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syndrossi · 4 months ago

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Now I REALLY WANT something where Ser Thoren DOES rescue the boys and reunites them with Daemon earlier, largely because I want to see what happens when the Volentenes attempt to kidnap them while they're with their father.

Oooh, that WOULD be spicy, wouldn't it? I imagine the way it plays out initially is:

Ser Thoren brings them back up north to catch a ship to King's Landing.

Allard dispatches his men in search/pursuit of them.

After a week of failed searching (Crayne convinces Allard to keep it on the down low), Allard finally informs Rhea via raven that the boys are missing. She reaches out to Rhaenyra to have a raven sent to Daemon in the Stepstones and sends out ravens throughout the Vale to be on the lookout for the boys. Ser Thoren and the twins set sail from the Fingers.

Rhea rides south to Gulltown chasing a rumor about the boys, accident (or is it?) occurs just before Daemon arrives in Runestone for answers. Ser Thoren and the twins arrive at Dragonstone, as he wants the matter somewhat discreetly handled. Rhaenyra is here, just as in canon, and sends a raven to Runestone.

Daemon confronts Rhea, forces the confession, and this time the raven that reaches him isn't of the boys' kidnapping, but Rhaenyra's that the boys are safe in Dragonstone, which he immediately sets out for.

The big meet happens there, and Daemon and Rhaenyra fly the twins to King's Landing. There is much fanfare, but none of the urgency of Resonant, because the boys were never truly kidnapped. Viserys is pleased that Daemon's a father, but there's no "hand in the hearth" debriefing, so he has no reason to believe the boys are prophecy children. There is no 24/7 knight rotation, and boys are far less traumatized (though Rhaegar is still mourning Rhaella and Rhea) and Jon's not hurt.

Probably a few weeks pass without incident. The boys settle in, Daemon escorts them around the Dragonpit, though without success. (To Rhaegar's utter heartbreak.)

Daemon has no catalyst to set him after Volantis, so he's trying to figure out what to do now that he's a single dad. He also feels fairly safe taking them out into the city.

Meanwhile, the Volantenes + Jephyro are already aware of the new circumstances and have sailed into King's Landing to set up an attempt there...

Here's part one of an innocent outing in the city that may be about to turn into something quite a lot more dangerous...

x~x~x

"What about this one?" Daemon pointed at the clasp that had caught his eye—and clearly Rhaegar's—against the dark velvet that held the jeweler's various works: silver shaped into a dragon curled around a deep red garnet. "Do you have another?"

"Another, my prince?" the man repeated, before comprehension dawned. He looked between Daemon's two sons. "I could fashion a twin to it easily enough."

Daemon stole a glance at Jon to gauge his interest. His other son had proven himself to be less enthused about the finery afforded him in his new station. Allard Royce and whatever passed for clothing in the Vale were partly to blame for that, he presumed.

Jon's gaze was on a different piece, however, that of a silver wolf's head with eyes of smoothly-polished sapphire. It had no relation at all to their own house, better suited to the houses of the southern Crownlands and northern Stormlands who bore wolves upon their crest. But the longing in his face was clear, along with an undercurrent of sorrow.

He does not know to ask, Daemon thought with a familiar simmering anger at the reminder that his sons had spent their childhood being denied all that they were due.

It would not have been his choice, but boys formed all sorts of fascinations, and although wolves were no dragons, they were worthy enough in their own way. "Would you like that one, Jon?" he asked, reaching for the clasp.

He was immediately met with a grey-eyed stare so filled with uncertainty that his own heart ached. "It is a beautiful piece," Daemon said.

"I—" Jon swallowed, gaze returning to the clasp, then flicking up at the jeweler. "Could you change the eyes?"

The jeweler, sensing a sale, smiled encouragingly. "Easily enough. What suits your fancy, young prince? I have some emerald stones that could be fitted."

"What about the red stone in the dragon clasp? Do you have more of it?"

"The garnet? I do. I also have ruby, should that be more to your preference." The jeweler disappeared into his work room, emerging after a moment with a small cloth of both garnet and ruby gems, some rough and others worked, that he laid out on the table.

Jon looked between them. He seemed drawn at first to the ruby, touching a finger to it, but his mouth firmed with decision as he pulled back. "The garnet." He glanced at his brother. "So that we match."

"I shall have the modifications completed by tomorrow," the man said with a bow, before turning his gaze back to Daemon. "Is there anything else that you seek, my prince?"

"I have been told you have experience working with dragon scales."

The jeweler's expression brightened, this time with interest. "I do. I have done work for Princess Rhaenyra, and even Queen Alysanne herself, many years back."

His sons watched him with nearly identical expressions of curiosity as Daemon withdrew a thick red scale from his pouch, partly split by a glancing blow from one of the Triarchy's small ballistae that they lugged onto the shores of the Stepstones in hopes of a lucky shot before their inevitable destruction by dragonflame.

"What can you make of this?"

The jeweler took the scale from him with a hushed reverence, examining it from various angles. "I can shape it into smaller pieces and fashion a fetching pendant. Several, even. A gold setting would be striking, or--" He glanced at their silver-and-garnet selections. "Or silver, if that is more to your liking. If my prince cares to return in half an hour, I can make some sketches for your review for the pendant itself."

"Can you design one of a dragon's head?" Rhaegar asked. His look at Daemon held an uncertainty not unlike Jon's earlier. "We could have one apiece."

"The three heads of the dragon?" Daemon kissed the two heads within reach. "That feels fitting to me."

"I shall focus my efforts on dragon designs, then," the jeweler said with another bow, and Daemon could not tell if his enthusiasm was from the opportunity to work with such a rare material, or the growing purse he anticipated receiving.

Even if Viserys weren't cheered enough by his return and meeting his sons to see it paid directly from the royal treasury, Daemon had spent very little of his own allowance these past few years. There were scant opportunities in the wastes of the Stepstones.

It was getting past midday, long enough since breakfast for hunger to make itself known in the growling stomachs of growing boys. The taverns at the base of Aegon’s Hill catered to visiting nobles and rich merchants of the area, their fare a good deal finer than would be found just a few roads further south, near the harbor.

A royal visitor was not uncommon in these parts, though it still afforded them a quiet table away from the small pocket of knights well on their way to a drunken stupor not even halfway through the day. He would have numbered among them once, Daemon mused. Not the knight part, of course. But he had drunk his way through most of the taverns in the city in his youth, often dragging Viserys along. His brother had been a more exuberant drunk then, prone to wild capers he would not otherwise consider when sober.

I wonder if he might consider stealing away some night. Even a king could wear a cloak, and if any tavernkeep were to notice, he would wisely pretend otherwise. It would do him good to remember life outside those walls.

And it would scandalize Otto Hightower, which was reason enough in itself.

Daemon turned his attention back to the twins, both of whom seemed comfortable enough in the tavern, though he imagined they would not have seen one growing up isolated in the Gates of the Moon. “I take it Ser Thoren brought you to a few inns along the way,” he said.

“Only a few,” Jon said. “On the road north through the Vale.”

A carafe of wine was brought to the table, along with bread fresh enough from the oven to be steaming. Slices of cold meat and cheese were brought out soon after. Daemon limited himself to a single cup, and let each of his sons try a sip, taking in their mutual nose crinkles at the taste with fond amusement that turned faintly bittersweet. There were many expressions he had still to learn, to discover which emphasized their similarities and which their differences.

Each delighted him, though he had a special fondness for when they mirrored one another. It spoke to an extra bond between them that comforted him somehow.

A special treat of warm, gooey raspberries served in a bowl with a generous heaping of cold cream atop it had been sent to their table, and both his sons had eagerly devoured theirs before turning faintly envious eyes to Daemon’s own half-eaten portion.

“Is there anything else you would like to see before we return to the jeweler, and then the keep?” he asked once they had finished off his dessert.

#resonant asks #resonant concept writing #probably the most unfortunate thing about canon resonant is that they don't get to have these fun outings together 😢#also lmao this is such a view into my process as a writer #“what if daemon DESTROYS some volantene kidnappers who come after the twins”#me (nodding): yes yes okay right first lemme write a detailed timeline of the events leading up to this in the hypothetical au #me: and then write 1-1.5K of establishing background for the scene with requisite sadness #me: and then MAYBE we'll get to the actual bit you were interested in #resonant 'verse rescue au

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fic #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

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fanficapologist · 5 months ago

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

The plan was bold, a coordinated strike meant to take the Capital by surprise from every direction, with fire and steel raining down from the sky and the sea. Word had already been dispatched to Lord Unwin, commanding him to call the Dragonseeds to heel and launch an attack from the west. They would unleash their dragons upon the western border of the Crownlands, forcing Rhaenyra’s supporters to divide their forces. From the south, Prince Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother, would lead an assault from the south, rallying the houses in the Stormlands before making his push toward the Capital.

Both Aemond and his Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had a critical role to play. The King and his most trusted advisor were to make their way north to the Riverlands, from where they would descend upon King’s Landing with a force that no one could ignore. Ser Criston would begin by taking Harrenhal, using it as a staging ground to gather their troops. Aemond, riding his mighty dragon Vhagar, would lead the charge on the Capital from the north, burning through any resistance with a fury no force could withstand.

And Maera, though injured and nursing a wounded collarbone, was not to be left behind. Once her body had healed enough to take to the skies again, she would launch her own attack. She would lead the eastern assault on the Capital, riding her powerful blue and black dragon, Ēbrion. Her task was to strike from the east while the fleet of Morne, which she had inherited, sailed into Blackwater Bay below, cutting off King’s Landing from the sea.

The coordinated attack was set to take place in three weeks, once Criston Cole had reached Harrenhal and the ground troops were ready to move. It was a plausible plan, one designed to overwhelm their enemy from all directions. Every piece was carefully placed, every move calculated. Victory seemed certain. Right?

Late one evening, the Queen had gone in search of her husband. Her collarbone still ached, though the maesters assured her it was healing well. She was eager to discuss the final details of the attack, but when she entered the grand hall, she found him sitting upon the throne of Dragonstone. The throne was carved from blackened volcanic stone, its jagged edges sharp and foreboding, much like the man who now sat upon it.

Aemond’s usual poise and control were absent, replaced by a seething fury that rippled through the room like a living thing. His one eye, cold and piercing, was fixed on a letter gripped tightly in his hand, the parchment crumpled from the force of his grip. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched so tightly that Maera could see the muscles twitching beneath his pale skin.

She hesitated at the base of the steps leading up to the ancient chair, her breath catching in her throat. The Kings rigid posture, his stormy expression, told her that something had gone terribly wrong. Steeling herself, she began to climb the steps. Each footstep echoed through the cold, stony chamber, the soft swish of her black and green skirts brushing against her legs as she ascended. The sound of her approach filled the room, but Aemond remained still, his gaze fixed on the far wall, his anger simmering beneath a surface of quiet restraint.

As she reached the top of the steps and stood before him, he didn’t look at her. Instead, he roughly extended a crumpled piece of parchment towards her, his fingers trembling slightly as he released it into her hands. The Queen accepted the letter with careful hands, her heart sinking with each passing second.

She slowly unfurled it, her green eyes darting across the page as the words leapt out at her. It was from Lord Unwin, detailing the progress—or lack thereof—with the Dragonseeds, Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. The news was not good.

She closed her eyes and cast her head back, gazing up at the ceiling as though seeking guidance from the heavens. Silently, she prayed for strength, willing herself to remain composed, though every part of her wanted to scream. The gods, it seemed, were testing her patience, her resolve, her very will to fight.

Aemond’s muttered curse broke the silence. “Fuck.” The word was low, barely above a whisper, but the frustration in his voice was unmistakable. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his anger giving way to the weight of what they had just lost.

"Damn her for her stupidity," he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Rhaenyra's reckless arrogance has loosed this chaos upon the world. Mere men should never have been given the power of a dragon. They think themselves higher than they are. Fools."

Maera remained silent, her eyes fixed on the crumpled letter in her hand. Lord Unwin's detailed account filled her with a rising dread. He had tried to reason with the two Dragonseeds, tried to remind them of the promises made to secure their loyalty—Harrenhal for Hugh Hammer, and Horn Hill for Ulf the White. But those promises no longer held sway. Ulf had become bold, demanding Highgarden instead, his ambition reaching far beyond what was originally offered. It was outrageous, but it was the attitude of Hugh Hammer that stoked Aemond's rage to a near-blinding degree.

Hugh had claimed that none of the Targaryens—neither Rhaenyra nor Aemond—were fit to lead. He mocked them all, proclaiming that they were not gods as they so believed, for even a bastard could claim a dragon. His words dripped with contempt. And then came the final insult: Hugh Hammer had crowned himself, donning a crude black iron circlet and declaring his own claim to the Iron Throne. The audacity of the man was staggering.

As the words sunk in, Maera’s vision blurred with fury. The Dragonseeds were supposed to be pawns in this war—tools to be used and discarded when the time came. Yet, now, they fancied themselves kings and conquerors. The paper crumpled in her hand, the anger building until she could no longer hold it. With a sharp exhale, she hurled the letter across the room, the parchment hitting the stone wall with a soft thud before fluttering uselessly to the floor.

Her voice cut through the tense silence of the chamber, her tone laced with urgency. “What is to be done about it?”

Aemond straightened up on the stony throne, his sharp features shadowed in the dim light. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening as he considered the question. “Lord Unwin is planning a coup,” he replied, his voice gruff with restrained anger. “He intends to kill both cunts before their delusions can spread any further.” His tone was cold, ruthless, but Maera knew it was the only choice. There was no room for mercy with traitors like them.

Crossing his arms, Aemond shifted, his silver hair falling over his shoulder, catching the glint of the low candlelight. His crown sat heavily on his brow, a reminder of the weight they both bore in this war. “As for Vermithor and Silverwing…”he continued, his voice thoughtful now. “We may just have to cut our losses.”

The Queen nodded, her mind turning over the plan. Hugh and Ulf were beyond reasoning, that much was clear. More importantly, they had become dangerous threats to the Greens. With the war pressing in from all sides, they couldn’t afford to fight multiple enemies at once. The Dragonseeds needed to go. As for the dragons, the likelihood of anyone else successfully claiming them was slim. Most who had tried, thanks to Rhaenyra’s reckless decision to arm bastards with dragons, had died in the process. Yet, as much as the betrayers needed to die, the loss of the beasts could severely impact the Green’s power in the Dance of the Dragons.

Still, her thoughts drifted to other methods that could be used to win the battle. “And Daeron?” she asked, her voice softening. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy, who was reportedly very different from his older brothers. Aegon and Aemond became ruthless Targaryen Princes, raised in Kings Landing. Whereas Daeron, raised in Oldtown, was gentler, more placid, adept with a lute as he was with his sword.

Lord Unwin had made it clear that the youngest Prince was being pushed around by Hugh and Ulf, disrespected and mocked at every turn when he attempted to regain control in Tumbleton with Lord Hobert Hightower, a spectacular failure.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, though his voice was calmer when he spoke of his brother. “Daeron will continue to the Stormlands as planned. He’ll remain at Storm’s End until we give the signal for the attack.”

Maera nodded again, though her heart ached for her brother-in-law. He would face the storm in his own time, just as they all would. The game of thrones was unforgiving, even to the young.

A chuckle broke the tension in the room. She turned her head and saw Aemond shaking his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Daeron hasn’t seen his lady wife in some time,” he remarked with an amused glint in his eye. “It’ll do him good to spend some time at Storm’s End. Perhaps he’ll even try to conceive an heir while he’s there.”

The Queen breathed out a soft laugh, raising her brows in surprise. It had nearly slipped her mind that Daeron was wed to Lady Ellyn Baratheon. The marriage had been an arrangement made after Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Floris Baratheon had been broken off so that he could marry Maera instead. That deal had reshuffled the pieces in the game, requiring another Targaryen prince to strengthen the Baratheon alliance. Daeron had been forced to take up that mantle, his union to Lady Ellyn smoothing over any lingering tensions between the houses.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maera noticed Aemond gesturing subtly with his hand, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. She stepped closer, her heart softening as she placed her hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, as he ran his thumb over her knuckles in a familiar gesture of affection. His touch paused over the golden and sapphire ring that gleamed on her finger—the one he had given her before their wedding. A rare, gentle smile curved his lips as he admired the ring, the stone reflecting the same rich blue as his sapphire eye that lay beneath his leather patch.

Yet his wife’s thoughts turned dark as the weight of the future pressed on her mind. War was uncertain; its outcome impossible to predict. Between the Blacks and the Greens, only one side could emerge victorious, and if it was to be Aemond, the succession needed to be secured. With every battle, the stakes grew higher, and Maera knew that a kingdom needed more than a victorious king—it needed a clear line of inheritance.

She tilted her head slightly, looking at her husband. “Once the invasion is done, Daeron should be named Prince of Dragonstone.” Her voice was measured but firm, the thought fully formed in her mind. Aemond raised a brow at her suggestion, his expression one of slight surprise. Before he could question her, Maera continued, “He is your heir, after all.”

Aemond’s lips quirked into a smirk, his gaze sharpening. “For now,” he purred, a playful yet serious tone beneath his words. Then, without warning, he yanked Maera forward until she was perched on his lap, her body pressed against his. His sharp nose brushed against the length of her neck, his breath warm as he inhaled the familiar scent of her hair. His voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. “Until we conceive a son,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear.

A giggle escaped Maera’s lips as she pressed her hands against his chest, feigning an attempt to push him away. “Issa darys,” my King, she said, a note of laughter in her voice, “as much as I admire your enthusiasm…” Her cheeks flushed slightly as she added, “My moonsblood hasn’t returned since Aemara was born.” But despite her playful resistance, Aemond only tightened his arms around her, his hold possessive and unyielding.

The Queen felt her husband’s lips peppering kisses upon her skin, his touch sending a shiver through her body. She squirmed slightly in his lap, her skin prickling at the warmth of his mouth against her. A gasp escaped her when he bit down harshly, her breath catching as she heard him chuckle against her skin. She pulled back, cupping his cheek with one hand, determined to steady herself and not get distracted.

"It may be some time before we conceive another child." She searched his eye, wanting to know that he understood the gravity of her next words. "To secure the succession, Daeron should be formally recognized. It would strengthen our position."

Aemond sighed, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, reassuring circles. With his other hand, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with a tenderness that contrasted with his earlier roughness. His gaze softened as he looked at her. "Once again, you show your wisdom, issa daria,” my Queen, he murmured, his tone a mix of admiration and resignation. "A ceremony for Daeron will be prepared. But only once the invasion is done."

Maera smiled, her tension easing as she nodded in agreement. The future still held uncertainty, but she was satisfied they had set the right course for now. Aemond, ever pragmatic, glanced at her with a wry smirk. "Perhaps your Ladies could help plan the ceremony?"

His wife chuckled softly, her fingers brushing through the loose strands of his silver hair. "I will put them to work," she replied with a smile, already imagining how she could enlist them in the preparations. The weight of the world had not left their shoulders, but for a brief moment, Maera allowed herself to feel the smallest sense of hope, their plans slowly falling into place.

The King tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze softening as his hand hovered just above Maera’s collarbone. His fingers reached out, lightly stroking the green and black fabric of her dress, the silk smooth under his touch. "And how is your wound healing?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with genuine concern.

Maera grinned, rolling her shoulder back with a confident ease. "It’s healing well," she replied, feeling a warmth in her chest at his attentiveness. She moved her arm slightly to show him, the motion fluid. "I hardly feel it now," she added, her tone light and proud of her recovery.

Her husband hummed softly in response, his hand lingering near her skin before dropping back to his lap. Maera caught the way his single violet eye raked over her, taking in the curve of her body, lingering a little longer than usual. His gaze settled on her chest, and she saw the subtle shift in his posture, his interest plain despite his calm demeanor.

A slow smirk tugged at the corners of the Queen’s lips as she met his gaze. "Is there anything else I could do to assist you this evening, my King?" she asked, her voice playful, laced with suggestion. The tension between them shifted, thickening as her question hung in the air.

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk of his own, his eye flickering with amusement and desire, as if silently weighing her offer with all the seriousness of a council decision. His finger trailed lightly along her jaw, sending shivers down her spine as her heart thumped loudly in her chest. His touch was soft but deliberate, and she could see the devilish grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "I wish for my Queen to get on her knees and ease my troubles," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire.

Maera gasped softly at his lewd command, her breath catching in her throat. But before she could react further, his other hand moved roughly to squeeze her upper thigh, his grip firm and possessive. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "And since my wife is such a skilled dragon rider, perhaps she can demonstrate her mastery by riding me upon the throne of our ancestors."

A wicked smile spread across Maera's lips, her eyes gleaming with amusement and anticipation. "I couldn't very well refuse my King, now could I?" she replied softly, her voice thick with playful submission.

Without a word, Aemond pulled her closer, his lips crashing against hers with an urgency that took her breath away. His kiss was fierce, filled with hunger as he claimed her mouth. The heat between them ignited instantly, her body responding to the raw need in his touch. His lips moved with hers, demanding and insistent, his grip on her thigh tightening as he deepened the kiss.

Aemond's tongue traced her bottom lip, teasing her, silently demanding more. She parted her lips for him without hesitation, inviting him in. Their tongues met in a feverish dance, his rough and commanding while hers answered with equal intensity. Each movement was deliberate, every stroke a testament to the passion that simmered just beneath the surface.

Maera's hands explored her husband’s broad chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fine leather of his doublet. Her fingers traced the intricate stitching as they moved across his torso, lingering at the contours of his chest before sliding lower. His body was strong, hardened from years of intense training, and the power he exuded only deepened her desire for him.

As her lips left his and found the warm skin of his neck, Maera nipped lightly, teasing his pulse point with the tip of her tongue before licking along the line of his jaw. Aemond hissed at the sensation, his breath catching in his throat as her lips left a trail of heat in their wake. His hands roamed eagerly over her body, squeezing and caressing the curves hidden beneath the layers of her green and black dress.

The one-eyed King’s touch grew more urgent, and his hands found her breasts, feeling the peaks of her nipples harden beneath the fabric at his touch. The warmth of her body and the soft moan she let slip fueled his growing need, and a low growl of desire escaped him, vibrating in the space between them.

Her body responded instinctively, her hips rocking against Aemond as she felt the familiar hardness of his length pressing beneath her. The heat between them intensified, and with every subtle movement, her breath hitched, her own need growing alongside his.

Unable to contain his hunger any longer, his fingers tugged eagerly at the ribbons at the front of her dress, fumbling in his desperation to untie them. He wanted to feel her bare skin against him, to rid her of the barrier between them. Each pull at the ribbons came faster, his impatience growing with every second as he sought the softness of her flesh beneath the fabric.

Just as Aemond's fingers worked eagerly at the last ribbon of her dress, desperate to pull it free, Maera grinned, a teasing glint in her eyes. Without warning, she hopped off his lap, leaving him momentarily stunned. She flashed him a sultry smile, biting her lower lip as she took a step back, her movements slow and deliberate.

Aemond's gaze darkened, his single violet eye following her every move, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Maera, ever graceful, sank slowly to her knees before him, elegantly adjusting her skirts so they fanned around her like a pool of fabric. Her hands smoothed over the green and black silk, her posture poised and deliberate. When she looked up at him, her gaze was smoldering with intent, full of confidence and allure.

She reached for the ties of his breeches, her fingers deftly undoing the knot that held them together. With practiced ease, she freed him from the confines of the fabric, her hand wrapping around his cock, warm and firm. Aemond's breath hitched, his chest rising sharply as her delicate fingers closed around him, stroking slowly at first, tracing the length of his shaft with the lightest of touches.

He groaned deeply, the sound guttural and raw, his head tilting back as the sensation overwhelmed him. Her fingers moved with deliberate care, teasing him, exploring him, her touch gentle yet purposeful. Maera watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his muscles tightened beneath her ministrations.

His breaths came ragged as he looked down at Maera, her delicate hand still wrapped around him. "Do you intend to spend the whole evening teasing me, wife?" Aemond asked, his voice strained, a mixture of impatience and desire lacing his words.

The Queen’s lips curled into a wicked smile. She leaned forward, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip of his length, causing him to hiss sharply at the sensation. "I just might," she purred, her green eyes flashing with mischief.

Before he could respond, she took him fully into her mouth in one swift motion, silencing any retort. Aemond's hand flew to her brown and silver curls, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her in place, groaning deeply as the warmth of her mouth enveloped him. Her lips wrapped tightly around him, and she sucked harshly on the tip, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his veins.

Her tongue moved expertly, swirling around the head before she began to take him deeper, inch by inch, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him whole. Aemond's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped her hair tighter, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that threatened to undo him. Maera's mouth was relentless, her rhythm deliberate, and she could feel his legs tremble beneath her as a loud, guttural groan echoed through the grand hall.

“Gods be good.” With a low growl, he tightened his grip on her hair, guiding her movements as he took control. He brought her up slowly before lowering her mouth back down onto him, over and over again, his body shuddering with every pass of her lips. She whined softly against him, the vibrations of her voice sending shocks of pleasure through his already overstimulated body, intensifying the experience.

Her knees ached against the cold, hard stone floor, the discomfort biting into her skin, but she paid it no mind. To please her King, to show him the depth of her love and devotion, she would endure far more than this. Aemond's temper, his rage-he needed this, needed her, and she would gladly serve him in this way.

Maera's thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Aemond yanked her head off his throbbing length, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. His face was flushed, his violet eye dark with desire and need. Without a word, he pulled her forward, making her climb onto his lap once more.

In a swift, almost desperate motion, he hiked her skirts high above her hips, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs to the cool air of the room. His rough hands gripped her bare flesh, fingers tracing the soft, rounded curves with a possessive touch. Maera's breath hitched, her heart racing as Aemond's hands moved with purpose.

Without warning, he tugged her smallclothes aside, and before she could catch her breath, his fingers plunged deep inside her. A sharp gasp escaped her throat, her body instinctively arching against him. His thumb found the bundle of nerves at her center, pressing down firmly, sending waves of ecstasy through her core. Her hips rocked against his hand, her body moving of its own accord as he expertly teased and tormented her.

"Aemond," she whined, her voice breathless as her fingers clutched his shoulders for support. He chuckled darkly at her reaction, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"Not so nice to be teased, is it?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words sent a shiver down her spine as his thumb pressed harder against her, circling with maddening precision. Maera gasped again, her grip tightening on him as the familiar sensation began to build low in her stomach, her body responding to his every touch. The pressure grew and grew with each deliberate stroke of his fingers, the coil inside her winding tighter and tighter, leaving her at his mercy.

Her nails dug into Aemond's shoulders, her body squirming in his lap as she rocked her hips against his hand. Each movement sent another jolt through her, her breath coming out in ragged pants. Desperation clawed at her, the tension in her body building to an unbearable peak as his fingers thrust in and out of her, each stroke more agonizing than the last. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, her mind clouded with the need for release.

"Please..." she gasped, her voice shaky and broken, pleading for mercy as the coil within her tightened to a breaking point. He responded with a dark, satisfied smirk, his single violet eye glinting with control.

"Peak for me," he growled, his fingers curling inside her just right, his thumb pressing firmly against her sensitive bundle of nerves. "Then, I'll give you what you want."

With a choked gasp, the tension inside her snapped. A wave of euphoria crashed over her, and she came undone on his fingers. Maera's hips bucked, grinding down against his hand as she rode out her high, her entire body trembling with the intensity of her release. She moaned loudly, her grip on his shoulders tightening as her vision blurred, her mind lost in the overwhelming sensation.

When her climax finally subsided, Aemond slowly withdrew his fingers, his gaze locked on her flushed face as she tried to steady her breathing. He wasted no time, grabbing his length and running the flushed tip teasingly through her slick folds. Maera whimpered softly, her body still sensitive from the peak he had just given her.

Aemond's other hand found her hip, his grip firm as he held her in place. Without warning, he began to slowly lower her onto him, inch by agonizing inch. Maera gasped, her mouth falling open as he filled her completely, the stretch of him almost too much to handle all at once. She felt every inch of him as he sank deeper inside her, her body trembling as she adjusted to his size.

The pressure was exquisite, and as he bottomed out inside her, Maera bit her lip, her body molding perfectly to his. Aemond groaned lowly, his hand gripping her hip tighter, his restraint palpable as he held her still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside her.

Maera began to rock against him with fervor, her movements fluid and desperate. With each roll of her hips, his length brushed that perfect, spongey spot within her, sending pleasure through her body like lightning. A moan escaped her lips, breathy and uncontrolled, as she rode him with determination.

Her green eyes never left his, locked in an intense gaze that mirrored the hunger they both felt. Their mouths hung open, panting and gasping for breath as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Each thrust seemed to pull them deeper into the shared bliss, their connection unbreakable upon the throne of Dragonstone.

Aemond gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Planting his feet firmly on the stone floor, he seized control, bucking his hips upward to meet hers with a force that made her cry out. His hands gripped her hips tightly, guiding her down onto him with each powerful thrust. The rhythm they created together was frantic, filled with heat and a desperation that consumed them.

Aemond's voice was thick with lust as he murmured, "You’re perfect. Fuck, my perfect Queen," his words shooting straight to Maera's core, adding fuel to the fire already burning deep within her. His praise sent a wave of heat through her body, tightening the coil of pleasure that wound tighter with every thrust.

He began to pound into her with an almost brutal pace, chasing his own release. Each rough movement caused her to gasp, her body trembling under the force of his desire. As he thrust into her, Maera reached out with a trembling hand, carefully straightening the Conqueror's crown upon his head with a small, playful smile. The sight of him wearing it, regal and powerful, only spurred her on, reminding her of the kingly man beneath her.

Aemond's grip on her hips tightened, and he groaned as he sped up, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate. Maera could feel him swelling inside her, her own pleasure building to an unbearable peak once more. With a guttural moan, she leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, "Please, my King. Cum deep inside of me," she commanded, her voice low and full of desire.

Her words were his undoing. Aemond's hips jerked up into her one final time as he groaned loudly, the sound vibrating against her skin. His release came in a hot wave, filling her completely as his body trembled beneath his wife, her second orgasm following moments after. He buried his face in her neck, their breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat as they clung to one another, the intensity of their shared pleasure leaving them both breathless.

For now, the war seemed distant and unimportant, its looming shadow momentarily forgotten in the intimacy of their shared embrace. The tension and bloodshed that had consumed their days and nights melted away, leaving only the warmth of their bodies pressed together, hearts still racing in the aftermath of their passion.

As their breaths began to settle, the frantic energy that had fueled them ebbed, replaced by a soft calm. Maera and Aemond remained tangled together upon the stony throne, her fingers lazily tracing the lines of his jaw as his arms tightened around her, unwilling to let go. The flicker of candlelight cast soft, flickering shadows over their entwined forms, the grand hall silent but for the occasional crackle of the flames.

They sat in the darkness, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring this fleeting moment of peace, knowing the chaos of war still awaited them. Yet, for now, they allowed themselves to simply be.

Notes: little smutty diversion 😍 and an interesting development next week 🖤 (also I hate writing smut! I’m an over perfectionist and it stresses me out 🤣 I hope y’all enjoy it at least, been a while since she sucked his dick)

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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eruherdiriel · 7 months ago

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After ruin

Jonsa ficlet Rating: T Universe: Canon Other: Angst, Sansa POV

Also on AO3.

She watches him slide the knife from its sheath and test the sharpness of the blade against a callus on his left hand.

“Must you go?” Sansa asks. Jon is always going to war it seems, and this time he would march right into the dragon’s maw. “Daenerys has already killed kin to clear her path to the Iron Throne.”

Aegon Targaryen is dead, so proclaimed the letter that arrived not five days ago with news from the south. Dragon fire killed him, as it kills many in the Crownlands and the Reach these days. But his death occurred after a challenge, a mockery of a test Daenerys must have known her nephew would not pass. She offered him one of her dragons to ride and then commanded it to breathe fire on him, the letter said. When he burned, she said it proved he was a pretender and that her true nephew died nearly two decades ago in King’s Landing.

Sansa knows better. Targaryens are not immune to fire; she has felt the proof as she traced the ruined skin of Jon’s sword hand. And yet, she has also heard the stories of when they tried to burn his body after the mutiny at Castle Black. She still remembers how Satin would not meet her eyes when he spoke of it, out of both shame for allowing it to happen and for fear of how Jon rose amidst the flames.

“I am a soldier. The battlefield is where I belong,” Jon says. The blade sings as he slides it back into its covering. “This is how I serve the North.”

“And how you run from love,” she says softly. She had not meant to say the words aloud, and hearing them nearly stops her own heart. It is much too soon for such a sentiment, but once it is out, Sansa knows it is true. She loves him.

Whatever he feels in return, it is enough for Jon to run from her, just as he runs from his parentage. If he is fighting, he doesn’t have to face either thing. He doesn’t have to think about his mother dying after she birthed him and living her final months hidden away in a tower in Dorne. He doesn’t have to explain why he lets Rickon fall asleep against one side of his body and Sansa fall asleep against the other when they tell her baby brother a bedtime story. He doesn’t have to explain why he stopped letting Sansa come to his bed when she has nightmares, but she knows it happened after the morning she woke to feel him pressed against her, his hand wound in her hair and his breath warm on her neck.

He doesn’t have to explain why, when she tended his wound after fighting the Others and began to cry at the damage to his body that showed how close she came to losing him again, Jon lifted her chin with one hand and told her not to weep. Told her that he survived. That he could survive anything if it meant coming home to her. And then he kissed her tears away, his lips pressed against one cheek and then another before finding the curve of her mouth.

Her words to him now make Jon still, his back toward her, and he stays silent for some time. Sansa holds her breath and waits. Jon is always making her wait.

Jon, and the gods. And because of that, she has learned to be patient, learned through waiting to escape King’s Landing, and then waiting to escape the Vale of Arryn, and still she waits for Bran and Arya to come home.

“I do,” he says, head cocked slightly in her direction but still not facing Sansa. “Love you. But my love would only ruin you.”

This time, her heart does stop; she would swear to it.

If only Jon had stopped speaking after saying, I do love you.

“Ruin? You know nothing of love if you think it would ruin me.”

Now Jon turns. “Sansa, I’m—”

“A bastard?” she snaps. “A Targaryen? A deserter from the Night’s Watch? How many times must I tell you I do not care about any of those things? I care about how you treat your friends. How you respect me and make me feel safe. I care about how you’re the only person left that I can talk to about Robb, even though it hurts. I care about how you do your duty as a soldier despite how I know you want nothing more than to find out if Bran and Arya are alive and to search for them.”

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

But Sansa has more to say, so she continues before he can protest yet again. “When we find love in this world, we should cling to it. How much love does anyone know in their life? I once had a mother and father and siblings who loved me. And they are gone except for Rickon, swept off by war and violence, and that is ruin, Jon.”

His eyes soften, and finally he leaves his half-packed saddle bag and walks over to her. Then Jon takes her face in his hands, and for the heartbeat that he studies her, Sansa thinks he is going to give her what she wants—he will kiss her and say he is going to stay. But instead, Jon tilts her head down and presses his lips to her forehead, and the vision is dashed.

“This is all I can give you at present,” he whispers into her hairline. “My sword.”

Why, she wants to scream. Why can’t you stay with me?

But she knows why. The qualities that would keep Jon from her and drive her ire are the same ones that helped make her love him.

“And after?” she whispers.

Her head is tucked into his neck, but she can hear the frown Jon must wear when he speaks. “Let me deal with our enemies. Then we can talk about after.”

It is only half a promise, but she will take it, will hold it tight to her chest while she waits for the wars to finally be over.

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction #book jonsa #jon x sansa #*rms #eruhwrites

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agentrouka-blog · 21 days ago

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I was watching a YT video about Medieval people surviving the winter, and I thought about those who think the North will need the South to survive... think again.

In our world, Winter was harsh, and people started to prepare for it since spring. Mostly peasants, they knew that having a good strategy to survive the winter was the difference between life and death. They would collect wood for fire, wool to make thick clothes, ready the land for the cold weather and getting as much food supplies as possible and getting ready their homes for the coldness of the winter.

Even with all the preparations, there were troubles and a lot of people died when dealing with nature.

But in the ASOIAF world, they dealt with unpredicted seasons. The Maesters can't predict for sure, only assume things, and they only confirm the coming of a season (and even then, they have been proven wrong. We only know a few instances, but there is a lot of history of seasons we are not aware of when they happened and if the Maesters were wrong too. If recently they have been proven wrong and still most people trust them, meant is not that unusual to happen).

We know they then get ready from the autumn season, and there were talks about it in the North, wise decisions to survive the coming winter:

When the morrow came, most of the morning was given over to talk of grains and greens and salting meat. Once the maesters in their Citadel had proclaimed the first of autumn, wise men put away a portion of each harvest . . . though how large a portion was a matter that seemed to require much talk. Lady Hornwood was storing a fifth of her harvest. At Maester Luwin's suggestion, she vowed to increase that to a quarter. Bran II - ACOK

Of course, not all of it is being reserved, as Hother Umber point out later in the same chapter:

Half our harvest is gone to seed for want of arms to swing the scythes

The North, used to cold weather even in summer, is getting ready for the winter. They know the cold is harsh, and most when it is in the middle of the winter. They have been warned that a long summer meant a long winter, so they are trying to getting ready for it while they support their young newly named king in the war.

There is no mention of any preparations in the rest of Westeros. The talks about grains is about the present day, dealing with the war (and how it had destroyed the fields and crops and animals) and some even talk about the hunger the people is already suffering and winter has already come.

Westeros is not ready for the winter. Their supplies are dim or none. And we know it won't be any winter, but the Long Night.

The only place there may have some resources to feed themselves are the North, but they are going to get the worst of the Long Night with the Others coming. Probably the Vale, which was explicitly mentioned they have plenty of food, would pass the winter, but with the light snow they have the roads are difficult to travel and transport food (and the Mountain Clans unless they form an alliance or something won't help). The Reach has plenty of food and the fields were practically untouched thanks to the Tyrells moving to one side to another at the right time but I don't think the pirates are going to let them in peace any longer. The Westerlands had fields ripped and may have some food for a time, but not much to grow now. And don't get me started with the Riverlands. The Stormlands are being attacked by the GC (Aegon better change the tactic or he will have PR problems) and Dorne has little to survive the coming of the pirates and maybe the dragons. The Crownlands are doomed by the dragons and their sweet mother.

So yeah, Westeros is fucked. After the Long Night and the dragons and the pirates and the petty wars, it may take them a generation or two to be again celebrating something with heart.

I can see GRRM taking so long to turn everything in a bittersweet ending...

Indeed.

Which is why it's going to be a big relief fo reveryone involved if the seasons turn to a "natural" year-bound cycle instead of an upredictable, inexplicable back and forth between long and short years-long seasons.

Surprise! Winter only lasts, a few months!

Because I honestly don't see GRRM ending the books on a literal population-decimating famine of several years after already devastating large parts of the continent in the lead-up. There's bittersweet (horrors were survived and left their mark but there is a way forward) and then there's just bitter (after surviving several catastrophes, they faced a whole other even more fatal catastrophe afterwards but we won't focus on that - the end). I mean, why NOT make that equally large catastrophe the focus, then?

#asoiaf speculation #famine #the north #westeros

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b-does-the-write-thing · 7 months ago

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general incivility, chapter four

- a brienne x jaime pride & prejudice retelling -

chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four

The Stormlands were, like most of the families who had settled there, rather unremarkable. The rocky region lay nestled between the more wealthy Crownlands to the north and the more fertile Reach to the west. Most ever bothered to cross the mountain range that separated the regions, and to the south was nothing but the Dornish desert, as inhospitable as its people from what Septa Roelle had taught her.

It was a rugged land, as large and sprawling, pitted and scarred as she was. It would never be considered beautiful but it was what it was. One either learned to love it or they hated it and Brienne had adopted the same practice to her own life.

Many a day, Brienne went riding. Usually to train, but other days, just as an excuse to stretch her legs and clear her mind. But today, fresh from a wash after her morning bout with the Colonel, Brienne set out on the path towards the closet manor home, Storm’s End, to pay a call upon her most intimate of friends—her only friend to speak plainly.

Storm’s End was perched upon Durran’s Point, the southernmost stop of the King’s Road. Here, the elder of King Robert’s younger brothers had made his home nearly a decade ago now. Brienne had been too young to attend but her father had told her stories of the great retinue that had arrived with Stannis Baratheon and his young wife and how all of the Stormlands had celebrated for seven days straight before King Robert had returned north to his iron throne.

If the people of the Stormlands had hoped for a lively royal in their midst, they were sadly disappointed. Stannis Baratheon lacked the love of pomp and party that his two brothers had inherited, preferring the solemn and dreary coasts of Storm’s End to the other manors he may have claimed for his own as the King’s brother and heir.

As they arrived at the manor’s gates, Septa Roelle turned her nose up. “Oh, Lady Selyse is at home,” she remarked in the same tone she pointed out mice droppings. Septa Roelle liked few people but she actively disliked even fewer, but somehow Lady Selyse Baratheon had never risen high in the Septa's mind.

The Bartheons only had the one daughter, an intelligent, sweet young debutant of fifteen who though Brienne's junior, was more mature than any of the other ladies in the region. She was also, like Brienne, no stranger to cruelty at the sake of her appearance.

As tall and thin as both her parents, Shireen had the Baratheon bold blue eyes and the equally strong, jutting jaw which may have made her handsome if not partnered with her mother’s large ears and aquiline nose.

Fate had taken a hand in Shireen’s appearance as well. While still in the cradle, Shireen had been afflicted with grayscale. While she had recovered, she had been left with gray and black mottled scars all across her left cheek and down to her neck.

The more superstitious families avoided the Baratheons, believing the disease lay dormant in the skin and could be reawoken with a single sneeze. Folly, according to all the maesters but still even the more opportunistic fortune hunters steered clear of the young Lady Baratheon. Septa Roelle had also been conflicted. On the one hand, her charge rubbing elbows with royalty, and on the other, a disease so deadly that its mere name was considered dangerous.

Thankfully, royal blood, diseased or not, won out in the end, and the two unfortunates became fast friends. Shireen liked the loyal and true Brienne Tarth, finding her refreshing and more intelligent than any of the other ladies her mother tried to foster upon her, while Brienne liked the quiet solitude of Shireen’s company. Shireen never stared or ogled or winced and, on numerous occasions, put herself pointedly between Brienne and her tormentors at assemblies so no one would jokingly ask Brienne the Beauty for a dance.

Shireen had been in attendance at the assembly though her mother had kept her occupied with both Lannister brothers. “Brienne tells me you were the first to dance with Mr. Lannister,” Septa Roelle praised Shireen as they all sat down in the sitting room over a cup of tea.

Lady Baratheon beamed at the accomplishment, but Shireen was quick to deflect any praise. “Yes, but he danced with nearly every lady present. Though, he did ask after you, Brienne.”

Septa Roelle perked up at this. “Oh?”

“Yes, but it was later in the evening, and poor Mr. Tarth had already called for the chaise. Mr. Lannister did seem rather disappointed.”

“My departure, if truly noticed, was nothing but a slight inconvenience, if that.” Brienne insisted lest Septa Roelle get the wrong idea.

“Oh, but he was most sincere,” Shireen protested. “He mentioned you had spoken for a moment and while he was rudely whisked away, he had great hopes of the two of you finishing the conversation before the night came to an end.”

“I dare say he’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Brienne murmured into her cup.

Shireen heard it and gave her a knowing smile, but Septa Roelle had already moved on to the next eligible bachelor. “Is there any truth to this rumor that the elder Lannister is set to marry the cousin that was in attendance?”

“It was obvious to even that blind old bat Whent,” Lady Baratheon confirmed. “Ms. Lannister did deign to dance with some of the local gentlemen but never more than once. As for the Lion of Lannister, he was most disagreeable. I was in his company for nearly the entire evening, and he barely uttered a word. Most unfortunate. Good breeding does not always result in good manners.”

Brienne could only imagine what Jaime Lannister had thought of Selyse Baratheon shadowing his every move. His unpleasant mood became less of a mystery.

“The youngest Mr. Lannister told me his brother is not much for conversation among strangers but is a remarkably agreeable fellow among his intimate acquaintances,” Shireen contributed.

“Simply making excuses for his family,” her mother replied. “It was clear to the whole assembly that he is a sinfully prideful man. Comely or not, I’ll be happy to see the back of him.”

“I do not see why he should not be proud. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and his family is reported to have more wealth than even Uncle Robert’s treasury. If our roles were reversed, I would surely be proud, wouldn’t you, mother?”

Selyse Baratheon bristled at the suggestion. “I certainly would not. I am not so vain as that, child!”

“Vanity is something different entirely,” Septa Roelle corrected. “A person may be proud without being vain. Pride is our opinion of oneself; vanity is what we would have others think.”

The two older women soon fell into debate on the subject, with Septa Roelle taking the high ground of her faith and Lady Baratheon that of her education. Shireen scooted closer under the guise of rearranging her skirts. “All this talk of pride and vanity, but you never said, what did you think of Mr. Tyrion Lannister, my dear Brienne?”

Ensuring Septa Roelle was caught up in the debate, she confessed, “I found him to be an odd sort of fellow.”

“How so?”

Brienne shared what she had overheard, speaking low so as not to be overheard. By the end, Shireen was clearly amused. “He ought not to have said those things,” she conceded, though it was unclear if she was speaking of the younger or elder Lannister.

“It was not gentleman-like,” Brienne conceded,” but neither of them were wrong.”

Shireen lay her hand upon Brienne’s to administer a gentle squeeze. “You are too kind to others and much too hard on yourself,” she admonished.

“Careful, lest you make me too vain of my so-called good nature,” Brienne teased.

“Never. I can only attempt to make you proud of it,” Shireen rallied back.

“Girls? What are you two whispering about?” Septa Roelle demanded. They quickly echoed platitudes about the weather and the rest of the visit was spent discussing the health of Lady Whent.

--- Just some general story establishing today, folks. Next chapter, everyone is back.

#b does the write thing #jaime x brienne #braime

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racefortheironthrone · 1 year ago

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In a world where Robb Stark wins his war and manages to consolidate his realm, with the 7K being no more, lets assume he also annexes the northern crownlands too, what kind of council or burocracy would he establish to govern and how much of your economic development plans could he reasonably carry out in his lifetime and how could he unify his 2 realms economy into a cohesive unit?

In a Stark victory scenario, I think annexing the northern Crownlands would be an overstretch and something of a distraction from more important tasks (like bringing the Iron Islands and the Vale into his sphere of influence so that he can govern a geographically, economically, and politically coherent kingdom/coalition of northern Westeros).

To quote King Robb:

"Duskendale, on the narrow sea? Why would they go to Duskendale?" He'd shook his head, bewildered. "A third of my foot, lost for Duskendale?"

What matters in a brand-new Kingdom of the North is things like whether Gulltown accepts silver coins minted in White Harbor with Robb's face on them as valid payment for debts and taxes, or whether the Ironborn agree to keep their reaving south of Ironman's Bay, or whether the Stark navy can keep the Trident open all the way to the Bay of Crabs so that the Riverlands can keep trading directly with Braavos.

I did some back-reading through various economic development posts to see what I'd said in the past about the tricky scenario of how one balances the interests of multiple kingdoms in pursuing economic development. One of the things I'm noticing is that there are some reforms where there is real issues with competition/duplication of efforts (a Kingdom of the North can probably only support one Bank, one canal scheme, one sub-treasury system, one purchasing/marketing cooperative, etc.), some reforms where individual kingdoms can pursue their own goals but where there would be an issue about how the king balances the rewards he's doling out between the kingdoms (do you put your marginal dragon into winter schools and greenhouses for the North or church schools for the Riverlands or roads for the Vale?), and some where every kingdom can pitch in in a common effort (if there's going to be one sub-treasury plan, you're going to need a network of granaries along waterways from the Last River down to the Trident, the same information about how to improve agricultural productivity can be shared between the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale basically for free, etc).

That being said, one of the major political challenges of the Kingdom of the North was always going to be how you balance the interests of the component kingdoms and make everyone feel like the central government is giving them a fair deal and being attentive to their interests - and as you say, forging them into a cohesive economy would go a long way into doing that. So for example, one priority should be in working out reciprocity in trade between the newly-chartered cities. It certainly helps that a bunch of them (White Harbor, Gulltown, Maidenpool, Lord Harroway's Town, Saltpans) are along the same coast of the Narrow Sea or just upriver from the Narrow Sea, which makes close trade links more likely. However, you're going to want to make formal legal arrangements that, when it comes to port fees and staple fees and warehousing fees and the like, all of the North's cities agree to set them as low as possible for other Northern cities (if not an outright zollverein), and that burgher rights are transferrable between cities and that city ordinances will be honored by other cities, and so on.

In terms of "council or burocracy would he establish to govern," Robb was already taking a decent first step to bolster Lord Paramount Edmure Tully by appointing Brynden the Blackfish as Warden of the Southern Marches.

As I've written before, issuing city charters would be a crucial element of governing the Riverlands effectively. Giving Maidenpool, Lord Harroway's Town, Stoney Sept, Fairmarket, and Seagard a combination of economic and political self-governance would paradoxically allow King Robb to project royal authority more effectively - especially when it comes to generating revenue and manpower and enforcement of economic regulations.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #westerosi economic development #war of five kings #kingdom of the north #the north #the riverlands #the vale #iron islands #robb stark

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centrally-unplanned · 5 months ago

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Was recently looking to see if there were any good Youtube map timelapses of the Dance of Dragons, and I was very disappointed in the results - but after a bit of thought I am not that surprised. Half of the problem is that the Dance of Dragons doesn't lend itself to the traditional "map painting" method; it is not a war of large territory swaps and moving frontlines. Instead armies march to fight each other, win or lose, and then generally pivot back to doing other marches against other armies instead of taking territory. Drawing thin streaks showing a march that just vanishes doesn't really compel one visually:

People like Vologda Mapping (above), Yan Xishan, and EmperorTigerstar all pushed this as sort of the standard approach for a while, but it's a poor fit for this conflict. Hell, it cannot at all communicate the importance of the dragons to the fighting, which, like it's in the name, you need them. Other approaches where army units are represented as tokens on the board, moving and retreating individually, would work better for this kind of story; Vologda Mapping themselves have one of my favourite timelapses, showing the entirety of the history of Middle Earth, in that style and I think it would work here.

However, I realized there is another, much more obvious problem: Westeros's pulp-novel-page vertical layout! On the horizontal canvas of Youtube it leaves immense quantities of dead space, and crams all of the action into a tiny section of the screen. Some people have tried to use that dead space for text descriptions and the like:

Which, well for one that blue font on a black background is not doing your dead space problem any favors. But otherwise while it is the right instinct, the ratios are just way off - the map should be the star, all the action is still too crammed even if there is text action happening elsewhere.

And I find this amusing because the solution to this problem is, in fact, extremely obvious; trim the map!! Absolutely nothing happens in the North during the Dance. They send troops, sure, but they fight in the south, you could just mark them in the notes as on Rhaenyra's side. Dorne takes up less space but they also do not participate, you could easily trim them as well. So if you have this:

That is a lot more space to work with map-wise, and you can leave as much space for text additions as you want instead of it being forced upon you by trying to make your screen match a layout intended for print books.

But no one did that, because the "image" of Westeros is too iconic, it is what everyone expects to see. They want the whole picture. And yet the narrative disagrees, the Dance just isn't the story of the whole of Westeros; 90% of it takes place in the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Reach. A good timelapse has to admit to that.

#Clearly I should make my own superior timelapse #house of the dragon

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amaltheas-garden · 3 months ago

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Personally I like the idea of Jon/Dany but I think they’re gonna hate each other, this is realistically speaking. They’re both at the top, and book Jon is very different from show Jon, he just won’t bend the knee cause she’s pretty. Also I think neither of them is going to have a happy ending

Oh I definitely get why it's such a popular ship! Aside from Jon and Dany being really popular on their own, they share a ton of visual and narrative parallels. And Dany has had some pretty awful relationships with some garbage men, and Jon is kinda the only age-appropriate dude in the story who's also a good person (besides Sam, fAegon, and... yeah that's it). My main reason for not shipping them is because I can't see a happy relationship between the two with their vastly different goals. Dany wants to be Queen of the 7K, and to do that, she must be a ruler for ALL of Westeros. That would likely mean making some concessions/seeking a political ally in the faith of the 7, and setting up her capitol in an accessible location like King's Landing. I'm not sure where Jon would fit into all of this, or how the faith would react to the queen and her nephew-husband who keeps the faith of the old gods. And considering how miserable Ned was, I can't see Jon wanting to concern himself being King for Dorne/the Crownlands/the Reach. Jon likes the North, and he's extremely well versed in the politics of the North, hence why being KitN makes more sense for his character. Dany can't rule from the North, and Jon wouldn't want to live in the South, simple as that. As far as endings go, Dany will probably die same as the show. Obviously I'm very biased and would prefer Jon have a happier ending than being banished beyond the Wall, and I do think there will be some deviation from show canon in his book ending (at least I hope!).

#ty for the ask <3 #anon ask #anti jonerys #< for filtering

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evita-shelby · 3 months ago

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if the peakys were in westeros

these will probably only make sense to me and maybe a handful of you

none of these are major players in that universe because this about fitting the characters to that world not fitting the world to the characters. plus the major houses are almost always at the verge of extinction or getting murdered horribly by the others.

tbh all romani characters should've been Rhoynish, or Orphans of the Greenblood aka GRRM's version of Romani people who live in Dorne

Tommy and his brothers: Ryswells(North)

Polly: Ryswell married to a bannerman or a Grey from the Riverlands

Arthur Sr: Ryswell turned Night's Watchmen turned deserter

Esme and the Lees: Flints (could be any house Flint, but my money is on Mountian Clan Flints)(North, near the Wall, alleged wildling blood)

Campbell: Payne or Lorch(Westernlands)

Grace: minor Lannister of Lannisport branch that's not called Lannister anymore (Lannett,Lanny or Lantel)or a Swyft(Westernlands)(like she has the dough the class the prejudice and the horrible relatives she wants to please at all costs)

Luca: Tyroshi sellsword made a knight and given lands in the Crownlands

Alfie: Crownlander House Hardy(couldn’t resist) of Cracklaw Point or Selmy of Harvest Hall(their sigil is sheaves of wheat, Stormlands)

Johnny Dogs: vassal house of ryswell or flint

Jack Nelson: House Umber (North)or House Royce (Vale)

Lizzie: Snow, legitimized bastard Stark

Brillant Chang: Yi-Tish diplomat and merchant in Sunspear

---

ocs(mine and others)

Eva: cadet branch Martell(Dorne) or a Manwoody of Kingsgrave(Dornish Red Mountains/Stony Dornish)

Frida Solomons: Faceless Men, Braavos

@justrainandcoffee Rose: House Tyrell cadet branch (there are so many and there's a region in the Reach called Rosewood with no known lords so maybe Tyrells of Rosewood)

@mischievouslittlecreature Lucy feels like a Karstark who's dad is trying to marry her to a Bolton, her mother was a Piper(Riverlanders with red hair)

@call-sign-shark Heaven is a Targaryen or atleast a Valyrian from Asshai(where Melisandre comes from) and where they do a lot of dark magic(maybe daughter or granddaughter of Shiera Seastar), Tina is a faceless woman from Braavos

@peakyswritings Nina is from Braavos, her dad is probably part of the Iron Bank or associated with the Sealord, or maybe Tyroshi like Luca (Westrosi lords sometimes marry essoi ladies)

@shelbydelrey Evelyn feels like a Summer Island Lady since there are noble Summer Islanders in Kingslanding and in the South. (likely a knighted Summer Islander sworn to House Manderley or the Ryswells since they have a port)

#got peaky au

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catofadifferentcolor · 1 year ago

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Terrible Fic Idea #69: Game of Thrones, but make it Anne Boleyn

Reflecting on it the other morning, I realized that most of my female Jon Snow fics characterize her as reluctant - or at best indifferent - to her future spouse. And this makes sense, as in many of these cases the future is spouse is a man her father's age who she's never met before, and it feels truer to the character for her to be less than thrilled with her future.

So naturally I thought: what if she wasn't reluctant? Or: what if female Jon Snow as greedy and licentious as bastards were said to be?

Aka: The Wolf Queen Fic

Just imagine it:

Lyanna Stark dies in childbed. Her brother names the child Annette and claims her daughter for his own.

This daughter has a drop more dragonblood than canon, or perhaps she just internalizes all hateful, cruel things Catelyn and the Faith of the Seven say about wanton, faithless, murderous bastards. Either way, Annette decides to use her failings to rise as high as she possibly can, and if that means a little bit of murder and whoring, so be it.

As a young girl, Annette imagines this taking the shape of marrying a rich widower who is looking for companionship rather than children - there are a couple wealthy traveling merchants who make their way to Winterfell each year with potential.

Then news comes of King Robert heading north - and Annette can only see opportunity. There are bound to be many rich lords among the king's party. Even if she can't secure a marriage, becoming mistress to a wealthy lord from the Westerlands would be a thousand times better than the wife a well-off merchant.

The first time King Robert catches sight of her, Annette realizes she has the potential to rise higher than she ever dreamed - if she plays it right. All she has to do is get the king's attention and keep the king's attention. If she moves slowly, lets him think he's seducing her, plays up her Stark honor in such as way that she won't sleep with him without the assurance of marriage... (If, in short, she takes the Anne Boleyn route.)

Things go wildly well in the beginning. Ned doesn't see it as anything more than his best friend paying attention to his children, and so allows - even encourages - Annette to spend time with Robert on the journey back south. Cersei's complaints and insults are viewed as the healthy paranoia of a woman who's been betrayed by her husband so many times she can't see avuncular interest for what it is.

Fast-forward by about a year, until things are in a holding pattern as Annette refuses to give in until she has a cloak and a crown and Robert begins actively searching for ways out of his marriage to Cersei. Only then does Ned realize what's been going on and tries to send Annette back to Winterfell. This should result in a massive fight that ends with Annette being the most truthful she ever is in this story. This should amount to: 1) she's spent her entire life hated for Ned's choice to have an affair, as if she ever asked to be born; and 2) no matter what she does, the world will always think the worst of her, so why not take the path of least resistance?

Ned tries to be understanding, but eventually Annette manages to get him sent back to Winterfell and a more sympathetic lord made Hand of the King - "It's a shame Father has to return home soon, but Winter is Coming and the Lord of Winterfell must prepare." Perhaps she's granted a title in the Crownlands or a place in Cersei's retinue as an excuse for to remain behind when her father and sister return home.

Annette's whispers with Robert fall along similar lines - "I think our children will take after you. After all, you and your brothers share such a similar look." "Cersei's brats all take after her." "How curious! I've always heard it said Baratheon blood runs strong! Just look at the Queen Who Never Was! Even her grandsons had the Baratheon look after three generations of Valyrian marriages!" - and - "It seems queer to me that you need a college of septons to approve a divorce in the south. In the North, if who people wish to divorce, they simply must state their intention in front of their neighbors and that is that." And so on.

Cersei tries to have Robert and Annette killed in turn to secure her position and those of her children. All her attempts fail, with the last leading back to her with just enough evidence to be her downfall. She is executed for adultery and treason. Her children are declared bastards, with Joffrey being sent to the Wall and the other two returned to their grandfather until they're older.

(Jofrrey runs from the Wall at the first opportunity to raise an army against the pretender Orys only to be quietly caught and beheaded for desertion. Marcella becomes a famed septa along the lines of Hildegard of Bigen. Tommen ends up Princess Cassandra's maester.)

Robert and Annette marry in a lavish ceremony three months later.

Annette manages to hold Robert's attention for the next five years of marriage - including birth to two daughters, Cassandra and Argella - and is pregnant for a third time when Robert's vices manage to catch up with him a little later than in canon.

There is immediate controversy at court. Should they crown four-year-old Cassandra right away? Should they wait for Annette, six months pregnant, to give birth in case it's a son? If it's not a son, should they offer the crown to Stannis?

But Annette has not been idle during her marriage. She knew Robert was likely to die sooner rather than later and had been sewing seeds for this very occasion. She manages to get herself named regent, gives birth to a son - Orys, who will be king from birth until his death nearly a century later, - and generally shows herself to be more than a pretty face.

...my idea starts to run out of steam around here. After Orys birth Annette manages to stay in power and rule the country until he comes of age despite many attempts from rivals and detractors to unseat her. When Orys takes the crown for himself, his mother remains one of his most trusted advisors - and rules the kingdom when he heads north c. 315 AC to fight the Others a generation later than canon.

Annette should be grudgingly respected - admired even - in the manner of Olenna Tyrell, and be considered the most beautiful woman in Westeros well into her fifties. When she finally dies, even her enemies mourn, knowing that they've lost an opponent who only made them better players of the game.

Bonuses include: 1) An exploration of bastardy in Westeros, particularly with regards to the base motivations attributed to bastards - greed, duplicity, lust - and how society often leaves them with no other option but to live down to expectations to survive; 2) Annette's relationships with most of her family never quite recovering after her seduction of King Robert becomes clear. Sansa in particular thinks her crown was stolen and becomes embittered, never quite appreciating the gentle Northern lord she ends up marrying. Only Rickon doesn't hold her actions against her and eventually becomes Commander of Orys' Kingsguard; and 3) An exploration of female power in Westeros, particularly when that power is gained via "typical female means" - i.e., seduction, rumor, and poison - instead of traditionally male means - i.e., at the end of a sword.

And that's all I have. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you do anything with it.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

#plot bunny #fic ideas #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #got #asoiaf #jon snow #jon snow is a targaryen #female jon snow #house targaryen #robert baratheon #house baratheon #house stark

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