I offer one, freely with no motive behind it.”

Aemond’s eye landed on her again, widening slightly in shock. “I-” he cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Rhaenyra stood and walked the few steps to be standing right in front of her brother. “No need to thank me. It is something I should have offered years ago.” Rhaenyra took Aemond’s hands in hers, lilac eyes met one mauve. “You were a child and you were hurt. I hope you can understand why I worried more for my sons. But you were my brother, are my brother. And your hurt mattered too.”

Aemond stared into her eyes. “I-” he swallowed. “I understand that you were protecting Jace and Luke… but you were my sister. Was it not your job to protect me too?” His voice was softer than Rhaenyra had ever heard it, childlike in a way that almost made her cry. 

“It was. It is.” She agreed. “And I failed you that night. I have failed you your entire life. All of you. I am sorry I failed to protect you, but I will fix that now.”

“You are going to execute my grandfather today,” Aemond said blankly.

“I am,” Rhaenyra gave a nod. “He is a danger to this family. He must go. Executing him is protecting you, with him gone there is much less of a chance that rebellion will be fermented, you will not have to fight a war at ten-and-six.”

Aemond swallowed again. There was a long moment of silence as they simply stared at each other. “I would like… not to be the one protecting others for once.”

“I would like you not to have to protect others as well,” Rhaenyra smiled softly. 

“Your grace?” Ser Lorent called through the door again.

“Yes?” Rhaenyra asked, finally looking away from Aemond.

“The time has come.”

Rhaenyra took a breath. “Come valonqar,” she said to Aemond. “It is time to say goodbye.”

---

“There is something I must speak with you about before court,” Rhaenyra said. 

Alicent shifted on her feet. “What of?”

“Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra said. “He murdered Lord Beesbury. He must face consequences for it.”

Alicent let out a stuttering breath, her hand coming to clutch at her Seven Pointed Star necklace. “You- you would- you would take him from me as well?” Alicent’s voice was shaky.

“I am not taking him from you in spite,” Rhaenyra sighed. “He murdered the Lord of Honeyholt. He cannot escape consequence for his crime solely because you enjoy his company!”

The dowager queen’s eyes sharpened. “You steal my sons from me, gods even Aemond stood beside you as you MURDERED my father!” Her face contorted with a mix of rage and sadness. “You take my father from my side forever, and now you wish to do the same with my only friend in this castle!”

“I did not steal my brothers from you!” Rhaenyra exclaimed. “They choose to stand beside me! And I did not murder Otto, he chose to commit treason and suffered the punishment for it!” She felt her lip twitch into a snarl as she watched Alicent’s face. The dowager queen's expression did not change. 

“Criston is a murderer,” Rhaenyra finally said when Alicent did not react. “He murdered Joffrey Lonmouth at my wedding, and you convinced my father not to punish him. Now he has murdered a member of the Small Council. He cannot continue serving my family!” Rhaenyra took a breath to steady herself. “I am sorry you feel as though you will be left alone after this, but I have no choice.”

She did not wait for Alicent’s response, turning to enter the throne room.

---

Rhaenyra delicately placed her arms on the throne, careful not to scratch herself. The final petitioner for the day had backed away, leaving Rhaenyra looking at a blank space in the middle of the throne room. She paused to glance around, spotting Ser Criston standing behind Alicent. 

“Ser Criston Cole,” she called into the silence.

Cole started and took a few moments before he moved forward, kneeling before her. “Your grace.”

“Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra took a breath. “I have been recently informed of some things that make your… suitability to wear the white cloak come into question.”

“Pardon, your grace?” Ser Criston’s eyes widened.

“Lord Lyman Beesbury was killed in the Small Council chamber the night of my father’s death,” Rhaenyra raised her chin. “ You killed him.” Criston’s mouth opened slightly, but Rhaenyra did not pause to let him speak. “I cannot have a man who murdered one of my father’s most trusted advisors serve on my Queensguard. I cannot trust you to protect my family.”

“Your grace,” Criston began. “Lord Beesbury insulted the queen-”

“-He was defending me!” Rhaenyra snapped. “Defending my right to the throne and you murdered him. You will not retain that cloak.” She stood, staring down her nose at Ser Criston. “You are dismissed from the Queensguard. You will gather your things, and head to the Wall.”

“The Wall!” Criston burst out, jumping to his feet as well. “You cannot-”

“-I am the Queen!” Rhaenyra cut him off. “You murdered the Lord of a Noble House, sending you to the wall is a mercy based on your many years of leal service to my family.” She closed her eyes to steady herself before opening them again and locking them onto Criston. “Gather your things Ser Criston, the crown thanks you for your many years of service, but you can longer wear the White Cloak.”

---

“Rhaena can you hand me that necklace please?” Rhaenyra asked. Rhaena picked up the gold necklace and handed it to her. “Thank you.” 

Rhaenyra clasped the necklace around her neck. As her hand ran over the chain, it paused on the emblem that hung from it. A three-headed dragon. It was a gift from her father for her sixteenth name day, an attempt at reconciliation after he had wed Alicent. At the time Rhaenyra had not cared for it, now she almost thought she could feel her father’s hand on the dragon as she held hers over it. 

“ My love ?” Daemon’s voice brought her to the present again. “ It is time. ”

Rhaenyra swallowed, once more glancing over her black dress, then turned to her husband. “ Let us go say goodbye .”

House Targaryen gathered on the same cliffside where her mother’s funeral had been. Corlys and Rhaenys had arrived the day before, with the Lord of Driftmark still somewhat injured but able to be here. Baela stood beside her grandparents, holding Rhaenys’ arm. Rhaena was not far from them, gripping tightly onto a teary eyed Luke and attempting to hide her glances at her father. 

Said father was staring blankly at the pyre where Viserys’ body was placed. He was never very emotional, but Rhaenyra could see the grief in him. Jace too was attempting to seem strong, a wall of rock for his mother to lean on. It made Rhaenyra proud, but also saddened that her boy felt the need to do so. 

Aemond and Daeron seemed to be attempting something similar, though perhaps it was less an attempt to seem strong and more simply truth. Her brothers had never been close with their father, so perhaps they did not feel the grief everyone else did in such depth. Helaena seemed genuinely saddened, holding Aegon close to her. Her eyes were clearer than Rhaenyra had seen them often, and filled with tears. Alicent too had tear filled eyes, though she was holding her head high as though she did not, acting brave perhaps, as her sons were.

Rhaenyra swallowed. Closed her eyes, and then stepped in front of everyone else. “My father,” she began to speak. “Was a great man, a wonderful king and a loving father. The realm has suffered a tremendous loss with his passing. House Targaryen has suffered a tremendous loss.” She took a breath. “But I know, he is with the gods and resting finally after many years of struggle and pain.” Her eyes swept over her family once more. 

Then Rhaenyra Targaryen turned and faced her father’s pyre. Her eyes turned to Syrax, perched on the hill where she had been sixteen years ago at Aemma’s funeral. “ Dracarys!” Rhaenyra called, her voice clear.

Syrax moved slowly, as though she herself grieved the lost king. But eventually her mouth opened and golden flames sprang from her maw. 

Rhaenyra did not turn away as she had at her mother’s funeral. She watched with teary eyes as King Viserys, First of His Name, was committed to the flames. 

post masterlist / atdd masterlist

[molter-writes]

I'm so terribly fond of leaf&blade it's sososo special to me like the setting itself is a character to me like fuck yeah that boarding school for drama and dykery i love honeyholt <3 also 3 paracetamol a day max boss + HYDRATE drink tea and eat light and REST 🫡

thank you thank you thank you ♥️♥️♥️

[lemonhemlock]

In effort to better understand Helaena, I've gone deep into ASOIAF's bug lore, and I wonder if little Helaena ever interrogated Lord Beesbury about his legendary ancestor Ellyn Ever-Sweet's pact with the King of the Bees. Like, first of all, *George* why is it the king of the bees, when bees pretty famously have queens? Then I looked it up, and apparently queen bees were called kings until the 17th century, because of course everyone assumed the head bee in charge was male (even though.... it lays eggs.....) But now I believe that eco-feminist Helaena would be singlehandedly correcting this misconception, and its on the top of her agenda as queen-consort. Ellyn Ever-Sweet and the Queen of the Bees is feminist praxis and Helaena will be bringing this to light.

(I lose a little of my sanity every time I go a page deeper into the wiki)

Branwen, this is adorable, I don't even have much to add, but Helaena stanning Ellyn Ever-Sweet is such a darling detail to include. 😭

I have to say, even though they're, ahem, traitors, House Beesbury is positively precious. House Beesbury of Honeyholt, located next to the Honeywine river, with a penchant for beekeeping?? Please, how does George even come up with this? 😭

[duxbelisarius]

The Dance of the Dragons: A Military Analysis (Pt. 6)

Having already discussed the Battle of the Gullet and the taking of King’s Landing in Parts 2 and 3 (Master Post here for first time readers), Part 6 will take a brief step back into 129 AC to cover events in the Reach. As noted in Part 1, George’s decision to ‘spawn’ supporters for Rhaenyra in the Reach is one of his most frustrating; we have next to no explanation as to why the houses that supported her chose to do so, but their presence also exposes a massive strategic blindspot within the Dance itself. In short, had Rhaenyra and the Blacks given supported her followers in the Reach from the start, they likely would have won the war. Utilizing  the map of southern Westeros found in A Dance With Dragons illustrates this quite well; this map is the most detailed we have in terms of giving locations of house seats within the Reach and gives us an indication of which houses are considered important enough by George to warrant including. 

Of twenty-one House seats shown on the map (counting the Arbor and the Shield Islands each as a single seat), eight are of houses either neutral during the Dance (the Tyrells) or are not mentioned in the Dance: Red Lake (House Crane), Brightwater Keep (Florent), Bandallon (Blackbar), Blackcrown (Bulwer), Sunhouse (Cuy), Ashford and Grassy Vale (Meadows). Excluding Oldtown, only House Redwyne (the Arbor) and House Fossoway (Cider Hall) are known to have supported Aegon II, while the rest were supporters of Rhaenyra: Honeyholt (Beesbury), Longtable (Merryweather), Bitterbridge (Caswell), Horn Hill (Tarly), Uplands (Mullendore), Golden Grove (Rowan), Old Oak (Oakheart), Tumbleton (Footly), Three Towers (Costayne) and the Shield Isles (Grimm). This critical mass of major houses supporting the Blacks is compounded further by the fact that, with the exception of House Peake, all the other named supporters of the Greens seem to be minor houses or landed knights: Roxton, Norcross, Ambrose, Rodden, Leygood, Graceford and Risley. Even the Fossoways require an asterisk based on Lord Owen Fossoway being mentioned among the so-called ‘Caltrops’ at Tumbleton; given Cider Hall’s location south of Longtable, it’s entirely possible the Fossoways were neutrals or Blacks who joined Aegon’s cause after the victories of Daeron and Ormund. 

George’s inexplicable decision to weight the scales against the Greens of the Reach is made worse by nonsensical writing once the fighting starts. Upon setting out to putdown the Black rebellions within the Reach, Ormund Hightower’s army is attacked by the forces of House Beesbury and House Tarly, while House Costayne’s forces attack his supply train. This scenario makes no sense geographically, for while Costayne’s seat of Three Towers is located just south of Oldtown at the mouth of the Whispering Sound and the Beesbury seat of Honeyholt is further up the Honeywine, the Tarly seat of Horn Hill is almost a 10 day journey from Oldtown. It requires Ormund Hightower to be completely unaware of Alan Tarly departing the Dornish Marches and entering the Oldtown region, and to ignore the Costaynes and Mullendores to his south and east despite the threat they posed to his rear area. We know from Under the Regents - War and Peace and Cattle Shows that House Peake supported Aegon II from the beginning, and while we have no exact location for their house seat it seems likely that Starpike is located in the Dornish Marches. Are we to assume that Unwin Peake failed to combat Alan Tarly’s forces, even though House Peake fought alongside the Hightowers at the subsequent Battle of the Honeywine? We must also assume that not a single house in the Oldtown region supported Aegon’s cause outside of the Hightowers, as support from the likes of House Cuy and Florent would have made it difficult for the Costaynes and ‘the Two Alans’ to operate against Ormund’s host with such impunity. The idea seems never to have occurred to besiege Honeyholt and Three Towers, cutting off the Costayne and Beesbury forces from what should have been their main source of supplies, and taking their families hostage to force a surrender. 

The complete absence of the Hightower and Redwyne fleets, as well as a disuse of river transport, is another frustrating omission by George. Honeyholt and the Mullendore seat of Uplands are both located next to the Honeywine and it’s tributaries, while Three Towers is right beside the Whispering Sound. Laying siege to Three Towers should have been fairly simply for Ormund with the aid of the Hightower and Redwyne fleets, while the Honeywine itself would have been a boon logistically. From Samwell Tarly’s final chapter in AFFC, we know that the Isle of Ravens was used by pirates to raid ships coming down the Honeywine during the Age of Heroes, implying that the Honeywine connects to the Whispering Sound in a manner similar to the Thames Estuary and the London Docks IRL. It’s not unreasonable to assume that coastal shipping and sea-faring vessels with shallow enough drafts would be able to navigate certain stretches of the Honeywine, and this also assumes that the Reachmen never attempted dredging the riverbed to improve it’s navigability (as was done to European rivers throughout the Ancient and Medieval world). Utilizing river transport as a ‘floating storehouse’ so-to-speak would allow Ormund to decrease the length of his supply train and give his forces greater mobility. Such ships could also have been built or modified to carry in-world artillery such as Scorpions, Catapults and even small trebuchets (the latter of which were used on ships by Danish raiders during the Siege of Paris in 885-886), assisting Ormund’s forces in besieging locations like Honeyholt, Uplands and Three Towers or if they had to give battle near the river itself. 

Ormund’s position deteriorates further after the Battle of Rook’s Rest, when he informs the Green Council of a host equal to his own bearing down from the north, lead by Thaddeus Rowan. With him was Tom Flowers  of Bitterbridge representing House Caswell, and their army is described as being comprised of mounted knights; based on estimates of the size both armies made in Part 4, this force composition presents a problem for the narrative. If we are to believe that the Rowans, Caswells and their allies raised a mounted force capable of rivalling Ormund’s army as a whole (giving them an advantage as great as 10 to 1 in mounted troops), then their rate of march must also be considered. Rowan’s force was on the march just before or after Rook’s Rest, but the next we hear of them is at the Battle of the Honeywine, which took place a fortnight after the Battle of the Gullet in 130 AC. The Gullet took place between January 5th and 6th by our calendar, meaning the Honeywine battle took place on January 19th or 20th; 129 AC ends sometime after Rook’s Rest, so anywhere from one to three months may have elapsed before Rowan and Flowers made contact with Ormund’s host. 

Journeying from Golden Grove to the Honeywine would probably take a fortnight and the journey from Bitterbridge might be five days longer, but Rowan’s mounted force should have been able to make the journey in far less time. They should also have been able to utilize river-based logistics similar to the Hightowers, given that Golden Grove, Bitterbridge and their allies are situated along the Mander and it’s tributaries. We know from Victarion Greyjoy in AFFC that Ironborn longships can travel up the Mander as far as Bitterbridge when most sea-faring ships stop at Highgarden, while John II Gardener was able to sail his barge as far the headwaters of the Mander according to TWOIAF. As with the Honeywine, George effectively pretends that the Mander does not exist, while the vagueness of the timeline will be a recurring factor in the Dance.

The Battle of the Honeywine itself does not permit much tactical analysis, as we’re only told that the battle took place along the river with Rowan and Flowers attacking from the northeast and Costayne, Beesbury and Tarly attacking from the rear. Having failed inexplicably to deal with the threats to his supply lines, Ormund Hightower and his army are cut off from Oldtown and facing certain defeat; only the intervention of Daeron and Tessarion that prevents this, and the battle ends with Rowan in retreat to the north, Tom Flowers and Lord Costayne dead, and the ‘Two Alans’ taken prisoner. 

In analyzing this first act of the Dance in the Reach, it is clear that George did not grasp the implications of his decision to furnish Rhaenyra with such significant support there. Without Daeron’s intervention, the Battle of the Honeywine would have been the death of Aegon’s cause in the Reach, as Oldtown would have been defenseless; surrender would be the most likely outcome, and with it Rhaenyra would have had the agricultural heart of the Seven Kingdoms on her side, along with the largest armies of any of the Seven Kingdoms. With control of the Riverlands and the Reach, the Blacks would have cut off Aegon from his allies in the Westerlands, and could threaten that kingdom with invasion from the south and east. Aegon would have only the Crownlands and the Stormlands at his immediate disposal, and only Vhagar and an injured Sunfyre as a defense against Rhaenyra’s dragons. Had Daemon and Caraxes left the Riverlands (now firmly on Rhaenyra’s side) and joined the Blacks in the northern Reach, Daeron and Tessarion would have been hard-pressed to defeat them, and a Black victory would be assured.