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horizon-verizon · 2 years ago

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What do you think about the deaths of Laenor, Harwin and Lyonel? I myself am convinced, thanks to Preston Jacobs, that Laenor was simply killed in a skirmish with people to whom Qarl owed money. On the other hand, I do not necessarily agree with about Harwin and Lyonel - Preston claims it was most likely an accident, which is possible, but I am more inclined towards Daemon setting the fire out of jealousy (maybe to prevent Rhaenyra from getting back together with him, now that her husband is dead?). I am mostly thinking of parallels between this scenario and Blood&Cheese incident, where Daemon is motivated by emotional reasons to order a hit on someone, which results in unintended collateral damage (in the case of Harwin's murder Lyonel).

@minetteskvareninova

I still have yet to watch a vid from Preston Jacobs.

This is the account of Harwin and Lyonel's deaths plus the speculations of people in-world about them:

The cause of the fire was never determined. Some put it down to simple mischance, whilst others muttered that Black Harren’s seat was cursed and brought only doom to any man who held it. Many suspected the blaze was set intentionally. Mushroom suggests that the Sea Snake was behind it, as an act of vengeance against the man who had cuckolded his son. Septon Eustace, more plausibly, suspects Prince Daemon, removing a rival for Princess Rhaenyra’s affections. Others have put forth the notion that Larys Clubfoot might have been responsible; with his father and elder brother dead, Larys Strong became the Lord of Harrenhal. The most disturbing possibility was advanced by none other than Grand Maester Mellos, who muses that the king himself might have given the command. If Viserys had come to accept that the rumors about the parentage of Rhaenyra’s children were true, he might well have wished to remove the man who had dishonored his daughter, lest he somehow reveal the bastardy of her sons. Were that so, Lyonel Strong’s death was an unfortunate accident, for his lordship’s decision to see his son back to Harrenhal had been unforeseen. ("A Question of Succession")

And this is the quote for Laenor's death:

The Lord of the Tides and his lady were still in mourning for their beloved daughter when the Stranger came again, to carry off their son. Ser Laenor Velaryon, husband to the Princess Rhaenyra and the putative father of her children, was slain whilst attending a fair in Spicetown, stabbed to death by his friend and companion Ser Qarl Correy. The two men had been quarreling loudly before blades were drawn, merchants at the fair told Lord Velaryon when he came to collect his son’s body. Correy had fled by then, wounding several men who tried to hinder him. Some claimed a ship had been waiting for him offshore. He was never seen again.

The circumstances of the murder remain a mystery to this day. Grand Maester Mellos writes only that Ser Laenor was killed by one of his own household knights after a quarrel. Septon Eustace provides us with the killer’s name and declares jealousy the motive for the slaying; Laenor Velaryon had grown weary of Ser Qarl’s companionship and had grown enamored of a new favorite, a handsome young squire of six-and-ten. Mushroom, as always, favors the most sinister theory, suggesting that Prince Daemon paid Qarl Correy to dispose of Princess Rhaenyra’s husband, arranged for a ship to carry him away, then cut his throat and fed him to the sea. A household knight of relatively low birth, Correy was known to have a lord’s tastes and a peasant’s purse, and was given to extravagant wagering besides, which lends a certain credence to the fool’s version of events. Yet there was no shred of proof, then or now, though the Sea Snake offered a reward of ten thousand golden dragons for any man who could lead him to Ser Qarl Correy, or deliver the killer to a father’s vengeance. ("A Question of Succession")

I don't think Harwin and Lyonel's deaths were accidents. Felt too convenient.

List of Suspects for the Strongs' Deaths and My Conclusion

Corlys:

gains nothing guaranteed by killing Harwin and Lyonel--maybe the Hand position for either himself or Rhaenys but Laenor died BEFORE Harwin & Lyonel. Wasn't him.

knew Laenor was gay, and he was very willing to just let Rhaenyra’s sons live as Laenor’s trueborn sons for his own ends. He cared for and loved Jacaerys

Viserys:

was not very violent (unless publicly pushed to affirm his authority, like with Vaemon's relatives after Vaemond's death).

was not a very proactive person in comparison to people like Daemon or Rhaenyra or Alicent or Larys

was not a person given towards underhanded schemes, preferring open partying, feats, and as little conflict as possible except when Vaemond’s relatives mention bastardry again after he already ruled it forbidden, preferring to be open and aboveboard as much as conventionally possible.

very much loved his grandchildren and never resented their presence or the fact that they weren't Laenor's.

could have killed Harwin much earlier before even Rhaenyra birthed her second son if he actually cared so much about Harwin "ruining" his daughter. If for anything for his father, Lyonel’s, continued service. Viserys, even though later reinstating him, didn’t want Otto to have an easier time coming back after already dismissing him for questioning Rhaenyra.

knew what he was getting Rhaenyra into by marrying her to Laenor, a gay man, for the sake of political "peace" with Corlys. You can read why Viserys accepted Rhaenyra's kids HERE. Wasn't him.

Daemon:

had far more to gain and was more willing to kill Harwin and Lyonel since I very much believe he was in love w/Rhaenyra AND wanted to be a direct ancestor of any and all Targ rulers after her. Or responsible for their training, make a name for himself in history.

HOWEVER -- Viserys would have never allowed Rhaenyra to marry Harwin Strong after Laenor's death so he could protect the secrets of the V boys' parentage. Viserys put the Strongs out of court, so Daemon had no reason to see Harwin as a legitimate rival for her hand in marriage. As for romance alone, still, Harwin was exiled from the court and no longer a rival.

If Daemon wanted to kill Harwin, again, he would have done it much earlier -- if he loved & desired Rhaneyra -- at least sometime after Lucerys' birth.

Larys:

was allied with the greens nearly from the jump, knew that Viserys would go for familiarity above all and avoid Rhaenyra and Daemon as candidates for the Hand position, thus opening the Hand position for Otto

killing Harwin/Lyonel opens up the seat of Harrenhal for himself AND allows a strategic location for the war definitely coming (even without Lucerys' or Jaehaerys' deaths) -- which is why Daemon himself even went there later

during the Dance, proved nearly invaluable to the greens while being the very sneaky, calculating/shadowy, deceptive manipulator willing to betray anyone for his own goals and was the person in the shadows spreading those rumors about Rhaenyra -- even his own family

Both Rhaenys and Corlys, again, lived close to Daemon when he was with Laena and moved her and their twins to Driftmark for 3 years. They would have witnessed his habits, etc. It's possible that they were too grief-stricken to actually be able to discern his involvement or lack of involvement, but to be so unobservant after the worst of the grief (from shock) went...eh, unlikely.

Harwin and Lyonel's deaths benefit Larys and the greens most of all. Larys is the best suspect, and I personally think he killed Harwin and Lyonel. Ironically, I agree with HotD on how those deaths turned out.

List of Suspects for the Laenor's Death and My Conclusion

Laenor's death is a dicier thing.

Debt Collectors:

accidentally -- in them trying to get Qarl OR to get Laenor to pay for his debts OR in the streetfight

Qarl:

Qarl had no characterizations or described traits in the account I could point out other than:

being gay/queer

had "low" birth

being Laenor's second-known lover

was a gambler with huge & many debts

Qarl argued with Laenor, and I personally think it had something to do with his debts. Perhaps Laenor refused to pay them off and Qarl got angry, feeling jilted and rejected. It's a possibility, but I don't think that this is 100% exclusionary from Qarl also under someone's else pay OR promise of escape.

Daemon:

like Harwin, removing Laenor opens up the path to Rhaenyra's hand, whether or not he loved her or not (personally, I believe he did love her)

and he marries Rhaenyra mere months after Laenor's death

Qarl Correy managed to evade capture despite Corlys putting out alerts and Driftmark being smaller than other regions -- not many places to hide ... unless you know your way around or have capable people hiding and guiding you to safety

Qarl had debts to pay and wasn't rich despite being Laenor's lover

HOWEVER -- also lived with Laena and their daughters in Driftmark with the Velaryons for 3 years or so BEFORE Laenor died. He still seems to live close to or with them, after Laena dies, so Corlys would have had a better sense of whether or not Daemon killed his son and take some action against him BUT he never does. It would have been beyond stupid for Daemon to try to kill Laenor being so close and knowing that people will suspect him. Corlys sent out rewards for Qarl’s capture, with no indication of suspecting Daemon.

he and Rhaenyra married 4-5 months after Laenor and Laena die and even that time was too little for everyone else. In this context, the idea that Daemon killed Laenor to get to Rhaenyra is less likely. Because if he didn’t care about the “appropriate” time to wait to marry his target, why would he wait 4-5 months after killing Laenor?

has a cousin, called Princess Rhaenys, mother to Laenor. There’s no indication that she ever actually liked Daemon, yet we hear nothing of her suspecting Daemon. With her personality, if she ever suspected Daemon, she'd never let him go.

still needs the Velaryons for Rhaenyra's claim. Even if he only wanted Rhaenyra for power, the risk of the Velaryons finding out he killed their son would remove Velaryons' support for Rhaenyra-Daemon and any of their kids or at least significantly reduce it and open up the path to retribution. Simply not worth it.

Septon Eustace (who disliked Daemon and wasn't given towards elaborate or detailed descriptions unless he detested a person [Rhaenyra and her cut from the throne]) maintains that Qarl was responsible for Laenor's death

Daemon is the only person ever suspected of having Laenor killed apart from those who were after Qarl for his debts (by Mushroom, who though given to embellishment, also was still close to nobles to hear their whispers and understand quiet implications BUT he also wasn't there and there is the stuff I already speculated). But I can't put all my faith in the possibility of him being responsible for Laenor's death with the information we do have AND those I've speculated above. I'm given to thinking that Laenor was just killed by Qarl in a passionate confrontation.

#asoiaf asks to me #asoiaf #a song ice and fire #laenor's death #harwin's death #lyonel strong's death #lyonel strong #harwin strong #laenor velaryon #fire and blood comment #fire and blood characters #fire and blood #qarl correy

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novaursa · 5 months ago

Text

Between Pride and Fire (the flint)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: driftmark

- Next part: prelude to war

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated in The Accounts of Westerosi Lords by Grand Maester Orwyle and various records from the Rock

The Departure from Driftmark

The incident that marred Lady Leona Lannister at Driftmark’s funeral repast signaled a turning point not only for the young Lannister maiden but for the entire realm. What had begun as mourning for Lady Laena Velaryon quickly unraveled into a maelstrom of violence and whispered treason.

Lord Jason and his lady wife lingered only a short time after the incident. Mushroom claims it was Leona herself who hastened their departure, for when Orwyle attempted to examine the stitches again, the girl reportedly turned her face away and whispered tearfully to her father, “Take me home, Papa.” And take her home he did.

The Lannister host departed Driftmark two days later, the somber air of their procession a stark contrast to the fanfare of their earlier arrival. Grand Maester Orwyle recounts that Princess Y/N Targaryen rode with Leona cradled carefully in her arms, the girl’s face hidden beneath a silken hood. Lord Jason led the host atop his courser, his visage cold and unyielding as the winds off the Narrow Sea. Behind them rode Loren Lannister, steadfast as ever, with the younger children—Aemma, young Tyland, Daena, and the infant twins Rhaegel and Rhaelle—seated in carriages adorned with the lion of Lannister and the dragon of Targaryen.

Witnesses speak of King Viserys himself standing atop the Driftmark battlements to watch their departure, a pitiful sight of a man aged far beyond his years. Mushroom claims the king’s eyes brimmed with tears as he murmured, “They are my blood, and they slip from my hands like ash.” Whether true or not, Grand Maester Orwyle’s letters confirm that Viserys sent a raven to Princess Y/N shortly after, imploring her to return to King’s Landing soon.

Though the Lannisters left without ceremony, their absence left a weight upon Driftmark. The silence of their retreat was more deafening than a thousand horns of war.

The Aftermath of Driftmark

Word of the incident traveled quickly across the realm, carried like wildfire on the tongues of ravens and messengers. In Casterly Rock, Lord Jason and his family settled back into their stronghold, but the rumors from Driftmark followed them like ghosts. Mushroom paints a vivid picture of Jason standing atop the walls of the Rock, looking eastward toward the capital as he told his wife, “I should have slit that boy’s throat myself. No lion forgets such an insult.”

Leona Lannister, the scar now stitched into her face, became the silent symbol of the West’s ire. Princess Y/N ordered for golden masks to be crafted, delicate and ornate, to hide the wound that stretched from her daughter’s mouth to her ear. She is said to have comforted Leona in private, whispering, “You are still beautiful, my love. No scar can take that from you.”

Her brother Loren became her shadow, ever at her side with a quiet watchfulness that belied his years. While Leona grew fierce and stubborn, refusing pity, Loren tempered her fire with loyalty. Together, they were the pride of the Rock—two lions touched by dragonfire.

The Fate of Ser Laenor Velaryon

Less than a moon’s turn after the Lannisters returned to Casterly Rock, word arrived in King’s Landing that Ser Laenor Velaryon, the husband of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, had been found dead in Spicetown on Driftmark. The stories were muddled. Some claimed it was a lover’s quarrel turned fatal; others whispered it had been a planned murder. Most agreed, however, that Laenor had been slain in a private hall by his companion, Ser Qarl Correy.

Whether by design or coincidence, Ser Qarl vanished shortly after, leaving no witnesses save for whispers. Mushroom, never shy of speculation, claims the incident was “conveniently timed” and attributes the deed to none other than Prince Daemon Targaryen, who, in his telling, “grew tired of Rhaenyra’s Velaryon burden.” He also adds with typical vulgarity, “Laenor always loved men better than his princess, and so the gods loved him less in turn.”

The Westerlands’ Growing Suspicion

In the wake of the Lannisters’ departure, other storms began to stir. News of Ser Laenor Velaryon’s untimely death in Spicetown reached Casterly Rock less than a moon later. The Westerlands, already skeptical of the events at Driftmark, viewed the death with deep suspicion. “A convenient murder, timed too well,” Jason muttered during a council of his bannermen. “If it smells of dragonfire, a dragon likely lit the match.”

The whispers of Laenor’s death merged with the rumors that had begun to swirl around Princess Rhaenyra’s sons. Word from King’s Landing suggested that the boys, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were not true Velaryons but bastards born of Harwin Strong. While many across the realm muttered such accusations in secret, Jason Lannister—ever the provocateur—found quiet amusement in the scandal.

Mushroom, never one to shy from salacious details, claims Jason jested to his wife over supper, “At least our brood cannot be questioned. The gods have seen fit to bless me with silver-haired lions—true Targaryen fire with Lannister roar.” Princess Y/N, Mushroom adds, was less amused by her husband’s tongue but refrained from chastising him too openly.

Yet Jason’s pride was not without merit. The children of House Lannister—Leona, Loren, Aemma, Tyland, Daena, Rhaegel, and Rhaelle—were spoken of in glowing terms across the Westerlands. Mushroom claims that lords whispered over cups of wine that “the Targaryen blood runs pure in the Rock, while it spoils in the capital.” Whether truth or exaggeration, the sentiment deepened the divide between the West and the Crown.

The Growing Divide

As King Viserys’s health waned, whispers of war grew louder. House Hightower, aligned with Queen Alicent and her children, sought to solidify their strength in Oldtown and King’s Landing. Meanwhile, Princess Rhaenyra’s supporters looked to Driftmark and Dragonstone as bastions of her claim. Yet in the Westerlands, Jason Lannister remained an unpredictable force.

He did not speak openly of war, nor did he voice allegiance to either side, though his disdain for the Hightowers had been well noted. When questioned by his bannermen, Jason’s only reply was, “A lion waits to strike when the moment is ripe.”

It was said that Princess Y/N, ever the calm counter to her husband’s fire, urged him to remain patient. “For now, we guard our pride,” she is recorded as saying to her ladies-in-waiting. “When the time comes, the Rock will choose its side—and we will choose wisely.”

Yet despite her reassurances, the realm watched Casterly Rock with wary eyes. The children of House Lannister—touched by both fire and gold—stood as symbols of what could come. Leona and Loren, bonded to dragons, were whispered of in awe. Aemma, sweet and clever, was the darling of her grandsire King Viserys. Tyland and Daena grew mischievous and bright, ever conspiring with whispers of their own. And the youngest twins, Rhaegel and Rhaelle, were but babes, yet even they carried the weight of their bloodline.

Conclusion

Thus, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock waited. In Driftmark’s wake, the roar of lions was stilled—but not silenced. As the realm’s divisions deepened and whispers of treason and bastardy spread like rot through the halls of power, Jason and Princess Y/N stood watchful and strong.

“When the dragons burn themselves to ash,” Jason was overheard saying, “the lions will rise to rule the realm.”

Whether his words were prophecy or merely the boast of a proud lord remains to be seen. Yet as Mushroom so darkly concludes, “The lions did not roar that day, but all men heard them breathing.”

129 AC – Casterly Rock

The great hall of Casterly Rock echoed with the quiet murmur of servants, the crackle of torches lining the stone walls, and the faint rhythm of the waves crashing far below. You stood at the window, the view stretching beyond the cliffs to where the sea met the horizon, vast and unknowable. Jason’s footsteps sounded softly behind you, and before you could turn, his arms circled around your waist, pulling you back against him. His chin rested gently on your shoulder as his lips brushed the edge of your ear.

“You’re brooding again,” Jason murmured, his voice low and familiar. “I can practically see the smoke rising from your thoughts.”

You smiled faintly, though your gaze remained fixed on the sea. “A raven came from Dragonstone this morning.”

Jason stiffened just slightly, the subtle shift enough for you to notice. “What news?” he asked, though his tone was casual—a man trying to feign disinterest when he already knew the answer would not please him.

You turned in his arms, looking up into his green eyes. “Rhaenyra has summoned us to King’s Landing. Vaemond Velaryon seeks to petition his claim for the Driftwood Throne… to disinherit Luke.”

Jason let out a quiet breath, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the words. “And Corlys?”

“Gravely wounded,” you answered softly. “Rhaenyra fears the worst. If Vaemond’s petition is heard before the king…” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Jason did it for you.

“Then Lucerys could be cast aside,” he muttered, his tone edged with frustration. “It would be a slight to Rhaenyra’s claim as well—a challenge. The Hightowers will surely stoke the fire.”

You nodded, stepping back to lean against the window ledge. “She’s asking for our support, Jason. She’s asking for me.”

Jason studied you for a moment, his arms crossing over his chest. “And what do you wish to do?”

You met his gaze without hesitation. “We go. She is my sister, and her sons are my nephews. You know as well as I that this is only the beginning. If Vaemond succeeds, the next blow will strike closer.”

Jason sighed, raking a hand through his golden hair before pacing away. “Seven hells… I knew peace wouldn’t last. Not with Alicent’s brood sniffing for any excuse to tear Rhaenyra down.” He stopped and turned back toward you, his green eyes sharp. “Very well. We go to King’s Landing.”

Before you could respond, a knock echoed at the doors of the hall. “Enter,” Jason barked, his voice carrying an edge of impatience.

The heavy doors swung open, revealing Loren and Leona standing side by side, their tall frames a mirror of their parents. At fifteen, the twins were striking—Leona with her silver-blonde hair cascading down her back and sharp violet eyes, her chin tilted up in a way that spoke of quiet confidence. Her scarred face, however, was adorned with the golden mask fashioned for her—an exquisite creation that covered the length of her jaw and the line of the deep gash, molded perfectly to her features. The mask was polished to a gleam, etched with intricate lion motifs that caught the light like fire. Coupled with the dresses you had commissioned for her—garments embroidered with threads so intricate and fine that no one could look at her without marveling—Leona was a sight of wonder and strength.

Beside her, Loren was taller, his pale curls an unmistakable Targaryen trait, though his emerald eyes were the shade of a Lannister lineage. Both wore the colors of House Lannister and House Targaryen with pride, their presence commanding even in silence.

“Mother. Father,” Loren greeted formally, though his tone was light, as if he’d overheard and already knew what the summons was about. Leona’s gaze, however, lingered on you with curiosity.

Jason waved a hand, beckoning them closer. “Come here, both of you. It seems your aunt Rhaenyra is in need of our family once more.”

Leona’s expression sharpened as she stepped forward, her brow furrowing. “What’s happened?”

“Lord Vaemond Velaryon seeks to petition his claim to Driftmark,” you explained, your voice steady but soft. “He challenges Luke’s inheritance. Rhaenyra has called us to King’s Landing.”

Loren tilted his head slightly, his lips curving faintly into a smirk. “And you mean to go?” he asked, though there was no doubt in his tone.

“Of course,” Jason interjected, his gaze sharp as he looked between his eldest children. “The Rock does not abandon family, and we do not turn our backs on the bonds we’ve forged.”

Leona nodded, her eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight. “Vaelora and Morghan will carry us swiftly,” she said, referring to their dragons . “We’ll be ready by morning.”

Jason raised a brow, pride flickering in his gaze despite the weight of the moment. “Eager for another chance to show your dragons off, are you?”

Loren grinned, his expression every bit as smug as his father’s. “It would be a shame to waste the opportunity, wouldn’t it?”

Leona gave her brother a faint glare before turning her attention back to you. “What of the others?” she asked quietly.

You smiled at her thoughtfulness. “They’ll come with us. Tyland, Daena, Aemma, Rhaegel, and Rhaelle—all of them. Your aunt wishes us to bring the full strength of House Lannister.”

Jason let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Your mother means to arrive with all power the West can muster.”

“And we shall,” you replied firmly, looking to your children. “When we arrive in King’s Landing, we will remind them all that House Lannister does not waver—be it for blood, bonds, or dragons.”

Loren dipped his head in agreement, his amusement fading as he took the matter seriously. “And the Hightowers?”

Jason’s smirk turned sharp. “Let them watch. Let them seethe. The king will see that Rhaenyra has allies. We will stand beside her, as always.”

Leona nodded once more, though there was a flicker of concern in her violet eyes. “We will make you proud,” she promised softly.

Jason crossed the room, placing a firm hand on her shoulder before looking to Loren. “You already do.”

The following morning dawned with a flurry of activity. The sun had barely crested the horizon when the sounds of dragons echoed through the air. From the cliffs of Casterly Rock, Vaelora and Morghan took to the skies, their forms casting long shadows across the stone walls.

From atop Vaelora’s pale, red-marked back, Leona sat tall and proud, her silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Beside her, Loren guided Morghan, the massive black dragon a fearsome sight against the clear sky.

Below, Jason led the head of the Lannister procession, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he rode at the forefront of the golden host. Behind him rode you, with your dragon, Morrath circling above. Your youngest children bundled safely in carriages, their laughter drifting faintly through the crisp morning air. The banners of House Lannister and Targaryen flew high, carried by men adorned in gilded armor that shone as brightly as the rising sun.

The smallfolk of the Westerlands gathered to watch, cheering loudly as the might of Casterly Rock departed. The sight of dragons overhead, combined with the strength of the Lannister procession, stirred awe and whispers throughout the land.

Jason glanced over his shoulder as you caught up to ride beside him. He flashed you one of his roguish smiles, his green eyes bright with mischief and pride. “Well, wife, do you think the Hightowers will sleep soundly tonight?”

You smirked faintly, your gaze turning to the dragons soaring ahead. “Not if they have any sense.”

Jason laughed, shaking his head. “Good. Let them know we are coming. Let them know the lions have not forgotten.”

And with that, the golden host of House Lannister moved eastward, toward King’s Landing, where fire, blood, and a storm of treachery awaited them all.

The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon as the golden host of House Lannister passed through the gates of King’s Landing. The smallfolk had lined the streets, as they always did when Jason Lannister and his family arrived—curious eyes peering out from shuttered windows, children waving wildly, and men and women alike murmuring at the sight of dragons soaring overhead.

Morrath, Vaelora and Morghan circled high above the city, their wings casting long shadows over the rooftops as Leona and Loren guided them toward the Dragonpit. You had watched their departure from your place in the procession, the pride in your heart tempered only by the unease that curled in your stomach at the sight of the Red Keep growing closer.

But there was no grand welcoming party waiting for the Lannisters at the castle gates—no trumpets, no banners, no eager retainers to greet the Lord of Casterly Rock and his kin. Only silence and the faint shuffle of armored boots as the gates were opened to admit your family.

Jason, riding at the head of the procession, pulled his horse to a stop just inside the courtyard, his eyes sweeping over the near-empty space. His cloak billowed faintly behind him as he turned to you, his smirk edged with derision. “Well, isn’t this a fine welcome?”

You reined in your horse beside him, your gaze narrowing as you surveyed the quiet courtyard. The banners had changed since your last visit—gone were the familiar black and red of House Targaryen, replaced now with great tapestries bearing the seven-pointed star of the Faith. Even the once-proud dragon motifs carved into the stone had been covered or replaced, their absence a pointed declaration.

Jason’s smirk turned sharper as he gestured toward the nearest tapestry, his voice loud enough to carry to his retinue. “I see they’ve redecorated.”

Before you could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the courtyard. Turning your head, you spotted Lord Tyland Lannister emerging from one of the archways, his stern features set into a practiced expression of calm. Clad in a finely tailored doublet of crimson and gold, Jason’s younger twin moved toward you with an air of formality, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“Brother,” Jason called out as Tyland approached. “Is this how the capital greets its honored guests these days? I’m almost offended.”

Tyland’s lips quirked faintly in what could barely pass as a smile. “Jason,” he replied smoothly, inclining his head in greeting. “Sister,” he added with a respectful nod toward you. His gaze flickered briefly to the carriages where the younger children waited and then to the Lannister guards standing silently behind them.

“You’re late, Tyland,” Jason said pointedly, though his tone carried more amusement than genuine frustration. “Were you waylaid by prayers on your way here?”

Tyland’s expression did not change, though his eyes flicked toward the seven-pointed stars adorning the keep. “You’ll find the tone of the castle has… shifted since your last visit,” he said carefully. “The queen holds great influence now.”

Jason snorted softly, glancing back at the changes with unconcealed disdain. “So I see. The dragons replaced with stars, and the halls no doubt filled with sermons instead of songs. Tell me, did they set fire to the throne room as well, or is it still intact?”

Tyland shot him a sharp look, though his voice remained measured. “Viserys still sits the throne, though he is confined to his chambers for the most part. The king’s health has worsened… greatly.”

You frowned, leaning slightly forward in your saddle. “How bad is it?”

Tyland’s gaze shifted to you, and for the first time, his composure faltered ever so slightly. “He is bedridden, sister. The maesters keep him on milk of the poppy to dull his pain. He is lucid… at times.”

A hush settled over the courtyard at those words, broken only by the faint rustle of banners fluttering in the breeze. You glanced toward Jason, whose expression had darkened, the usual smugness in his features replaced by something colder.

“And what of Rhaenyra?” you asked quietly, your tone carefully even. “Has she not yet arrived?”

“Not yet,” Tyland replied, folding his hands once more behind his back. “Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon, and their household are expected within the next day or so. Lord Vaemond Velaryon has yet to arrive as well, though word has come that he draws close. Princess Rhaenys sails with him.”

Jason exhaled through his nose, his green eyes narrowing. “Of course. I imagine Alicent and her father are already preparing their prayers and petitions.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered briefly toward the keep, his silence enough of an answer. Jason laughed dryly, though there was little humor in it as he dismounted his horse. “Well, come then,” he said briskly, turning to his men and gesturing for the carriages to follow. “Let us find our quarters before someone mistakes us for heathens and throws us out.”

You followed his lead, dismounting with a quiet sigh as Tyland fell into step beside you. “The queen is expecting you,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “She will wish to speak.”

You shot him a sharp look. “Let her wait.”

Tyland inclined his head slightly, though there was a hint of unease in his gaze. “Be careful, sister,” he murmured. “The court is… it changed. This is no longer the King’s Landing you remember.”

Jason, overhearing as he adjusted his cloak, shot Tyland a look of mock surprise. “Are we in danger, brother? Should I ready my sword?”

Tyland arched a brow, unimpressed. “Mock all you wish, Jason, but I do not exaggerate.”

Jason waved a hand dismissively as he turned back toward you, offering his arm. “Come, wife. Let’s not keep the stars waiting. If we’re lucky, they’ll bless us before the night is through.”

You shook your head, linking your arm with his as the two of you made your way toward the towering gates of the Red Keep. Behind you, the younger children were helped down from the carriages, their excited murmurs filling the quiet courtyard as they were greeted by retainers and servants. Tyland lingered a moment longer before following, his expression unreadable.

As you stepped into the familiar stone halls of the castle, the weight of the place settled heavily around you. The dragon motifs that had once marked every wall and archway were gone, replaced now with austere symbols of the Faith. The air itself felt colder, the silence heavier, as though the life had been slowly drained from the keep.

Jason’s voice broke the quiet as he glanced around, his lips curling faintly. “It feels more like a sept than a castle,” he muttered, his words echoing softly off the stone. “The queen’s work, no doubt.”

You didn’t reply, your gaze fixed ahead as you walked deeper into the keep. Whatever games awaited you in King’s Landing, you could feel them already beginning to unfurl around you—threads of dread weaving together in ways that you knew would soon tighten.

The doors to your childhood chambers were opened with a creak, and the familiar sight met your eyes. The room had been untouched since your last visit—spacious and richly adorned, though in a quieter, more intimate way than the rest of the Red Keep. The bed still stood draped in heavy silken curtains, embroidered with dragons in silver and black thread. The windows were open, letting in the fading light of day, the amber glow spilling across the stone floor. A faint breeze carried with it the faint smells of the city—salt, smoke, and life.

Jason followed you inside, his steps echoing lightly behind yours. As you moved to remove your gloves, your gaze lingered on the carved dragons above the fireplace. “Alicent will fume,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but edged with dry amusement. “She expects her summons to be heeded, not ignored.”

Jason, who had taken his time shutting the doors with deliberate ease, only smirked as he turned to face you. “Let her fume,” he replied casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve always found the queen’s righteous anger quite… tedious. Besides, I rather enjoy ignoring her.”

You shot him a pointed look, though his smirk widened as his eyes swept over you—assessing, lingering, as though distracted by something far more captivating than court politics.

“Jason—” you began, already sensing the shift in his demeanor, but you had no time to protest. In a single stride, he had crossed the chamber and taken your hand, pulling you toward him. His grip was firm but gentle, his fingers threading with yours as he stared down at you, his gaze smoldering with usual mischief and something far deeper.

“You looked radiant today,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that always made your pulse quicken. “The stars in this cursed keep can’t hold a candle to you.”

You narrowed your eyes faintly, though heat crept up your neck. “You’re avoiding the matter at hand.”

“And you’re avoiding me,” Jason countered smoothly, tilting his head slightly. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his voice dipped lower still. “Tell me, wife—are you going to let your childhood ghosts get in the way of this?”

“Jason,” you warned softly, though your words were already losing their edge as he leaned closer, his hand sliding to rest at the small of your back. Before you could manage another word, his lips were on yours—insistent, hungry, as though the days spent traveling here had been nothing but torture for him.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands pressing against his chest out of sheer reflex, but Jason paid no mind. He deepened the kiss, his arm curling around you as he pulled you firmly against him, the warmth of his body searing through the fabric of your gown. A shiver ran down your spine as his other hand slid up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“Jason—” you tried again, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, but he silenced you with another kiss, this one slower, deeper, and more possessive. You felt the tension in his touch, the heat of it threatening to consume you entirely.

He finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. “You’re thinking about her,” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement. “Stop it. I want you to think about me, and me alone.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathless and exasperated. “You always do this.”

“And yet, you adore me for it,” he teased, brushing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. His fingers moved swiftly, already beginning to tug at the laces of your gown. “We’ve been patient for far too long, wife. I don’t intend to waste another moment.”

Before you could protest, Jason swept you toward the bed, his hands deft as he made short work of your bodice, pulling you into his arms again. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and heat pooled deep within you at the way his touch set your nerves aflame.

But just as the world around you began to blur into a haze of fire and longing, the sound of the chamber doors opening with a jarring creak tore through the air.

“My lady—”

“Seven bloody hells!” Jason growled, turning sharply to glare at the door, his body still half-draped over yours. Ser Criston Cole stood just inside the threshold, his face immediately darkening as he registered the scene before him—your partially unlaced gown, Jason’s disheveled state, and the flush that had crept up your cheeks.

Behind Criston, Queen Alicent stepped into view, her face a mask of stern disapproval. Her green gown billowed faintly around her as she moved into the chamber, her sharp gaze falling on you before sliding to Jason, who looked entirely unrepentant despite the compromising position.

“Lord Jason,” Alicent began, her voice clipped and cold. “I summoned you—”

“And I ignored you,” Jason interrupted, his tone as smug as ever as he straightened to his full height, though his hand remained firmly on your waist. “Is it not customary to knock before barging into a man’s chambers? Or does the queen find pleasure in interrupting marital affairs?”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her composure threatening to crack as her gaze darted between the two of you. “This is not the time for insolence, Lord Jason.”

“Forgive me,” Jason said, though his tone dripped with sarcasm. He gestured broadly toward the bed with a smirk. “But as you can see, my attentions were already occupied. If you have urgent matters of state, you should have sent a raven instead.”

You shot him a look, your face still flushed as you began lacing your gown back up. “Jason,” you murmured under your breath, though your voice held little conviction.

Alicent’s gaze turned icy as she addressed you directly. “I had hoped you might show better judgment, Princess. The king’s court does not take kindly to such… impropriety.”

Jason scoffed loudly, stepping in front of you with deliberate intent. “Spare me your lectures, Your Grace. If you’ve come to scold us like unruly children, you’ll find little satisfaction here.”

Criston shifted uncomfortably at Alicent’s side, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to speak. Alicent’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Lord Jason,” she said tightly, “this court demands respect.”

“And respect must be earned,” Jason countered, his voice hardening as he met her gaze without flinching. “Tell me, is this about respect, or are you simply still cross about what happened with my daughter? Because let me assure you—no one forgets the harm done to a Lannister.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, and you rose to your feet now, stepping to Jason’s side as you placed a calming hand on his arm. “That’s enough, Jason,” you said quietly, though your voice carried an edge of steel.

Alicent’s expression remained unreadable, though her gaze lingered on you with thinly veiled disdain. “The Hand expects your presence tomorrow. I suggest you both remember your place.”

With that, she turned sharply on her heel, sweeping from the chamber with Ser Criston following close behind. The doors shut heavily behind them, leaving you and Jason standing in the sudden silence.

Jason let out a breath, running a hand through his golden hair before turning to you with a grin that was equal parts exasperated and amused. “Well,” he muttered dryly, “I suppose that could have gone better.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you moved to finish lacing your gown. “You enjoy provoking her, don’t you?”

Jason smirked, stepping closer to brush a kiss to your temple. “She makes it far too easy, my love.”

“And what of Otto?” you asked softly, your gaze flickering toward the closed door. “We’ll have to face him tomorrow.”

Jason’s expression softened slightly, though his roguish grin never faltered. “Then we’ll face him together,” he said simply, his voice steady. “The Lannisters do not cower—not for queens, nor for their fathers.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “Let’s just try to avoid another spectacle, shall we?”

Jason grinned, his hand brushing your waist as he leaned in once more. “Where’s the fun in that, wife?”

The sun was beginning to set over the Red Keep’s courtyard. The air was filled with the hum of quiet conversation and the curious glances of courtiers who lingered, watching the arrival of House Lannister with open intrigue. Servants hurried past with bowed heads, while guards shifted uncomfortably on their feet, their hands idly resting on sword pommels. The whole of the Keep seemed to hold its breath.

Leona and Loren walked side by side, their steps measured and slow, though there was nothing hesitant about the way they carried themselves. As always, they were a striking pair. Loren moved with the composed grace of their father—head held high, shoulders squared, his curls catching the light like a crown. Beside him, Leona strode with quiet purpose, her scarred face hidden behind the finely crafted mask you had commissioned. The intricate details shone in the sun—delicate and strong, like the girl beneath it. Her long crimson cloak swayed behind her, the lions and dragons embroidered into her sleeves catching the eye of every onlooker.

The murmurs that followed them were barely hushed—whispers of admiration, curiosity, and speculation.

“Are those the twins of the Rock?”

“Dragonriders, I hear—riding beasts hatched from their mother’s dragon.”

“The scarred girl, Leona—some say the wound is a mark of her pride.”

“Lannisters here, in such times… who knows what they mean to do?”

Leona paid the whispers no mind, her violet gaze sweeping over the courtyard with the calm sharpness she had inherited from her mother. Loren, however, smirked faintly, though his voice carried a note of dry amusement as he murmured to her.

“You’d think we’d just been crowned ourselves,” he said, eyes flicking to a group of gawking courtiers who immediately looked away. “Father was right, you know. The whole of King’s Landing is waiting for House Lannister to save them.”

Leona glanced at him from behind her mask, her lips twitching faintly at the corner. “Is that what he said?”

Loren nodded, his voice dropping into an imitation of Jason Lannister’s confident drawl. “‘The West shall bring certainty where there is none. The realm needs lions to cut through the chaos.’” Loren’s smirk returned as he shook his head. “Father does enjoy the sound of his own words.”

Leona gave a small, quiet laugh, though it was tinged with thoughtfulness. “They aren’t entirely wrong. Aunt Rhaenyra’s claim has divided the realm, and the king—” Her words faltered briefly before she finished, “—he won’t live forever.”

Loren’s expression darkened slightly at that. “And when the time comes, the West will need to choose.” He looked at her, his tone serious now. “Father speaks with such certainty, but even he knows that war waits just over the horizon.”

Leona was silent for a long moment, her gaze turning toward the looming towers of the Keep. The sun caught her mask again, and for all her quiet strength, there was something thoughtful—something distant—in the way she stared ahead. “Then we’ll make sure the lions roar loud enough to be heard on both sides of the realm,” she said softly.

Their quiet conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of slow, purposeful footsteps approaching them from across the courtyard. Loren turned his head first, his expression sharpening as he recognized who it was.

“Speak of war and here comes the prince,” Loren muttered under his breath.

Prince Aegon Targaryen strode toward them with an air of lazy confidence, as if he were simply wandering rather than seeking anyone out. His platinum hair fell in loose waves around his shoulders, the sun reflecting off it in a pale glow. He was clad in rich green and gold finery, his cloak clasped with a dragon pin at the shoulder. The faint smirk he wore hinted at amusement, though his violet eyes were sharp—too sharp, perhaps—as they lingered on Leona and Loren.

“Twins of the Rock,” Aegon drawled, his voice dripping with casual mockery as he stopped a few paces away. “King’s Landing grows brighter with all your splendor.”

Loren, always his father’s son, inclined his head just slightly, his smile polite but cool. “We aim to please, Your Grace.”

Leona said nothing, her masked face tilting slightly as she regarded Aegon with her sharp, unblinking gaze. If Aegon noticed her silence, he gave no sign of it. His attention lingered on her longer than necessary, his violet eyes flickering over the mask and the rich crimson of her cloak. When he finally spoke again, his tone was quieter but edged with something unreadable.

“You’ve grown since last we saw each other, Leona,” he said, almost offhandedly. “Stronger, I imagine.”

Leona tilted her head slightly, her voice even as she replied, “And yet you remain unchanged, Prince Aegon.”

The response caught Loren by surprise, and his smirk widened into something far less polite. Aegon, however, let out a soft huff of amusement, as if impressed. “Sharp-tongued lions. I should have expected no less from my half-sister’s children.”

He lingered for only a moment more, his gaze lingering on Leona once again before he turned and began to walk away with that same easy, languid stride.

Loren watched him go, his smirk lingering as he leaned toward his sister. “Well, that was charming,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve clearly made an impression on him.”

Leona did not turn to watch Aegon’s retreating figure, though her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve no care for the prince’s impressions,” she said curtly.

Loren snorted softly, though his voice carried an edge of warning now. “Perhaps not, but men like Aegon are never without motive.” He glanced at her golden mask, his tone softening. “You know that, don’t you?”

Leona turned her head just slightly to look at him. For all the emotion her mask concealed, there was something steely in her posture. “I know,” she replied simply.

The courtyard had begun to settle once more, the gawking courtiers gradually turning their attention elsewhere. Loren placed a reassuring hand on his sister’s arm, his tone shifting into something lighter. “Come, let’s find the others. You know how Father is—he’ll have half the Red Keep turned upside down if we’re late.”

Leona nodded faintly, allowing Loren to guide her toward the inner halls. But as they walked, her thoughts lingered on Aegon—on his words, his lingering gaze, and the unease it left behind.

The younger Lannister children moved through the vast corridors of the Red Keep with the lively shuffle of a small parade. At the front of the group was Aemma, composed as ever, with her chin tilted slightly upward in the poised manner she had learned from her mother. Behind her walked Tyland and Daena, who whispered conspiratorially to one another, their soft giggles punctuating the otherwise solemn air. Rhaegel and Rhaelle, the youngest twins, were walking along, their small hands held carefully by a pair of Lannister servants.

Leading the way were a mix of stern-faced servants from House Lannister and the Red Keep, the latter keeping a watchful eye as though uncertain what mischief might arise from the group. The younger children seemed entirely unbothered by the hushed whispers they passed, the occasional courtier peeking around corners to catch a glimpse of the “golden brood” that had returned to King’s Landing.

“Do you think the gardens here have butterflies?” Daena whispered excitedly to her brother Tyland, her small fingers tugging at his sleeve. “The ones at home are prettier, but maybe they’ll have more here.”

Tyland shrugged, his expression exasperated. “Why do you always care about butterflies? I’d rather see the training yard. Father said they’ve swords made of Valyrian steel here.”

“You only want to hit things,” Daena shot back, wrinkling her nose. “Butterflies don’t fight.”

“They would if they could,” Tyland muttered with a smirk, earning a dramatic sigh from his sister.

Aemma cast a sharp look over her shoulder, her tone calm but firm. “Stop bickering. You’re embarrassing us.”

Daena huffed, though she obeyed, while Tyland rolled his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Leona,” he muttered under his breath.

“Good,” Aemma replied smoothly. “She’d say the same.”

As they rounded a corner, the group passed a lone figure standing near one of the tall windows, his presence almost hidden in the dim light. Aemond Targaryen stood with his arms clasped behind his back, his pale silver hair catching the soft glow of the sun. His eye—one of vibrant violet—flickered subtly over the children as they moved past, his gaze lingering on Aemma for a heartbeat longer than the others.

Aemma ignored him entirely, her amber eyes fixed forward with practiced determination, though a slight wrinkle appeared between her brows. She strode forward with an air of quiet authority, her hand lightly guiding her youngest siblings onward as they passed. If she noticed Aemond’s lingering look, she gave no sign of it.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, a faint, unreadable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her disappear down the hall.

“You’re staring, uncle.”

The voice broke the quiet, sharp and cool, as Leona and Loren stepped into view from the opposite end of the corridor. Their arrival seemed to cut through the air like a blade—their presence commanding as they approached.

Aemond turned slowly to face them, his smirk fading into something more guarded. “I greet you, Leona. Loren.”

Leona inclined her head just slightly, though her posture remained rigid and unwavering. “Aemond,” she replied curtly, her voice as cool as her tone. Beside her, Loren studied Aemond with a gaze that was less hostile but no less watchful.

A tense silence settled between the three, though it was Aemond who broke it first. His eye flickered toward Leona’s mask, lingering there for a moment longer than was polite before meeting her gaze. “I see you’ve come armored for war.”

Leona tilted her head slightly, the faintest edge of amusement lacing her tone. “Better to be armored than to leave oneself vulnerable.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint smirk, though it lacked true warmth. “And do you intend to go to war, cousin? I imagine your father would rather fill the throne room with gold than swords.”

Loren stepped forward then, his smile sharp but charming in that distinctly Lannister way. “You sound disappointed, Aemond,” he said, his tone edged with mock curiosity. “Would you prefer we come to blows? I’d hate to think you miss the days of chaos.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly, though he said nothing for a moment. Instead, he returned his gaze to Leona, the tension crackling faintly between them like a spark waiting for flame. “It seems the lions have claws after all.”

Leona met his stare evenly, unflinching. “And dragons do not frighten us, cousin,” she said softly, the weight of her words settling heavily in the space between them.

Loren’s smile widened slightly at that, though he said nothing, content to let his sister’s words linger. Aemond, for his part, said no more. Instead, he gave a faint incline of his head—a gesture that was neither submission nor concession—before stepping back into the shadows.

“Welcome back to the Red Keep,” he said finally, his voice low but laced with meaning. “I imagine we’ll be seeing more of one another.”

Without waiting for a reply, Aemond turned on his heel and strode away down the corridor, his presence fading like smoke.

The once bustling corridors, where servants bustled and lords whispered, now seemed cloaked in silence. Even the walls felt colder, the familiar warmth of home long since replaced by the stiff air of piety and dread. Jason walked ahead, his steps purposeful, the rich cloak of Lannister pride trailing behind him. At his side, you moved with quiet grace.

Behind you, Leona and Loren followed. Leona’s mask of golden filigree caught the light, her scar hidden but still remembered in every tilt of her head. Loren walked protectively beside her, his dark gaze stern, always watching. Aemma trailed between them, her smaller hand nestled in Loren’s palm, her curls bouncing as she tried to keep up.

As you neared the king’s chambers, the scent of smoke and milk of the poppy hung thick in the air. The guards outside gave you wary nods before pulling open the heavy doors. Jason strode through first, his chin high, ever the lion of Casterly Rock.

Inside, the room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn to block out most of the light. Candles flickered in uneven clusters, their wax pooling across the tabletops. The sharp, acrid scent of medicines lingered, mingling with the faint odor of decay that clung to the air.

King Viserys Targaryen lay propped up in his great bed, though the man before you now was only a shadow of the king you once knew. His once-strong form had withered, and his face was gaunt, half-hidden beneath bandages that covered the ruined side of his face. His breathing came ragged and uneven, though his remaining eye brightened faintly as he turned his head at the sound of your approach.

“Father,” you murmured softly, breaking the silence as you stepped forward. Your voice, though steady, held a note of quiet grief as you took in his frail form.

Viserys’s lips curled into a weak smile, and he reached a trembling hand out toward you. “Y/N… my daughter,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but thick with affection. “Come… come closer.”

Jason placed a steadying hand at your back as you stepped forward, lowering yourself to kneel gently at the side of Viserys’s bed. You took his frail hand into your own, cradling it carefully.

“It’s been too long,” you said softly. “We came as soon as we received word.”

Viserys’s eye flickered up to Jason then, and despite his state, his smile grew. “The lion… of the Rock,” he said, his tone light despite his weakness. “You’ve come back to torment me with your boasts, no doubt.”

Jason chuckled, though there was an unusual gentleness in his voice. “Would you expect any less, Your Grace?” he said, stepping closer and inclining his head respectfully. “But I’ve brought you something far better than my arrogance today.”

He stepped aside to allow the twins and Aemma to come forward. Loren offered his grandsire a respectful nod, while Leona approached carefully, her masked face angled downward with reverence. Little Aemma clutched her hands together, her wide violet eyes filled with curiosity and caution.

“Your grandchildren,” you said quietly, gesturing toward them. “Leona and Loren have grown into fine young lions, and little Aemma has missed her grandsire dearly.”

Viserys’s gaze settled on Leona first, lingering on the glint of her golden mask. A faint shadow of pain passed across his face, but he smiled faintly all the same. “Leona,” he murmured, his voice soft. “You’ve grown strong, my girl. Fierce as the dragons your blood shares.”

Leona dipped her head slightly, her voice calm but steady. “I ride for House Lannister and House Targaryen, grandsire. I am proud to carry both.”

Viserys’s smile trembled slightly, and he turned his gaze to Loren. “And you, Loren. Your father’s pride is evident in you. The West has its strength in you both.”

Loren nodded, his voice low and respectful. “We’ll not falter, Your Grace.”

Finally, Viserys’s eye settled on Aemma, and for a moment, a new light seemed to flicker within him. “Little Aemma…” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “You look… so much like her.”

Aemma blinked, tilting her head curiously. “Like who, grandsire?”

Viserys’s gaze grew distant, the faintest hint of tears welling in his eye. “Like your namesake. My queen. My Aemma.” He turned to look at you, his trembling fingers brushing against your hand once more. “She is a gift… all of them. You have done well, my daughter.”

You nodded softly, though a lump formed in your throat as you watched him. “They are our pride, Father.”

Jason, unable to keep himself entirely silent, added lightly, “The pride of the West and the dragons’ fire combined, Your Grace. The realm is stronger for it.”

Viserys gave a faint, wheezing laugh, though it turned into a cough that shook his frail form. You pressed your hand gently against his, concern flickering across your face.

“Rest, Father,” you said softly. “You need your strength.”

Viserys looked at you fondly, his eye softening. “It brings me peace… to see you here. All of you.” He turned back to the twins, his voice lowering to a whisper as if imparting a secret. “Remember who you are, my loves. Blood of dragons. Strength of lions. You will endure.”

Leona and Loren stepped closer, bowing their heads as their grandsire’s hand trembled. “We will,” Loren said firmly, his voice carrying the quiet conviction of someone older than his years.

“Always,” Leona added softly.

Jason watched the exchange with an expression somewhere between pride and melancholy, though he quickly masked it with his usual confidence. He stepped closer to you, placing his hand lightly at your shoulder. “Come, my love. The king needs his rest.”

You hesitated for a moment, unwilling to let go of Viserys’s hand, but you knew Jason was right. You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your father’s forehead. “We’ll return tomorrow, Father. Rest now.”

Viserys smiled faintly, his breathing slowing as he sank back into the cushions. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, as though it were a promise.

As you stood, Jason’s hand lingering at your back, you glanced once more at the frail form of your father—the man who had once been so strong, now reduced to skin, bone, and pain. Your heart ached, but you forced yourself to keep your composure.

Leona and Loren bowed once more before stepping back, flanking little Aemma as the three children moved toward the door. Jason lingered just a moment longer, his green eyes flickering with something softer as he regarded Viserys.

“Rest easy, Your Grace,” Jason said quietly. “Your daughter and I will see to the future.”

Viserys’s lips twitched faintly, though his eyes had already begun to flutter shut.

The heavy doors closed behind you with a soft thud, and the silence of the hallway felt deafening after the stillness of the chamber. Jason exhaled softly, his arm slipping around your waist as you walked.

“He looks…” Loren began, but he trailed off, unable to finish.

“Like a ghost,” Leona whispered, her voice heavy.

You nodded faintly, your voice low as you said, “He is still our king. Your grandsire deserves your love and respect.”

Jason, walking beside you, muttered softly, “And yet they let him rot, surrounded by shadows and leeches.” He cast a dark glance down the hall. “The Hightowers should be ashamed.”

You placed a hand gently on his arm, shaking your head. “Not now, Jason. Not here.”

Jason sighed but said nothing, his arm tightening protectively around you as you walked. Behind you, Leona, Loren, and Aemma followed in silence, the weight of their visit pressing heavy on all of you.

And as the doors to the king’s chamber remained shut, you could not help but feel that time was slipping away faster than ever—that Viserys, the rock of your childhood, would not remain for much longer.

The next day dawned clear and bright, though the atmosphere within the Red Keep remained far from serene. The sunlight streamed into the Hand’s chambers, pooling across the polished table where Jason Lannister sat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate as he leaned back in the high-backed chair. Beside him, you sat poised, your expression composed and unreadable. Across from you both sat Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his demeanor as cold and calculated as ever.

The chamber was a stiflingly quiet place, heavy with the distant noise of the keep below. Jason’s green eyes glimmered faintly with irritation, though his lips curled into an almost mocking smile as he watched Otto carefully. You could feel the animosity rising, though your husband’s nonchalant air barely faltered.

“Summoning me like a wayward squire,” Jason drawled, his tone rich with sarcasm. “I hope you have a worthy reason, Lord Otto, for pulling me from my morning wine.”

Otto’s fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table, his expression unmoved by Jason’s barb. “The matters I wish to discuss, Lord Jason, are of considerable importance. For the stability of the realm.”

Jason lifted a brow, exchanging a brief glance with you. “Is that so? The realm must be in dire need if its Hand must court the lions so early in the day.”

Otto ignored the taunt and straightened slightly, his measured gaze falling on you before returning to Jason. “You are a man of great influence, my lord. The Westerlands have always been vital to the crown—gold, steel, and steadfast loyalty. I would see that relationship strengthened further.”

Jason smirked, though the sharp edge in his voice was unmistakable. “And what does your lordship propose? Speak plainly, for I’ve no love of riddles.”

Otto exhaled softly, as though indulging a child’s impatience. “A match,” he said simply, his tone crisp and unwavering. “Between your daughter, Lady Aemma, and Prince Aemond.”

The words settled in the air like a blade being unsheathed. Jason’s easy smile faltered for the briefest of moments before returning—only this time, it was colder. He leaned forward slightly, placing his hands deliberately on the table. “A match?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief and quiet ire. “Between my daughter and the boy who cost Leona half her face?”

Otto’s face remained impassive, though his jaw tightened faintly. “What occurred between the children was… regrettable. But alliances forged through marriages heal old wounds.”

Jason barked out a short laugh, though there was no mirth in it. “Heal old wounds? Is that what you think this will do? Aemond maimed my eldest daughter, and now you want me to hand another of my girls over to him as though the scars mean nothing?”

“Lord Jason—”

“No,” Jason cut him off sharply, his voice dropping dangerously low. “You mistake me for a fool, Otto. I’ve no desire to tie my bloodline to yours—least of all through Aemma.”

“Surely you see the wisdom of this,” Otto pressed, his voice harder now. “It would unite your house with the crown, solidifying your position as an ally to the king. The Westerlands would—”

Jason slammed his hand onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber like the crack of a whip. “The Westerlands are not yours to bargain with, Lord Otto,” he snarled, his green eyes flashing dangerously. “Nor are my daughters pawns for you to play. I’ve tolerated much from House Hightower, but I’ll be damned before I let you sink your claws into my family.”

You reached out discreetly, your hand brushing Jason’s wrist in a calming gesture. He glanced briefly at you, exhaling through his nose, though his ire did not fade.

Otto’s voice was colder now, his mask of patience beginning to slip. “You tread dangerous ground, Lord Jason. This is an opportunity—one that many other houses would be glad to seize.”

Jason leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, as though bored of the conversation already. “If other houses are so eager, perhaps you should go knocking on their doors instead. The lions of the West will not be so easily swayed.”

Otto opened his mouth to reply, but Jason held up a hand to stop him, his tone darkening. “And let me make myself clear, Lord Otto. If you press this matter further—if you even so much as hint at a claim over my children again—there will be consequences.”

Otto narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me, Lord Lannister?”

Jason smiled sharply, the look of a predator baring its teeth. “A promise, not a threat. Should you test me, I will ensure the flow of gold from the Westerlands slows to a trickle. No gold, no coin, and no kingdom. You’ll find it difficult to wage your little wars without Lannister gold lining your coffers.”

Otto’s face darkened at that, the flicker of anger evident despite his attempt to mask it. “You would dare defy the crown?”

“I would dare protect my family,” Jason shot back, his voice cool and unyielding. “Your House may wear the crown now, but remember this, Otto Hightower—gold crowns kings and feeds armies. You would do well not to forget it.”

The silence that followed was sharp, the anxiety in the room almost suffocating. You could see the faint twitch of Otto’s jaw as he fought to rein in his temper, his gaze flickering between you and Jason.

“Very well,” Otto said finally, his tone clipped. “I see you will not be moved. But consider this carefully, Lord Jason. The day may come when the crown’s favor will mean far more than your stubborn pride.”

Jason pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, towering over the Hand with that unmistakable Lannister arrogance. “Let that day come,” he replied, his voice low and final. “And when it does, you’ll find the lions of the West waiting with teeth bared and claws unsheathed.”

With that, Jason turned to you, offering his arm as though they had just concluded a pleasant visit. “Shall we, my love? I tire of this room.”

You rose gracefully, taking his arm with practiced poise as you offered Otto a fleeting glance. The Hand’s face was a storm of thinly veiled anger, though he said nothing more as you exited the chambers.

As the heavy doors closed behind you, Jason let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “The gall of that man.”

“He will not stop,” you murmured quietly, your voice low as you glanced up at him. “You’ve humiliated him, and he doesn’t forget slights easily.”

Jason’s expression hardened as he guided you down the hall. “Then let him remember it well,” he said darkly. “The West is not his to control. He’ll learn that soon enough.”

You squeezed his arm gently, though the unease in your chest lingered. The game in King’s Landing had grown far more dangerous, and you both knew the Hand would not forgive Jason’s defiance. The only question that remained was what Otto Hightower would do next—and how soon the lions would need to bare their claws once more.

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