#he should have made *her* the hand after lyonel's death

[cassatine]

Rhaenyra getting more shit for staying on Dragonstone instead of in King's Landing to play the political game or whatever than Viserys gets for recalling Otto as Hand, thus pretty much handing power to the faction he knows to be his heir's political opponents and metaphorically shooting Rhaenyra in the political kneecaps, is one of the most Takes in a fandom full of Takes

#like if you're gonna point to rhaenyra fucking up on that one you ought to point to viserys too #could she have done more to shore up her claim? sure. could viserys have done more to shore up her claim? hell fucking yeah #sorry but showing up on his literal last day wasn't enough #he should have made *her* the hand after lyonel's death #the fact that he didn't and instead recalled otto is the dumbest most insane decision taken by anyone in the show so far #and the one thing that most contributed to creating the conditions for the aegon/rhaenyra face-off to happen #also like if we're talking optics how do you think it looks like to the court & co that instead of HIS ACTUAL HEIR #he chose otto?? it looks like he doesn't trust his heir to rule is what it looks like #and also!! it's a pattern with viserys. he keeps rhaenyra as cupbearer after naming her heir. he puts alicent on the small council for some #reason even as she's going around in hightower loyalties green. which is even more ?? when you remember the firing otto scene #ep6 shows alicent ordering rhaenyra around shooting her down etc. viserys doesn't even try to fight on the helaena/jace proposal #with otto back as hand even if she'd been in kl rhaenyra would have been in a shit position #and the optics wouldn't have been good either everyone would have seen power was on the otto&alicent side not the heir's #again: could she have fought harder? sure. did viserys create the conditions for her to be sidelined in the first place? duh fucking duh #house of the dragon #westerosi politics

[fayeriess]

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺ WHEN ANGER

TURNS TO HONEY ༻♱༉‧₊˚.

daemon targaryen x fem!reader

summary: tensions rise between house targaryen and house royce after the death of your sister, lady rhea. the night of princess rhaenyra's wedding feast, accusations come to light, a finger pointing to the brother of the king  — who just so happens to be your lover.

warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, loose enemies to lovers trope, scratching kink (??), graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of loss of virtue, daemon being daemon, the usual hotd shenanigans

a/n: yet another installment of 'birth of violence' that has me fanning myself silly. bear with me if there are any mistakes or if you find anything to be incorrect, as i am still slowly easing my way into the fandom. enjoy friends <3

“I am making an accusation.” 

The moment those words were spat out of your cousin's lips with the utmost venom he could muster, you had suddenly wished you were hidden behind the thick walls Runestone provided; mourning the loss of your older sister. 

Gerold Royce should have bit down harshly on his tongue the second his heart burst in flames with overwhelming heat — hatred for the man before him, eyes narrowed with murderous intentions he so desperately wished to act on. 

This occasion was anything but the correct time to address such serious matters, especially under the scrutinous eyes of the King, his heir, and his Hand who had watched with such caution that you had opted to distract yourself by digging your fingernails in the wax-coated skin of an apple you had plucked from the vast array of foods. 

The rhythm of your breathing had grown uneven, breasts squeezing uncomfortable against the upper trim of your dress, pillowed lips pressed in a thin line.

 Daemon Targaryen leaned back in the finely carved wood that made up his seat, nodding in faux understanding at your cousin's bold choice of words. Craning his head slightly to scan his violet eyes across his elder brother and Lord Lyonel Strong, his lips jutted before parting to speak. 

“In King’s Landing, men are made to answer for their slanders. Even old bronze cunts like you.” 

There it was. The infamous insult that sharpened the blade — stabbing it into the already agonized heart of your relative, as well as your own through the sonorous music pouring in the canals of your ears. 

You had known this so-called slander to be true; knowing his profound hatred for the Lady of the Vale had finally been acted upon in the treachery of her brutal murder. It was an unfortunate occurrence you had trampled upon. 

Her skull was bashed to bits, remnants of brain matter scattered about in thick clots of crimson that had decorated the grass and watered the dirt. You had touched with the pads of your fingers, still slightly warm to the touch. Deep within the pits of your stomach, weaved in your intestines, you had known the silver-haired man before you were to take the blame for her untimely demise.

However, you were in no position to come to such a decision, and nor would you ever be. Therefore, Daemon Targaryen would walk away with every limb intact, and you would continue to suppress your fury, forever scarred by the loss.

It was only then that you had sharply stood from your seat, apple long forgotten as it dropped onto the table with a quiet thud, momentarily attracting the curious gazes of those across from you, the others none-the-wiser as they continued to prance about. 

Piercing, violet eyes caught yours for a fraction of a millisecond and if you weren’t as aware as you were now, it was something you were sure to miss. 

Destastation never consumed you so… barbarically.

Gerold stepped forward, chubby fists clenched and shaking with contained wrath. 

Daemon took it as no threat, offering an amused smile as if to mock his feeble attempt at intimidation and defense of his house, his name, and his cousin.

“The truth is, I’m glad you’ve come. I wish to speak to you about my inheritance.” 

“What inheritance?”

“Lady Rhea and I had no heirs. As her husband whatever she was due now passes to me.”

His words to you became a jumbled nonsensical mess.

Surely he had too much wine to drink before he had strutted through the thick doors of the feast hall, all mighty and proud of his feats and dirty achievements.

Before you could stop your actions, you strutted up the four short steps, forcing position next to Gerold whose jaw had grown taut with anger, teeth grinding against each other, practically shaking in place. 

“It seems you’ve forgotten that Lady Rhea has a sister,” Your sharp words cut through the pause of uncomfortable silence that had settled despite music still echoing in the expanse of space, dimly lit, cozy yet unnerving at the same time. “and truth that no heirs have been brought forth, I have a right to claim. As long as I continue to breathe, you will take nothing.” 

The finality of your statement seemed to have temporarily embedded itself in some part of Daemon that wasn’t as rot-ridden as he was, as he had nodded curtly at you, taking longer than necessary.

His lingering stares had never failed to send a chill down your spine, numbing you at the very core of your existence whenever you’d catch his gaze. He had preferred your presence over your sisters, despite the little time you two had spent together. Though he quickly figured that since you and the eldest bronze bitch had come from the same cunt, you were bound to have the same irritating little quirks — he just found you more tolerable, more sheltered than Rhea.

After all, the eve he had flown on the back of Caraxes back to King’s Landing, he had filled you — had given you something to remember him by. It showed when hues of purples and blues decorated the expanse of your stomach, under your ribcage, everywhere he could reach until you could no longer take everything he had to offer.  

Daemon loved to ruin pretty things. And even though he had stated that the sheep were much prettier than any of the women in the Vale, he had not thought of you. 

Roughly circling your arm around Gerold’s bicep, you tugged him away, and back to your designated seats, pulling him down to sit with as much strength as you could. 

“Do not ever make such accusations in front of other lords and ladies of the realm.” You seethe, feeling him stiffen under your near-suffocating grasp, lips pressed together tightly before he nods. 

“Good. Now eat, you’ve been neglecting your needs.” 

And without a word, Gerold obeys. 

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

There’s moonlight casting shadows over the gargantuan towers of the Red Keep, basking certain spaces with a luster so gentle, it almost felt as if you were on your homeland, feeling the grass between your bare toes, inhaling as much fresh air as your lungs could home. 

You could not do that here. 

You could not taint your body with such putrid, toxic air as what loomed over in King’s Landing in thick clouds, dusting over the already sinful streets, waiting to discreetly make its way down your throat until it attacked every single cell in your body. Refuge from the disastrous occurrence of tonight's feast was not to be found here. 

That was something you had quickly come to realize when you had picked at your fingernails draped over the ornate decoration of one of the many balcony railings that riddled the large fortress, mind wandering to other things that developed a small bubble of guilt. 

You wouldn’t feed the monster. No. You couldn’t feed it the small handful of ill-at-ease altercations you’ve had with your brother bound by marriage, and the way he looked at you only intensified it to the point where you were sure it was to burst open, spilling your intestines and long-kept secrets. 

“There you are. You know, you’re very hard to find.” 

Clutching at the fabric of your dress, you rubbed it between your thumb and pointer fingers, spine straightening with such haste that it cracked slightly, back still turned to him. 

That voice had haunted you in your dreams once, maybe twice if you could recall correctly despite your enthusiasm to find a way to rid them from the tissue of your brain. It had chosen to gather in the outer fluid of your skull instead, sloshing around the forefront from to time whenever Rhea had mentioned her cunt of a husband. They had not consummated their marriage, as he had no interest in sticking his cock in the likes of your sister, an eagle with wings far too big for her body. 

That was something he despised about her, amongst many other things. Yet, he couldn’t find it in his dull, black heart to take any of it out on you, a vision among many; a person in his dreams he wishes he could call a stranger.

You had robbed him of something, and although Daemon wasn’t quite sure of what exactly it was, he’d figure it out in time.  As he always did, no matter how rash. 

“Should I be honored to be in your presence after you’ve sought me out, then?” 

A brush of wind passes, seeping through the thin material of your clothing, through your skin, and wrapping itself around your bones. 

“I think I should be … lady of the Vale.” 

Turning your head in his direction, you narrow your eyes into slits as he makes his way toward you, hands clasped together firmly behind his back, hair slightly disheveled. 

There’s a lump in your throat that you swallow with difficulty, heaving out a large, dramatic sigh, keeping your eyes locked on the side of his face, the slope of his nose. His brows were furrowed, the lines of age even more visible on the face you’ve only had the pleasure of touching once when he had thrust into you. 

The mere thought of it calls upon the guilt again. So, you resist.

“I am in no mood for jesting, I only wish for a moment of peace. That is all I ask.” As tired as you had sounded, you had felt even more defeated knowing that no matter how much tea you’d ingest when you reached your temporary chambers, it would not be enough to keep your rumination at bay. 

There’s a whistle somewhere nearby, a momentary distraction from how close he’s standing to you, shoulder to shoulder, body heat practically radiating like the fires you’d set deep within thick branches and high grass. 

“You have a sly little tongue on you, don’t you?”

“Only when one claims what is to be mine.” 

“Hm,” He hums, turning his head slightly to stare you directly in the eyes. “So eager to replace that dear sister of yours. Tell me, how did she so tragically pass again?

Daemon was trying to get under your skin. It was a skill he was best suited at, especially in a time of vulnerability such as this, with no one else around to diffuse the fire sparking between the both of you as your chest expanded so wide, that your lungs burned, 

Grinding your teeth together, you could taste nothing but wine on your tongue as you pressed it against the roof of your mouth.

“A snapped neck and a crushed skull.” He tutts, “Such a shame.”

“Do not speak of my sister in ill manners when she has no way to defend her honor.” You spat, hand shaking at your sides, nails digging into your clammy palms – leaving crescent indents in their wake. 

“Is that not why she has a sister to take her place when it suits her, to fuck her husband without remorse.” The smirk that appears at the corner of his lips has your chin wobbling in anger, a hand outstretched to clasp at the lining of his blood-red sleeve; the same blood-red that painted your sister's head when it laid cracked open on blades of grass. 

“Laying with you was an insult to my virtue.” 

Slowly, as if you were to strike him at any moment, Daemon raised a hand, gently pressing it against the pillowed flesh of your bottom lip, wet with saliva and ready for him to devour all over again; the taste of citrus coating his taste-buds. 

“I rather enjoyed our time together.” He admits with amusement as if the agony written on your face was purely a source of entertainment. 

With unshed tears burning behind your irises, you blink, wrinkling your nose in mild disgust at the man in front of you. “Fuck you.” 

And with that, he presses his lips against yours, teeth clashing against teeth as the heat of his mouth overpowers your will to resist. You’re putty in his arms and he knows it by the way his free hand grips your hipbone, gripping as if you keep you in place. 

It’s messy, yet delectable all the same as his tongue mingles with yours, hot and needy as they dance, heads growing hazy from lack of breathing. A quiet moan escapes you when Daemon tugs your bottom lip between his teeth as if he were starving, pulling you as close to his chest as he can manage.

You’d burn for this, surely; for fitting in the arms of your sister's husband as if you’d belong there — for feeling some sort of desire — lust all for the man who had taken her from you. It had become all too real to you when he had brought you into his chambers and unclothed you slowly as if you were a sight to behold, drinking you in like the most expensive wine he’d ever sought out in all of the Seven Kingdoms. 

It had all become too real when his hands had greedily palmed at your breasts, taking a nipple in his mouth with such enthusiasm, that you were positive this was an entirely different man from the one you had come to know. His cheeks were hollow as he sucked, nipped, and swirled his tongue around your hard bud, an arch in your back only encouraging his movements.

The organ in your chest was beating erratically, practically pounding on your ribs, hoping to crack them one by one and leave you a shell of yourself before you were to return home. 

Just for tonight. 

You’d feel his touch one last time before you’d beg for forgiveness for the rest of your life. 

When Daemon removes his mouth from your chest, he finds himself sucking the skin at the base of your neck, paying attention to a particular spot you had reacted to, bruising all he could to claim you just like he told you he would the first, and only night he bedded you.

The sensation of the bare skin of your legs wrapped around his waist sends him into a frenzy as he inhales sharply, slapping his hands at the meat of your thighs before trailing one between your legs to palm at his hard cock, dripping with pre-cum and ready to bury you to the hilt.

“One last time.”  You whisper, letting it mix in the heavy air, watching the way his brows furrow before the only emotion in his dark eyes dissipates. 

He wastes no time, gathering your arousal on his tip before he’s sheathing himself into you, groaning lowly in the crook of your neck as your walls shape around him. Your insides are on fire with the way he’s stretching you, left hand gripping at the sheets near your head.

“I’ll never grow tired of this.” He says it as if he’d have you for the rest of his life, a soft lilt to words that you’d find praising if they weren’t coming from him, a Targaryen — a dragon conqueror.

Biting down on the soft flesh of your lower lip, you stared at his features, clouded with a certain haze of carnal desire. The feeling of your heart beating quickly against the bones of your ribcage subsided when a flow of arousal made itself known at the burning intimacy of the action, causing you to clench around his cock buried within you, your nails dancing down the nape of his neck to the expanse of his back.

A groan left his throat when that not-so-innocent sound he relished reached his ears, and it was hard not to pound you into the satin sheets right then and there. Instead, he pressed his bare chest against yours, skin hot and flushed, his wet lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

As the muscles in his back flexed, the light sting of where your sharp nails had once been clawing desperately reminded him just how much he loved the feeling of your nails breaking the skin there the first time. The sadistic action secretly becomes one of his favorites as you do it now. It was physical proof that he could please you in a way no one else could touch you in all the right places, and watch your pretty eyes roll into the back of your head. 

Every single reaction you had to even the slightest touch  — was all because of him. He’d want his touch to be all you’d ever know. 

“So good, sweetling,” He drawled lowly. A quiet but adequate praise before he removed one of his hands from your side, producing a sharp hiss from you as his palm slapped against the outside of the fat of your left thigh once more.

You whined, the pulse between your legs aching with arousal, your slick pooling at the base of his cock when he’d fully unsheathe himself only to ram, back into you again. “Such a tight little cunt, huh?”

Wrapping your legs around his unclothed torso as much as you could manage, you crossed your ankles, pushing him in until he touched a spot so deep within you that you choked on your breath, the air seemingly knocked out of your lungs by his harsh movements as he continued to stretch you.

With closed eyes, you let your eyebrows furrow in concentration at the euphoric feeling he brought to you, a relentless pace that sent your toes to curl involuntarily. 

The air was hot and the sheen of sweet blooming between the both of you did little to quell the intense heat. Skin slapping against skin and your lewd moans echoing off the thin walls and right back into your ears was all that could be heard aside from his panting.

It was only when his hand had slipped near your neck to cup your jaw, that you had let out a sob so pathetic that he had chuckled right into your skin, tears distorting your once clear vision of him as he continued to pump himself in and out of out.

 “Look at you.” He cooed, “So pretty with those tears in your eyes.” 

Your fingers had flexed uncomfortably near the top of his spine, nails scratching against the expanse, and moving toward his scalp, twirling wisps of loose silver hair around your finger as the frame squeaked beneath your bodies. 

His guttural groan vibrated throughout your chest, rattling your body.  The burning sting that seeped through the minor, raw wounds encouraged him to hold your hips down, ramming so deep into you, that you had started to writhe beneath him.

Daemon could tell you were close. 

How could you not be with the way he was abusing your cunt; rocking you through your orgasm.

The slow, deep breaths he took to steady his breathing helped you focus on calming your own as he rubbed the pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, thrusting one, two, three more times before emptying himself in you, painting your walls with his seed, filling you to the brim before swiftly pulling out of you.

Your gaze never left his fit, naked figure as he ran a hand through his hair, shuffling toward the end of the bed, back hunched and toward you as the silence and realization of what you had done ate at you. 

Never again. That was a promise you intended to keep. 

Never again.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen angst #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd #daemon targaryen

[akittenwrites]

Queen of Ice and Prince of Fire

Author: @akittenwrites

Summary: Lady Y/N Stark of Winterfell has declared herself Queen in the North. That means war, against King Viserys, and also against Prince Daemon. But the Rogue Prince doesn't want to fight her.

Type: multichapter series

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x reader

Word count: 2181

Warnings: swearing.

Tagging: nobody yet. If you want to be tagged, send me a message.

The commotion in the small council chamber was such Daemon wondered what the hell had happened this time. He had been summoned for an emergency meeting by King Viserys himself and had just arrived to see the King sitting at the head of the table, with noticeable bags under his eyes and his silver hair messier than ever.

As Daemon walked down the few steps into the room and made his way towards his seat at the table, some maidens hurried to light the candles and serve their cups. The matter was urgent, but not urgent enough to wake the cupbearer, it seemed. It made sense, it was the hour of the owl and Princess Rhaenyra was still young.

As he moved his chair to take his seat, he made eye contact with Otto Hightower. The slithering snake met his stare, yet didn't stare back as he usually did. No, he was worried. He could tell from his furrowed brows and the tapping of his fingers on the table.

Once the Master of Ships, Lord Corlys Velaryon, took his seat, the servants exited the room and they were left alone, only the silence of the night and the dancing flames of the candles making them company. The Kingsguard stood outside, guarding the doors.

"An... issue... has arisen," Otto was the first to speak. Usually that courtesy was granted to the King, but at this point Daemon knew better than to expect something different from his brother, and the hungry leech stuck to his shoulder.

"What is it, then?" Daemon mocked. "No need for dramatic pauses. We're all very curious."

The Hand of the King glared at him and was probably thinking of some quick comeback, but this time it was Viserys' voice that cut through the silence.

"We have received a raven from Winterfell," he explained, leaning his elbows on the table. "It had a message in it, signed by the Lady of Winterfell herself."

Viserys took his cup in his hands and had a taste of wine before continuing. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

"The North has declared itself independent from the Seven Kingdoms."

Those words were enough for a discussion to erupt, with everybody talking on top of each other and nobody understanding what anyone was saying. Daemon watched silently as Viserys placed his hands on the sides of his head and closed his eyes just for a moment.

"Are we sure the message isn't fake?" Lord Corlys asked as loud as he could.

"Unfortunately we are," responded Lord Lyonel Strong, who had also been sitting in silence next to him. "The message has the stamp with the sigil of House Stark, the direwolf."

He reached under his cloak and placed the small rolled-up piece of parchment on the table for all to see. Corlys was the first to get his hands on it, only to read it and toss it back, clearly displeased.

"We couldn't have predicted Lord Stark's death almost a year ago would lead to this," added Otto. "It is an unexpected turn of events."

Then he fixed his eyes on Daemon, brown meeting violet, fighting for dominance.

"I remember Lady Stark used to be close to the King's brother when she was in court, before her father's passing. Did she ever mention wishing for the North's independence?"

"Don't you think I would've told my brother about it if she had, Hand?" he snarled, his hands reaching for the parchment. "You have a web of spies that follow me around Flea Bottom just for gossip, yet you failed to notice half the realm getting ready for war?"

"Her father was an honorable man. I expected he would've passed that on to his daughter, but I should have known better. Just because they are family doesn't mean they are both to be trusted, after all."

Otto's eyes remained fixed on Daemon as he whispered the words.

"If you want to insult me I'd much prefer you do it directly, my Lord," Daemon said, his hands unrolling the paper. "Why go to such lengths to be a cunt?"

Otto was just about to answer when he was once again interrupted by Viserys.

"Stop. Put aside your personal differences for one night and do your job," he stood up, his hands on the table, and his eyes looking at each of them intently, the sleepiness already gone. "This is a real threat. War. We can't afford a war right now, and I will not be the King that lost what Aegon conquered!"

Viserys was furious, the flames dancing in his purple eyes. Daemon smiled slightly. There was the dragon. It often refused to come out, but when it did, nobody could deny its commanding presence.

While the council stayed silent, mulling over the King's words, he looked down and read the message Lady Stark had sent.

"It is my pleasure to announce The North will no longer be reigned by a King, but a Queen. We are willing to form alliances. We are willing to go to war if need be. It's your choice.

Y/N Stark, Queen in the North."

"If we lose the North we risk the other kingdoms following their example," Otto breathed out.

"Then we'll torch them to the ground," Corlys interjected. "We have dragons. We have ten of them. Aegon conquered Westeros with three. And this is a child pretending to be Queen. She may have been the heir of Winterfell, but she is not prepared to rule over the North by herself. It's too much territory if you don't have dragons."

Viserys swallowed, clearly having considered that already. It was the truth, they had plenty of dragons and armies. But the North was cold, large, and unforgiving. And its people were more loyal than Viserys' entire court combined. Y/N knew that. She knew many things, as far as Daemon was concerned. He used to join her in the forest, under the Weirwood tree, while she read about the history of Westeros. The history of the conquest. Dorne. They spent hours together, reading in silence, just as she liked it. Sometimes she would put the books aside and rest her head on Daemon's lap, her long dark hair touching the ground, as she let her mind wander.

That was how they went from strangers who often crossed paths inside the Red Keep to friends who shared their love of literature and history and sword fighting... to lovers.

The first time she rested his head on his shoulder and looked at him with those bright grey eyes of hers, he knew he was done for. She was barely an adult back then, sent to court by her father to represent Winterfell and House Stark in matters it was concerned. It turned out she never needed to represent her House in anything, because as she put it, whatever happened in the South never reached the North, and she didn't care for southern issues.

Nevertheless, she enjoyed the Red Keep's library, and she enjoyed Daemon's company. They shared their first kiss under that old Weirwood tree, slow and gentle, getting to know each other's lips. She wasn't like any other woman he had been with before. And that one time, they both told each other it was just a kiss. Just curiosity. Yet a flame was ignited that day and it wasn't long until his hands were wandering up and down her thighs while she sat on his lap, moaning his name into his mouth.

Sharing their chambers became a routine they kept secret, with Daemon teaching her how to use the palace's secret tunnels, and using them himself to visit her at night. Long gone were his nights spent at the brothels. To the rest of the court, they were just friends who enjoyed each other's company. Perhaps they suspected more, yet nobody voiced it for fear of it reaching Daemon's ears. He was married and she was a maiden.

He smiled to himself, the memories bitter now that the matter of war was in discussion. Her being away for so long hadn't made the memories fade away. He missed her being around. Her voice, her embrace, her warmth, her touch.

"What are you smiling about, Prince Daemon?" Otto's voice interrupted his train of thought. "Perhaps you know something you would like to share with the rest of us?"

"I do," he answered simply, lifting a brow. "I know Y/N would love to cut your tongue out. That much she did tell me, repeatedly."

He laughed quietly to himself as he recalled her snarky remarks about the King's Hand. Many of their private conversations could've ended up with both of them accused of treason. Y/N appeared gentle and kind in public, which she was, yet there was a fierceness hidden underneath only he knew. She couldn't be tamed. The wolf was as wild as the dragon. So yes, he believed for some reason she had decided to pull this stupid stunt that may cost her her life. It didn't matter if she could use a sword, she had no way of fighting dragonfire.

"We have to end this before it goes any further," Corlys insisted. "We will make an example of them."

"We can't burn the North to the ground," interrupted Lyonel Strong. "House Stark and their bannermen are the only things standing between us and whatever threats may come from beyond the Wall. If their armies are gone, the rest of the Kingdom is vulnerable. We have to negotiate with her."

"She's a traitor. You would have me entertain her?" Viserys asked in disbelief.

"If we need armies in the North, we can eliminate House Stark and let one of their bannermen take their place in Winterfell," Corlys proposed.

"Northerners will not have it. You would risk war," Lyonel insisted. "She wouldn't be calling herself Queen in the North and sending us this unless she had their loyalty. Kill her and watch the rest of the North rise."

"We do not negotiate with traitors, Lord Lyonel," Otto seethed. "If the entire North wants war they can have it, the Crown has the power to end it in an instant. We will give Winterfell to the Lannisters if need be."

"You can't break my Kingdom and rearrange it like a puzzle!" Viserys growled. After a few seconds of silence, he sat down. "We need the North, that much is clear. You're my advisors. And your advice isn't helpful right now."

Daemon agreed.

"Your Grace, the mere threat of dragonfire and destruction may be enough... if enacted properly," Otto suggested.

Silence.

"Go on," said Viserys.

"Prince Daemon knows Lady Y/N better than he lets on. Before she left for Winterfell because of her father's passing, they spent hours together in the woods every day. Or even training in the courtyard, as unladylike as that was." Daemon's eyes were fixed on Otto, daring him to say something that would cost him his life, as he drank from his cup and let him speak. "I may be overstepping here, but I think Lady Y/N considered Prince Daemon her friend here in court. As far as I know, she didn't spend time with anybody else."

"Do you think I should ride Caraxes all the way to Winterfell and win her over with the power of my friendship?" Daemon asked, before draining the rest of his wine. "I think you're overestimating my charms, Lord Hand."

It seemed he was the only one that found that funny. Lyonel Strong cleared his throat beside him before speaking.

"I think Ser Otto's point is Lady Y/N has proved herself to be unpredictable, and if threatening her will be our approach, it would be safer if Prince Daemon did it. Alone."

"Why?" King Viserys wondered what the rest of them were thinking.

"If she is ready for war as she claims in this message, we can't ride up North on dragonback and not expect retaliation. They could have scorpions or other kinds of weapons we do not know of."

"So you would have me risk my dragon."

Silence.

"Daemon, would she order an attack on you?" Viserys looked at him, appearing to consider the council's suggestion.

He sighed, playing with his cup. He knew what Viserys was really asking. Are you in any way to blame for this uprising? Did you hurt her in any way? How does she feel about you?

"No, she would not," he answered after a few moments of silence. "She knows Caraxes. I took her to the dragonpit more than once. He... appreciates her company."

Viserys understood what he meant. If Caraxes, as temperamental as he was, never considered her a threat, then she wasn't one, at least not to Daemon.

"It is decided then. On the morrow, you will leave for Winterfell. You will represent your King and put an end to this nonsense."

Lord Corlys was the only one that didn't seem happy with the decision, but said nothing.

Daemon simply nodded.

"As my King commands."

Next part.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon imagine #daemon targaryen #hotd x reader #queenoficeprinceoffire

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Storms (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Part 1 of this story, “Safety”, can be read HERE.᯽

᯽ Part 2 of this story, “Captivated”, can be read HERE.᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, violence, references to a sick parent, death of minor characters.

Word Count: 7,800 ish.

Summary: A royal wedding should be a joyous occasion for the realm- but there’s something ominous in the air. Dark clouds linger over the royal family, and the rest of Westeros. Even you may not be able to make it through what lies ahead unscathed... Fortunately, you’ve found someone who you know you can count on to always be by your side.

A/N: Y’all... I’m still shooketh over here.🥲🖤 I really appreciate all the support so very much. I’ll keep writing for this as long as I have ideas and as long as there’s a want for it. If anyone is interested, I highly recommend listening to The Green Dress score while reading the second half- it’s what I did while writing it. The score is just *chef’s kiss* and sets the tone for the whole feast so well. I hope you all enjoy, and please feel free to let me know what you think!

PS, before you come after me because of the little time jump, I politely ask that you keep reading... I didn’t skip over *the scene*, I promise!😂

The winds of change had come to blow through Westeros.

Princess Rhaenyra’s tour of the Seven Kingdoms in search of a future King Consort had abruptly come to an end. Though the death of one of the suitors during Lord Boremond’s host at Storm’s End would have put a tainted mark on the remainder of her tours to come, the Princess had declared the tour over herself shortly thereafter… Despite the two months of traveling that remained.

Prince Daemon had finally returned from his war in the Stepstones, and presented King Viserys with the crown he had been bestowed upon him following his victory. The two Targaryen brothers reunited in a touching scene witnessed by most of the Court. He was welcomed at Court once more… until one day, he wasn’t.

Following an incident that you did not know the entire truth of, though you wouldn’t have spoken of it if you did know, the King had exiled him again. You could tell Princess Rhaenyra grieved the absence of her uncle once more, but then Ser Criston Cole had been suddenly much more attentive to her…

King Viserys had dismissed Lord Otto Hightower from his duties as Hand of the King, an event that had not only generated a large amount of whispers among the Reach, but among the other kingdoms as well. The King had appointed Lord Lyonel Strong in his stead.

Following Princess Rhaenyra’s denouncement of the tour, King Viserys had arranged the marriage for her with Ser Laenor Velaryon. Like a few others at Court, you had heard rumors of her cousin’s… preferences, and were worried, though it was not your place to offer up your opinion on. Eventually, she noticed your reservations, and had subtly, but full-heartedly, assured you that she and Ser Laenor had reached an arrangement. Besides, King Viserys’ mind was made up, and Princess Rhaenyra did not try to change it. Despite your initial hesitation, you shared the opinion of King Viserys- the match was a good one. Uniting the two branches of the Targaryen House and healing old wounds could only bode well for the dynasty.

From then on, you threw yourself into your work even more, supporting Princess Rhaenyra in any way you could with the royal wedding preparations. It kept you very busy, but you were grateful for something else to focus on.

After many weeks of planning and preparation, the week of the royal wedding celebration had finally arrived.

You and Princess Rhaenyra stood on a balcony amongst the far end of the palace gardens, looking over Blackwater Bay in the distance. Though Ser Criston Cole may have accompanied you previously, he had not chosen to this time. He’d been standoffish lately, and regarded Princess Rhaenyra with much more formality than you were used to seeing him display. Something had happened between them, you deduced… but, much like the circumstances that led to the sudden exile of Prince Daemon, you knew better than to ask unless the Princess spoke of it first.

Both of you watched in comfortable silence as ships, almost all of them bearing the Velaryon coat of arms, sailed toward King’s Landing. The vessels spanned as far back and across the water as your eyes could see. The fleet appeared to be moving slowly- but you knew that to be a fallacy. In what would be no time at all, the Princess’ betrothed, his family, most of their household, and various bannermen and members of the guard would make land.

An odd whistling noise ran out from the sky. You tilted your head upwards, as did Princess Rhaenyra, and three large, majestic beasts broke through the clouds up above. The three dragons and their riders flew downwards, their wings skimming the water between ships before flying up ahead.

Princess Rhaenyra pointed to one, then another, and finally, the third. “There’s Seasmoke… Meleys… and of course, Vhagar.”

More whistling could be heard as the dragons flew over the castle, rustling the trees and shrubbery around you with the wind. They descended from the sky before finally disappearing from view- presumably landing in the periphery of the Dragon Pit.

Dragons were fascinating creatures, but they were still terrifying. Unlike many others throughout the Seven Kingdoms, you were glad not to have been born a Targaryen… No one had ever heard of someone being burned or eaten alive by roses.

You would have been content to stay there and watch the incoming ships sail into the bay with the Princess until the sun set, but you knew you both had duties to attend to elsewhere. You looked over at her with an apologetic look.

“We should return to your chambers soon, Your Grace. The earlier you are dressed and ready, the better.”

It went without saying that Princess Rhaenyra being late to the welcome feast would simply be unacceptable.

“We will, shortly,” she promised distractedly, her focus having returned to the bay.

You felt sympathy for her. You had a feeling that, would it have been possible, Princess Rhaenyra would have had heirs for her line whilst forgoing marriage altogether. Alas, not even the Targaryens were that magical, and a King Consort would be needed for some things.

“Princess Rhaenyra… Lady Y/N.”

The pair of you turned around to face the third party who had joined you.

“Ser Harwin!” Princess Rhaenyra gleamed, before looking at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “To what do we owe the pleasure, My Lord?”

Ser Harwin smiled patiently. “A messenger informed me that you had requested my presence, Your Grace.”

“Did I?” Princess Rhaenyra feigned, looking at you with mock confusion. “Well, I simply cannot recall why I may have done that… My sincerest apologies, Ser Harwin.”

“No apologies needed, Your Grace,” Ser Harwin assured her cordially.

His eyes drifted calmly over to you. In a flash, you caught a wink he sent in your direction, causing your eyes to fall to the dirt path beneath you.

“Well,” Princess Rhaenyra said then, taking a few steps away from the balcony and back into gardens. “You are absolutely correct, Lady Y/N- I should return to my chambers and get ready for the feast at once.”

“Would you like me to go with you, Your Princess?” you asked her, though you already knew her answer.

Princess Rhaenyra came to a stop beside Ser Harwin and vaguely waved you off over her shoulder. “No, no, no. Take your time. The girls will assist me until you arrive.”

Ser Harwin looked amused.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” you called to her, smirking.

“Princess,” Ser Harwin nodded her respectfully as she proceeded to walk away and head back towards the Red Keep.

Such had been a little “game” of hers as of late. The Princess seemed to take far too much amusement out of summoning the knight nicknamed Breakbones, finding a convenient reason to excuse herself, and leaving the two of you alone. Though her game had the potential to create quite the scandal for the pair of you, should you be spotted together in a compromising scene without any escort, you knew without a doubt that Princess Rhaenyra meant no harm. In fact, you were rather grateful for her meddling ways.

Once the Princess was out of earshot, Ser Harwin took a step forward, closing the distance between you. He nodded to you in greeting, but when he spoke this time, his tone was far more tender than it had been just a few moments before.

“My Love.”

You tilted your head upwards to look at him better. The mere sight of him caused you to smile so widely that it felt as though your face might go numb from the joy you were trying to contain. “Dearest.”

Of all the changes that had been occurring in Westeros, none had bore more of an impact on or immersed as much as your newfound courtship with Ser Harwin Strong.

“You look breathtaking today, as usual.”

Your cheeks burned. “Thank you, My Lord.”

You still weren’t used to Ser Harwin’s praises, but part of you hoped you never would be. The fluttering you felt in your stomach upon hearing the sweet words reminded you just how much you cared for the man in front of you.

You attempted to joke, “If you think of me as beautiful now, you should see me in the gown I am to wear to the feast.”

Ser Harwin happily took the bait. “I assure you, I have been counting down the hours until my eyes are blessed with the sight.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling any wider. You took a moment to glance around you, ensuring that the two of you were alone. Once you were confident that you would not be heard, or overseen, you took another step closer towards the man that held your heart, extending your hands outwards to him as you did so.

Ser Harwin took his hands in your own hands with practiced ease. His hands were calloused from years of training and fighting, but you wouldn’t have changed that. The feel of your intertwined hands was grounding… and you needed to be grounded whenever you spoke with him lately, as his words tended to leave you bogged in an enamored daze.

His eyes, which looked upon you with nothing but the utmost care, tended to cloud your mind terribly, too.

“You look particularly happy today,” you noted, an unspoken question lingering in your tone.

“Seeing My Lady does tend to uplift my spirits,” Ser Harwin admitted playfully, his thumbs running lightly over the back of your hands.

You gave him an equally playful stern look. “My Lord,” you chided, laughing once. “You are a charmer, I will grant you that… But you know that is not what I meant.”

Ser Harwin gently raised one of your hands to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon it. The action would normally have caused you to nearly swoon, but you pushed onwards, desperate for an answer to your question.

“Harwin,” you plead, lowering your voice as you addressed him informally, in the hope that it might cause him to focus. It worked- something shifted within his eyes, and suddenly, he looked more alert, more attentive.

“Please tell me,” you asked of him, “Has there been any news?”

The news which you sought was that of your impending betrothal.

Much had happened in both of your personal lives since Derron Tyrell’s visit to King’s Landing some time ago. Ser Harwin Strong’s letter that he’d written to your father had compelled your brother to travel to discuss the matter with him, and his father, Lord Lyonel, in person. Upon his arrival, your brother’s first inquiry in the matter was as to whether a betrothal to Ser Harwin was something you truly desired.

The Strongs were a noble family, and Harrenhal was the largest castle in all of Westeros, despite the ghastly tales. It was also worth mentioning that Harwin was now son to the newly appointed Hand of the King. But you were the only daughter of Lord Larris Tyrell, Defender of the Marshes, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South… and all those other titles. You were from the Great House of the Reach, and Ser Harwin, while the oldest son and heir, was of a smaller noble house from the Riverlands. Not to mention that the Hand of the King was not a position that guaranteed any permanency.

Your father and brother had long since decided that they would choose a suitor for you, but they had also made no promises about denying you a suitor who they deemed as unworthy. They both wanted reassurance that this marriage would bring you true happiness, and not one arranged merely because Ser Harwin Strong had been the first to make an offer. After all, there were more advantageous matches for you that could be made… and there had been a mention of a certain Lannister or two.

You attempted to tell your brother about how your attachment to Ser Harwin, and his to you, had developed. You hoped it might explain why Ser Harwin had been compelled to write such a letter.

“Am I to understand this is a love match, then?” your brother had asked then, hopefully.

It most certainly was.

You could still recall the scene in your mind…

…

Your heart pounded in your chest. You had sent word through a personal messenger, one whom the Princess used frequently for her own devices when subtlety and discretion was of the utmost importance.

Ser Harwin must have gotten your message, as he was already waiting for you out in the castle gardens, in the exact secluded spot where you had requested to meet with him.

“Lady Y/N… I heard the Red Keep welcomed a visitor from the Reach today,” he jested, visibly nervous once more, just as he had been when you had spoken with him last. “Perhaps they are an acquaintance of yours?”

You wordlessly withdrew the letter, which you had clutched tightly in your fist, and presented it to him. “This letter… This letter that you wrote to my father. What does this mean?”

“Have you read it?” he asked, eyeing the parchment with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“Please,” you begged. “I have spent the better part of my memory believing that you were taken with and about to be betrothed to another. My heart simply cannot take any more jests or delays at its expense… Speak plainly, My Lord. What does this letter mean?”

Upon the seriousness of your tone, which was a far cry from your usual playful banter and jovial attitudes the two of you had exchanged, Ser Harwin fell quiet, and his nerves immediately dissipated. You heard his jaw close, and for a moment, as he looked down at you with gravity in his eyes and upon his face, you feared he might not speak at all.

When he did, he spoke in a very calm voice.

“I can make my intentions very plain to you, My Lady,” he vowed. “If you will grant me permission to do so.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you were slightly off put by his choice of phrasing. “Of course, but-”

Ser Harwin silenced you by leaning down and capturing your lips with his own.

You froze, unsure of how to react to the foreign gesture. Before your brain or heart could fight for control of your next move, Ser Harwin withdrew from you, leaving you stunned, and, to your mild embarrassment, gawking up at him.

“You have captivated me, and stolen my heart right out from my chest. I know I have wronged you by not admitting this truth to you first, as I had intended. As punishment, know that my heart is yours to do with as you see fit… Though I would dare to beg you for mercy, Y/N. If you feel the same for me as I do for you, I ask that you grant me an honor which I most likely do not deserve, but will strive everyday for the rest of my life to be worthy of… I ask that you pledge yourself to me, and become my wife.”

…

How could the truth have been right in front of your eyes for so long, and yet you had mistaken it for something else entirely?! It was a folly you would not soon let yourself live down, that much was for certain.

“And, should you not feel the same,” Ser Harwin continued, noting your silence, “and I have now wronged you in more ways than one, you need only say so. I shall leave you at once, and without a word. We shall never speak of this aga-”

With a newfound sense of courage you did not know you possessed, you stood up on your toes, and kissed the man you loved right back.

It was Ser Harwin’s turn to be silenced.

There was no telling how long the pair of you stayed out that night, tucked away from the rest of the Red Keep and all of King’s Landing, just enjoying being in the presence of each other. But there was one more moment you recall definitively.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Also, my answer is yes.”

“I… hoped as much, My Lady.”

 …

You almost let out a wistful sigh. The memory of that night was still clearly visible in your mind’s eye, just as clear as Harwin was now, standing before you.

Had you both been commoners, you would have already been wed. Ser Harwin had admitted as much, and you agreed. But as both of your families were of the nobility, the two of you were forced to wait as your fathers negotiated the finer details of the exchange instead.

After your brother had learned the truth of your feelings, and after having a private conversation with Ser Harwin shortly after, Derron met with Lord Lyonel to begin the discussions. But, as your father was to be made privy to every detail, the negotiations had not been complete by the time your brother was due to return to Highgarden.

Lord Lyonel Strong had presented your brother with the details of his most recent offer, and shortly after, you returned to Highgarden with your brother to see your father. You were glad to visit him, and to learn that his health had improved from what you had last heard and feared. Your father was happy to see you too- not only as a faithful and dutiful servant to Princess Rhaenyra, but also as a woman who was soon to be wed to her love, an honorable knight who was more than capable of providing for and protecting her.

Your father reviewed the offer made by Lord Lyonel, and wrote his own counteroffer. You presented it to Lord Lyonel upon your return to King’s Landing, and the waiting began. Since then, for a long few weeks, ravens flew from King’s Landing to Highgarden and back, many, many times, as the negotiations continued.

The issue of your dowry proved to be a significant hurdle. At first, Your father couldn’t help but be a little suspicious of the Strongs’ motives with the proposed alliance. Throughout all the Seven Kingdoms, the Tyrells were second in wealth only to the Lannisters. You knew that acquiring wealth was the last thing on Ser Harwin’s mind when confessed his feelings to you, and he’d said as much several times since. But eventually, a dowry amount was settled upon that was found to be acceptable for both families. There was an additional stipulation- all of the funds were to go towards repairs to Harrenhal and its surrounding grounds. The hope was that doing so would make the castle safer for you and your husband… and eventually, your children.

Since then, the negotiation points had been of little concern to either of you: where the wedding would take place, who would pay for what parts of the celebration, where you would spend parts of the year, and what surname your children would have. It was all trifling. Both you and Ser Harwin just wanted the negotiations to conclude, and the sooner, the better.

“Unfortunately, I have no news for you today, My Lady,” he informed you, his thumbs still tracing lightly over the backs of your hands. His gaze lifted from your intertwined hands, and he looked deeply into your eyes. “But my father assures me that they are close to reaching a final agreement.”

You didn’t have the heart to point out to him that he had already been telling you that for quite some time. “Let us hope.”

Ser Harwin looked about your surroundings briefly, confirming that you were still alone. In consolation to your disappointment, he leant downwards, and placed a soft kiss upon your forehead.

Despite your frustrations, and his own, it could always be said that Harwin never hesitated to do whatever he could to reassure you that the match between you was one worth waiting for.

“You look beautiful, Your Grace.”

Princess Rhaenyra turned her head over her shoulder and smiled at you as you entered her chambers. Two ladies- who happened to be none other than Ser Harwin’s younger sisters- attended to her. One smoothed out the skirts of her dress while the other was putting some adornments in her silver hair.

After their father had been appointed Hand of the King, the two girls had only recently been chosen by the Princess to serve as her junior ladies in waiting. They were a few years younger than you and the Princess, but old enough to have some scrutiny and tact about them, and they were eager to please. Both were already dressed and prepared for the welcome feast.

You looked over the Princess’ appearance with mock scrutiny, but ultimately smiled. “The two of you did such an excellent job… I fear I shall no longer be of service soon.”

Princess Rhaenyra rolled her eyes playfully. “Come now, Lady Y/N- how ever would I get on without you?” One of the girls presented her with a hand mirror. The Princess looked over her appearance for a moment before giving a small nod. “This will do. Thank you very much, My Ladies.”

The girls smiled, giddy with her praise.

“You two should head on over to the throne room,” Princess Rhaenyra dismissed them. “I’ll have Lady Y/N attend to whatever is left.”

The girls nodded in understanding, curtsied, and promptly left the Princess’ chambers.

Princess Rhaenyra picked up the small mirror again, and apprised her appearance once more. You caught a glimpse of her face in the reflection from your place a few feet away, and it was with a twinge of sadness that you realized how downtrodden she looked.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” you asked her quietly, subtly offering her an opportunity to speak about whatever was on her mind.

Unfortunately, the Princess did not wish to speak of whatever was troubling her. She put the mirror down and turned to face you. “Yes, all is well,” she answered, though her tone still left you questioning the sincerity of her words. She smiled at you teasingly, and inquired, “Is everything alright with you, Lady Y/N?”

You pursed your lips, fighting off a smile.

“Has there been any news?” the Princess asked, eargerly and expectantly.

Though you still were in her service, Princess Rhaenyra had become a true friend and confidant of yours. She was knowledgeable of the negotiations stalling your marriage to Ser Harwin, and was sympathetic for you.

“Not yet,” you answered, unable to disguise the disappointment in your voice.

“I am sorry to hear that… But the night is still young,” Princess Rhaenyra noted optimistically. “I bet that by the end of the week, another betrothal announcement shall be made.”

You certainly hoped so, but didn’t want to get your hopes up.

“You should get ready for the feast,” she said then, giving you something else to focus on. “The seamstress put the finishing touches I asked for upon your dress, and left it over there.”

You walked over to the bed, where Princess Rhaenyra had gestured to. Your eyes immediately spotted the gown in question. The Princess had requested that all her ladies wore similar gowns, all of the same color, for the welcome feast. Your gown was a little bit more… revealing, than what the Strong ladies had been given, but it was more suitable for each of your ages that way.

“The color matches the jewels in your hair,” you observed with a smile.

Princess Rhaenyra returned the smile, pleased that you found the gown as gorgeous as she did.

The welcome feast had begun.

The esteemed guests from all across Westeros who had traveled to King’s Landing for the festivities were announced one by one, before paying their respects to the King and Princess.

The Queen had yet to arrive.

You were the only representative of House Tyrell to attend, and conveyed your apologies to King Viserys on your family’s behalf. Your father had taken ill once more- another factor that had played a role in the pace at which the marriage negotiations were taking place- and your brother Derron had no choice but to stay in Highgarden to help him manage affairs.

Since you were alone, you had no one immediately obvious with which to sit for the meal. Your betrothal to Ser Harwin was not yet official, so you had been assigned a seat beside the Hightowers and other noble families of other houses from the Reach. You knew most of them well enough to be able to carry out polite conversation, to accept well wishes for your father, and to inquire as to the state of their own houses and health.

But you couldn’t help it as your eyes drifted forlornly down towards the opposite end of the table, where Ser Harwin was seated with the majority of his family. You caught his eye every now and then, and when you did, the two of you played an unspoken game to see which would be the first to break and look away.

House Velaryon was the last to enter the throne room, and the attention of everyone else in the room was commanded by the sight. As House Velaryon strode over to the high table, which was positioned just in front of the Iron Throne, thunderous applause rang out. Though Lord Coryls had been no stranger to the Court during King Viserys’ reign, his wife, the Princess Rhaenys, and their children were not so often seen. Everyone was eager to lay eyes upon the future King Consort, Ser Laenor, and his sister, Lady Laena.

The princess rose from her seat to greet her betrothed, and shortly thereafter, the Velaryons and the rest of their household were seated. Everyone else in the room followed suit, save the King, who looked over the crowd. You looked over towards King Viserys and waited for his speech to begin.

But suddenly, the King’s cheerful face fell, and muffled whisperings around you filled your ears. You followed the King’s appalled look over to the entryway, where none other than Prince Daemon was making his way into the throne room. Ser Harrold did not bother to announce him- he was probably as shocked as most everyone else in the room.

The whispers did not cease as Daemon approached the high table calmly, acting as though he had not been exiled by the King, again, not too long ago.

You looked over at Rhaenyra and tried to gauge her reaction to the uninvited guest. If she had known about her uncle’s impending return for the wedding, she had not told you of it- though you honestly could not say whether she would have. The pair of you had a special bond, but the bond between her and Prince Daemon would always be stronger.

Thankfully, the Princess looked just as surprised to see her uncle as everyone else, though she was much better at concealing her facial reaction than the King. Once Daemon was before the high table, you thought King Viserys might call for his head right then and there. But instead, after a moment of thought, he beckoned for a chair to be brought out for him. Prince Daemon was seated beside the Hand, Lord Lyonel, and the room began to settle from the interruption.

King Viserys smiled once more, though it was more strained than genuine, and began his welcoming speech. Unfortunately, he was not able to get very far into it, before it was disrupted once more.

All eyes in the room once again turned towards the entryway. Unlike with the previous tardy guest, no whispers erupted this time. Instead, the room was overcome with a bone-chilling silence.

Queen Alicent had finally arrived. But what was more shocking than her blatant disrespect of King Viserys was the outfit she had chosen instead.

She wore a bright, emerald green gown.

Those seated rose respectfully as she made her way over to the high table. Despite those who you were seated with- other members of House Hightower being seated just a few seats down from you- your eyes involuntarily narrowed as the Queen passed you. Just what point was she trying to get across with her choice of garment?

You’d never seen the sight with your own eyes before, only having read about it in books and having heard it in tales from your father. But you knew, very well, what color the beacon in Oldtown glowed when the Hightowers called their banners to war.

Green.

Once the Queen was seated, the King was finally able to finish his speech, and dinner was served. You still snuck glances at Ser Harwin as often as you dared, though the looks you gave him now were probably laced with little else but concern.

Once the meal was over, you were grateful for the dancing to begin, for it gave you a perfect excuse to stand and socialize with other guests whom you were not immediately seated by. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor were the first to take the floor, as was the tradition, but once the dance was complete, the other guests slowly but surely joined in the fun.

You rose from your seat and walked over towards the end of the table, joining the group of nobles who had gathered there to observe those already on the dancefloor.

“Lady Y/N.”

You turned, and were pleasantly surprised to find Lord Lyonel Strong standing beside you.

“My Lord,” you greeted him with a smile.

“Are you enjoying the feast so far, My Lady?” he inquired then.

The question was innocent enough, but difficult to answer truthfully. Your eyes darted over to Queen Alicent, and then Prince Daemon, who were both still seated. Well aware of the fact that you could be overheard, you simply answered, “This feast will be remembered for quite some time to come, I am sure.”

“I do not disagree,” Lord Lyonel said knowingly, having noted whom you had glanced at. Lord Lyonel, on the surface, gave the air of an uncomplicated man. But you were beginning to suspect that there was more to him than one might assume. A lord from a small noble house in the Riverlands didn’t become appointed Hand of the King by mere chance.

“Lady Y/N,” he said then, in a much quieter tone that grabbed your attention immediately, as was its purpose. “I do want to thank you for your patience as this business with Highgarden is negotiated.”

Lord Lyonel’s statement was decently vague, but you knew immediately what he was referring to. “Thank you, My Lord. I understand that such matters are necessary, though I would deny that it has not begun to feel tedious at times.”

Lord Lyonel gave you a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I will be glad once everything has been settled. I must admit, I was, and still am, pleased by the proposition. I think all parties involved stand to benefit greatly… specifically, my son. I am grateful that House Tyrell has considered him to be a worthy business partner.”

He approved of the match; that the subtext of his cordial words. But even more so, Lord Lyonel was pleased that the match contributed greatly to the happiness of his son.

“There is more to Ser Harwin than his nickname,” you said decisively. “I believe Lord Tyrell and my brother simply needed some guidance in order to see that.”

Lord Lyonel nodded courteously.

As if he had known he was the topic of your very conversation, Ser Harwin made his way through the onlookers. He came to a stop before the two of you, and nodded to Lord Lyonel in greeting. “Father.”

Then he turned to you. He looked remarkable, dressed in finer clothes than what he typically donned, and a significant section of his hair had been pulled up and tied back, revealing the handsome features of his face. You were so lost in the sight of him, you almost didn’t register that he had spoken to you.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, giving you a charming smile. Said smile was offered to many, but it never was accompanied with the twinkle in his eyes that shone now. That had become exclusively reserved for you, a thought that both made you feel humble and filled you with pride. “I think it to be an insult that you have not been asked to dance thus far. Could you find it in your heart to grant me the honor?”

You looked towards his outstretched hand, and attempted to minimize the love-sick expression you undoubtedly wore. “It would be my pleasure, Ser Harwin.”

With one last glance at Lord Lyonel, you took Ser Harwin’s hand and allowed him to escort you to the dance floor.

You seldom had the opportunity to spend such time with Ser Harwin in public, and you reveled in every minute of it. The incredible ease you felt with him, whether it was while dancing, talking, or simply being in the presence of each other, was one that had yet to be matched.

As the pair of you went on about the dance, turning and spinning and stepping about as the song dictated, you conversed quietly.

“You truly are a vision tonight,” Ser Harwin complemented, causing your cheeks to burn both with mild embarrassment and in pain from your amused smile. “Better than I even dared to dream of.”

“Thank you, My Lord. … But now, I wonder- do you dream of me often, Ser Harwin?” you jested, taking his hand and twirling once.

Once you had turned around, you nearly came face to face with his broad chest; the two of you were suddenly much closer than before.

“Since you asked,” Ser Harwin said, leaning down so as to speak directly into your ear, “There are few nights that you do not haunt my dreams, My Lady.”

Before anyone could notice the inappropriate distance between yourselves, you each took a step back, and continued the dance smoothly.

You were taken aback, but pleasantly so. “Haunt?” you echoed. “Am I a ghost, plaguing you with nightmares?”

“I assure you,” he said, suavely stepping beside and turning to you in time with the music, “Not all ghosts are bad. Nor could any sight of you gracing my mind whilst I am asleep ever be considered a nightmare.”

Before you could think of something charming or witty to respond with, you noticed someone making their way onto the dance floor. It was with dread that they were headed directly towards you.

“I fear our time together is about to be cut short,” Ser Harwin announced, also making note of it.

You forced a smile as you greeted the interrupter of your lovely moment. “Lord Loreon.”

Loreon Lannister merely nodded cooly to Ser Harwin in his own way of greeting. The gesture made you want to give him a verbal lashing for his impoliteness, but since you were surrounded by others, and it was not yet socially acceptable for you and Ser Harwin to show any sort of attachment to the other, you were limited.

Ser Harwin knew just as much, too. He politely refused to acknowledge the disrespect, and greeted the other man anyways. “My Lord.”

“Might I cut in?”

Ser Harwin had no choice but to allow Lord Loreon to do so, and he knew that. The little weasel.

“I hope you enjoy the rest of the feast, Lady Y/N,” Ser Harwin said to you.

“And I you, My Lord.”

You watched with mild sadness as your love wandered off the dance floor before disappearing amongst the crowd of nobles watching on the outskirts.

A new song began, and you forced your feet to move, engaging in a dance once more.

Lord Loeron, though a few years your junior, had grown into a man since you had last seen him. However, he was still a young one at that, and you had your suspicions that the passing years made him no more wise. The boy- young man- had always lacked some tact. You’d hoped his father, Lord Jason Lannister, had instilled some sense in him, as Loreon was his only son and heir. But from what Princess Rhaenyra had shared with you regarding Lord Lannister’s own behavior and choice comments as of late, you severely doubted it.

“You’ve grown since I last saw you, My Lord.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Loreon granted. “Though I am afraid that I am nowhere near the size of Breakbones.”

You frowned in displeasure at his insinuating comment.

Your courtship with Ser Harwin while your fathers worked out the details of your marriage was not exactly a secret. But, other than Lord Jason on the occasion, Lannisters had been sparse at Court as of late… You concluded that the walls must have had ears. You only hoped that they did not have eyes as well.

“I am surprised by your choice of gown, Lady Y/N- I thought you might wear green, as it is a color of your House.”

And also the color with which Queen Alicent had chosen to draw a metaphorical line in the struggle for power.

You answered, “Princess Rhaenyra deemed it fit that all her ladies should wear gowns of Targaryen red tonight.”

“A wise decision by the Princess,” Lord Loreon declared. “I’m sure you look just as lovely in gold, as it is the other of your House’s colors... Though, perhaps a gown of red and gold would suit you best?”

You paused briefly, before forcing yourself to continue the steps. You feigned, “I’m afraid I do not understand what you mean, My Lord.”

“No, I suppose you do not. Perhaps my father shall arrange to meet with yours, and they can sort it out for the two of us. We would not dare spend any longer than necessary on negotiations. We know how much a marriage to the daughter of Lord Tyrell is worth, just as I am sure you know how valuable the marriage to the son of Lord Lannister is.”

You let out a small sigh, your patience for pleasantries completely diminished by his goading words. “If that is your way of proposing marriage, My Lord, it seems there is still vast room for improvement to be had in ways of your eloquence and common sense.”

Lord Loreon narrowed his eyes at you, but did not cease his dancing. In a threateningly low tone, he demanded, “You dare insult me?”

As suspected, time had not made him more wise. Lord Loreon’s pride was wounded just as easily as it always had been.

“It is I that has been insulted, My Lord. Asking for my hand so crudely, and during the wedding feast for the future Queen, no less?” you countered swiftly. “I think my father would be most displeased with House Lannister if he heard of this, not to mention the King.”

Lord Loreon finally stopped partaking in the dance. He looked very cross. He opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by several loud, piercing screams.

Immediately, the dance floor descended into a state of chaos. Initially, you were shoved backwards, as some sort of altercation took place in the middle of the dance floor. You could not see the individuals throwing fists, but you heard the sickening thuds of their punches landing mercilessly upon the other, despite the commotion of the crowd.

You looked back over towards Lord Loreon, only to discover that he had taken the moment of distraction to abandon you. However, you had expected no less of him.

Suddenly, the tune of the crowd changed. Encouraging shouts as the brawlers went after one another turned into horrified screaming. Guards flooded the room and attempted to make their way towards the middle of the crowd.

As the crowd shifted with the movement, you were unceremoniously shoved backwards and down onto the ground. The legs of others nearby as they shuffled backwards and out of the way were encroaching upon you rapidly.

Despite your position, you heard Princess Rhaenyra cry out, “Laenor!”

A horrible thought struck you. The Princess had been on the dance floor as well- you had seen her not but a few moments before. Was she still entangled somewhere in all of this mess? You had to help her.

You tucked your chin, and used the chair you had fallen up against as leverage to hoist yourself up and off the ground. Your eyes searched the crowd, and you felt dismayed when the Princess was not immediately in sight. “Princess?!”

Before you could decide on your next move of action, someone promptly picked you up, and threw you over their shoulder.

In the midst of everything going on, you were unable to get a good look at your sudden captor. You shouted protests and fought back, kicking and punching the man who had decided to take advantage of the situation as he proceeded to push his way through the crowd and away from the dance floor.

“Y/N,” a very familiar voice huffed, before gently placing you back on your own two feet.

It was Ser Harwin.

He hadn’t been your captor, no- but rather, your savior.

You watched in a stunned silence as Ser Harwin quickly looked you over with concern, putting his hands on your shoulders to get your attention. “Are you alright?” he demanded, gently but urgently. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” you replied quickly. “I’m fine.”

He’d placed you near the high table, where his father, and the rest of the royal family, even Queen Alicent, looked onwards towards the fight that the guards were still attempting to break up.

“Where’s Rhaenyra?” you heard the King ask, his increasing worry audibly evident.

“The Princess!” you said, suddenly recalling what you had set out to do before Ser Harwin had whisked you away- find Princess Rhaenyra, and make sure she was alright. You looked up at him pleadingly, before gesturing over from whence you both had just come. The Princess was still nowhere to be seen. “I heard her, right over there!”

Ser Harwin looked from where you had gestured and up towards his father. Lord Lyonel, also looking concerned, nodded over to the chaos as a silent go-ahead.

Ser Harwin fought his way back into and through the crowd, and you watched with bated breath as he did so. As much as you were concerned for the Princess’ safety as the seconds passed, so were you worried for him, as he quite literally punched and pushed his way through the half rioting and half panicking crowd.

Some ways away, he bent down and disappeared beneath your line of sight. Just as quickly, he stood once more, with Princess Rhaenyra over the top of his shoulder, as he had done to you. He couldn’t make his way back through the crowd quick enough.

Ser Harwin deposited Princess Rhaenyra down on the ground beside you, and you fussed over her immediately.

“Your Grace!” you exclaimed worriedly. “Are you hurt?”

Thankfully, Princess Rhaenyra looked more upset than physically injured. “I’m fine, I’m fine… What in Seven Hells is going on?!”

“Rhaenyra!” Her father beckoned her over to him, and she did not hesitate to heed him. With one last glance at you, she thanked Ser Harwin before joining the King.

The shouting silenced abruptly, drawing your attention back to the fight.

The crowd parted down the middle, revealing a gruesome scene. Ser Criston Cole was laying fatal blows upon another man, who laid practically motionless beneath him. You could not recognize the man from here, but you recognized the colors he wore as someone who was likely to have attended the feast with House Velaryon. The crowd stepped back further still, forced to do so by the guards who had finally managed to intervene. Then, the room went still.

Ser Criston, bloodied, and with a look upon his face that had been numbed with pure rage, halted his blows.

The man beneath him was dead.

Like wildfire, the crowd dispersed, fleeing the throne room. Nothing good would come of this- at the very least, the feast would not be able to continue. A member of the Kingsguard had just punched a man to death!

“Go, you two,” you heard the light but commanding voice of Lord Lyonel from behind you. To Harwin, he added, “See to it that Larys and your sisters make haste as well.”

You looked over at Rhaenyra, who was watching the results of the madness unfold with a sombered look on her face. But you had no time to decide whether or not to try and console her, for Ser Harwin had already begun to guide you out of the throne room. As instructed, he corralled his brother and sisters and made certain that they headed towards the exit too.

“Don’t,” he told you quietly as you passed the dead man’s body, evidently having read your mind. “I wouldn’t look.”

You were thankful that Ser Harwin had strategically placed himself between you and the body as you walked by, for it had been your gut reaction to do just that. You gripped his arm as he escorted you that much tighter, thankful to have been spared from seeing such a ghastly sight.

As you passed under the threshold, the anguished sobs of Ser Laenor echoed off the walls behind you.

That evening, in a private ceremony witnessed by only the families of those involved, Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen and Ser Laenor of House Velaryon were wed. The remaining festivities that had been planned for the rest of the week were canceled. King Viserys decided that, given the events of the welcome feast, the sooner the two were wed, the better.

Despite the sense of gloominess that hung over the Red Keeps in the days to follow, personal good news had presented itself to you the very next morning. A raven had arrived, from Highgarden, no less. Negotiations were complete.

Your betrothal to Ser Harwin Strong was, finally, to be official.

At the end of the week, Princess Rhaenyra and her new husband Prince Consort left King’s Landing for a small post-wedding sailing trip.

Your betrothal was officially announced the following day. You were ecstatic- for now, you no longer had to hide or deny your attachment to the strongest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms. Instead, you could celebrate it. And you would, too- with any luck, the two of you would be wed in less than a few fortnights, a few moons at the most.

The day after the announcement brought another raven from Highgarden. But this time, the news was not the cause of any celebration.

Your father, Lord Tyrell, had succumbed to sickness. 

Perhaps the Maesters had been wrong in their diagnosis of the ailment and ineffective with their treatment… Perhaps your father knew what was inevitable, but had held on just long enough to see to it that you would be looked after once he was gone.

…

The winds of change had come to blow through Westeros. With the winds, came storms.

But with Harwin by your side, you knew that you would be able to weather them all.

᯽ Part 4 of this story, From This Day, Part 1/2, can be read HERE. ᯽

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!🖤 I have (at least) one more part tentatively planned for this, but after started writing this, I came up with another idea... So, how do we feel about seeing the wedding?👀 Cuz I was gonna do another little time jump to the next part, but now I’m not so sure... Let me know what you think!

ALSO... does anyone else wanna talk about last night’s episode?! Because I have so many thoughts... ugh. It was so great. I cannot.

***The masterlist for this story can be found HERE.***

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[bohemian-nights]

Arlī(Anew)-Chapter 6

Word Count: ~10,442

Rating: 18+

Warnings⚠️: Uncle/niece incest; minor smut; blood

Description: “I fear I will go mad if I stay here.” Naerys needed to be away from Dragonstone for a little while. Away from all that she herself had lost.

AN: This story takes place from episode 5 onward. I’ve changed things up a bit but I’ve kept the timeline intact.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9

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120 AC- Driftmark

Death is a strange thing. It’s as natural as living even more so, but one never thinks of it that way. Lurking around every corner. It is the final act of one’s life. An inescapable fate. Sometimes a grand finale. Other times a quiet whimper. It often visits in pairs. Prolonging the suffering of the loved ones left behind. Such was the case in 120 AC.

Death first visited the unlucky halls of Harrenhall. A fire swept through the cursed castle taking Ser Harwin Strong and his father Lord Lyonel Strong to their graves. Naerys had never cared much more either. Ser Harwin, though an admirable father to her cousin's children, and his bastards alike, was a poor husband.

There could be no question that Ser Harwin was undeserving of her cousin. He had a lady of house Velaryon for a wife, a young graceful Valyrian bride, and yet that was not enough for him. He instead spent too much of his time in the company of another. Fathering children with said other when his priorities should have lied closer to home.

Naerys did not know the elder Strong well. Lord Strong was a blank sheet of parchment as far as the princess could tell. He did not have the presence and guile of the previous hand, now reinstalled hand, Ser Otto Hightower. The Strong’s were a noble house yet they lacked the distinction of other riverlands houses like the Blackwood’s or the Bracken’s. They had in truth only held their seat for a generation. The Strongs had thus far failed to make their mark upon Harrenhal and Westeros at large.

Then there was Laena. Sweet Laena. A beautiful, vivacious Velaryon woman. A trueborn daughter of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. The blood of the dragon ran thick through her veins as much as the blood of the seas. A noble lady who might have been queen one day had it not been for their great grandsires stubbornness.

While Naerys had not cared much for the Strongs she did mourn her cousin's death. Laena was the closest thing to a sister that the princess had. She had been the one that Naerys went to when she could not or did not dare to ask her aunt for womanly advice. She had taught her cousin how to claim Silverwing as she had claimed Vhagar. Now the brown silver-haired woman was gone along with a son who never drew breath, but the Stranger was far from finished with adding to his collection.

Death was to visit twice more, but it was Aenys birth and immediate departure that had been the final blow to Naerys. Aenys funeral was a quiet affair. Ser Vaemond had been made to leave Dragonstone that night. Daemon blamed the Valyrian knight for his son's death. Naerys was not due for another week. If she had not been made to go into early labor, if she had not heard the distressing news perhaps their son might have lived.

The princess had to be carried down to the beach by her husband where their son’s cloth-wrapped body had been placed. She was the one who gave the command to light the pyre. She insisted upon it. Her small cry of “dracarys” was carried by the wind into Silverwings ears. Naerys had gone mute for nearly a week after.

By the fourth day of her silence, she refused to eat. Pushing trays of food away whenever one of her maids arrived. They tried tempting her with her favorite treats, but Naerys simply pulled herself further under her covers. This went on for two more days before a weary Daemon who had seated himself on their bed and curled himself around her. “Daenys iksos asking syt zȳhon muñnykeā byka mēre.” Daenys is asking for her mother little one.

Their daughter had been barred from entering their chamber. Naerys could not face the girl. She had left her husband to deal with her alone. Why should she burden the girl when she had failed as a mother? Failed to deliver a healthy son into the world. Who knew what further damage she might cause?

But her daughter cared not. She wanted her mother. Naerys was Daenys mother before she had been Aenys and she would be there long after the babe had gone. She was a living breathing girl. Did she not matter? All she asked for was her mother's company.

It was not fair of Naerys to deprive her living child of her mother. Daenys was used to the loss of her mother's babes, but she would not grow used to her mother's absence. Naerys had to return to the land of the living. The girl was sent for, along with some broth and bread with honey to break her fast.

Daenys sat with her mother as she ate. Climbing into her parent's bed and fixing herself to Naerys side as she prattled on about a toy Helana had sent as well as the bow and arrow set her father had gifted her. The young princess had found the latter gift to be much more agreeable than her long-since discarded training sword.

It was advised by Maester Orlys that attending Laena’s funeral on Driftmark might put a strain on Naerys' fragile condition. Daemon had agreed with the kindly older man. The stress of the journey alone could disrupt her slow recovery. Naerys was a long way from being whole. Her hunger strike had not helped matters. She was just now regaining her strength. Only being able to stand for short periods of time before exhausting herself and having to sit back down.

It would in truth take months before the princess was back to her old self. Naerys needed proper rest. Rest that could be found within Dragonstone’s walls. There was no need to stress herself, but Naerys remained firm on wanting to leave for Driftmark much to her uncle's dismay.

“Ziry istan issa dubāzma kepus.” She was my cousin uncle. It was late in the evening as Naerys and Daenys had curled up in Daemon's lap, The family was seated by the chamber’s fire. The little girl was dozing off when her mother softly spoke the words to her father.

Laena would do the same for her. Nothing would have stopped her from seeing off Naerys. Why should she not pay her the same? Her son was gone. There was nothing left to do, but mourn his loss. That could be done on Driftmark as well as Dragonstone. She could stand idly by with all that had happened. Naerys owed her cousin her dues.

“Nyke zūgagon nyke jāhor jikagon vēdros lo nyke umbagon rȳbagon.” I fear I will go mad if I stay here. Naerys needed to be away from Dragonstone for a little while. Away from all that she herself had lost. Daemon folded to his wife’s request at her declaration. Maester Orlys was to journey with them and they were to leave if Naerys became overwhelmed, but they would go to Driftmark for Laena’s funeral.

Laena’s funeral was held a fortnight after her death. Enough time for family and friends to journey to Driftmark from Dragonstone and Kings Landing. Driftmark had always been a place of levity and sanctuary for Naerys. Her mother had fled to the stony shores of her childhood when she was just shy of her second name day. Her father had been dead not even a week before her mother fled for her brother’s keep.

“There are spies everywhere brother.” That is what her uncle had told Naerys when she had asked him why she had left with such urgency. Even Ser Vaemond did not entirely believe his little sister. He thought that the late Shaera Velaryon was overly paranoid. She had always been so, but it had worsened with age. Seeing danger when there had been none. “Naerys is not safe here.”

Her mother had gone to Jahaerys with her worries, but the old king dismissed her with a flick of his frail wrist. “She is no longer the heir. There is nothing to fear my lady. Naerys is in no danger from those at my court. There is little that they can accomplish by harming a babe girl.” He was old and cared little for the politics of the realm anymore aside from who would rule over the seven kingdoms after him. Now that line of succession was clear he did not see the threat to his great-granddaughter.

In her desperation, Shaera had gone to her late husband's half-brothers. Though they had never been close to their elder brother, Naerys was their blood. Surely they would care for their little niece's safety? Viserys merely echoed his grandsire's words, but it was Daemon to her surprise who did not make light of her fears. He too believed that his grandfather’s court was full of traitors and simpering sycophants.

The Velaryon lady had thought she had found a champion for her daughter until the Targaryen prince added, “It is a pity that my grandmother saw fit to marry me to my bronze bitch. If she had waited some years more I might have had your daughter to call my little bride. Naerys is such a sweet little thing. I would have enjoyed plucking her flower.”

Daemon claimed it was a joke when he recollected the story to his wife a year after their own daughter's birth, but he professed it while his cock was buried inside his niece's warmth. Hovering over her as he thrust in and out of her sopping heat with a dark look Naerys had grown to adore.

The rogue prince reached a hand down between their love-soaked bodies. Naerys grip tightened as her husband made slow circles around her clit to bring his niece to her peak. “I suppose I have my baby bride now.” She had decided that there had been some merit in her mother’s apprehension.

Naerys' first memories were at her uncle's castle, but the white stone walls of her youth were not the ones she remembered when they had arrived at High Tide. The light and splendor had all but vanished. The castle was as quiet as the grave itself though it was bursting at the seams from the number of guests that had invaded its hall. One of her cousins and his lady wife were the ones to greet them. Making apologies for their lord uncle and his princess wife’s absence.

Ser Laenor had locked himself within his chambers. Not even Rhaenyra nor their sons were allowed in. His parents were trying to coax the man out, but with little success. The heads of house Velaryon and their heir were not seen until the next day at their daughter's funeral.

Ser Vaemond was given the honor of delivering Laena’s eulogy. Naerys did not know why her aunt and uncle chose him for this task. Any one of her cousins or uncles would have done. Anyone who would not make the loss of their daughter about himself. Never one to disappoint, the Velaryon knight did not miss an opportunity to take center stage.

Naerys uncle wasted no time in praising the purity of Laena’s Velaryon blood. The dark man did not take his violet eyes off of Rhaenyra and her black-haired sons as he said so. The Targaryen woman shifted uncomfortably, pulling her boys closer to her. Laenor, her husband, stood apart from his wife and “sons.” Naerys would have pitied her had she not earlier looked at her empty belly with a smirk on the way down to the ragged shoreline.

Daemon let out a laugh at Ser Vaemond’s poorly disguised chastisements of the crown princess. The Rogue Prince paid no mind to the looks of displeasure that his inappropriate reaction received. Instead, he craned his neck down to whisper in his wife’s ear. “Perhaps with her strong knight gone she might give the realm proper heirs.”

Naerys could not join her husband in his satisfaction for it was what worried her the most. Rhaenyra’s lilac gaze locked onto their uncle the moment she had seen him. She had only taken her eyes off their uncle when the Velaryon knight began his derision of her sons. You promised. Her cousin's pleas from all those moons ago rattled around in her head. It had never left her. They were both in need of heirs now. Did Rhaenyra intend on collecting the debt she felt she was owed?

Thankfully Daemon’s smirk dropped when he noticed his niece-wife’s growing distress. Her husband's eyes softened as he placed a kiss on her head. “Hae ao emagon teptan issa ñuhon.” As you have given me mine. Daemon pointed his gaze down to the small girl between them who held her father’s hand. Daenys seemed to be more interested in her cousins who stood by their Hightower mother than her great uncle’s speech.

Ser Vaemond was the first to make his way over to where Naerys and her family stood once Laena’s coffin was lowered into the sea. He brought his son, Daeron, and his eldest grandson with him. Daemon’s son was a plump boy of nine who had inherited his mother’s grace, a doltish woman from a minor riverlands house.

The Velaryon knight took care to introduce Daenys to her Velaryon cousin. The boy let out a clumsy bow. Referring to their daughter as cousin Daenys with a bashful stutter. It was an amusing sight to see to all but his grandfather. Ser Vaemond wasted no time in correcting his grandson's lack of manners. “She is a princess and is to be Lady of Dragonstone as well.”

Naerys bristled at her uncle’s words. Perhaps Ser Vaemond had not thought anything of it. It was the truth of the matter, but he could not possibly think that his niece nor his good nephew were over the death of their child.

Naerys would excuse the blunder. It was a simple enough mistake, but her husband would not take so kindly to Vaemond’s prideful arrogance which led to his forgetfulness. They were all grieving and the first thing that he thought of was what he could gain from it.

“I do wonder if your grandson is as insipid as you Ser Vaemond?” It was spoken with a sneer as Daemon stared down the Velaryon knight. Vaemond’s self-assured smile had finally fallen. His son looked as if someone had struck him across the face before he began to make apologies for his father's gaffe. Daeron regained his composure enough to usher his son and fuming father away from the rogue prince's ire.

Once they were gone from their sight Daenys began to tug on her sleeve fathers. “Will I have to marry him?” A little frown of distaste graced her honey face. The last remnants of tension in the air dissipated as her parents laughed at her little worries. Their daughter was an observant girl. She knew of her duties, but she was still a girl. She had nothing to fear. Daemon would never marry her off to just any boy. Her father affectionately petted the top of her silver curls, reassuring her that she would not have to marry the halfwit.

Naerys bit her tongue. The boy was young, but he came from good stock. His father was dull true enough, but he was a good man. His grandsire Ser Vaemond, though proud, was a good husband and father to his lot. She would have to marry. Why not marry Daenys into her grandmother's house? They were of ancient and pure Valyrian blood after all their daughter could do worse.

“He’d bore her in a week. He’s even more useless than his grandfather.” Naerys' husband did not miss the look his wife had tried to conceal. They both knew that proposals had been made for Daenys hand. Dragonstone and the dragons that it posed were a prized offer. As was the little princess in her own right, for she was every inch a Targaryen beauty in the making. However, decisions on their daughter's future could wait for now.

From the corner of her eye, Naerys spotted the king looking their way. The man looked worse for wear, but he gave them a polite smile. Daemon had noticed too, but the man was avoiding his brother's eye line, but that would not do. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”

Daemon hesitated. He would not leave his niece's side. Not while she tired so easily, but Naerys simply smiled and reached up to place a kiss upon his pale cheek. “Go. I have your little shadow with me to guard me.” Daemon looked down at their daughter who gave her father a salute. Satisfied with her response and his wife’s insistence the man left telling Daenys to “Watch your mother, little dragon.”

It was not long before Daenys turned her violet eyes back toward where Alicent’s sons stood crowding around their sister. Her daughter was ever the dutiful princess, but she was still a child. She deserved a moment of respite. Kissing her daughter on the top of her head she sent her to her cousins. Naerys started to make her way over to comfort Rhaenys and her granddaughters, but she felt a hand reach out grasping her arm. Spinning her around she came to face Rhaenyra’s cool inspection.

“You are brave to come here Naerys.” If one did not know any better one would think that Rhaenyra was almost giddy. She did not look as though she were a woman in mourning. All traces of penitence from Ser Vaemond’s reproach were gone. “I confess, if I was in your position I would not be able to bear it.”

Rhaenyra turned her gaze toward where Daemon stood with her father. “Our poor uncle suffers so, as I am sure your daughter does as well.” Rhaenyra took her hand. “Do not worry aunt, all will be well soon enough.” Naerys never got the chance to reply as Rhaenyra left making her way over to Daemon. To give him comfort in his grief. Daemon looked relieved to see her.

It dawned on Naerys then. Rhaenyra could not be stopped. Not by her cousin at least. She had everything yet she wanted more. She had three healthy sons. A husband who though did not love her in the way that a man ought to love his wife cared for her and her children.

The crown princess had a lover who had been willing to risk everything for her consequences be damned. She would one day inherit the Iron Throne. It all meant nothing. Not when the one thing the one man Rhaenyra wanted remained out of reach. All that stopped her was their uncle's insistence that he had no need for another besides his wife.

What would happen if Daemon were to change his mind? He had always wanted Rhaenyra. It was who he had truly desired, but he settled for another Targaryen niece. He claimed otherwise, but Naerys knew. She knew.

Ser Laenor would hardly put up a fight. He had not minded when his wife had taken Ser Harwin for a lover. Their marriage was not a traditional one. No Rhaenyra and her bastards would be allowed to journey back to Dragonstone with them. Both needed heirs. Proper heirs. Daenys was a girl. She was not a proper heir by virtue of her sex. No amount of lessons her father could give her would change that. She had been born with the wrong parts.

What man would not want to see his son rule after him? What man would not want his own seed on the Iron Throne? Of course, Rhaenyra was still married, but that impediment could be resolved. An annulment perhaps?

It was not uncommon for a Targaryen to take on a second bride. Maegor The Cruel had six; his father before him had two. Who would stop them? The king was old and weak; he would not argue against the arrangement either as long as it did not happen in his presence and once the deed was done he would not go against the union. The faith would not dare go against the king's word. They would not risk another uprising.

Daemon would never cast Naerys aside true enough. Her uncle did care for her. He may not love her as he did Rhaenyra, but some part of him did love her. He would be a husband to her as he would be with Rhaenyra. He would visit both of their beds and Naerys would be made to watch with a smile on her face as the crown princess bared him son after son.

People would whisper and gossip of course. Around court, around Dragonstone, just as they had during the last set of her failures, but Naerys would have to get used to it. The princess would be made to endure Rhaenyra as Laena had. The offer of a son and true happiness would be too tempting to pass.

But Naerys was not Laena. She could not endure. She lacked her sweet patience and grace in the face of adversity. She would not be made a pariah at court, in her own home on Dragonstone. To be mocked and pitied as though she were some poor creature. She would not allow it. She would never be queen, but she was a dragon just the same as the rest. Dragons do not share. She had given her husband an heir. There was no need for the future queen in her uncle’s bed.

Naerys was still reeling from being bombarded by Rhaenyra when Ser Otto approached her. The hand of the king started out by making his apologies for Aenys loss. His pale blue eyes shone with solace. If Naerys did not know any better she would have thought it had been made in earnest. She did not want to think the worst of the man. His sympathy could be sincere. The man had not lost children, but he had lost a wife. By all accounts, he loved her as much as a man like himself could.

“Daenys is very fond of her cousin. As her cousins are fond of her.” The hand had turned his gaze toward where her daughter and his grandchildren were. Daenys held a spider in her little hands as she talked with her cousins. A fact that seemed to please the second eldest prince as he sported a small grin on his face. The little princess had gotten over her fear of Helaena’s “friends.” Or at least the girl was willing to bare them to be in the company of her cousins.

“She has her mother’s beauty. She would have made Aegon a good wife.” Naerys shuddered at the thought. The boy was not unkind to Daenys, but her mother had seen the way the prince treated those who he thought less of. He barely spared his own sister and soon-to-be bride common decency.

Naerys could not help but feel deep sadness for Helaena. The girl was a gentle soul. She did not deserve to be married to such a careless boy who had inherited the Targaryen’s gluttonous and none of their glory. If he ever managed to be crowned king it would be in name only. “She would do well at court.” Naerys snapped her head back to look at the presumptuous man.

She had been too hasty in her judgment of Ser Otto. A leopard did not change its spots so easily. The princess would not make that mistake again. She would take a page out of her husband’s book. She was far too tired to deal with niceties. “If you want something Ser, do speak plainly.” He was wasting both of their time otherwise.

“If you are ever in need of assistance, princess.” The man bent down so that they were more on eye level. “My door is always open as is the queen’s.” With a half smile, he picked up her brown hand to kiss the back of it. It was intended as a version of a fatherly kiss. The same kind Ser Vaemond and Lord Corlys bestowed upon her when she was a little girl when they asked her to dance during feasts. “Both you and the little princess are always welcomed at court.”

Ser Otto turned his focus toward the far end of the balcony. Waiting for Naerys to follow his eye line. Daemon and Rhaenyra had vanished from sight. Not one trace of them could be found and the sun was setting.

Of course, Daemon could have gone back to their chambers, and Rhaenyra could have gone off somewhere on her own, but he looked so happy. He had not looked so in weeks. The better part of a year even. Her husband had not looked so cheerful since before she had told him of her Aenys pregnancy and Rhaenyra glowed under their uncle's adornment.

“How exactly would you help me Ser?” Naerys pulled her hand out from the cold man’s grip. She did not wait for the Hightower knight to respond. She would not hear of treasonous talk. She would not be poisoned by it. Dark commands led to dark deeds and those deeds would come with a price. A price that would soak through and last a lifetime.

Even if her life was to take a turn she would not damn herself to the seven hells to avoid it. “If you will excuse me, it is past Daenys’ nap time.” She had enough of today’s procession of woe. Grabbing her daughter, who was reluctant to leave her cousins, but did not protest when she saw the worry on her mother's face. The two hand in hand made way for the solitude of High Tide’s halls.

Naerys was wide awake when Daemon arrived back to their chambers. He had not come alone. Daenys had been put to be long since as she sat by their chambers lit fire in her nightgown. She had been staring into the flames for hours now losing track of time. She would have gone to be herself but her mind was running in circles playing everything back to her that had occurred in the past weeks.

“We had an agreement uncle.” Rhaenyra’s shrill voice could be heard coming through from the hall. Naerys could just make out their shadows under the door in the low light. Corlys and Rhaenys had been kind enough to offer them chambers that were far enough from the rest of the castle's guests otherwise her cousin would have woken nearby inhabitants

“I never promised you anything Rhaenyra.” Daemon hissed at his niece. He probably expected both his daughter and wife to be asleep, but caution never hurt. He would not be so lucky tonight. Naerys would not let slink in and act as if his absence had not been noted.

“What agreement?” Naerys ripped the door open to face her husband and her cousin’s shocked faces. The princess held her head up high. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were tear tracks on her cheeks, but she would not cower. She would not bother hiding herself away like a frightened child. She was a woman grown now. A mother and a wife. Daemon’s wife. She wanted answers. She deserved them.

“Sweetling you should be in bed.” Daemon came to her abandoning Rhaenyra in the hall leaving the door to their chambers open. He made a move to reach out for her, but Naerys backed away from his touch. A look of hurt flashed in his violet eyes, but his wife was not swayed. He had been gone too long to greet her in such a way. To send her to bed as if she were their daughter who had stayed up past her bedtime.

“What agreement husband?” Naerys held firm as she looked up at her husband. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Rhaenyra rushing into their solar closet, closing the oak doors leading into the hall. Her cousin was a neat woman, but the only word that could best describe the princess at the moment was frazzled.

“Sweet cousin, Naerys, Daemon needs heirs.” Rhaenyra twisted her thin mouth in a false smile. She basked in her pride despite her disheveled appearance. Treating as if she were a skittish doe that might run off at any moment. As if she had any concern for her at all. If she did she would not be here.

“There is no point lying uncle. Not anymore.” Rhaenyra turned to their uncle, placing a hand on his arm. Naerys wanted to claw the smug look off her cousin's face, but she wrapped her arms around herself and planted her feet on the stone floor. “My baby cousin will understand.”

“I have an heir Rhaenyra.” It was said with gritted teeth as he shook off his niece’s hand. Daemon tried once more to come to his wife, but the girl backed away holding a hand up to stay him. He listened to her choosing to run a hand through his shoulder-length white hair in frustration instead. “I have no need for more. Unlike your father, I do not let my dreams cloud my judgment. My flesh and blood will inherit Dragonstone after me and her children after her.”

“What agreement?” He still had not answered her. Breathing was becoming harder with each minute that passed. Naerys felt her heart speed up. Yet everything was in slow motion. She could barely hear anything, but the blood rushed in her ears. Trying to push her dread down. She steadied herself with a breath. She wanted the words said out loud. She wanted a real answer. Not more half-truths.

“A son or two. That is all that I ask for dear sister.” How Rhaenyra maintained her conceit was a mystery to her cousin. She was a woman that had never been told no. That had never been made to bend to others' will. “It is what our kepus has promised. There need not be a marriage.” Rhaenyra’s hand flew to her belly. A victorious smile. As if to challenge her. “It is you who holds him back.” Rhaenyra could give him new blood.

“Did you sleep with her?” Naerys could not look at her husband as she asked about her greatest fear. When they first married she had always suspected that he took Rhaenyra to his bed, but that was then. That was in the past. The present is a different story. They have a life together now. It might be broken and torn into small pieces, but it was a life. “All those times she came to our home—tonight—”

“I haven't been in anyone's bed except yours you hellcat.” It was meant to be a tease. To bring much-needed levity into the room, but he had picked the wrong moment for his japes. His eyes softened when he realized his mistake when he saw his wife’s misty eyes. “Not since I first had you little one.”

Taking her face in his hands he tried to kiss her, but Naerys refused. Turning her cheek so that the kiss landed there rather than its intended target. Rhaenyra was still in the room leering at them and Daemon had not asked her to leave. A wall stood between them and he still would not break it down.

“Did you promise her something?” It was none of her business. Promises were broken every day, but she had to know. She wanted to know. Needed to know. Rhaenyra had been haunting the back of her mind for years. Her uncle's first plaything. Naerys was her replacement. A poor substitute who could not even give him sons. Only a lone little girl to show for. She wanted to be his everything to give him everything, but she had failed and her cousin was all too willing to take up her rightful place beside their uncle.

“You are being childish Naerys.” Her husband scoffed at her. A dark look came over him. Daemon was all too used to getting his way with his niece-wife. Naerys always gave in to him and when she did not he was the one who acted as if she had injured him.

Naerys slapped him then. It had not been hard enough to do any damage. Her husband had barely moved. He stood there and laughed. Lightness returned to his eyes. He actually laughed at her torment. The princess felt her face heating up. She had not expected the reaction. She wanted his fire not to be treated as a joke.

“You married a child!” Naerys felt her fury growing. She would not be humiliated. She had been more humiliated today than many wives were in a lifetime. Everyone knew of her shame. Daemon knew what everyone thought of his relationship with his oldest niece and yet did little to actually reassure his wife. She would not let him talk over her.

“You married me because I was young and naive and you did not think that I knew better. You married me because I would soothe your broken ego. You married me because I was the niece that you were allowed to have.” She had never been wanted and she resented him for toying with her.

“Do you want to know what he did? He begged me to live.” Naerys spun around to face her cousin. Letting her anger guide her as she crowded Rhaenyra. She was enjoying her agitation far too much, but the younger princess did not care if she played the part of the desperate wife. Daemon had his choice, but he had chosen her. She wanted her cousin to know that even if their uncle never told her so. She wanted to haunt Rhaenyra as she had haunted her.

“The maesters told him he had to choose and he begged me to live. He paid for my life with our son‘s.” She hated her husband in part for it, but what was done was done. The past was dead to them. She would not give up her future without a fight. “He can not live without me. I am his wife. I am the mother of his child. Whatever agreement you had is gone, niece.” Rhaenyra’s vanity had faded and been replaced by ire.

“Daemon-” The Rogue Prince held up a hand to Rhaenyra. Silencing the red-faced woman. He did not turn back to face her. Instead, he kept his violet eyes trained on his wife. Bringing her into him pressing his forehead to his wife’s. He brought his hands up to face drawing circles into her temple with the rough pads of his thumb.

“Rhaenyra tell my wife what you said when you prostrated yourself at my door all those moons ago.” He pulled away slightly to hover over her. Naerys wanted to turn her head away, but she could not. Her uncle looked as if he was some avenging old God of Valyria as he gave out a breathless chortle. He had hypnotized her.

“Ao sagon obsessed rūsīr aōha riñnykeā ābrazȳrys kepus. Nyke pendagon skorkydoso bōsa ao kostagon nykeōragon naejot fuck zȳhon gō ao mazverdagon ēdrugī hen zȳhon. Gaomagon ao remember bona Rhaenyra?” You're obsessed with your child bride uncle. I wonder how long you can stand to fuck her before you grow tired of her. Do you remember that Rhaenyra? Daemon did not receive an answer. He had not been truly looking for one. He continued on without a need for one.

“Gaomagon ao remember skoros nyke ivestretan ao? Ziry iksos nykeā pretty byka mirre. Nyke don’t pendagon nyke shall mirre tire hen zȳhon. Nyke’ve found se fountain hen youth rȳ lenton rȳ zȳhon thighs.” Do you remember what I told you? She is a pretty little thing. I don’t think I shall ever tire of her. I’ve found the fountain of youth at home between her thighs. Naerys clamped up briefly when she felt his hand travel between said thighs, but the trance never ceased. Her blood was stoked by its blaze.

Daemon never looked away from his niece-wife as he dipped a finger into her cunt. Gathering enough wetness to bring to her clit. Toying with the little button. His other hand reached up to tug down her gown with one swift motion. Revealing her dark full breasts to the chamber's dim light.

“Sweet little thing. So wet and pliant for me. My baby whore. To do with as I please. I’d share her with you. I offered you that, but you wouldn’t appreciate it wouldn’t you? And I’ve never been fond of sharing my toys.” Naerys was too trapped by her warring emotions clouded by lust to care. She gave into the hazy blanket of salacity her husband offered her.

The man did not pull away. “Issa pretty byka ābrazȳrys. Ziry iksos headstrong isse zȳhon own ñuhoso se jealous gīda though ziry emagon daor drīve naejot sagon. Ivestragī jikagon syt issa dōna riña.” My pretty little wife. She is headstrong in her own way and jealous even though she has no reason to be. Let go for me sweet girl. Daemon sped up his movements. His wife meant to put a stop to his ministrations then.

It was bad enough that he had touched her while in the presence of another. She would not have another see their most intimate moments, but her opposition died on her tongue. Naerys had to clutch onto the man in front of her as she felt herself topple into her peak. “Issa gūrotrir.” My prize.

“Out now.” Rhaenyra looked as if she was in a half-daze. Her pale face was riddled with unabashed disgust. She did not move to exit. “I mean it Rhaenyra.” Daemon’s stern voice tried to break her from her daze, but an urgent knocking sounded at their door. Naerys' husband removed his fingers from her overspent hole placing a light kiss on her temple. Helping to pull the straps up to her nightgown so that she was in a decent enough state of dress.

Rhaenyra had been closest to their chamber's entry, but she remained in a state of crisis. Daemon was the one to open the heavy oak doors. Barking down at the poor soul who was unlucky to be given the task of rousing the Rogue Prince and his wife.

A frightened boy of no more than twelve name days peered up at her husband. Her uncle’s servant stumbled over half his words. “Beg your pardon, your highnesses.” He turned to acknowledge Rhaenyra with a bow.

The boy did not blink at her presence in their chamber. Naerys did not want to think about what went on in her uncle’s halls for him not to do so, “The little princess and princes have been hurt.” Naerys felt her heart stop beating. All the blood left from her body to some indescribable place of dread.

She sensed her arm being grabbed by her husband. He ushered her down toward her uncle's Great Hall. His heavy strides did the work for them both. The princess made note that Daemon had somehow managed to grab his sword as well. Naerys was too in her head to care what he might do with it.

High Tide had descended into chaos. Servants scrambled past them rushing to the source of the mayhem. The shouting grew in volume with each step. Rhaenyra was the last one out of their chambers but she flew past them in search of her sons.

Relief flooded through the princess at the sight of her daughter. Daenys leaned on Helaena who was trying to calm down the wailing child. Upon seeing her parents the young princess ran to her father. The man wasted no time scooping up the girl. Naerys inspected her daughter as she sobbed into her husband’s chest. She sported a bump on her forehead and a small cut on her honey cheek, but she remained otherwise uninjured. She was unlikely to bare any scars from what had unfolded.

Daemon bounced the girl in his arms as he ordered Maester Orlys to be brought down from his chambers. The older man could sleep through a storm. He had more than likely not even heard the commotion going through the castle. The prince placed a kiss atop his daughter’s silver curls as he drew circles into her back. Daenys seemed to calm down once she was in her father's arms. Allowing her parents to comfort her. Daemon’s fury had abated with their daughter's change in mood until he noticed a certain bandaged boy bound to his mother's side who would not meet his uncle’s eyes.

Aemond stood at the heart of bedlam. From the impassioned appeals to the king exchanged between the queen and the crown princess, Naerys gathered that the boy had managed to claim her cousin's dragon. Daenys had snuck out with her cousin when he had taken Vhagar while her mother had been consumed with her dark thoughts.

Baela and Rhaena had seen Aemond riding upon their mother's dragon and altered their bastard half-brothers of it. The Strong girl's mother was not yet cold in her grave and the boy had dared to claim her mount. They had already lost their father and now they had to suffer the loss of their mother and all that she had held dear.

It was a “slight” that they did not let go unpunished judging by the state of their bruised and bloody small faces as well as Aemond’s left eye. Naerys understood their anger, but the fighting had gotten out of hand.

Daemon deposited their daughter into his niece-wife’s arms. Kissing both their heads before turning to face his nephew. His wife was reminded of the Valyrian sword in his possession when the prince unsheathed Dark Sister. Naerys knew it would be impossible to stop him though she did protest. Aemond was a boy. He was hardly vicious enough to attack his little cousin.

“Is this your handiwork boy?” The king made no move to stop his brother. His pallid complexion took over by exasperation at being made to preside over this spat. His younger brother had enough fire for the both of them. He need not make a show of things.

Aemond looked terrified as his uncle closed in on him pointing his sword at him. Alicent pushed her son behind her as her sworn shield unsheathed his own blade in the prince's defense. Naerys wondered if Daemon would take his other eye. She wondered what the king might do as he ordered both Ser Criston and his brother to drop their swords.

“I fell.” Daenys' little voice cried. Her wailing had started once more. She buried herself into her mother's neck at her confession. Naerys did her best to try to console the young princess but she rambled on between sobs. “Cousin Aemond told me to go and I fell. He did not push me.”

“Daemon.” Her husband had not heard their daughter's muffled pleads. It was doubtful the rest of the hall had heard her. Her uncle snapped his pale neck towards them. Her uncle saw red, but his fire could be extinguished when he learned of the truth. He was a man capable of reason despite his hot-blood nature. “She fell. Your nephew did not do this.”

Naerys' husband stormed away from Alicent and her son. He would not believe their daughter's declarations until he saw for him. Looking into a matching set of violet eyes he took their daughter back from his wife’s hand. Shushing her as she babbled out apologies. “I fell kepa. I am sorry.” It was an accident. Daemon saw that. A childish accident.

Maester Orlys had finally arrived. Mindful of his wife's health Daemon directed one of the servants to fetch a chair commanding her to sit. Naerys did not argue. She had been standing for much longer than she should have. The day had exhausted her and drained a great deal of her recovering strength.

Daenys crawled into her lap as the Maester cleaned her wounds. Curling a hand around her mother’s coils the same way she did as a babe. Her poor child. If Naerys had not been so caught up in her own pain, Daenys could have been avoided.

The shouting around them recommenced. Each mother blamed the other and the king remained lackluster in his defense of both. Preferring to take on his version of impartiality. Who was he to choose between his son and his grandsons?

There could be no impartiality when his own son had lost an eye. If someone ever laid a finger on Daenys she would tear them apart limb for limb if Daemon had not gotten to them first. It was the king's blatant refusal to do anything for his son that disturbed Naerys the most.

It did not make it right, but Naerys knew why Aemond had claimed Vhagar. The boy's egg had never hatched. Out of all of Alicents children, he was the one who desperately clung to his Valyrian heritage. Her husband and her young cousin were alike in that regard. He had always scoffed at him for his Andal blood, but Naerys could see the restlessness of a second son in Aemond. He had wanted to prove himself and Vhagar was the way to do it. The largest Dragon in the world, the last living relic from the days of the conquest and she now belonged to a boy of ten name days.

“Daenys was party to this. Perhaps she should be questioned as well.” Rhaenyra turned her sharp gaze to the small girl in her cousin's lap. Daemon's violet eyes narrowed at his niece, but it was Naerys who spoke for their daughter.

She advanced towards Rhaenyra. The woman clutched her sons closer. Her uncle Lord Corlys stood by her side in absence of his son as his wife clung to their granddaughters, the last remnants of her daughter. Naerys would not be intimidated by her cousin's attempts at victimhood. She had gone too far by trying to accuse her daughter, a little girl of four name days, of aiding in alleged treason

“She fell and hit her head, sweet niece.” Naerys turned to face the king. Daenys would not be questioned by her cousin. She would not be brought into a fight that was not theirs. “My daughter can scarcely recall what happened to herself, much less the reason for the disagreement between your son and your grandson’s your grace or why Prince Aemond called them such names.” Naerys did not care if she was impertinent. Her cheek would no doubt be blamed on her recent losses. Better to let them think that she was weak.

The sickly man simply waved her off, going to question his sons. Their mother desperately defended them, but it was a vain endeavor. Viserys would not have the legitimacy of his beloved daughter's heirs questioned even at the expense of his sons or the truth of the matter.

The king demanded for the two factions of his family to kiss one another and apologize for whatever hurt they inflicted upon each other. The fighting must stop as they were a family. Devastation took over the queens. Tears clouded her dark eyes as she stared in disbelief at her husband's verdict. His choice to shield his daughter in favor of his son.

Alicent's inaction did not last longer than a minute. She grabbed her husband's dagger before anyone could stop her. Naerys tried to push herself out of the way from the queen's warpath as she came rushing towards Rhaenyra. The princess found herself caught between the queen and the would-be queen as Alicent demanded justice for her son and her own sacrifices. Her duty. Her stepdaughter laughed at every lawful devotion she held dear. Rhaenyra lorded above them all.

Naerys noticed Daemon scrambling to make his way to her, but he was held back by Ser Criston and two other members of his brother's kings guard. Calls for Alicent to release the dagger and the princess reverberated around the hall, among them was her own father, but the queen would not listen. She wanted blood.

Corlys tried to pull Rhaenyra back to him, but the three women stood locked in each other’s grips as Alicent tried to gain the upper hand, pointing her blade near her rival's eye. The crown princess taunted the queen. “Exhausting, isn’t it? Hiding under the cloak of your own righteousness, but now they see you as you are.” The Hightower woman swung her dagger at the princess forgetting that Naerys stood between them.

She felt the pain before she lowered her eyes to see blood running down her arm bleeding into her cream nightgown. The white bone peaked out from the exposed flesh. Naerys brought her uninjured hand to touch it, letting out a hiss at the sting. She grew dizzy at the sight.

Daemon came rushing to her, finally breaking through from the crowd that had parted in horror. Her husband wasted no time, putting pressure on her wound as he ripped off the left sleeve of her robe in a makeshift bandage. Lifting her before her legs gave out.

Naerys had lost too much blood with her last birth. She was not to exert herself. Not in this way. Her body was healing and who knew how far back this might set her. Alicent attempted to make her apologies. It was an accident. She had not meant to hurt Naerys.

Daemon brushed the woman off, casting a glare that would have killed her on the spot if it possessed the capability to do so. The queen had only escaped the physicality of her good brother's wrath. Her husband had made the wise decision of ordering his Kingsguard to apprehend Dark Sister when Alicent first grabbed

Rhaenyra went to follow them, but Daemon openly glared at his oldest niece. Demanding that she get a hold of herself. “Do you not think you have embarrassed yourself enough for one night?” Rhaenyra sulked back to her boys, avoiding the eyes of judgment that fell upon her. As they made to exit the great hall a teary Daenys began to trail after her parents, reaching up for her mother’s hand. Naerys limply squeezed her daughter’s hand giving her a reassuring smile. She tried not to give into the drowsiness that threatened to overtake her. She would not let it win out.

High Tide’s halls had grown quiet in the early morning. The rest of her uncle's guests had settled back into their chambers. The excitement of the evening had worn them out, but they would be up soon enough. More than likely journeying away from the havoc that had enfolded.

Daenys refused to be put to bed by her nursemaid until she knew that her mother would be out of danger. Curling into her mother's side as Maester Orlys sutured her arm. Naerys was not to strain herself further or lift anything heavier than a cup of tea for a fortnight. There would be a scar. That was unavoidable for the knife had torn through skin fat and tissue to reach the bone underneath, but the wound would heal nicely with proper care.

“Did you promise to give her a son?” The princess was the first to break the silence. Daemon had seated her in his lap on their bed as he stroked her un-injured arm, trying to lull her to sleep. Their maester had ordered her to get some rest. They were to travel home in mere hours. She needed her strength, but the events that occurred over the course of her cousin's funeral were too fresh to forget.

“Yes.” Daemon let out a sigh as he kissed her head, continuing his caresses. They were both too tired to lie or argue with one another. “I did not think that our marriage would be a happy one.” Naerys let out a soft snort, but her husband shushed her. Placing another kiss into her coils. “She had asked me to after she gave birth to Jace. Then again with Luke.”

“Why didn’t you?” He had plenty of opportunities too. In the early days of their marriage, Rhaenyra had been a constant in Dragonstone’s halls. Naerys could barely turn without seeing her cousin in the company of their uncle. Leaving Ser Laenor to entertain her. It would be easy enough to have her slip into his chambers during the night. To give his favorite niece a Valyrian son. His niece-wife would be none the wiser. She could not picture him ever denying the crown princess who he had wanted for so long, but he had.

“You seemed so lonely.” Naerys frowned slightly at her husband’s admission, but the man laughed, pulling her up so that she sat on his lap facing him. He moved his warm hands up to encircle her face. Amethyst eyes met violet.

Loneliness was an expectation of her life. She had grown used to the state with the passage of her own mother. Naerys had her mother’s brothers and her aunt after that, but some days it was hard not to feel like an interloper. They had not put up much resistance when her fathers half brother deigned to take her away to another empty palace. It was her duty. Her cross to bear became not so very unbearable.

“I did not mind it little one.” He beamed at her and it was a sight to see. “You were the first thing I had to myself that never belonged to someone else. I did not lie to my brother when I said that you were made for me.”

“Do you wish for a son?” The one thing that she could not give him. It is you who holds him back. If he ever was to have a son it would not be she who gave birth to him. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make if needs be. If it would make him happy.

“I wish for everything with you.” Daemon continued to stroke down her cheeks. Rubbing soothing circles luring her into a state of contentment. The princess leaned into his touch. “I wish for Daenys to have brothers and sisters, but only with you. Just with you Naerys. I’d rather have you than see Dragonstone’s halls bursting with babes.”

“I love you Naerys. I love you, my sweet girl. No one else. Do you understand sweetling? I don’t want anyone else. I have no need for anyone else. I love you.” Naerys had not realized that she had begun to cry softly until her uncle kissed away the tears that fell upon her cheeks, gently shushing her. “I am sorry that I ever made you feel otherwise, but I am yours as you are mine. You are enough for me. You have always been enough.”

Daemon bent down slightly to capture his wife's lips in a kiss. Their tongues danced. She tasted the salt from her tears and the earth and heat that belonged to her husband. There was no fight for dominance. Naerys let herself be swept away by her husband’s attentions. Enjoying the warmth that spread throughout her worn body.

A knock sounded at their door. Naerys had to push her husband away to stop letting out a breathy giggle at her husband’s annoyance. The man groaned before placing one final kiss, or two, upon her lips.

Grudgingly making his way to the door to find the queen waiting for them. Ser Criston along with a fellow Kingsguard came with her. Though the latter stood watch in the hall, the first joined Alicent in their chambers. The Rogue Prince had not been given back Dark Sister, but any blade in his hand would be lethal. One could not be cautious enough.

Daemon tried to command the queen and her guards to leave. Goading her for her folly. “Have you come to finish the job?” It was Naerys who had to be the voice of reason when scolded her husband's silliness. Asking him to let them in. The man merely grumbled, but he listened to his wife’s bid. It would not do to be angry with Alicent when they knew she had not meant her any harm.

“Words can not express my deep regret princess.” The queen had knelt down on the floor in front of their bed. Taking Naerys brown hand in her pale one as the two men exchanged glares. “Nor my shame.” The Hightower woman’s glassy dark eyes flitted down to the stitches that graced the princess’s forearm.

“There is nothing to forgive sister.” Naerys returned her good sister's grasp. She knew that the blade had not been for her. Alicent had always been kind to her. Her quarrel lay with Rhaenyra and she had been unfortunate enough to be in the way when her anger got the best of her. “How is the prince?”

“The Maester was able to save his eyelid.” Alicent as she started to tear up. Wiping stray tears as they fell upon. She turned her gaze towards the chamber's dying fire. “He will make a full recovery. The king is pleased.” Her voice strained at her last words. Fury flashed in the queen's eyes before fading just as quickly as it came. Clearing her throat she turned back to face her good sister. “Your daughter, how is she?” Worry was evident across the Hightower woman’s face.

“She is fine, no thanks to your son.” Daemon sneered down at the woman. Coming to stand near his wife like a sentry. Ser Criston thankfully made no move to get closer to the queen. Though he did continue to stare down his old rival.” If you want something, spit it out. My wife needs her rest.” Alicent winced, but her focus stayed on Naerys.

“You are welcome at court anytime.” Daemon was about to retort when Alicent peered up at him.“Your brother would like to see more of you as well Prince Daemon.” The prince began to shift upon the balls of his feet. It amazed Naerys how her hot-blooded husband turned into a little boy at the mention of his brother.

“We will try to come to visit more often.” Daemon looked less than pleased with her reply, but Naerys would deal with her husband later. The king would not be around forever. Daemon had always loved Viserys. He would regret it if he was not closer to the king in his final years.

“Your daughter seems fond of my son. As is the prince.” It was said with an innocent enough smile. The woman was partial to Daenys. Inviting her to take tea or join her sewing circles with her and Helaena whenever they visited the Red Keep. The little princess was an easy enough child to get along with and a delight to be around, but Alicent was her father's daughter. Naerys could not forget that.

“That would be the one with the missing eye, correct?” Naerys swatted a hand at her husband in admonishment, but the man only reached for said hand bringing and bestowing a kiss upon the back of it. His violet eyes softened briefly before turning back to Alicent. “Our daughter is four. Your son is far too old for her.” Naerys was thankful for the fact that her uncle left it there. “You should check on him. I’m sure he’s missing his wet nurse.”

Fearing having overstayed her welcome Alicent offered her a small smile, squeezing her hand one last time before departing. Ser Criston trailed after his queen, making his exit with a bow and a ”princess” to Naerys while completely ignoring her stone-faced husband.

The Stranger still clung to Hide Tide. Making one final visit before he too would retreat for a spell. His work was never done. This time it had chosen another Velaryon to call to the Gods. Naerys' cousin Ser Laenor.

Neither Lord Corlys nor Rhaenys had come down to break their fast. A common occurrence during the duration of their short stay. Ser Vaemond saw the king and his party off as they left before noon. Aemond rode off on the back of Vhagar while the rest of the party boarded ships that would take them back to King's Landing. The other visiting funeral guests departed shortly after. High Tide was returning back to some version of normality. Though the absence of Lady Laena’s spirited presence was felt greatly.

It was Rhaenyra who broke the news of her husband’s passing to her uncle and cousin-aunt. The Targaryen couple were standing by the bay ready to return to Dragonstone, by the skies and sea, when the crown princess came rushing down towards them.

“My husband is dead.” With tears streaming down her pale face Rhaenyra launched herself at her uncle. “They murdered him. His friend, Ser Quarl, murdered him.” It had not come as a great surprise. The company that Ser Laenor had kept was less than suitable for a man of his rank. His lovers had never been discreet and had been ill-tempered for the role of the eventual prince consorts paramour.

“Take me with you back to Dragonstone.” Gripping her uncle tight enough for her knuckles to turn white one might think that she was grief-stricken. A part of Rhaenyra might mourn the loss of a husband and a great friend, but Naerys knew her games.

“I can not stay here. Not here with his parents. I can not be alone uncle.” The crown princess switched to their mother tongue for the next of her impassioned pleas. Hoping to hark on some less-than-familial sentiment that the prince once held for his niece. “Konīr iksos daorun bona stands isse īlva ñuhoso sir kepus. Issa kepa would daor deny īlva bisa.” There is nothing that stands in our way now uncle. My father would not deny us this.

Daemon placed an affectionate pat upon the Targaryen woman’s arm.“Comfort your children niece. They will need you.” Giving her a kiss on her cheek he turned to climb upon Caraxes' back. Taking to the skies once Daenys was placed securely in front of him. Maester Orlys ushered Naerys onto their vessel while the crown princess stood a white-faced statue paralyzed by the shock. Watching on until her beloved uncle and his family became distant dots in the sky and sea.

Ao3 Link:

Tags:

@misssilencewritewell @parizparis @thanyatargaryen @i-love-morally-gray-characters @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @bubblebuttwade @beggarsnotchoosey @m-indkiller @pearlstiare @green-lxght @lazypinkpig

#daemon targaryen x targaryen!oc #daemon targaryen x black!oc #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd spoilers #it’s time for Laena’s funeral #daemon is being a low key creep at parts #the rogue prince #hotd fanfiction #prince daemon targaryen #hotd fic #daemon x reader #daemon x oc #daemon x targaryen!oc #daemon targaryen #bnhotdfic

[goodqueenaly]

Do you think Viserys should have made Rhaenyra his Hand? Would that have made her succession go more smoothly?

Viserys naming Rhaenyra Hand would have certainly avoided the major problem the king himself created IOTL following Lyonel Strong’s death: given the opportunity to name Rhaenyra as Lyonel’s replacement, Viserys had instead directly empowered the very faction which opposed Rhaenyra coming to the throne. By instead naming Rhaenyra his Hand, Viserys would have given that executive authority to Rhaenyra (and, by extension, the black faction), potentially lessening (though not necessarily removing) the ability of the green faction to act quickly and effectively in crowning Aegon the Elder king. Ned’s tenure (and failures) as Hand demonstrate the power (or lack thereof) a Hand can exercise, especially in a turbulent regime shift; if Rhaenyra had so chosen, she might have, say, immediately detained any pro-green courtiers at Viserys’ death, or publicly proclaimed herself as queen throughout the capital and sent ravens to announce her accession, or staged a quick coronation herself. Viserys might have also cited the precedent of his own father, Prince Baelon, who had served Jaehaerys I as Hand after he had been named the Old King’s heir, in order to justify naming his own would-be heiress to such a position.

At the same time, I would not say that Viserys naming Rhaenyra Hand would have been a panacea to all the troubles of the black faction. For one, the very elevation of a woman to this position at all might have triggered vocal comment, or even outright pushback, on the part of the green faction (as well as potentially those not yet committed to either faction). The track record for women in official positions of power under the Targaryen monarchy up to this point was mixed at best: Queen Rhaenys and Queen Visenya might have sat the Iron Throne presided over the day-to-day running of the government, but the clever Florence Fossoway could only serve as de facto master of coin through her husband Martyn Tyrell, while Queen Alysanne could only advise her husband (and be brusquely reminded of the limits of that power whenever Jaehaerys I so chose). Too, the black faction would not at all have welcomed comparisons between Rhaenyra and Tyanna of the Tower, the sinister mistress of whisperers who had sat at Maegor’s right hand and abetted Maegor in torture and tyranny (until she herself had been murdered by the king). On top of all of this history, moreover, Viserys I himself had come to the throne because he as the most senior male male-line descendant of Jaehaerys I; having passed over a female cousin who might have ruled in her own right, Viserys might have had a more difficult time trying to assert that his daughter and would-be heiress could now have near-royal executive authority.

Likewise, by naming Rhaenyra as Hand, Viserys would have literally brought Rhaenyra into the heart of royal government - which is to say, even more closely in contact with the green faction. Tensions between the green and black factions had grown no softer as Viserys’ reign continued: the quarrel between Rhaenyra’s sons and Aemond at Laenor’s funeral, and the subsequent reactions of both mothers, only expressed the antagonism each faction felt for the other. (Indeed, Viserys IOTL had specifically separated the two factions following Laenor’s funeral precisely to avoid such conflicts.) The sniping and insults traded by both sides at the 127 AC feast IOTL may have, therefore, escalated into open, or more open, violent conflict once the two parties came into more regular contact with each other, had Rhaenyra taken up residence in the Red Keep as Hand. After all, neither Criston Cole (who murdered Lyman Beesbury at the secret council following the king's death IOTL) nor Daemon Targaryen (who arranged the murder of young Prince Jaehaerys, again IOTL) were unwilling to engage in violence, even murder, in the names of their respective factions. 

Nor would such a position have guaranteed that Rhaenyra would have ruled well. Her treatment of Vaemond Velaryon demonstrated her willingness to exercise extrajudicial and violent retribution against someone she perceived as any enemy, while her call for torturing Aemond in the aftermath of the fight at Laenor’s funeral showed a similar attitude extended even toward younger members of the opposing faction. IOTL, Rhaenyra did little better during her brief rule in King’s Landing, overseeing the implementation of “ever more exacting taxes” and severely punishing an increasing number of alleged traitors while planning an elaborate celebration for the investiture of her last Velaryon son as Prince of Dragonstone. It is therefore uncertain whether Rhaenyra would have proved a strong, capable Hand under her father’s reign - and any failure, or perceived failure, during her tenure might have only undermined her claim to take the throne once her father died. 

And all of this is without mentioning that the reason the Dance happened - that is, the conflict between the competing claims of Rhaenyra and Aegon the Elder - would still have been true even if Rhaenyra had been named Hand. The green faction still would have had a colorable argument to claim that Aegon, rather than his elder half-sister, should be acclaimed king at the death of Viserys I, and I very much doubt that the mere naming of Rhaenyra as Hand would have compelled the green faction to shrug and concede defeat. Viserys I himself had created the circumstances of the Dance, and no position in government, no matter how high or powerful, could reverse those circumstances; such a move might have changed how the Dance would have played out, but would not, I think, have stopped the Dance in its tracks. 

#asoiaf meta #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys i targaryen #alternate universe

[secret-of-destiny]

The degradation of Alicent’s & Larys’ relationship over the time skip

Obviously we understand why Alicent ‘Reluctance to murder is not a weakness’ Hightower pulls away from Larys (kinslaying) Strong’s company. (Sidenote: It is most definitely a weakness though. Letting your political enemies live is just more trouble than it’s worth.)

But honestly, everything on Larys’ side can be explained by this quote of his (to Alicent):

"What are children, but a weakness? A folly? A futility? Through them, you imagine you cheat the great darkness of its victory. You will persist forever, in some form or another. As if they will keep you from the dust. But for them, you surrender what you should not. You may know what is the right thing to be done, but love stays the hand. Love is a downfall. Best to make your way through life unencumbered, if you ask me.”

In the scene, we were a little preoccupied with the montage happening. So let’s summarise his key points:

Children are a weakness

Legacy is a sham

Love is the death of duty

Larys killed Lyonel & Harwin specifically because of Alicent’s sense of justice & duty. By this point, Larys took her at her word when she said that no, she won’t let her children get away of making a mockery of the realm. So, to an extent, Larys believes (and the show portrays) that Alicent is a woman of great character. She has a lot of responsibility and high standards, and she elevates herself to meet them.

Plus, Alicent asks, “In all of King’s Landing, is there no one take my side?” That sounded like a chance to prove himself (a challenge!!!) to Larys.

Larys’ good opinion of Alicent either started at Aegon’s nameday hunt or the green dress scene, but it definitely peaked here.

Then, of course, Aegon II happened.

Specifically, all of Aegon’s fuck ups.

(I’m not here to debate with you whether making Aegon II a rapist was a good choice or not. The fact that they whitewashed everyone except Aegon II (who they made worse) speaks volumes.)

The scene of Alicent and Dyanna had multiple takeaways:

Alicent is used to cleaning up after Aegon

Aegon still cannot be controlled

Alicent’s priority is Aegon>Rhaenyra

Alicent’s morals have to work within the system of Westeros. Thus, it’s not perfect.

Which is all the information we need to why Larys’ opinion of Alicent degraded over the time skip. To Larys—voluntary kinslayer, one step away from maiming his nephew, whose working towards a shady goal only he knows—Alicent has betrayed herself and her words.

Also doesn’t help that his pride is wounded, as he can feel Alicent pulling away from him and placing boundaries. He might be using her, but he did enjoy her company. (It’s all in his face & demeanour. It’s boyish, like a crush or adoration.)

#larys clubfoot #larys strong #alicent hightower #hotd #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen #dyanna

[ironwoman18]

Daemnyra Moments - Part 7

Chapter 7: My Strong Boys

The next day after the wedding.

“Ser Criston... What happened between you and Ser Joffrey?” asked the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The knight looked at his commander then at the Queen “I...I saw Ser Joffrey and Ser Laenor laughing looking at the P...Princess Rhaenyra” the knight said the same like he ate a rotten food but tried to contain himself “and I saw Ser Joffrey holding the hilt on his knife, also I heard him mumbling about wanting to hurt the Princess” he explained “Apparently he was jealous of this marriage”

Lord Corlys looked at the knight and nodded “I see... For me there’s nothing else to talk about this. Ser Criston was protecting the princess and I won’t present any charges, if Ser Joffrey was plotting against the heir, I think the action of the Kingsguard was appropied” Ser Criston looked at him, surprised and so did Princess Rhaenys and the Queen.

She was sure she would need to intervene but after Lord Corlys speech the presents didn't have anything else to say.

"Ok my Lord" said Lord Lyonel Strong "As the voice of the King today, and due to your words Lord Corlys. Ser Criston Cole won't be punished for this crime. He was protecting his Princess from a possible..." He looked at the knight with a hard look, like he didn't believe it "...threat. Now to prevent any further encounters with Ser Laenor, we will remove you from being the swore guard of the Princess and her husband. And you will be out of your duties in the castle for four moons. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Lord Hand" he said standing still.

"Perfect. Anything else you want to add, my Queen?"

"After the four moons, I want to keep an eye on him. To make sure he won't do anything irrational. So can it be added that since then he will be my protector?" 

"Great idea my Queen" and it was added. The knight who killed a nobel man and a fellow knight was forgiven.

During the next couple of months Rhaenyra and Laenor tried everything to produce an heir, but everytime was unfruitful and unhappy.

Her uncle's words at the wedding continued to ring in her head everytime she was with him "he will bore you to death" and indeed it was happening.

"Laenor, we can't give up. There should be a way to produce an heir to strength my claim" 

Laenor turned to her and sighs "I'm a couple loser... I... I can even work well, I don't like what I see when you are naked..." Said him desperate "and it's not like you aren't beautiful or anything because you are..." She smiled softly "it just... This isn't me"

"Laenor, when me and you made this deal I knew that you didn't see me as an object to possess or as a sexual partner. I knew you weren't interested in me but I was hoping that we could have a child..."

"Let's make a new deal" he said in High Valyrian. Maybe it wasn't as good or as sexy as her uncle's but this conversation needed a new layer of privacy "find a man who can give you heirs and I will give them my last name. They will be Velaryon and no one can't denied your claim"

"Are you sure about this?" She asked in shock and he nodded.

"Yes I can't produce them myself so you have my work that those kids will be Velaryon" she nodded. And with a shake of their hands their deal was sealed.

Rhaenyra missed Ser Criston but since their conversation at the boat and after he killed Ser Joffrey, he was cold to her, not following the courtesy rules in front of the crown princess.

And Alicent was distant too, especially after the banquet. They were trying to be friends again but now those tries are over.

So now, beside Laenor and maybe her father, she was alone in that big castle. Luckily for her, Ser Harwin was there.

They had fun at the wedding banquet, so now they spent their free time talking or walking around the castle and its gardens. It was a slow cook relationship. He listened to her and gave her advice and one day, at the Gods wood they kissed and that knight Jacaerys Velaryon was produced and the rumors began.

Lucerys arrived about two years later. Her babies were beautiful and perfect, she was reluctant to have kids three years ago but having those two with her made her heart feel whole.

The Queen was suspicious about them, those kids didn't look like Ser Laenor but they looked like a Strong kid and Larys confirmed this. 

His little birds said they saw his brother in the Princess's chambers too often for the brand new commander of the city watch.

He was helping her in Laenor's absence with the babies. He was a lovely father and he even got excited the day Jace's egg hatched and a green baby dragon got out.

This event shut some mouths since this was proof that the blood of the dragon was in those kids.

Years passed and their two boys grew up. Alicent had two new boys. Aemond and Daeron.

Aemond was older than Lucerys and Daeron was the same age as his nephew but he was so smart that Alicent sent him to Oldtown.

When Rhaenyra was pregnant again, Jace was ten and Luke was eight. She was waiting for a girl but something inside of her told her she will have her third boy. And nine months later, Joffrey Velaryon was born.

That spring when Laena at Pentos and Harwin at Harrenhal died, changed everything. Rhaenyra and her kids cried in Dragonstone when they knew that her beloved Harwin died and then the raven informing of Laenas death giving birth.

She hugged Laenor and so did their kids. It was a sad day for them so they sent their kids in boat to Driftmark while they went on dragon back to the funeral of Laena.

A thought invaded her mind. She will see him again. The object of her ire all those years ago, when she pushed him to take her to Dragonstone and make her his wife.

Will he look different? Will he be as handsome and charming as she remembers? Suddenly she was fifteen again and was nervous and excited to see him.

OOooOOooOO

Hope you liked it. Next one will be Daemon's ten years until episode 7. 

Read you on the next one.

#daemon targaryen #princess rhaenyra #daemon x rhaenyra #fanfiction

[knottheeonly]

“I know a great deal about them, you know. I know a great deal more than I should. If it were up to the Lannisters, history would tell nothing of them at all. Nothing but they were traitors, same as my parents, same as I.”

--- 0 --- 0 --- 0 ---

The Women of House Reyne - (pertaining to my au)

CEREDIN REYNE (nee Ambrose): Born to Lady Delith Ambrose (nee Dayne) and Lord Aubrey Ambrose, Blonde haired and violet eyed, Mother to 5, Sister to 2, Married to Lord Eddiyn Reyne. Declared as beautiful as any Targaryen, and quite alike an exotic rose. Married to improve the prospects of her family, and positioned a great many men of her house in positions of high regard. Far more influential than she would ever let on.

“Eyes like hers haunt even the bravest of men, and her fiery tongue does wither their souls. Only the heart of a lion stood a chance against a beauty such as hers.”

-

ELLYN REYNE: Daughter of Castemere, Born to Lady Ceredin Reyne (nee Ambrose) and Lord Eddiyn Reyne. Blonde haired and lilac eyed, Sister to 2, Mother to none, Engaged to Lord Jasper Arryn. Rumoured to have lied with women, particularly a Bastard of the Reach.  Declared fairer than even her mother, and whittier too, with a love for steel instead of needles. Fiercer than any of her siblings, and unapologetically unbowed in the face of danger. Died before she could marry Lord Jasper or bear him any children.

“She sought a peaceful afterlife - Lady Ellyn - and she threw herself from the highest point of her home to gain it.”

-

AUBREYN ARRYN (nee Reyne): Daughter of Castemere, Born to Lady Ceredin Reyne and Lord Eddiyn Reyne. Blonde haired and violet eyed, Sister to Ellyn Reyne, Mother to Four, Married to Lord Jasper Arryn. She was often favoured far after her sister, though she was no less fair. She enjoyed the life of a Lady, embroidery was always far better to her than the steel her sister spent all her time wasting away at. Upon her sister’s death she was set to marry Lord Jasper Arryn and become Lady of the Vale in her sister’s place. 

“It was not his company that Lady Aubreyn cherished, but the title her husband gave her. There were only two things more important than family, she thought, power and blood.”

-

RAYENNA TARGARYEN (nee Reyne): Daughter of Castemere, Sister of Aubreyn Arryn and Ellyn Reyne, Born to Lady Ceredin Reyne and Lord Eddiyn Reyne. Blonde Haired and Lilac Eyed, Mother to 3. Married to King Aegon Targaryen. First Queen to be birthed from House Reyne - youngest daughter, yet chose as Queen above all others for her grace and poise.

“A great many songs have been sung for Queen Rayenna - but none could ever do her justice.”

-

ALYSANNE REYNE (nee Tyrell): Only daughter of Lord Luthor Tyrell and Lady Aeydin Tyrell (nee Oakheart) Sister in Law of Queen Rayenna Targaryen (nee Reyne) and Auberyn Arryn (nee Reyne), Mother to 2. Red-haired and green eyed, child of Highgarden. Married to Lord Rickardd Reyne - who named her his Queen of Love and Beauty at each tourney he won.

“She was a rose in every sense of the word, sharp and witty, clever and quick - all veiled in a beautiful smile and graceful air. They say she was the prettiest rose to ever come of Highgarden.”

-

NARIN MORMONT (nee Reyne): Daughter of Castemere, Born to Lady Alysanne Reyne (nee Tyrell) and Lord Rickardd Reyne. Mother to 6. Married to Lord Landon Mormont. Red haired and green eyed. Selectively mute, but ambitious and witty all the same. Embroidered many tapestries for King’s Landing and the Red Keep, as well as in various other castles scattered around Westeros. 

“Lady Narin made the elaborate drapings of the castles we see today - embroidered them until her hands were raw from it - all the many tapestries that line these halls were woven by her careful hands.”

-

EMBYL REYNE (nee Royce): Daughter of Runestone, Black hair and green eyes, beautiful but thought to be incredibly unkind. Married Lord Derric Reyne unhappily, but birthed him two sons and a daughter. Often described as appearing absentminded when not sharp and cold.

“Lady Embyl is who I often wished I could be back in Casterly Rock. Someone who was feared, who no one would dare to bother. When I was just past my eighth or ninth name day I was in the Red Keep and I thought to try it - being cold and sharp to everyone surrounding me. It led me to hit a King, and I never once wished to be like her again.”

-

ADRIANNE REDWYNE (nee Reyne): Only daughter of Lady Embyll Reyne and Lord Derric Reyne. Strawberry Blonde Hair and Green Eyed, wife of Lord Runthford Redwyne, Mother to 4. Crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by Derric’s brother - but fell in love with Derric instead and had a notably happy marriage. They were a jovial, boisterous couple and family, who prospered tremendously. 

“She was so terribly happy, Ambrose often thought, how I wish to one day have that, too.”

-

UMBER REYNE (nee Penrose): Daughter of Parchments - born to Lady Joy Penrose (nee Poole) and Lord Aelin Penrose. Blonde hair and Green Eyes, a trait she passed to all of her children, causing the original purple and blue shades to become recessive. Married to Lord Roalde Reyne. Bold and loud, adored her husband but despised proper etiquette. Died in Battle beside her husband - though later claimed to have died at home from excess injuries.

“She was killed in battle, defending her husband and her home. It is more than I can say for most of the Knights in Westeros.”

-

KYSEE MARTELL (nee Reyne): Eldest Daughter of Lady Umber Reyne (nee Penrose) and Lord Roalde Rene. Blonde haired and green eyed - with a constellation of freckles dotting every inch of her. Married the second Prince of Dorne - Prince Eyrlan Martell - and had a happy marriage with him and various consorts. Was said to lie with men and women openly and face no ridicule. She was barren, and birthed no children - but the radiance in her smile and the kindness in her heart was said to have done more than enough to make up for it.

“She was as radiant as the sun on her husband’s house crest. Free in every sense of the word, untethered and unchained. It must have been bliss to have known such a thing.”

-

JAYNE LYNDERLY (nee Reyne): Daughter of Castemere, third child of Lord Roalde and Lady Umber. Blonde hair and eyes the color of freshly picked sage. Married to Elric Lynderly who is rumored to have much preferred the company of men than women. She birthed him five sons - though it is rumoured that she didn’t prefer the company of men - just as he didn’t wish for the company of women.

“Timid and gentle, she would surely have made a better flower than a snake. Yet, she had a advantageous marriage. Perhaps in that way she was smarter than any of us.”

-

GEMMA SELMY (nee Reyne): Youngest child of Lady Umber and Lord Roalde, Blonde hair and Green eyes, Mother to 3. Married to Lord Lynell Selmy, Mother of Ser Lyonel Selmy and Grandmother of Ser Barristan the Bold. Fierce temper and a quick wit, but demure enough to pass as a Lady of High Society. Lady in waiting to a Targaryen Queen - though the exact one is up for dispute - and rumoured to be her closest confidante and friend.

“Stubborn and brash, Lady Gemma had a shocking skill at winning over the opposing party. So much so that it is said she once convinced an opponent of her husband’s to surrender while openly mocking him.”

-

TYRREI REYNE (nee Qorgyle): Daughter of Sandstone - Born in Dorne to Lord Quentyn Qorgyle and an unnamed wife. Sun-kissed skin, onyx hair, and bright green eyes. Mother to 3 sons, most of which taking her husband’s looks instead of her own. Married Ser Robb Reyne, and had a love-filled marriage until his death - at which point she closed off from the rest of the world, and later flung herself into the ocean.

“There was sunlight in her eyes and warmth in her smile until the day he died - then she became the moon and gave herself to the tides.”

-

FENRYRE REYNE (nee Hightower): Daughter of Oldtown, light brown hair and blue eyed. Born to Lord Garth Hightower and Lady Arissane Hightower - but not much else is known. She is said to have been devastatingly beautiful, but painfully quiet. Married to Lord Renrye Reyne - mother to three.

“Castemere was different from Oldtown - no a place for a quiet, shy beauty like Lady Fenryre - but she made it her home all the same.”

-

BELLEN MALLISTER (nee Reyne): Only daughter of Lady Fenryre Reyne and Lord Renrye Reyne - Blonde Hair and Green Eyes, raised in Casterly Rock. Declared Queen of Love and Beauty by Lord Jeffory Mallister, with whom she later was wed. Kind and Beloved by all the smallfolk, but said to be cruel to servants - the latter of which is heavily disputed. 

“She was the Maiden come to life, beautiful and kind as everyone ought to be. Now she lies in a sept, but her kindness still rings throughout Seagard.”

-

HELIA REYNE (nee Harlaw): Daughter of Ten Towers, raised on the Iron Islands, fourth daughter of Lord Harlaw and his sixth Wife. Ashen hair and blue eyes. Married to Lord Rickard Reyne, Mother to Lord Robert Reyne, Grandmother to Lord Roger Reyne. Commander of the second largest sea-fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. Well-traveled and fiery. Said to be as dangerous as a storm at sea.

“Iron and Seafoam ran through her veins. Lady Helia was the calm before the storm, just as she was everything that came after.”

-

ARRYE TARTH (nee Reyne): Daughter of Castemere, born to Lord Rickard Reyne and Lady Helia Reyne. Blonde haired and blue eyed. Married to Lord Derren Tarth, Mother of 1. As wild as the sea, as unpredictable as the waves, with the beauty of a tempest - dangerous and captivating. Lived a happy life, but died before the rebellion of her niece and nephews. 

“In Tarth she got to see the waters and beaches her mother often spoke of, the bluest of waters and the finest of sands. It was her own form of heaven.”

-

MORGANA REYNE (nee Tarly): Daughter of the Reach, Married to Lord Robert Reyne, Mother to 3 Brown haired and blue eyed. Rumoured to have been skilled in sword fighting and archery, and to have participated as a Mystery Knight in a tourney or two. None of the rumours were confirmed before her death.

“She was every bit a Lady as she was a Knight, the Tarly girl, and she knew just the words to convince you she was neither.”

-

ELLYN TARBECK [Lannister Formerly] (nee Reyne): Daughter of Castemere. Sister to Lord Roger Reyne, Aunt to Lady Ambrose Reyne. Blonde Hair and Green Eyes. Ambitious, sole goal from childhood to be Lady of Casterly Rock. Engaged to Lord Tywald Lannister before his and her father’s demise. Married and Widowed to Lord Tion Lannister. Married to Lord Walderan Tarbeck. A sharp, imposing woman, who gave so many riches to her brothers while a Lannister that a Lord once said that, "Lady Ellyn must be a sorceress, for she has made it rain inside the Rock all year."

“Our rise and our fall weighed heavy in her hands from the day she was set to marry Lord Tywald. It was her greed that tipped the scales.”

-

LYSANNA REYNE (nee Wylde): Daughter of the Rain House, Married to Lord Roger Reyne, Mother to 5. Had an arranged marriage, but grew to love her husband. Was said to be as kind as she was beautiful, and a few knights even tried to crown her their Queen of Love and Beauty before, and even after she was wed to Lord Roger. She often recounted missing her home to her Ladies, one of whom told this to a surviving guard. Didn’t believe in the rebellion, but supported her husband anyway - while secretly refusing her family’s request to get involved.

“She had always hated the water, your mother. Perhaps she’d always known it would be the root of her demise.”

-

DELLYN REYNE: Eldest daughter of Lord Roger Reyne and Lady Lysanna Reyne. Was seventeen and set to be married to an unnamed Lord upon the time of her death. Claimed to have been full of light and life, and seeming far younger than all her years. Blonde haired and green eyed. Loving and doting. Servants recalled her being doting on all her younger siblings, and some even claim she urged them to leave feeling, “something terrible will happen if you do not.”

“No songs will be sung of the tragedy she faced. Her promised wed another, and she lays forgotten in a crypt. Ballads are made of worse things - surely it is the least she deserves.”

-

WYLLA REYNE: Daughter of Castemere, Second Daughter of Lord Roger and his wife, Lady Lysanna. Blonde haired with eyes described as being, “akin to sapphires.” Rumoured to have been quiet and studious, much preferring books to the company of others, especially not men. She is said to have preferred women over men, once asking her mother, “But why must I marry a Lord? Wouldn’t a Lady be enough?” Only two of her servants survived the rebellion.

“In her books she came alive, reading and studying all she could. I often wonder if it was because she knew she would never have time to learn all that she wanted to.”

-

QWENTIN REYNE: Daughter of Castemere, Third Daughter of Lord and Lady Reyne. Vivacious and graceful, despite having been a mere 13 years of age upon her demise. Crowned a Queen of Love and Beauty on her twelfth name day at the tourney held in her honor. Blonde haired and lilac eyed. Described as being a kind spirit, who spent most of her days wandering the gardens or peering off the cliffs. 

“She was graced with violent purple eyes that lit up a room, and now they’re rotting in a crypt somewhere - never to be looked upon again.”

-

AMBROSE REYNE: Last daughter of Castemere and only surviving child of Lord Roger Reyne and Lady Lysanna Reyne. Raised from the age of six by Lannisters, quiet and quick, with a hidden cunning and witty nature. Vivacious and sly, but outwardly demure and complacent. Blonde haired and Green eyed. Future Queen in the North, Lady of Casterly Rock, and Queen in the North all over again.

“She was the fire and the fury and the spirit of every Lion before her - as bold as she ought to be. Every Man, Woman, or King who met her would learn not to cross her - it was just a matter of time.”

--- 0 --- 0 --- 0 ---

“Each night before I fall asleep I recite their names in my head, lest I forget who they were and who they make me. My family name has been the source of my deepest tragedies and my greatest joys - I would not wish to forget it. Not for anything in the world.”

-

(shoutout to @shiftingshiftingshifting for allowing me to include her OC Derren Tarth as a marriage partner!)

#gameofthrones #got #au #alternate universe #sansa stark #ambrose reyne #reynes #house reyne #house Lannister #Lannister #history #lineage #wlw #asoiaf

[cassatine]

some last thoughts before i watch ep8:

"where is duty where is sacrifice" still living rent-free in my head because while Alicent's perspective is, very understandably, that it has defined her life but not Rhaenyra's, who spent most of her life giving the finger to these notions… from Rhaenyra's perspective? she's had to marry Laenor for duty, and in fact she's had to marry Laenor for duty in part because her father previously refused to marry Laena for duty and instead chose Alicent, and she's had to have children despite her Aemma trauma because not only was having children required of her as heir to the throne but also because of the prophecy requiring continuation of the Targ line so as to someday save the world, -- so while, again, Alicent's perspective is understandable, and aligns more with the patriarchal mores of Westeros and those of the Faith, it's also true that both Alicent and Rhaenyra have tried to do their duty and sacrificed things for it. they've both been fucked over by the patriarchy in different ways, but they've made very different choices wrt the way they lived with it, choices shaped by their different circumstances and what their status afforded them but also who they are as characters: Alicent's gone full on martyrdom to duty, while Rhaenyra's tried to find ways to reconcile duty and personal happiness.

when people argue that it was Rhaenyra's duty to have children by Laenor, whom we know to be a gay man, whom we've known since the ducks and goose convo has no interest whatsoever in women even tho he tried, whom we know is Rhaenyra's consort and under her in the hierarchy, whom we know didn't really have the option to say no to the wedding to start with, whom we know tried to have kids with Rhaenyra and it didn't work out -- well. i think people ought to think real hard about the take they're pushing.

"viserys only ever look the other way for Rhaenyra" sure sure that's why one of the first things we see him do is going come on let's all be friends when Otto and Daemon are bitching at each other in the Small Council even tho it's actually a huge ass problem that his then-heir presumptive and his main adviser can't go five minutes without snipping at each other, that's why his position on the first political issue brought up (the Stepstones) boils down to oh it'll blow over whatever, that's why he only sends Otto away when Rhaenyra makes it part of her wedding bargain, that's why he only yells a bit and never does shit when Jason Lannister mentions people expecting Aegon to be named heir soon, that's why he never does shit about Criston killing Joffrey, that's why his second wife displaying her House loyalties via wardrobe gets zero reaction whatsoever, that's why he shrugs away whatever is going on between his kids and grandkids, that's why he makes the insane decision to recall Otto as Hand after Lyonel's death (he should have made Rhaenyra Hand ftr), it's why he keeps wiping the state clean wrt to Daemon, etc etc. yes Viserys is a complete shit to Alicent and her kids, but also unless there's major pressure for him to do otherwise and/or he actually gets pissed, it is his modus operandi in most things personal, familial, political, to look the other way and pretend shit is fine and to expect everyone else will follow his lead. until shit blows up in his face.

#house of the dragon #meta #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #laenor velaryon #viserys targaryen

[justfandomwritings]

United in Fear (Part Five - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU

Word count: 18.4k ... Yes you read that right.

Warnings: Some people die cause its game of thrones, but nothing’s that graphic. Sibling bonding moments, lots of plot, but no actual warnings.

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: Thank you to everyone who followed and reblogged from this story. Today marks 10k followers, and while I wasn’t waiting for that to happen, it’s great that it happened the day I finished this story.

Start From the Beginning… Part One

Previously On… Part Four

Revenge paid best when done in the service of Lannisters, and it paid even better when wrought against the King.

Tyrek, the firstborn son of Tywin’s deceased younger brother Tygett, was actually quite closely related to the central family of House Lannister, not that anyone remembered that. The Great Lion was in fact his uncle; and the Pride of the Rock, as (Y/n) had long been called, was to call Tyrek her first cousin. 

With his father a third-born son and himself proving lacking in mental abilities and physical prowess, many passed over Tyrek and regarded him as insignificant. To be sure, his family set a near impossible measure to live up to. Standing out amongst the Lannisters was only achievable for those truly great and notorious of history. 

His uncles, Tywin and Kevan, were considered masters of war and strategy and rule. His cousins were without equal: Cersei, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; Jaime, the greatest swordsman to ever live; (Y/n), Lady of the Rock; and Lancel, squire to the King. 

There were others, to be fair, who fell short. Cleos Frey, eldest son of his aunt Gemma, was only noteworthy in how utterly unexceptional he became, and his baby brother Walder was possibly the ugliest thing to toddle the halls of Casterly Rock. Willem, Kevan’s son, may have only been a child, but he showed none of the promise and skill his twin brother. Not wanting to suffer further from association, Tyrek avoided the three at all cost. 

Even in his mediocrity, Tyrek could say he kept good, well-born company, but it wasn’t the matter that he was passed over that bothered him. It was that, as his father’s only child, he felt as though he’d failed him. 

Tywin had three perfect children and a fourth who, even as he disappointed his father, fascinated countless throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Kevan’s brood were an imperfect bunch. Lancel was strong but gullible; Willem was an unpromising one; and Janei, while kind and beautiful, was still only a babe. But where the others failed, Kevan could always look on Martyn for a dazzling performance. 

Genna similarly looked to her middle sons. Her eldest and youngest, Cleos and Walder, were Freys to their core; ugly, bruttish, and dim. They slunk around the shadows of the Rock, scared to even speak to anyone with blonde hair, including their brothers. Lyonel and Tion were Genna’s pride and joy. They looked, acted, and sounded as every Lannister should. They were by no means to par with Jaime or Cersei or (Y/n), but both showed skill and promise enough to rectify the disappoints that were their siblings.

But Tygett, dead though he may be, only had Tyrek. 

Tyrek didn’t know or remember his father, and none in the keep spoke of the man. He knew Tywin did not like him, and for that Tyrek kept his questions to a minimum. He wanted to know though; he wanted to give his long gone father a reason to praise him. And knowing that even if he earned it, he would never hear his father cheer, he sought at least Tywin and Kevan’s, for they were the closest things he had.

Tyrek felt nothing when his hand tipped and poured the contents of the small vial into the King’s wine before a hunt. He felt nothing when healers and the maester came rushing through the Red Keep demanding people make way for the King. He felt nothing when Cersei cackled at the news her husband had fallen ill. He felt nothing when the first scream of pain echoed through the walls of the tower, and he felt nothing when they finally, three days later, heard the last. He felt nothing when Jaime came to tell the Lannisters that the King was dead. 

And, waiting at the gates of King’s Landing for Robert’s funeral procession to begin, he wasn’t sure he felt anything now. 

“You did well, Tyrek,” (Y/n) whispered, resting on his shoulder what would appear to any outsider to be a comforting hand. 

Tyrek looked up at (Y/n), not physically but emotionally. His hopeful eyes screamed for guidance. “You’re pleased? Lord Tywin will be pleased?”

“Yes,” (Y/n) rubbed his shoulder before letting her hand drop to her side. “We owe you a debt, and I promise it will be paid in full.” 

Tyrek smiled as (Y/n) walked away.

Maybe he was a worthy Lannister, because the prospect of being paid by some means filled him with more happiness than the murder had guilt.

(Y/n) left her cousin alone in the streets, trekking back up to the Red Keep with her head hung in a sign of mourning. 

The funeral had brought to mind something (Y/n) had long wondered. 

Robert Baratheon was dead, and in all the crowds it seemed only Tommen shed a tear. Cersei celebrated behind closed doors; Joffrey relished his new found power; Myrcella had always been fearful of her father for the way he treated Cersei; Renly was finally out of his brother’s shadow; and Stannis hadn’t even bothered to come to King’s Landing.

(Y/n) wondered, when she was gone, who would mourn her. Would Tyrion cry for her or rejoice at finally being treated as an heir? Would Jaime even notice her absence when his vision was so clouded with his twin? Would Tywin care that his daughter passed, or would he only care that he’d lost his right hand?

She knew better than to ask after Cersei. Loyal perhaps, but the sisters had no love lost. 

Robb. 

Robb would cry for her, would notice her absence, would care that she had passed. She had that over the King; she had Robb. 

Even Ned Stark, loyal, faithful Ned Stark, Robert’s oldest and only friend, didn’t mourn the man. He stayed locked in his tower, supposedly preparing the coronation of the new King.

Of course, (Y/n) knew better than to believe that. Ned Stark was, after all, a terrible liar.

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

“Enter,” a voice called from inside the study.

(Y/n) walked past the Northern guard opening the door with a nod and a smile. 

Ned sat at a wide oak desk in the bay of an otherwise empty room. The Hand of the King had an official study for business, a grand bedecked thing nearer the quarters of the King. 

This, however, was a personal one. Two studies were not a luxury any Northman, even the Warden of the North, was used to. It seemed Ned did not know how to fill the space and had opted instead to not even try.

(Y/n) motioned for the guard to shut the door as she analyzed the contents, or lack thereof, in the room. “It is rather different than my father kept it.”

Ned leapt from his desk, hand reaching for the sword balanced against his chair back. He had been expecting his meal at this time, but the voice that spoke had caught him entirely unaware in a city where even the slightest lapse in attention meant death.

“Forgive my interruption,” (Y/n) halfheartedly placated. 

Ned took a moment, assessing there was no physical threat in the room, only a moment though as the lack of furniture made it clear (Y/n) was the only other occupant of the room. He replied slowly, cautiously removing his hand from the hilt of his blade. “I don’t believe you were born long enough ago to remember your father’s time as Hand.”

(Y/n) ambled around the perimeter of the room, trailing a hand over the walls. “I was not, but as you recall my father might as well have been king for most of Aerys’ reign. Painters loved to depict my father. There are countless portraits of him stored in the vaults of the Rock. A couple of him on the Iron Throne, a few in front of the Keep, plenty in the library or the Hand’s study, but my favorite portrait of him was in this room.”

“There were Lannister banners on the walls then.” She reached the desk and flattened a palm against the wood. “But he put his desk here as well. The light from the window, I presume.”

“It is why I chose the spot.” Ned stepped back towards the door, putting a few paces of distance between himself and (Y/n) Lannister.

Lannister. She was, despite her wedding, still a Lannister. Ned wished it weren’t so, or at least he wished to forget it were. 

Catelyn had given him his children who were his absolute joy. She stood by him and helped him with every decision he made. She cared for his people and his home. She vowed herself, gave herself, to him knowing she was not his mate. Ned loved his wife. He would not trade her for anything in the Seven Kingdoms, but Ashara was no longer in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Her daughter caused Ned great confusion and pain. A beauty that rivaled her mother, a mind which rivaled her father. He looked on her and saw his lost love; he listened to her speak and heard his mortal enemy.

She spoke from her core, and her core was Lannister. No matter the face which hid it. 

Without even a cursory glance in his direction, (Y/n) slipped into the chair Ned had vacated. The post weighed heavily on Ned’s mind at all hours of the day and night, but the seat seemed to mold around (Y/n) Lannister as if it were her own. As though the space had always been hers to occupy. As though the room was hers and he was the one merely a guest. 

“Lord Stark,” She crossed her arms over her chest with a weary smile, the sort of smile that would be comforting in any city but King’s Landing. “I’ve come to speak to you today about a whisper I heard.” 

Ned went instantly on guard. “I don’t employ spies. If you want to speak of rumors, I would be happy to escort you to Lord Varys’.” 

“I share your aversion to those who pay others to listen in on their fellow man, Lord Stark,” (Y/n) dismissed handily, “I assure you; what I’ve heard was not bought by myself or any other. It was offered and taken freely. I don’t deal in spies, nor do I deal in rumors.” (Y/n) picked at her fingernails as though the matter were as casual as her morning meal. “Rumors are usually lies, and no one is fool enough to lie to me. Whispers are another matter. Whispers are the truths no one wishes to speak.”

“And what whispers have you heard that concern me?” Ned pried warily.

“Whispers of visits to the less desirable end of King’s Landing, whispers of trips to one of Lord Baelish’s establishments, whispers of inquiries at a number of bastard’s homes in Flea Bottom.” 

Ned’s blood ran cold, and (Y/n) seemed to sense it even though his face remained as emotionless as ever. 

(Y/n) lifted her eyes to Lord Stark but did not divert any meaningful attention to him. “You see, the rumors say you’re looking for another of your bastards, or visiting Jon Snow’s mother, or looking to take a new mistress. I have no time for such slander.” 

“Then what do you have time for, Lady Lannister?” 

(Y/n) turned her head to Ned’s desk top, directing his eyes to the large book weighing down his papers: The History of House Baratheon. “I have time for a warning, Lord Stark.”

“A warning?” 

(Y/n) wasn’t a fool. She knew that by giving him a warning Ned Stark would connect her, or more likely her family, to his inquiries. That is, if he hadn’t already. Starks had a way of blaming Lannisters for every crime committed in the Seven Kingdoms and most of the crimes committed outside of them. That they were right to place the blame there was irrelevant. That they couldn’t fathom Lannister’s may have a purpose for such perceived injustices was of far greater concern to (Y/n) now.  

“Stop.”

Ned paused. “That is all?” He was rather expecting more than one word. 

“Stop this?” (Y/n) shrugged nonchalantly. “I admit. I don’t know how else to say it.” 

“You want me to stop prying into the death of my ally and mentor, Jon Arryn, and you expect me to do so without cause, simply because you asked?” 

“Ah!” (Y/n) exclaimed. “This is our misunderstanding.” (Y/n) leaned forward, elbows to her knees and looked up at Ned. Her face, for a moment, lost any and all resemblance it held with Ashara. It was as though Tywin Lannister had entered the room. His essence pooled in her eyes and and seeped through her skin as if by some magic the old man had possessed her though only for an instant. “I am not asking.”

Ned braced. His hand itched for his sword, not that he would ever dare use it on this woman of all people, for any number of reasons. He sought merely the comfort of having his weapon; he felt as though he were in a battle entirely unarmed. 

“Your sister had the Hand of the King murdered in cold blood. You don’t deny this, and you expect me to look the other way.” Ned accused.

(Y/n) leaned back in her chair exasperated. “I deny it entirely!” 

How daft was this man. To call her family out so blatantly without all the facts before him. He was no master of the game; she knew that. She hadn’t expected him to be on par with Baelish or Varys, but it seemed he wasn’t even on par with the lessers, such as her siblings or Pycelle. Even Tommen knew better than to confront anyone in King’s Landing, especially her, in such a way.

“You deny your family is capable of such treachery? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I denied no such thing. Your family and mine are different out of the necessity of our survival. Your family is capable of a great many things mine is not, as the reverse is also true.” (Y/n) bit back. “I did not deny my family was capable of such a thing. I denied, specifically, that my sister, your Queen whom you should refer to her with more respect, murdered Jon Arryn.”

Ned contemplated, for a moment, the poor woman before him. A woman who genuinely believed her words, who believed death a necessity for survival. “If not your family, then who? He was my oldest friend. I will not let this pass.”

“There was a time you would have called King Robert your oldest friend, yet you do not seek justice for him now.” (Y/n) pointed out, much to Ned’s discomfort. “You know your king to have been poisoned, and you let every suspect of the crime walk free from this city. Why?”

“Robert,” Ned hesistated. He looked out the opening above his desk, for no other reason than to avoid (Y/n)’s knowing gaze. “I know the reason for his death; we both do. I imagine I also know who did the deed and how it was done. Nothing there need be questioned, and I find the reason to be one which my heart simply cannot see fit to judge. Robert was not the man I once knew.” 

“And you know Jon Arryn to be the same man how?” (Y/n) asked. “You say he was your oldest friend, a title you remove from Robert in recent days. A title you would not have dreamed remove from Robert before you saw what he’d become. How then, having not seen Jon Arryn for just as long as the late King, can you lay the honor at his feet?” 

Ned marched forward to Jon Arryn’s defense, grabbing up the straining spine of the book and forcing its pages into (Y/n)’s face. “Because I know why he was killed, and no man deserves to die for doing his duty to his people. Your sister should not go unpunished for his death.”

“Again,” (Y/n) sighed, “my sister did not kill Jon Arryn.”

“And how do you know?” Ned turned the questioning on her.

“Because that deed I did myself.”

For that, Ned had no response. 

The tone of the conversation took a turn. Argument and resistance died in the air. Objection froze on the tongue. 

Ned Stark found he was well and truly struck dumb. 

Ned Stark had fallen at the first hurdle, a lesson (Y/n) had known even as a child: Never ask a question unless you already know its answer. 

With her revelation, it seemed as if (Y/n) did, in fact, own the room.

“I imagine you have already correctly deduced why I felt it need be done. Regardless of your actions, I won’t kill you as I did him, Lord Stark. I promise you that. Though, I cannot and will not promise your safety if you continue with this line of inquiry. You walk a dangerous path down which another has already died, and it is a path you walk very much alone. You have no allies in this city, only the liability of your daughters.”

“If you touch my children,” Ned began.

“I have no intention to draw the siblings of my mate into any frey,” (Y/n) waved off his growl. “Your daughters are no concern of mine, but I cannot say the same of my counterparts. Baelish is seen to be quite regularly in Sansa’s presence, and Varys has eyes on Arya almost constantly. I mention your daughters to remind you that they are here. Because judging by your actions, you seem to have forgotten. Whatever you do,” (Y/n) slammed her hand down on the book Ned had set aside on the table, “will affect them directly. 

“If you see through your quest for vengeance, your life and theirs will be at the mercy of my sister. If you are arrested for the treason you are plotting to commit, it will be my heartless nephew who decides their fate.” (Y/n) rose to her feet, forcing Ned back a step as they stood toe-to-toe. “Lord Stark, if you continue, the best ending that could possibly come from this would be for you to be branded a traitor and thrown in prison. The best ending for your daughters is to be given to my care at the Rock as honored guests unable to see their family ever again. And we both know what the worst outcome would entail.” 

Ned had much to think on that seemed to prevent him speaking. He did not want to reply with an ill-thought response to such a direct accusation of danger, but (Y/n) had clearly come prepared for whatever he might think to say. 

“Lord Stark,” (Y/n) sighed, resigned to maintaining the conversation alone, “I admire your sense of justice for your friends, but there comes a time to think of oneself, or at least one’s children. You will, I have no doubt, take this as intimidation, think I am attempting to block the honorable way. You believe you are doing the right thing, and I am here to tell you that you are. You’re doing the right thing for Jon Arryn and for your conscience, but make no mistake that the pair of you are the only two who will be served well by this course. It is the right thing for your guilt and for a deadman, not for the rest of Westeros.

“I mean, Stannis? As King? Make no mistake. Despite their personalities, Stannis is every bit Robert’s brother. The only thing Robert had in his favor was charm, and Stannis even lacks that.” (Y/n) scoffed at the idea of the morose, elder Baratheon sitting atop the Iron Throne. 

“So,” Ned’s voice was as low as his eyes, looking at the floor. “You admit Joffrey is not the true King.” 

(Y/n) paused, hesitating for only a moment, but it was enough for Ned to realize his words were to some degree correct. “Joffrey may not be the rightful King, but I believe he is the right one. Joffrey, as you’ve seen, would be no one’s first choice, but his undisputed reign, however brief, guarantees peace. What you propose leads to war and death and destruction from which no one benefits. Peace is what the Seven Kingdoms need.”

Ned wasn’t sure he intended to follow it, but he found he did want the young woman’s advice. “What, then, would you have me do?”

“Wait.” (Y/n) plainly stated. “A few months at the most. Joffrey will find some small slight, some matter of policy or gold which you’ve done in a way which he disapproves. He will ask you to return your pin as Hand. Do it without question. My sister will not attempt to enforce any contract for Sansa’s hand without Robert alive, and you will be free to journey with your children home. Take your daughters, and return to Winterfell where you belong.” 

“And who would take my place?” Ned already knew the answer.

“My father, of course.” 

Ned sat back on the edge of his desk with a heavy sigh, thinking that they had finally reached the true purpose of this conversation. “That is why you come to me then, to make way for your father. To ensure you do live to see him at this desk, in this room.” Ned motioned toward the window, the damned light at which their conversation had began. “It would give you control of the Rock sooner.”

(Y/n) smiled, a genuine, amused thing. “You are, I daresay, the first and only man in the Seven who has ever questioned my loyalty to my father. Knowing, as you do, what I’ve given up for him, I imagined you wiser than to do so. Even if it were as you say, and I assure you it is not, I am none so foolish as to go behind my father’s back to take control of the Westerlands.”

“Then what do you gain from this?” Ned asked, “I have been in King’s Landing long enough to know that even the most trustworthy people gain something from their loyalty.” 

(Y/n) shrugged. This was, by no means, the revelation to her that it clearly was to Ned Stark “Perhaps that is true, perhaps I am gaining something from all of this. Or perhaps, for once, it might be possible for you to believe that someone without the last name Stark is capable of doing the right thing.” 

There was a long quiet between the two in which (Y/n) leaned back and wrapped her hands over her stomach, looking thoughtfully out the window. 

When Ned spoke again, it was a whisper. “Lady (Y/n), are you with child?”

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(Y/n) was heavy with child, too heavy for only a few months. The Maester had whispered words with her father in the hall after looking in on her. 

“More than one.”

“Worried.”

“Large.”

“Like Joanna.” 

The last should have scared her, but (Y/n) had no time for such worries. 

There were greater moves being made than those of her body.

Namely, those of Catelyn Stark.

(Y/n) stormed down the hall, as much as she could at her size. 

Her eyes were red, with tears or rage, one could not be sure, but she looked every bit a woman ready to kill. She was every bit a woman ready to kill.

The Mountain, ever stationed outside her father’s study, stepped aside as she approached. 

(Y/n) shoved open the door, not bothering to allow it to close behind.

Let the Mountain hear. Let the Rock hear. Let the whole of the Westerlands and Westeros hear what she had to say.

Her husband, Harwyn, was stationed inside the open door. 

The most useless guard in existence. The most useless man in existence. He thought himself worthy because he got her with child in their single torrid night together. He thought he had earned the Lannister’s respect. He was wrong, not that he’d realized that yet. He was nothing more than a hulking mass of flesh, and he had foolishly served his entire purpose to a family who did not consider him one of their own.

As the lesser brother of House Lannister looked up, Kevan jumped to his feet to free the chair in front of his brother’s desk for (Y/n).

“Have you seen this?” (Y/n) growled, ignoring the gesture. Her voice was dark, cold as she brandished a scroll in her left fist. 

Tywin lifted an eyebrow. His daughter was not prone to exaggerations, of any kind. Even in her pregnancy, emotions did not vex her. She was far too disciplined for such outbursts of rage. “I presume not, as I’ve had no cause for anger today.” 

(Y/n) tossed the crumbled paper onto her father’s desk, but her hand remained clenched in its fists as if it was looking for something, anything to squeeze the life out of, “Word from Jaime.”

Tywin smoothed out the paper, and Kevan forgot his attempts to get (Y/n) to sit. He circled the wood to look over the older lord’s shoulder at the message. 

It was minutes, several long agonizing minutes, before her father finally looked up from the single sentence scratched into the paper. His head rose at a pace that was agonizing in its slowness, but when his gaze finally met his daughter’s it was that of a lion rearing back its’ head to strike. 

“Can we confirm this?” His tone mirrored his daughter’s low voice.

(Y/n) gave a single nod. “It was accompanied by word from the Riverlands.”

Gracefully, like a predator stalking its prey, Tywin pushed to his feet, sending Kevan back a step in his wake. “Brother,” Tywin’s eyes didn’t leave his daughter’s. “Call the banners.”

Harwyn stepped from his shadowy corner, “For what purpose, my Lord?” 

Tywin turned his deadly gaze on his new son, and even the proud knight seemed to shrink back inside of the barrell that made up his chest. “Catelyn Stark has accused Tyrion of the murder of Bran Stark and kidnapped him on his return to us.”

(Y/n) took the chance to sum up her father’s thoughts in three words. “This is war.”

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“Open,” The order came from somewhere near the back of the procession, and the guards at the top of the stairs each took a handle and pulled the doors wide.

The creaking brought a hush to the crowded room beyond who had not been expecting interruption. The chatter that had been present slowly died away as the newcomer joined their ranks.

“My deepest apologies for being late,” (Y/n) called out, slipping seamlessly to fill the quiet as if she did not know or care that her presence was a shockingly unwelcome surprise. With a grand flourish of her hands, (Y/n) waved to all of the room in greeting. “I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Silence. A long, empty silence.

Then, from the center a hearty chuckle. 

(Y/n) stepped under the middle archway and greeted Tyrion’s relieved smile with her usual smirk. 

“Brother,” she gave only a curt nod in acknowledgment before turning to meet the more distinguished guests on their platform.

Lady Arryn rose from her seat to stand beside her sister with a wide-eyed expression that could only be managed by someone subject to her particular kind of lunacy. “Who gave you the right to enter my home?”

“I gave myself the right,” (Y/n) meandered along, circling the edge of the room, a show of her indifference to Lysa’s power as much as it was a show of her own confidence. 

The Eyrie truly was a dreadful place. The mountains helped; they were beautiful, like a painting out of every window. But the keep was something more reminiscent of Harrenhal. Dim, cold, giving the appearance that it was haunted by its former patriarch. 

(Y/n) rather hoped the hall wasn’t haunted by Jon Arryn. She doubted he would take kindly to her presence. Not that she believed in spirits of any kind.

“You have no business here!” Lysa roared, taking a step dangerously close to the ledge over which she sat.

“On the contrary,” (Y/n) wandered over to the nearest bench and, with a glowering look, sent the lesser ladies occupying the seat scurrying away, “He,” she pointed to Tyrion as she settled in, “is my business.” 

“You cannot pay your way out of this. Your brother has already called for his trial by combat,” Lady Catelyn’s voice was steadier than her sister’s but by no means more inviting.

“Excellent,” (Y/n) clapped her hands, “Then he saves me the step of demanding one.” 

“What cause have you for wanting such a thing?” Lysa’s nose turned up at the prospect, an unpleasant look for an unpleasant woman. It made her already large nose look even more like a beak. 

“I have brought my brother’s champion.” (Y/n) snapped twice, a definitive sound that echoed off the chamber walls. “I’m sure you recall my husband, Lord Harwyn.”

The doors creaked open once more.

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(Y/n) would be wrong if she tried to claim that she wasn’t proud of the bloody shoe prints that trailed her as Harwyn escorted her up the small flight of stairs. 

There was something terribly Lannister about leaving the blood of her enemies in her wake, feeling their life draining out under her feet. 

“I believe,” (Y/n) let go of Harwyn’s steadying grasp as she reached the top of the overlook, “that my husband has won the day, and the trial, in my brother’s name.” 

Lysa looked on the red at (Y/n)’s heels and snarled out with a venom, “Take your brother and go.” 

(Y/n) bowed her head. In her advanced state, she could bow little else without toppling over. “Thank you, Lady Arryn.” 

(Y/n) sidestepped a guard to stand at Catelyn’s side and leaned in as if she were embracing the older woman.

Catelyn stiffened as (Y/n)’s arms came up to rest upon her shoulders, and every body in the room tensed for action, listening intently for provocation by either side.

(Y/n) pressed her lips against Catelyn’s ear and spoke in a voice so low that even with no other noise and an echoey, stone chamber not a word carried to any others present. 

“You think your son’s name on my arm will protect you from my wrath, and yet my name on his arm is not good enough to protect my brother.” (Y/n)’s hands gripped tighter to Catelyn’s dress. Her nails cut through the fabric and stung Catelyn’s skin. “Make no mistake. This will be your only warning. I care for my family just as deeply as you do for yours, and I will not tolerate such insolence again. The next time you touch one of my brothers, no Stark will leave alive.” 

Catelyn’s eyes stared straight ahead when (Y/n) turned and retreated back over the deadman’s blood. The steps up and down smeared into one another and became indistinguishable trail. 

Like the train of her crimson wedding cloak, the blood red stain followed her out the door and into the snow. 

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“Where are we going?” Tyrion occupied the seat across from her in the carriage. 

Normally, he would have ridden on horseback, but that was dominantly for the sake of expectation. 

His ‘brother’ Harwyn was outside, riding with the guard. Usually, the only recusal from joining the rest of the men would have been for all of the highborn lords and ladies to take refuge in the carriage. As it were, Tyrion was showing a great deal of disrespect to their traveling companions.

Though, he imagined Harwyn would say nothing and most of the low-born swords would not take it as the slight it was. They would assume that Tyrion’s height had made him in some way lesser to them and that this was merely him showing his weakness.

Neither, of course, was true. Tyrion could ride well enough with his saddle to keep up, and despite his imprisonment he felt more than fine to ride. 

There were, however, more important things than keeping up appearances to nameless, faceless, meaningless soldiers. 

“You won’t make it back to the Rock in this state,” Tyrion gestured to hulking mass that had become of his sister’s belly. 

“No, I won’t.” (Y/n) shifted her hands beneath the protrusion to lift some of the weight off of her aching back. “We’re heading to the Twins. Aunt Genna is waiting for us there.”

“And from there?” Tyrion asked.  

Trying desperately to find a comfortable seat, (Y/n) huffed and shifted her waist yet again. “Genna has business to attend with House Frey. She will accompany me home when I am well, and her deed is done.”

“And me?” 

“I believe Father has asked after you.”

Tyrion let his head thunk back against the wall behind him. “Joy,” he grumbled.

(Y/n) smiled, “No need to fear, brother. I believe it is a posting.” 

Tyrion let the words hang for a moment before switching the conversation. There was no elegant way to put it, but it needed to be said. “Thank you, (Y/n). I know Father sent you, no doubt. But thank you.” 

(Y/n) let her head lull to one side so as to look on her brother at eye level. 

Their family was not one for emotion. Cersei was too cruel to feel any, save those of a mother for her child. Jaime kept his locked deep inside, only sharing them on the rare occasion he was truly at someone’s mercy. Tyrion was rarely sober enough to remember what he was feeling, not that he felt safe enough to divulge them when there wasn’t a drink in his hand. (Y/n) hid her own under the cold, calculating mask of Tywin Lannister. 

It was a truly unique and rare occasion for any of the siblings, particularly (Y/n), to show what they were feeling. But on those rare occasions (Y/n) set her mask aside, it was only for her brothers. 

“Tyrion, Father did not order me after you. I was the one to tell him I was coming.”

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“The Pride of the Rock,” Tyrion tossed the Maester’s letter on the table in front of his sister. “How much of that is embellishment to win your favor?” 

(Y/n) glanced up at her brother through her lashes. Even when it was out from under her watchful eye, her hand did not cease its elegant arcs over the paper before her, crafting what Tyrion was sure was an equally elegant response. 

Tyrion could recall (Y/n)’s birth the same way Jaime often recalled his own. 

‘You came into this world shouting, and you haven’t shut up since.’ Jaime used to say to his younger brother.

Tyrion, only a boy himself at the time, had been in the hall when his younger sister entered the world. He’d sat on the floor worrying his bottom lip as he waited for the Maester to come out with the final news. 

When Ashara’s cries had finally quieted down, Tyrion had expected a baby’s wail. All experience and knowledge he had on the subject had led him to believe his sibling would cry with their first breath of air. He fretted that something had gone horribly wrong when no sound came from the room, save the Maester’s shuffling feet. 

Maester Orland waddled out of the bedchamber with a bundle of cloth in his arms, outstretched from his body with a disagreeable face. 

‘A girl, I’m afraid,’ the Maester shoved the child at the young Tyrion. ‘Normal and healthy, at least. I must see to Ashara. Take her to your father. He will no doubt be displeased.’ 

The baby was rather large for Tyrion to hold, but he cradled her to his chest with all the care in the world. 

Tyrion had been the first person in the world to hold little (Y/n). Even before their father, even before her mother, even before Jaime, and long before Cersei. It was, therefore, with some certainty that Tyrion could say (Y/n) was not molded into Tywin’s ideal. (Y/n) was born perfect. 

For sure, Genna had to teach her to write in the beautiful script that now lettered the paper in front of her, but everything which made her (Y/n) was ingrained in her from her beginning. 

The entire walk from Ashara’s chambers to Tywin’s library she had stared up at Tyrion with the same silent, judgmental look that colored her face even to the present.

(Y/n) was thoroughly unamused, but after so many years in her company Tyrion was used to her cold mask. He knew that, while identical to his father’s, her hardened expressions were at least occasionally capable of hiding amusement or cracking into a smile. Tyrion had made an art of telling exactly when and how her lips would finally pull up at the corners. 

“Dear brother,” (Y/n)’s eyebrow rose nearly as high as her incredulous tone, “you think anyone would dare deceive me, even for the sake of flattery.”

“No,” Tyrion broke from his reminiscing. “I certainly don’t.” 

“Then let us presume it is as the maester says.” (Y/n) set aside her work and leaned back in the chair, resting her hands over her ever larger stomach. “What will this mean?”

“Why it means…” Tyrion wasn’t sure he wanted to say, but under (Y/n)’s watchful, waiting gaze he knew he had to speak. She was looking at him expectantly; she knew what was to come. “Sister, you cannot mean to do this. If we lose you…”

“If you lose me, you mean,” (Y/n) corrected with a tilt to her lip that was as close as she ever came to a smile away from the Rock. “Brother,” (Y/n) reached out a hand, and Tyrion found himself meeting her halfway. “I did not leave you with Catelyn Stark. I won’t leave you with our family either. You are one of us, and Father raised me to protect my own, even if we have different understandings of what is ours.”

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Given (Y/n)’s condition, the Lannister trio of Tyrion, (Y/n), and Genna were held months at the Twins. As (Y/n)’s belly swelled, so did the tension of the Kingdoms. Until finally, at once, both burst. 

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(Y/n) panted for breath, gasping in lung full after lung full. She felt like a sailor drowning in the Sunset Sea. Every gulp eased her pain, but only for the moment it came in.

“Where” Gasp. “Is” Gasp. “My” Gasp. “Brother”.

The Maester pressed a cold, wet cloth to her forehead, trying to stem the sweat that was pouring out of her as the hours drug on. “No men are allowed in the birthing chamber. Only your mother and the midwives.”

With the next roar of pain, (Y/n) grabbed the old man by the neck of his robe and wrenched his face down over hers. “Bring. Me. Tyrion.” 

Despite the maester’s feeble protests, a midwife ran from the room and came back with the shorter Lannister on her heels.

Tyrion held (Y/n)’s hand through hours of screams. His fingers went numb from her clutches while her voice went hoarse with cries. His ears stung at the volume of the noise, and his head ached from the pain of listening so closely. His mouth was dry; his stomach was empty. He smelled of sweat and blood, like the room around them. 

But not once did Tyrion move. Not once did he complain. 

This was how his mother died. This was how (Y/n)’s mother died. This was how he caused his mother’s death. This was how (Y/n) caused her mother’s death.

He hadn’t been there for his mother, nor (Y/n) for hers. 

Joanna and Ashara had died screaming and alone. They had died in the arms of a strange old man they did not know. They had died lying in the same birthing bed. They had died bringing their last children into the world. They had died… 

They had died. 

Tyrion refused to let that happen to her. 

But from her screams, from her pain, from her tears, it was plain that (Y/n) was dying now. 

The first child came easy. A bald, beautiful baby boy. He was small in size though not sharing Tyrion’s condition. The babe was placed in Genna’s arms and ushered quickly from the room. 

The second, not as much. The girl boasted a near full head of Lannister blonde hair, and her screams nearly matched her mother’s in furiocity as she entered the world. 

It was then, as a nursing maid bundled the child away to join Genna and the other outside, that the Maester looked up from under his sister’s skirts. Tyrion could see the color drain from the old man’s face as he held up three fingers. “There’s another.”

No one ever survived a third. The only time Tyrion had ever heard of such a thing happening to nobility had been the Goodbrothers in the Iron Islands, tales of three boys born the size of sailors who practically tore their mother apart to enter the world. They said the woman died bloodied. They said she would’ve died screaming if she’d had lungs left to breath. No one in House Goodbrother had ever bothered to refute the tale, the monstrous sons she’d birthed even bragged of their feat. 

Tyrion held (Y/n)’s hand, and with the next pains, he cried with her. 

Tyrion could not lose his sister this same way, could not let another child into this family without a mother’s love. He could not bare a nephew as rejected and broken as himself, could not bare a niece as masked and guarded as (Y/n). 

Tywin hated Tyrion for killing the only woman he loved, and he would hate this child for killing the daughter that finally replaced her. 

“(Y/n),” Tyrion brushed away the hair plastered to his sister’s face. It was the first time, the only time, he had seen her looking anything less than perfect, and he’d never loved her more. “Sister, mine, your children need you now. Bring their sibling into this world, so they can meet you.”

Her voice had long turned from cries to rasping groans, but with her brother’s words, (Y/n) managed one last shout, pushing the baby from her as she collapsed onto the bed. 

The Maester handed the bloody mound of crying flesh to Tyrion and shoved him from the room. 

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The scream that ripped through the air around the Twins was a blood-curdling one. It filtered out through the windows of the upper chambers and fell down upon the ears of the men surrounding the keep.

“It sounds as if there is a woman being tortured in there.”

“It’s the Twins. I would not be surprised to hear anything of Walder Frey.” 

Just as the rest of the men were humming their agreement, their liege lord’s voice called out, “Ah, men too young to know the call. That’s no torture, boys. That’s the screams of a woman in birth.”

Robb Stark glanced over his shoulder on hearing the booming voice of his closest advisor, Lord Umber. “One of his wives or one of his daughters?” Robb joked back, wandering over to join the fray. 

Greatjon slapped a hand on the Stark’s shoulder. “Perhaps a woman who’s both.”

The group of soldiers guffawed. 

Robb’s eyes trailed over the keep. He knew there was no way to tell which window the sound came from, but when the next scream pierced the air, he felt an urge coming over him to go and find its source.

Shaking his head, Robb turned and backed away from the group of men, returning to talk with his mother over her mission with Lord Walder.

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Later, a bard writing of the day would call it a miracle. The Triplets at the Twins. 

And later still, when the name on (Y/n)’s arm and the name on Robb’s had passed into legend, they would say it was the gods themselves who came down and touched (Y/n)’s life that day. They would say the gods could not bare the injustice of her dying so close, but so far, from her mate. 

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On orders, an army of Northerners had been allowed to pass into the Riverlands. War had finally begun. 

The fighting was vicious and bloody. At the incredibly slow pace she would have to set given her condition, there was no sure way for (Y/n) to find passage to the Rock. (Y/n) spent a whole month alone at the Twins with only the company of ugly Frey girls and dimwitted Frey boys on hand to entertain her. They didn’t even have a library, the Freys. 

It was dull, dreadfully dull.  

Tywin had called for Tyrion the moment word had reached him that his daughter had survived her ordeal. Sympathy was in short supply in wartime, and Tywin was saving what little he had for souls weaker than his daughter. He knew (Y/n) would be fine.

Aunt Genna, her task done, was similarly ordered back to the Rock. (Y/n) had sent her children along with her. 

The Twins had never fallen, but (Y/n) was not willing to take that chance. The Rock was the only place she knew they would be safe, the only place where all eyes watching were on their side. It was only with the greatest care, and a few dead spies, that (Y/n) herself had not been found in Walder Frey’s home. She was not about to risk her family, her children, in that way for nothing more than company.

For once in her life, (Y/n) admitted that she needed time to heal, that she was in a state that was of no use to her father or her family. 

It spoke to how low she was, how near death she had been, that when she could finally walk again the first place she had asked to go was the house of a landed knight serving under Walder Frey, several leagues down the road. There, in his garden, was a small, rather puny weirwood tree, the only one for a day’s ride in any direction.

(Y/n) hobbled out alone and, away from the Frey’s prying eyes, threw herself at the base of the tree.

“I never believed in the new gods. I am not certain I believe in the old ones either. Still, a lack of faith in you is far better than a disbelief of them.” With slow, shuddering breath, (Y/n) removed herself from where she was wrapped around the tree and knelt before it. “Because right now, I desperately need someone to pray to.”

And so she sat there, for hours, talking to a tree.

And when she rose, she felt better for it. Not that it was something she would ever admit.

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Whatever peace (Y/n) found lasted as long as it took to ride back to the Twins. 

On her return, it took only the news presented her to decide: if this was what she got for praying to the old gods, then they could go in the trash heap where she’d shoved the new.

“A message from your father, delivered by hand,” Lord Walder held out the paper, seal facing her. “If it says anything like his letter to me, I imagine you will be leaving us soon.”

“Jaime captured. Harwyn dead. Return with the Mountain.” 

As if she needed the last sentence. 

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There were few moments in Robb Stark’s life that he could look back on with some certainty and know that his father would be ashamed of him, but that moment Lord Umber pulled him into the trees was certainly one.

“Is this the man?” Lord Umber asked, gesturing to the knight pinned to his knees by three of the Greatjon’s sons. 

Robb studied the figure carefully; though, he did not need to. He would know it anywhere. It was the man that haunted his dreams, cursed his nightmares. It was the body he imagined when he hacked training poles to bits, when he sent soldiers hurtling to the ground in sparring matches, when racked an arrow and aimed for the target. 

It was his enemy. More than Joffrey would ever be. 

“None of us have met him, but we gather you were at the wedding and would be able to pick out the man. He could prove a valuable prisoner, not so much as the Kingslayer but enough to be worth keeping.” The Greatjon explained, without realizing that Robb was not listening.

“So?” one of the sons holding him down asked Robb. “Is it Harwyn Plumm?”

Robb crouched on the balls of his feet, slowly lowering himself to the level of the man’s face. 

The Umber holding Harwyn’s left arm clutched at his hair and wrenched his head up to look Robb dead in the eye. 

“Hello Harwyn,” Robb sneered. 

Harwyn snarled between his teeth but did not dare to look away from the Northman. 

“You look different from the last time I saw you.” A cruel observation that Robb made with a slight thrill. 

A fresh, bloody gash had sliced across the man’s left eye sometime during the battle. The dirt and grime of war camps mingled with the fresh blood in a sticky sludge that covered the lower half of his face.

His brutish features looked even more severe, even more dangerous, even more menacing. Harwyn Plumm, truly a force, or at least he used to be.

Robb pushed himself to his feet and placed a hand to the hilt of his sword.

“I won’t be making it to your prison,” Harwyn croaked out a response to Lord Umber though he did not, for a moment, abandon his staring match with Robb.

“No,” Robb agreed. “You won’t.” 

Robb unsheathed his sword. “I do hope your wife will forgive me.” 

To the rest of the group, to those unaware, it sounded like a cruel joke made at the expense of an enemy during his final breaths. Robb and Harwyn were alone in their knowledge that the plea was sincere.

With a whistle as it cut the air, Robb’s blade came down on Harwyn’s neck.

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No one shed tears for Harwyn Plumm. No one mourned his loss. No one worried over what the gods had in store for him. No one pleaded for the chance to lay his body to rest. No one demanded vengeance for his life.

Harwyn Plumm’s death was lost in the much bolder news permeating the letter. 

Every pound of her horse’s hooves felt like it was drumming out the words to a beat as (Y/n) rode.

Jaime captured. Jaime captured. Jaime captured.

Harwyn was an afterthought. 

“Perhaps I should thank him. At least Robb cleaned up one mess for us,” (Y/n) grumbled to the Mountain as he helped her mount her horse. 

And that was the only time any word of Harwyn’s death left his wife’s lips before her mind was back to the more important matter at hand.

Jaime captured. Jaime captured. Jaime captured.

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“Your mate,” Tywin threw the letter onto the pile of papers between him and his daughter, “is demanding Northern independence.”

“My mate is a fool.” (Y/n) dismissed. “He’s a soldier, not a King.”

“They’ve named him their King,” Kevan pointed out.

“Just because he says it doesn’t make it so.” 

“He didn’t say it,” Kevan argued, leaning into the confrontation, “his men did. That is a true King.” 

Tywin gave a humm of passive agreement. For a moment (Y/n) thought she saw a hint of respect, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

(Y/n) shrugged as she slouched back in her chair. For once, she thought that her two companions were rather missing the point. “Robb’s men declared him King, but so did Robert’s men. Robert held the title, but it does not mean he did the deed. Jon Arryn ran Westeros for decades. Ran it into the ground,” she quickly stipulated, “but ran it nonetheless. Robb will be the same as his namesake, only he won’t even have the meager might of Jon Arryn to guide the way. He knows the North. He knows Winterfell, but he was raised to fight and to lead, not to rule. Put the man in front of a trade agreement, and he will be as lost as we would be north of the Wall. Give the man a crown, and he will forget where he put it down by the next moon.”

(Y/n), Uncle Kevan, and Tywin were the only three in the war tent. The Mountain and one of Harwyn’s elder brother guarded the door, but neither of them was close enough to hear the conversation inside over the bustling of preparations. 

Probably for the best. 

“His title doesn’t matter.” Tywin waved the matter away. “If he believes himself King, then we will fight him like a King.”

“And what of Jaime then?” (Y/n) uncrossed her legs and pressed forward in her chair. 

“We will find a way.” Tywin paused for a moment before carefully changing his words, “you will find a way.” 

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Jaime Lannister lay in the mud covering the floor of his cell, trying unsuccessfully to find a quiet enough moment to get some rest. 

His body was weak, growing weaker by the day. With his arms tied to a pole behind his back, they had gone completely unused since he arrived in the Stark camp. He could feel the strength in his sword hand beginning to go, and while the skill would never leave him he knew he would need more than his memory when he managed to find his way back to the battlefield. 

Reconstructing his cell at this new encampment, Stark put Jaime near the center of tents. Every noise from the slop of meals to the passing of midnight guards went right by his enclosure, and every man made it a point to kick a toe full of dirt at him, just in case he was asleep.

Late afternoon, just after the sun had set, was the only time he could find some peace. Robb Stark’s men were all taking evening meals, and his lords and advisors were in his tent planning their next attack on Tywin Lannister.

They acted like Jaime didn’t know this. One of them, the great buffoon that was Lord Umber, even taunted Jaime with their plans, daring him to guess where they were going, teasing what he would do when they finally caught the Great Lion.

As if Jaime didn’t know where they were. He was no Tyrion, but Jaime wasn’t entirely stupid. The height of the hills had been rising by the day. The depths of the valleys in which they slept had become rockier every night. 

Jaime had spent his entire childhood running around the Rock. As he grew, he traveled with the guard putting down rebellions and imprisoning thieves. He squired for Lord Crakehall and befriended House Marbrand. Jaime was the son of Tywin Lannister. He was born to be lord of the Westerlands, and he would recognize his homelands anywhere. 

By his best estimates, they were two days north of the Golden Tooth. The rolling hills were slowly growing higher, but it would not be until the other side of Ashemark that they would become the mountains of the Rock.

The hills were certainly slowing down the party, but Jaime imagined the mountains would draw them to a standstill. The Northmen were used to flat plains of ice. They could handle cold better than anyone. The occasional snow falls left them entirely unphased, but the rise and fall of the land was causing many of them difficulties that Jaime couldn’t help but find amusing. 

The night prior, two young soldiers who’d been stationed as his guard had gotten sick from the changing heights. Jaime knew many a remedy for such illness, but he let the men be. The stench of their sickness invaded his cell, but he was happy to endure it. Given the placement of his cell and guards which Lord Stark had so kindly given him, the rest of the camp was forced to suffer with him. 

Even now, with no rain to wash away the debris, the contents of the men’s stomach were left to bake in the sun then freeze in the night. 

Jaime buried his face in his hair to hide from the stench. His hair wasn’t much better. It had been far too long since he bathed; he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be clean.

Nothing though, not his hair, not his post, not the mud, could sufficiently hide from the noise. The squelch of boots hitting sludge and the smack as their owner pulled them from where they stuck. The swish of a cloak was muffled as it dragged along the ground, the weight of the debris it picked up burdening its movement. Then, unexpectedly, the clank of a chain being removed.

Jaime looked up to see his cell being unlocked by the dim light of a torch. 

“The King in the North!” Jaime jeered in delight as Robb Stark entered his prison. “I keep expecting you to leave me at one castle or another for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp. Have you grown fond of me Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.” 

Jaime leaned in, as much as his chains could bear and spoke in a conspiratorial tone, “Or perhaps it’s not me you’re fond of; perhaps it is a girl? Can’t have the girl you want, so you keep me around as the next best thing? I must admit (Y/n) and I both have stunningly good looks.” 

Robb’s jaw visibly clenched, and Jaime couldn’t bite back his smile at getting under the little lord’s skin. His sister would, no doubt, be unappreciative of being dragged into his little spats with her mate, but Jaime doubted there was much else he could say that would rattle the young Stark. Stark was, after all, dumb enough to think he was winning.

“If I left you with one of my bannermen,” Robb spoke in as cold and emotionless a voice as he could manage to use addressing a man like the Kingslayer, “your father would know within a fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with a message: ‘Release my son, and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem’.” 

Even as Robb spoke, Jaime was shaking his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle.” 

In truth, Jaime never trusted his men, but Jaime was a Lannister. Lannisters never trusted anyone. The Starks, the North, claimed to be made of more honorable, more loyal stuff than him. 

“I trust my men with my life. Just not with yours.”  

If Jaime had absolutely anything to do during his capture, he wouldn’t have been quite so bored out of his mind, and if he wasn’t quite so bored out of his mind, he wouldn’t have been paying attention so acutely to Robb Stark, the only interesting thing to happen to him in days. If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, he might have missed the way the corner of Robb’s mouth lifted only slightly.

“Sounds like something my sister would say.” The way Robb’s eyebrow rose told Jaime all he needed to know on the matter. “Smart woman, my sister. You’re a smart boy to learn from her.” 

The small smile on Robb’s face slowly leaked away.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime tilted to one side, curiously. “Don’t like being called boy?” Jaimed added a mocking pout, “Insulted?”

Robb Stark’s eyes trailed to something behind Jaime, and Jaime was, for a moment, confused until he heard a rustling from the trees. There was a stamp of something that sounded like a hoof followed by a low, deep growl. Jaime tried to look over his shoulder, but his restraints kept him in place. 

“You insult yourself Kingslayer,” Robb took on a smooth affect, somewhere between Jaime’s mocking words and his sister’s unshakeable superiority. 

Jaime could pretend he was listening to Robb, but it would have been a lie beyond his capabilities as a heavy panting drew closer to his back and began to circle the cage. 

“You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy.” 

The animal responsible for the rigidity in Jaime’s back finally came into view, in the light of a distant torch: a massive, monstrous wolf.

“Perhaps, you’ll be killed by a boy.” 

The beast, because it was no simple wolf, circled his cell like it was circling its next meal. Jaime subconsciously drew his legs into him as the thing entered the door, taking every inch left in the front of his cell to stand at its master’s side. 

“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros.” 

Jaime couldn’t, wouldn’t, take his eyes off the creature before him, but Robb Stark certainly had his ear now. 

“That King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king, nor a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.” 

Jaime took a chance in removing his eyes from the direwolf to glare down Robb Stark. “Well if that’s true Stannis is the rightful king, how convenient for him,” Jaime felt like he was educating a child on politics, pointing out such obvious things. 

“My father learned the truth,” Robb ignored Jaime’s words to continue his tale, “that’s why you had him executed.”

The wolf huffed, drawing Jaime back to him. “I was your prisoner when Ned Stark lost his head.” 

“Your son,” the Stark’s growl matched his wolf’s, “killed him, so the world wouldn’t learn who fathered him, and you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen.” Robb’s chin lifted into the air. 

It was a look Jaime knew well. It was a look he saw on his sisters’ faces, on Tyrion’s face every day. The look of confidence that came only with the absolute certainty one was right. He’d thought only Lannisters’ were capable of looking so smug, but it seemed what Starks lacked in pride they made up in self-righteousness.

“You have proof? Or do you want to trade gossip like a couple of fishwives?” 

“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.” 

Last Jaime had heard Cersei and Tyrion were the only Lannisters in King’s Landing, and neither of them had the power to accept or proffer peace with the claimed King in the North. There were only two Lannisters who could offer such a thing, and he was sure of where one of them was.

“King’s Landing you say?” Jaime’s lips lifted far more slowly than they were used to, but they eventually found their usual shape. He looked up at Robb Stark with a cocky smirk, impressively maintained in face of the threat of the wolf. “You should be sending them to the Rock.”

“And why would I do anything you suggest Kingslayer?” Robb asked, tensing his hand in the fur of his wolf to hold the creature back.

“Because, Lannister I may be, but you are breathing down the Rock while Baratheons threatens the Crownlands. My father might well want me alive, but our home and the Crown are as important as my head if not more.”

Robb gave a half-hearted laugh at the thought. “I’m supposed to believe your father would leave you to die in my hands because he’s too busy to be bothered?”

“Hardly,” Jaime waved the idea away with a jerk of his head. Even the uneasiness of the wolf at Robb’s side couldn’t shake the grin from his face. “He won’t let me die, but he won’t come for me himself by any means. Sending word to him is useless.

“Surely your mother warned you.” Jaime pulled at the irons holding him back and brought himself as close to Robb as he dared with a wild wolf baring down on him. He lowered his voice to a whisper so that any passing guards wouldn’t hear what he was saying to their king, “He’ll send my sister.” 

A shiver, quite visibly, ran down Robb Stark’s spine. 

“And something tells me you have far more to fear from her than my father could ever threaten you with.”

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Tywin sniffed the dart. He was fairly certain of the poison, but the smell was confirmation enough. “Wolfsbane, a rare substance. This is no common assassin.”

“We hanged twenty men last night.” The man by the door stated bluntly. Clegane, the Mountain, not that Tywin ever called him such. Tywin did not glorify his men, too often they took it as placement above himself.

“I don’t care if you hanged a hundred. A man tried to kill me. I want his name, and I want his head.” As if killing twenty indiscriminate prisoners would satisfy Tywin’s anger. Whoever had done this had gotten their hands on Wolfsbane, an expensive poison usually only found in the cellars of men like Tywin himself. The man was an expert, not likely to be found amongst the commonfolk, and not likely to be caught so easily.

Gregor had the nerve to speak again, “We think it was an infiltrator from the Brotherhood Without Banners.”

Tywin did not think it likely that such a mangey bunch would have the means to get their hands on Wolfsbane, but it was as likely as any other explanation. “A pretentious name for a band of outlaws. We can’t allow rebels behind our lines to harass us with impunity. We look like fools, and they look like heroes. That’s how kings fall. I want them dead.” Tywin crossed the room to confront his man as his cupbearer laid the table. “Every one,” he emphasized.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.” 

“You gone soft Clegane? I always thought you had a talent for violence.” He prodded. “Burn the villages. Burn the farms. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.” 

Clegane took his dismissal with a rumble of agreement.

Turning back to his table, Tywin thumbed over the dart. It did not take a genius, though Tywin thought himself one, to piece together that the hit had not been meant for him. 

No one in the Seven would ever mistake Tywin Lannister for a fool like Amory Lorch. By age, by banner, by name, and by appearance, the two men differed in every way. Even the most commonplace of assassination attempts would not have actively chosen the wrong target.

It left him to conclude that either the man had missed Tywin and struck Lorch by mistake or Lorch had been the target all along. Had the assassin not used wolfsbane, Tywin would have believed the former. As it were, only someone who had been paid very well could use that particular poison, and no one would pay someone so well unless they were a master. A master who would not miss.

The far greater question, for Tywin, was why someone would kill Amory Lorch with a far greater target so close by.

“Pity I’ll have to replace him on my war council,” Tywin mused to himself, stuffing the dart away in his pockets to consider later.

“Will it be another soldier, my lord?” His cupbearer had been gaining confidence in recent days, since he allowed her to ask after his father. She asked menial questions quite regularly at meals.

“No,” Tywin paced around the edge of the table. “I don’t believe it will be. I have just the person in mind.”

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As she rode into the yard, nearly all movement ceased. Men slowly edged their way back against the walls, and those few who were on matters to urgent to halt, immediately dropped their heads and quickened their pace.

“Take him to the stable,” (Y/n) tossed her horse’s reins to a guard who’d dared to continue his rounds in her presence.

“Yes, My Lady,” the man quickly dropped his task and ushered the stallion away.

“You,” (Y/n) grabbed the tunic of a passing smith, “Where has my father set his war room?”

The boy, because he was certainly not old enough to be a man despite his height, looked on (Y/n) apprehensively. “Up the third flight of stairs. Somewhere on the East side. I-I do not know the room exactly.”

(Y/n) dropped his clothes and let the boy scurry off, “Good enough.”

Striding away, (Y/n) found the hall in question with relative ease. It was, after all, hard to miss Gregor Clegane. “Mountain,” She called to the man standing guard, “Is my father in?”

 “Alone with the cupbearer.” 

(Y/n) waved away the Mountain’s attempts to announce her and opened the door as silently as possible. She slipped between the crack and leaned her back against the wood to ensure it didn’t make a sound.

The cupbearer was clearling plates on the side table, dumping scraps into a bucket that was no doubt to be made into slop. Consistent scratching of a knife grating food off metal surfaces was the only sound in the room.

Tywin was sat at the head of the table, papers and maps splayed out over the entire length. His hand was furiously scratching out a letter, and (Y/n) had a feeling she knew its intended recipient.

“No need to write to me so hastily,” (Y/n) called out, “I’ve already arrived.”

The cupbearer in the corner jumped at the sound but made no move to turn.

Tywin did no such thing. The elder Lannister slammed his hand down on the table with a force. “An assassin has made it into our camp.”

(Y/n) shrugged, slinking towards the chair on his right hand side. “Assassins find their way into every camp. If you didn’t mind their use, you could have the head cut off the Stag in a fortnight.” 

“The Stag is the least of my concerns,” Tywin motioned for (Y/n) to take the chair. “What with the Wolf breathing down our door.” 

(Y/n) opted not to take the seat, instead leaning against the tall back of the chair. Since the death of Amory Lorch, she had been riding day and night on the back of a horse. (Y/n) felt like she never wanted to sit again, or at least she didn’t want to sit till her body learned to stand straight once more. 

“Visenya Targaryen expressed her gratitude that Loren the Last rode out to meet the Targaryen forces on the Field of Fire.” Visenya was something of a hero of (Y/n)’s. 

Her father had never particularly cared for the stories. He studied the Targaryens for battle strategies, for a better understanding of the threat of dragons, and for an appreciation of legacy. The finer details of drama behind the scenes were of no consequence to him. (Y/n) picked them up entirely from Tyrion and his books.

“Visenya was certain that Casterly Rock was the only keep in Westeros which could withstand Targaryen forces, even dragons. So certain, in fact, that she told her brother not to unleash any flame, for fear that the fire would prove the Rock could not burn down.” (Y/n) always loved to tell a story. Stories were a far more entertaining way to earn attention than shouting, though she was certainly capable of both. “Robb Stark has proven himself a capable general, but I think even you would agree he’s not Aegon the Conqueror.”

“True enough,” Tywin waved her story off with a wayward comment, but (Y/n) could tell he’d put the tale away for safe keeping. “Still, we’ve underestimated him for too long.”

“That,” (Y/n) sighed, picking up an empty wine cup with a morose expression, “sadly, appears to be the case.”

“Girl!” Tywin absentmindedly snapped his fingers, “wine for my daughter.”

(Y/n) didn’t bother to look on the girl who was filling her cup, choosing instead to continue her address. “Then let us estimate him. Robb Stark hasn’t organized with Stannis Baratheon. The North tried to approach Renly first, and Stannis is far too narrow-minded a man to take his brother’s former allies. He’ll see them as traitors already. But, if Robb Stark is at all worth his salt, and he’s certainly proven he is, then he’ll know the best time to attack us is when Stannis makes his run on King’s Landing.”

“He needs time to organize that.” Tywin retorted. 

He didn’t disagree, not at all in fact. However, after years of trusting only his daughter and his siblings, Tywin and (Y/n) had developed a system of strategizing. Parrying thoughts back and forth, trying to find the weakness in each other’s words seemed to be their best recourse, a recourse the two could only pursue with each other. 

“Jaime thought the same about the ambush. He thought the Northman didn’t have enough time or men, and they proved him wrong on both counts.” 

“And sacrificed a swath of his army in the process.” 

“A swath of his army that won him Jaime Lannister.” (Y/n) downed her wine in one gulp. “It may have been a sizeable chunk of his forces, but it was more than worth it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” Tywin conceded, “Though how he has enough to attack the Rock after that would be anyone’s guess.”

(Y/n) gave a nonchalant huff, “He’s won every battle he’s ever fought, and he’s won them with fewer men every time. If I were Robb Stark, with no army between me and the greatest castle in Westeros, I would take a shot. For him, the worst case is that he’s repelled with minimal loss. The best case, he takes the seat of House Lannister.” 

Tywin paused the to-and-fro to think. “More wine,” He mumbled to the girl, leaning his elbows to the table to press the tips of his fingers to his lips. 

“The pitcher’s empty, my lord. I’ll go fetch more.”

That. Voice.

(Y/n)’s head jerked around with a fury, only catching sight of a head of short brown hair and a small, childish figure. Nothing more than a girl’s back, impossible to distinguish. And yet that voice.

“Think on what I said,” (Y/n) barely registered what she was doing as she moved, unthinkingly, towards the servants’ exit. “I’ll return.” 

She knew that voice.

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(Y/n) scoured the halls, scoured the keep, scoured the grounds, scoured the ruins. 

It had only been a sentence, but in that moment she’d been so sure. She knew that voice. 

“I don’t care what the rules are! It has to be her!” 

There it was, around the corner.

(Y/n) had been searching for an hour, maybe more, through the sprawling wreck of Harrenhal, and finally there it was again. Behind the rubble of what was once a guest chamber at the other end of the grounds. (Y/n) bent her head around the corner to find the girl again, back to her, angrily shouting at a Lannister soldier who was lounging lackadaisically against the waist high, overturned remains of a wall.  

“A girl knows not what she asks.” 

“I know full well what I ask! I name her!” 

(Y/n) didn’t know what this was, didn’t know who this was. But she was certain whatever it was wasn’t good and couldn’t wait for help. “Judging by your tone, I’m going to assume I am the ‘her’ in question.”

The girl whipped around in shock and confirmed (Y/n)’s suspicions.

“Hello, Arya.” A cool smile tugged at her lips as she watched the young girl’s face turn to horror. “It’s been too long. I must say this is the last place I expected to run into you.”

Arya turned on the man again, “Her! (Y/n) Lannister! I name her.”

“Name me?” (Y/n) strode across what remained of the room to join the pair. 

“A girl names a woman, but that is not a woman’s only name.” 

“Plumm then,” Arya was clearly panicking now. Her fists tugged on the man’s arm desperately. “Whatever her name. Her!” She pointed at (Y/n).

“A girl gives a man a name, but a name with a pair.” The soldier returned without any sense of care in the world. 

His accent was foreign. He certainly wasn’t from the Westerlands, or Westeros for that matter; Essos no doubt. As far as she knew, and she knew a great deal, her father had no supplement sellswords in the field, not yet anyway. Tywin Lannister only used sellswords as a last resort. Which meant there were only two ways for him to come by his armor: to be such a rich tradesmen that he could afford a life in the Westerlands which seemed unlikely given she did not know him or to have stolen the uniform from a dead man. And there was only one reason any man not forced into a war would willingly join its frontlines for a lord that was not his liege.

Assassins. 

Assassins from Essos, who spoke in tongues.

Lurching forward, (Y/n) grabbed Arya by the arm and yanked the young girl behind her back. “Faceless,” she snarled the word, stepped away from the stranger. 

The red haired man gave a small grin in return to the word. “A woman protects a girl, yet a girl wants a woman dead.” He reclined back against the half-melted stones as if the conversation was nothing more than his own amusement. 

“What?” 

“A girl,” the Faceless motioned to Arya, “owes a name, and a girl names a woman.” 

(Y/n)’s blood ran cold. “A name with a pair,” She whispered. 

It wasn’t often that she found herself afraid, but then it wasn’t often that (Y/n) faced a genuine threat of death. Most people wanted her and her father dead, but (Y/n) lived her life knowing, with absolute certainty, that she was among the few people in Westeros who were simply too valuable to kill. Yet here were a man, and a girl, who didn’t care. 

It was like being back in the birthing bed all over again, facing a death that didn’t care what her name was. 

But that wasn’t what worried her. 

(Y/n) had only read of the Faceless, never met one, never met one that she knew of anyway. 

Tyrion had given her a book of stories about them once. Of course, it was only legends; no Faceless had consulted its author on their origins. But she remembered one story in particular. 

(Y/n) whirled on Arya and sunk to her knees, clutching the girl’s arm in a vice grip. “Unname me.” She demanded.

“No!” Arya tried to slip her arm from (Y/n)’s grip, but it was far too tight. “Never!” 

“To name one is to name both! Unname me!” (Y/n) shouted. 

The legend was a tearful story of a man who found his mate, already married to another man, but the lesson was straight forward. The Many Faced God of Braavos was nothing more or less than Death. Mates came into the world to live and breath together as one, and worshipping Death the Faceless saw to it that mates, those who had joined hands and felt the mark, left the world as one. 

“A woman speaks the truth.” The Faceless said behind her. 

“One is both?” Arya looked exasperated as she twisted her arm back and forth, rubbing her wrist raw against (Y/n)’s palm.

“To kill me is to kill my mate.” (Y/n) elaborated, clenching hard to drive the point home. 

“Good! Let him die! Better than living with you!” Arya flipped her hand over and dug her nails into (Y/n)’s forearm, tearing at what she could reach.

(Y/n) let her go, but not from the pain. The attack barely reached her mind as (Y/n) wrenched up the sleeve of her dress, tearing it along the seam in her haste to reveal her mark. 

“This is my mate!” (Y/n) caught Arya by the hair and forced the girl to level her eyes with the name scarred into (Y/n)’s arm. 

There, as plain as the day it had appeared, was the name Stark, scratched eternally into (Y/n)’s skin. 

“No,” Arya stared at the word in utter disbelief. 

How could she not know? How could her mother and father have let that happen? Which of her siblings was cursed with a Lannister for a mate? Why had the old gods done this to them? 

“You want to help your brother?” (Y/n) spoke the words slowly, enunciating each for Arya’s ears. “If you kill me, you’ll be killing Robb.”

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The Faceless Man allowed (Y/n) to escort him through the halls of the keep. 

“A girl gave a man a new name,” The Faceless told her. 

It came out almost as reassurance, but (Y/n) knew the assassin wouldn’t bother with such a thing. “Am I allowed to ask?” 

“No,” The Faceless answered. “It is why a man must leave. A boy is far from here.”

Joffrey. He was the only boy Arya could want dead.

(Y/n) tried to find it in her to warn someone, anyone, but she couldn’t. Blood or not, he proved he was no worthy Lannister anyhow. Let the bastard die for all the trouble he caused.  

The pair moving through Harrenhal looked like nothing more than a soldier and his lady meandering towards the edge of the keep. With (Y/n) Lannister at his side, the Faceless was stopped by no one to perform the duties of his soldier’s armor. 

Men of all sorts gave the pair a wide berth as they made their way through the halls of the keep. No one had the bravery to question what their lady could be doing with a commonplace soldier.

“The men fear a woman,” the Faceless observed as another soldier stood attention against the wall until the pair had passed.

“They’re right to,” (Y/n) agreed with the observation. There was no amount of emotion to her voice. (Y/n) took a great deal of pride in her power, but there was very little power in striking fear in the hearts of lesser men. 

The Faceless watched her with attentive eyes. They were the eyes of a man built to kill. The eyes were the only thing the Faceless could never change. When their victims looked in them, they were looking in the eyes of a killer. “The men do not know a woman bares an enemy’s name.” He observed without question.

“No, they don’t.” 

“Why is a woman here?” The Faceless asked. “A woman usually joins a man when two share a name.” 

(Y/n) bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue. This was no man to insult. “A woman wishes she could.” 

“A woman could be with a man if she wanted.”

(Y/n) let loose a derisive snort. She and Robb had had the same conversation long ago. “We both want, but what we want and what could be are two different things.” 

“A woman could be with a man if she wanted.” The Faceless repeated.

“A man could be with a woman if he wanted,” (Y/n) countered in the Faceless’ own phrasing. 

The Faceless shook his head and looked over at her, staring until (Y/n) finally turned to meet his knowing look. “A woman is smart,” he complimented slyly. “If a woman wanted, she could find a way.”

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The Wolf’s pack is growing smaller. He will take a bitch to make his pups for men to bare his arms. See to it that, at the wedding, he gets the new blood he deserves.

“Leave us.”

(Y/n) sat at the opposite end of the long oak table, staring down her father with empty eyes that none in the room could read, even the Lord of House Lannister. Her nails picked absently at the edges of the letter. Even as the men sitting at the sides of the table began getting up and filing past her end, she did not divert her eyes from the sharp crease forming in her father’s forehead.

Tywin, similarly, did not watch the men, even as they eyed him anxiously. They were waiting for him to make some move to stop them from complying with his daughter’s demand, but none came.

(Y/n) whispered as the door thudded shut behind her after Lord Roland Crakehall, the last man to trail out of the room. “You’re sending my mate to the slaughter.” 

“That was always where this ended, (Y/n).” Tywin spoke with a tone that bordered on an empathy (Y/n) knew her father was not capable of.

“Then let’s find a better way.” 

Tywin lifted an eyebrow, a skepticism he had never felt towards her slowly forming in the pit of his stomach. “There is no better ending.” He declared flatly, “This is how his story ends. This is how Robb Stark dies.” 

“If he dies,” She said each word carefully, emphasizing each syllable as it left her tongue, “it is because you chose it to be so.” 

Tywin snorted. “Is that concern in your voice? So what if I order the Wolf’s head at my feet?” Tywin set his palms flat on the table and pushed out of his chair. He leaned down over his daughter with an authority he usually reserved for defiant enemies. “He dies. This is no discussion.”

“Father, I understand, but…”

“Then that is enough of this,” Tywin cut her off. “You object, but you know it’s the right course.”

(Y/n) didn’t want to, but she knew it was the only way. “Father, this is my mate who’s murder we plot.” 

“What of it?” Tywin was growing suspicious now. This was not their usual discourse. This was not his daughter advising him. This was his daughter defying him. For the first time.

Through the two decades of her life, Tywin and (Y/n) had stood, not side by side but back to back. They faced threats the other could not see, protected one another from what was coming up behind, watched blind spots in each other’s vision. They were two voices with one mind, but now the cracks, or rather the one crack, began to show. They shared everything but a soul, and it was a soul which would divide them.

And so it began. The fight, their fight, the only fight neither of them wanted, yet the only fight neither of them could lose.

“He is my mate. Mine!” (Y/n) ground out between her teeth. “Whether you like his name or not.”

“His name?” Tywin spat. “This is nothing about his name. This is about our name. House Lannister, or had you forgotten what name you carved into his arm.”

“Had you forgotten what name he carved into mine!” (Y/n) wore the dress she’d chased down Arya in, and the rip along the lining of her sleeve made it easy to turn and display the mark to her father. “I am his, and he is mine. No matter who my vows were spoken to, nothing can change that.” 

“That,” Tywin pointed down at the mark, not baring to look at it, “is the name of our enemy.”

(Y/n)’s fist came down on the table as she shot to her feet with all the rage she’d ever managed to muster, “You would brand me, me, your enemy!” 

“I did not brand you!” Tywin rolled his eyes away from her outburst, “That was his doing.” 

“Neither of us chose this!” 

“Would you have?” Tywin took a step back towards her, crossing halfway to the table with his long stride. “Would you have chosen him?” 

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment. There were times she wished she could have chosen, desperately longed for someone she could love. Those times, however, were long past. “Yes,” she answered honestly.

“He’s a Stark! His mother kidnapped Tyrion!” Tywin bellowed.  “They declared war on our house. His father named your nephew a bastard. Their family defies your sister’s throne. Robb Stark took your husband’s head, and now he has Jaime!”

The words cut through (Y/n) and found her wincing and turning away.

“Tell me, daughter.” Tywin hissed, “What do you think your precious mate is doing to him right now? Do you think Jaime has the luxury of debating with Robb Stark whether his life will end?”

“Robb wouldn’t end Jaime’s life,” (Y/n) said it quietly but assuredly.

Tywin laughed, a harsh, cruel laugh that mocked her for saying such a thing. “And how would you know?”

(Y/n) glared up at her father with a burning passion he’d only seen once before. It was the face she made when she found out Catelyn had Tyrion, “Because he knows what I would do to him if he did.” 

“You don’t have the strength for that.”

“I have given my life for this family! I am willing to give everything for this family!” (Y/n) countered with a roar.

“Everything but Robb Stark.” 

The name broke her. The thought of what everything entailed broke her, but what hurt more was the knowledge that she was right, that Tywin Lannister was wrong. She was willing to give everything, everything including Robb Stark. She just didn’t want to.

(Y/n) slowly, hesitantly, sunk to her knees, hanging her head in shame as she uttered the one word she had been taught never to speak. “Please.” For the first time in her life, (Y/n) looked up to see her father glaring down on her, his face colored in a mixture of rage and shame. 

Tywin stepped back from his daughter in disgust. “How dare you.”

(Y/n) could feel the tears welling in her eyes and kept her head down to hide them from the judgment in Tywin’s face. “Father, I have never defied you. I will never defy you. If you tell me this is the only way, then I will fulfill your wish without question. I will deliver the order to the Boltons and the Freys myself. I will stand aside as every Stark dies. I will ride to the Twins and bring back his head and lay it at your feet, and I will say nothing of this outside of this room again for as long as I draw breath.” (Y/n) stopped only long enough to suck air back into her lungs, as if the mention of her last breath reminded her that it was coming. “But this is my mate, and I am begging you to find another way.”

“I did not raise you to be a beggar’s wife.”

“No, you did not raise me to be a beggar’s wife,” (Y/n) agreed. “You raised me to be you in all things, and this is my proof that you have finally succeeded.” Through a web of tears, (Y/n) spread her arms out wide, absolute deference, absolute submission. “I am you. Because I know the only thing you would ever beg for is Joanna back.”

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(Y/n) walked into the supposedly neutral camp under a banner of peace. Though several valleys north of the Stark camp, the tent was still thoroughly inside the boundaries of the Westerlands. The spot was, no doubt, purposefully chosen by the Northmen as a show of force. Their entire army was entrenched within Lannister territory, and (Y/n) was greeting an enemy council that was claiming her land as its own. 

There was no mistake that the men were her enemies. From the moment she entered the small circle of tents, eyes were on her and swords were drawn. 

For a banner of peace, the Northern Lords had brought a vast number of soldiers. (Y/n) brought only one. It was, granted, an impressive one.

The Mountain had become (Y/n)’s shadow. As they moved into the camp, his toes were constantly under threat of catching the backs of her heels. The hilt of his massive sword reached out so far as to occasionally brush (Y/n)’s hip with a particularly long stride. No man could surprise her from behind because there was no space between herself and Ser Gregor Clegane in which to reach her, and no man could attack her headlong for fear of the behemoth reaching around her front to draw his sword around her. With one man, she was as protected as any of the northern sons she passed with their personal guards.

The soldiers around the camp, some forty in number, whispered when she walked past. They watched from open flaps or around campfires as (Y/n) made her way to the large white tent in the center of their convoy. 

A scout beside the door saw her approach and ducked inside to announce the enemy presence. 

“Lady Plumm,” A lord to the right of opening greeted her with a snarl as she ducked through, but the aggression on his face quickly vanished when the Mountain pushed through behind her, head scraping the top of the canvas. 

“Her name is Lannister,” A thick Northern accent called from the front of the tent, “and she is our guest. We will treat her with respect.” 

(Y/n) let her eyes trail up the length of the tent, prepared for exactly what she’d find. 

Robb Stark sat at the far end of a large, rather plain table. His elbows propped on the edge of the dark wood, and his stare looked out over fingers clasped in front of his mouth. 

The room, if it could be called such a thing in a tent, was bare. Men, a great number of them, lined the walls. Some (Y/n) recognized were the heads of great houses in the Riverlands she had encountered over the years. A few she could recall from her time in Winterfell, but most were entirely unknown to her. 

Despite the size of their gathering and the scale of the table Robb Stark occupied, there were only four chairs in the room. One was directly in front of her at the far end while the other two flanked Robb at his left and right hand side. 

None of the chairs were occupied. None of those present made a move to occupy any of the seats. It seemed they were all too tense. It was like they were waiting for her to attack, even though they were the ones who brought the small army outside.

“Thank you, Lord Stark. Your courtesy is appreciated.” (Y/n) gave a shallow bow of her head in his direction.

A grumble went up from a few of the men, but only one of them spoke. An older man nearer the entryway let out a loud grunt. His head shook out thinning grey hair. Even though his beard hid his mouth, the twitch of it made it obvious the man sported a sneer. 

“That’s King Robb Stark to you.” 

(Y/n) inclined her head to look sideways at the man and, as spitefully as she could manage, said, “Are we in the North? Or do I look like common folk to you? No. This is the Westerlands, and I am a Lannister. I won’t bow to any pretender.” 

The man reached a hand for the hilt of his sword, but the Mountain beat him to it. Drawing his own nearly halfway out of its sheath before a shout went out. 

“Stop!” 

Robb Stark rose to his feet with a hand outstretched towards his enraged lord. “Put your arms down, Lord Karstark. Lady Lannister meets with us under a flag of peace, and I will not have my name marred by innocent bloodshed.” 

“Innocent?” Lord Karstark forgot his plight with the newcomer almost instantly. He stared at his King with a dumbfounded expression. “No Lannister is innocent! Her brother murdered my boy! I demand recompense.” 

(Y/n) puffed out a breath of air to avoid laughing at the irate man, “I dare say if you demand apologies from me for all my siblings have wrought, it will be a long time before I’m allowed to speak any words other than sorry.” 

A hefty man over Robb’s shoulder let out a snort, and it seemed many of the others took a cue to relieve some of their tension. Though, Lord Karstark was not among them. 

He turned on (Y/n) looking thoroughly unamused. “My son is dead at the hands of your brother.” 

If it were any other man, or rather if it weren’t a Northern Lord, (Y/n) might have tried. She could have wooed and swayed his mind and asked forgiveness and promised him his dues, but Northerners were fickle things. Their reasoning was beyond her understanding, and logic was above theirs. 

“Your son died in a war.” (Y/n) rolled her eyes, “How shocking, I’ve never heard a man to die of such a cause. Was he the first?” 

“You arrogant little,” Karstark lunged, but before he could reach her, the Mountain’s hand shot out and clasped around the elderly lord’s neck. 

His feet dangled several inches off the ground. They flailed about desperately trying to find purchase on the ground, on the Mountain, on anything within reach. It was like watching the feet of a drowning man, kicking to save his life. 

His eyes showed a terror (Y/n) was so familiar with it wasn’t even worthy of note. The panic sapped him of all conscious thought, and the logical solution of going for his sword seemed to slip his mind. His hands clutched the Mountain’s wrist, only just managing to cover its width. 

In the Mountain’s grip, Lord Karstark, Robb had called him, was much taller than (Y/n), but it didn’t feel that way for either of them. Lord Karstark felt very small. (Y/n) returned the sneer that disappeared so suddenly from Lord Karstark’s lips and spat, “Ironic that you think me arrogant when it is you who believes your son’s life was more valuable than any of your soldiers. Did you demand justice for your men your King sent to slaughter? Or only your son who died from his own negligence?” 

The room was still and silent. Every man’s hand rested on his sword, save the Mountain’s, whose dominant hand was slowly pressing in on Lord Karstark’s neck. It was as though the Northmen were expecting, waiting, possibly even hoping the Mountain would kill their friend. They longed for blood. They wanted to have reason to face down the giant, to capture the Lady of House Lannister. 

“Enough,” (Y/n)’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the hungry expression on the soldier’s faces. This was no place to die. “Drop him outside, Gregor. I believe the air will do Lord Karstark good.” 

Gregor didn’t bother to walk back. With a mighty heave, he flung Lord Karstark through the tent flap and out into the night. 

Robb’s head hung low, and his fists clenched against the top of the wood. Whether holding in rage at Lord Karstark or rage at the Mountain, (Y/n) couldn’t be sure, and despite popular belief she wasn’t arrogant enough to assume everything was about her. 

“Lord Stark, do forgive us our reaction. At the Rock, men have been beheaded for saying far lesser insults to far less important Lannisters than me. It is only our way.” 

Robb’s fists slowly unclenched as his eyes returned from the grain of the wood to the tent around him. “Lord Karstark’s actions were inexcusable. Please do not judge the rest of us on his lack of respect.” 

(Y/n) picked up her skirts and curtsied to the would-be King. “All is forgotten. Perhaps, we might move on to the matters at hand. There is much to discuss, and I would hate to be delayed.” 

“Then speak,” Robb slumped back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s you and your father who called this meeting.” 

“Actually, I believe you’ll find it’s a great deal more than House Lannister who called this meeting.” 

(Y/n) tapped the Mountain’s arm, dropped low but still extended to cover her side. The beast drew back and finally detached himself from her heels. With two sure steps, she took the empty chair at the far end of the table from Robb. Pulling it out, (Y/n) matched the King’s posture taking the place opposite him. 

“Yes,” Robb mused, “the bastard house Baratheon created by your siblings, I presume?” A round of laughs and cheers went round the tent. If it had had walls of any kind, she imagined the sound would have echoed for years.

There laughter went on for many minutes longer than it should have, and (Y/n)’s only reaction was to stare down their King while his men cackled. Robb matched her intense gaze without a hint of humor marring his face. 

As the men slowly subdued themselves, a harsh throat clearing from the beefy one behind Robb seeming to do the trick, (Y/n) finally took it as her turn to speak.

“Robb, I’ll give you this.” (Y/n) picked at imaginary dirt under her nails. “You know how to win a war, but no Stark has ever managed to play the game,”   

A few of the men laughed again, but again Robb was not among them. This time, though, it seemed the divide was for different cause. His men seemed to thoroughly lack respect for what she was implying while Robb caught on immediately to its importance.  The King in the North shuffled up in his chair and leaned forward in his seat. “Then teach us.”

(Y/n) hummed to herself, pretending to contemplate the proposal. She already knew he would say that. She already knew how she would respond, and how they would respond in kind, and how she would respond to that. This conversation had happened a thousand different ways already in her mind, and she was prepared for all of them. Because that was how a Lannister played the game, not by throwing gold at the problem, but by knowing what the problem was before it arrived. 

“Allow me to give you a lesson in history because your maesters must have failed you all.” (Y/n) smiled. It was a courtly smile, not that any of them could recognize that. (Y/n)’s smiles were such perfectly calculated lies that she had heard even the great Littlefinger couldn’t discern their meaning. They would all assume it was cocky. They would be wrong in that assumption, but it suited (Y/n) just fine. “Who is the heir to House Frey?” 

“Stevron Frey,” The answer came from one of the lords behind her back.

(Y/n) didn’t even have to open her mouth to correct him because Robb did it for her. “Stevron died of his battle wounds last moon.” 

“As did his youngest son Walton, and Walton’s two squired sons Steffon and Bryan. May they rest in peace, truly the only Freys worth their salt.” (Y/n) clasped her hands as though to pray for their souls, but no pleas to the Stranger left her lips. “I ask again, who is the heir to House Frey?”

“Stevron had an older boy, Ryan or something,” (Y/n) recognized Lord Manderly. He was a rich man who often traded with the Lannisters, the only house in the North that worshipped the Seven.

“His name was Ryman,” (Y/n) corrected politely, “and he is long dead, just after your party crossed the Twins in fact. He was a gluttonous man, so it was expected. Still, most think it might have been poison.” 

“How convenient,” Lord Manderly mumbled under his breath.

(Y/n) chuckled, “Again, who is the heir to House Frey?” 

“Surely Ryman had sons,” (Y/n) had never met the man who spoke, but unlike many of the others he wore his banner on his chest. 

“Lord Glover, you would be correct in that assumption if it weren’t for the Brotherhood Without Banners. Horrible people, those marauders. Killed two of Ryman’s sons, Edwyn and Petyr. He only had Black Walder left, and Black Walder was dispossessed of his life on suspicion that it was he who killed his father.” 

“And none of them had children?” It was Lord Glover again.

“Only girls, and I am afraid Lord Frey doesn’t value his daughters quite so highly as my father does.”

“Emmon,” The name came quietly, under his breath, but there was no mistaking Robb’s voice or the tone of realization in it. “It falls to Emmon Frey.” 

“And who,” (Y/n) turned on him, “pray tell, is his wife?”

“Your aunt,” Robb growled, “Genna Lannister.” He was angry, angry at himself in fact; angry at himself for not realizing his mistake.

(Y/n) almost smiled, almost felt proud watching him piece it together. “The heir to House Frey is the sister of Tywin Lannister, and you plan to entreat them into helping you what? Raid Casterly Rock?” 

“You and your father orchestrated this.” Robb snarled into the air. 

“Robb, we orchestrated everything.” Robb’s eyes flashed to (Y/n) as she continued speaking. “Do you really think Walder Frey would have let you cross his bridge without me, inside, saying it was acceptable? If you had gone around the Trident, your path would’ve put you at the doorstep of the Rock, and you think we would have allowed that?”

“How much gold did you pay Walder Frey for the damage you brought to his house?” 

(Y/n) knew the voice, and she found herself only momentarily stunned that Lord Bolton would have the nerve to speak at this gathering. “Lannisters always pay their debts, but there are ways to pay debts that don’t involve gold.” 

“Like what?” Roose Bolton pressed.

Her eyes searched out Lord Bolton’s, “Every man can be bought. It’s only a matter of price. For some it’s gold, but there are other forms of payment. It might be land, titles, power, a woman.” (Y/n) drew her eyes to Robb, flitting them back and forth between him and Roose Bolton as if she were watching a joust. “Maybe for one it’s Winterfell.” 

Resting against the top of the wood, Robb’s hands slowly clenched into fists as he caught on to the rather unsubtle hints (Y/n) was giving him. 

“Leave us,” Robb ordered. “All of you.” 

“But sir, she..,”

“My King, I don’t...”

“She’s a Lannister, My King, should we...”

“Are you quite certain you want…”

“Your Grace, the Mountain…”

“Gregor,” (Y/n) barked loud enough to silence the Lords who were rapidly converging on Robb Stark to question his intent, “Leave us.”

Without hesitation, the Mountain turned and marched from the tent to take a post outside.

The Northern Lords watched the display of obedience in shock, and looking amongst themselves, slowly filed out whispering to each other as they went.

“Are you implying what I think?” Robb asked the moment the flap fluttered to a stand still over (Y/n)’s shoulder.

“I’m implying nothing,” (Y/n) got to her feet and crossed the tent, taking the seat to his immediate right, so she might speak at a more normal volume. “I am telling you.”

“The Boltons,” Robb eyed the canvas from which Roose had just made his escape.

“Have been promised Winterfell if they help the Freys slaughter you upon your arrival at the Twins, or if they switch sides in your next battle with my father and defeat your men from within.” (Y/n) explained without any hint of regret.

Robb felt almost stunned into silence.

He wouldn’t lie. He thought of (Y/n) every day and night. It was hard not to when he spent so much time plotting her beloved father’s demise, staring at her house sigil, worrying over marrying another woman, pondering his murder of her husband. 

Never though, in all his thoughts, had he considered turning on his men and joining the Lannisters for her, and he knew far better than to ask her to do anything resembling such. 

“I wish to propose a trade,” (Y/n) abruptly changed the topic, though it didn’t seem like she was avoiding it. “The Mountain leaves me here now, as we speak, he rides for a trusted keep nearby where he will retrieve your sister, Arya, in exchange for my brother, Jaime.”

Robb immediately began shaking his head. “I want my sister back as much as you want your brother, but my men will turn on me if I trade a little girl for the best sword in Westeros.” 

“There is no deal you could offer that I wouldn’t take to see Jaime safe again, Robb. If you loved your sister and wanted her back as much as I wanted him, we wouldn’t be discussing this.” 

“My men..” Robb started.

(Y/n) cut him off. “Would turn on you. So you’ve said, but as I’ve said, some of them already have.” 

“Yes,” Robb quickly jumped back on the original conversation. “Why did you tell me?”

“Because that is your future as it stands,” (Y/n) reached under the neckline of her dress and drew, from under the hem, a letter. “But it does not have to be that way.”

“What is this?” Robb took the letter from her hand and broke the Lannister seal holding it closed.

(Y/n) returned to her feet and joined Robb at his side, looking at the words over his shoulder. She’d read them before, but something about them was so unreal it needed to be seen again. “Our terms.”

The letter filled nearly four pieces of paper. It began by detailing exactly how Tywin Lannsiter intended to draw this war to a close. He detailed how alone Robb truly was: with the Eyrie neutral, House Tyrell agreeing to vows between Margery and Joffrey, Dorne’s hatred for the Lannisters and the Starks, House Frey’s loyalty to Genna, Theon Greyjoy betraying him for the Iron Islands, and Lords of his own Kingdom plotting his demise from within. 

Tywin dedicated an entire page to all of the ways Robb could lose and all of the people who would happily deliver him Robb’s head by morning, his daughter chief among them. He noted everywhere Robb had gone wrong, and exactly how he’d lost the game. 

It was page after page of ways Robb would lose, ways he would get his family killed, ways he would die. 

Then he reached the last. 

“But I owe a debt, not to you, but to my daughter; and she has named her price. After a lifetime of unwavering fealty, of unending service, of unbearable burdens, the price she named was high. It is, however, a price I feel she’s owed. There are conditions to my payment, but I believe you will find those conditions pale in comparison to the rewards that accompany them.”

“W-What does this mean?” Robb looked up, but found (Y/n) was not there standing over him. 

She was sitting in the dirt, as she had been the first day they spoke, looking up at him with tears in her eyes, and Robb felt himself slipping from his chair, without much thought, to sit beside her.

“It means that…” She hesitated for a moment before finding the words, “I don’t suppose if I turn my back on my father and my dead husband, gave up becoming the most powerful woman in Westeros, named my son heir to the Rock, left my gold and all my other lavish Southern possessions and joined you in the cold, barren North for the boring life of an incredibly traditional lady, that you would take me as your wife?”

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#robb stark fanfiction #robb stark fanfic #robb stark au #robb stark imagine #ROBB STARK SOULMATE #robb stark soulmate au #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones au #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfic #got fanfiction #got au #got soulmate #got soulmate au #game of thrones soulmate #robb stark x reader #robb stark x y/n #robb stark x you

[meryllfrey]

' everything's different now ' (Barristan catches Meryll leaving in the weeks after his father's death)  || continued from here

fallesto answered:

“Wait – don’t go.” He had chased after her. He had gone to her chambers after the last of the lords had at long last left him for the evening, but when he knocked and heard no reply, worry set in as he opened the door to find her - nowhere in sight. The bed was tightly made and the room was clean and tidy, which was not like her. All of her things were gone as well - she meant to leave as he gave chase. Rushing through harvest hall with nothing more than a torch in his hand.

Through the courtyard and outside, through darkness that surrounded everything as he found her, a lone figure walking by the road, using the cover of darkness as her means of escaping. He had caught up with her,  his hand placed on her shoulder to turn her around, the torch forced into the ground to stand up as his other hand rested on her other shoulder as he tried to shake sense into her.

“You scared me, you should not be out here on your own. What - what are you doing.”

@fallesto (Barristan)

She had stayed by his side while his father was dying, and she had stayed the week after when the other Stormlands lords came to pay their respects, knowing all the while -- nothing would ever be the same. Maybe she’d known that even as they were returning to Harvest Hall from Dorne, but it became certain when Lord Lyonel uttered his dying wish of his son. To stay home, to inherit Harvest Hall as he was meant to. She didn’t fault Barristan for accepting - what else was he to do? It had been kind of Lord Lyonel to indulge their wanderings for as long as he did.

The visiting nobles had brought their daughters, making no effort to hide their motives. The new Lord of Harvest Hall would need to marry, and soon. They were pretty girls, girls who dressed in the latest fashions from court - beautiful silks and Myrish lace, girls who had perfect manners and elegant curtsies. Meryll had watched as they were paraded around the eligible young lord, and she had become quieter as the days went by, withdrawing into herself, as she suddenly felt very out of place at Harvest Hall. She did not miss their disapproving glances, the way they turned their noses up at her mud-stained boots and braided hair. And Barristan, he was so busy hosting all the visiting lords that she thought maybe he had even forgotten she was still there.

How many times had she told him - she would never marry a lord, she would never be held captive in a castle, she would never be tied down like that. But she had started to wonder ... maybe it would be different if it was with him. That was before all the potential brides had shown up knowing the right things to do, and say, and wear - before she realized that she would make a terribly lacking Lady of Harvest Hall. She wanted Barristan to be happy, she wanted him to have the very best. He needed to be free to make his own decisions without worrying about hurting her feelings. So she packed up her belongings, and once it was dark, she left.

Of course he had found her. He had barely spoken a word to her all week but of course he had noticed the second she was gone. What had she expected? He was an expert tracker and nothing ever escaped his notice. She’d known it was him as soon as she felt his hand on her shoulder - anyone else, and she would have drawn her dagger. 

But now he was here, and standing too close, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. She had left in the night because she knew she would not have the strength to leave him if she had to say goodbye.

“I’m leaving,” she said simply. “I think it would look quite strange if I were to still be here once you are betrothed to another.” 

#fallesto #{.. ser barristan selmy ..} knight in shining armour #{.. barristan ..} misunderstandings

[leviloviatar]

I read a comment on a gendrya post that said Arya would never want a Baratheon, she is meant to be with Jaqen like Lyanna with Rhaegar and that Arya and Lyanna both prefer intellectuals?? I mean Jaqen is too old for Arya it‘s just disgusting and just because Gendry is uneducated doesn‘t mean he‘s stupid? He may not know how to read and write (which isn‘t his fault) but he has street smarts and he has a good understanding of the society they live in which is impressive for a 14/15 year old boy

I feel so terrible for you my poor anon that you even had to read such garbage so I’m sending you all my love and support. Technically, this anti’s argument is so stupid that I don’t even need to address it - BUT I WILL. At length.

The point being argued here is erroneous on several counts: First, it equates Jaqen with Rhaegar which makes no sense and I would love for someone, anyone, to explain to me in what ways they are the same? Second, it assumes that Gendry is not “intellectual” while simultaneously assuming that Jaqen H’ghar is. (Bet they didn’t have any textual support for that). Third, it assumes that there are any romantic feelings or potential for them whatsoever between Arya and Jaqen H’ghar, while blatantly ignoring the abundance of romantic connotations between Arya and Gendry, and then in an incredible leap of logic that literally defies explanation, equates that glaring oversight to Arya’s “preference” being like Lyanna’s. 

May I just say, at the outset, what the actual fuck?

Moving on. My best guess it that the assumption here is “Arya and Lyanna look alike, and Gendry and Robert look alike, and Lyanna didn’t choose Robert, so Arya won’t choose Gendry.” Right, because GRRM never likes to subvert tropes, or prophecies, or expectations, or anything like that. But then they took their already relatively baseless assumptions even further by randomly inserting a character they presumably like (for whatever reason) and giving him all kinds of traits that we have no reason to believe he has. Jaqen is an intellectual! Really? Says who? Not GRRM. He’s just like Rhaegar! Really, how so? Please in what ways does his character resemble Rhaegar?

Now let’s blow some holes in this with our CANON:

1. Gendry is very intelligent. I’ve said this before. He might not be formally educated in the same manner as nobility, obviously due to his upbringing and social class, but canonically Gendry is smart, quick thinking, and analytical.

Some examples of Gendry’s analysis and quick-thinking coming in handy:

“You know anything ‘bout boat-building, dyer’s boy?” Lommy looked blank.“A raft,” suggested Gendry. “Anyone can build a raft, and long poles for pushing.”Yoren looked thoughtful. “Lake’s too deep to pole across, but if we stayed to the shallows near shore … it’d mean leaving the wagons. Might be that’s best. I’ll sleep on it.”

-ACOK, Arya IV

It was Gendry who thought of the lord’s towerhouse and the three that Yoren had sent to hold it. 

-ACOK, Arya V

Gendry,“ she called, her voice low and urgent. “They have a boat. We could sail the rest of the way up to Riverrun. It would be faster than riding, I think.”He looked dubious. “Did you ever sail a boat?”“Then there’s oars to row.”“Against the current?” Gendry frowned. “Wouldn’t that be slow? And what if the boat tips over and we fall into the water?

-ASOS, Arya II

And how about the time he covered Arya’s ass with that quick-thinking:

“Never mind about Ser Lyonel.” He drew her aside by the arm. “Last night Hot Pie asked me if I heard you yell Winterfell back at the holdfast, when we were all fighting on the wall.”“I never did!”“Yes you did. I heard you too.”“Everyone was yelling stuff,” Arya said defensively. “Hot Pie yelled hot pie. He must have yelled it a hundred times.”“It’s what you yelled that matters. I told Hot Pie he should clean the wax out of his ears, that all you yelled was Go to hell! If he asks you, you better say the same.”“I will,” she said, even though she thought go to hell was a stupid thing to yell.

-ACOK, Arya VIII

Just look at this boy banter with Arya never missing a beat:

Arya looked at Gendry. “If he falls off, who do you think will find him first, the wolves or the Mummers?”“The wolves,” said Gendry. “Better noses.”

-ASOS, Arya I

Just look at how in sync they are:

“NO!“ Arya and Gendry both said, at the exact same instant. Hot Pie quailed a little. Arya gave Gendry a sideways look. He said it with me, like Jon used to do, back in Winterfell.

-ASOS, Arya I

Gendry looked as uncertain as she felt.

-ASOS, Arya II

He’s even got problem-solving skills:

“You have a knife,” Gendry suggested. “If your hair annoys you so much, shave your bloody head.”

-ASOS, Arya VIII

So yeah, we have way more canon evidence of Gendry’s intelligence than we do of Jaqen’s. 

Though to be fair, it appears that Gendry has an ugly thinking face:

“Quiet, both of you, I need to think what to do.” He always looked pained when he tried to think, like it hurt him something fierce.

-ACOK, Arya V

(Which I can relate to myself, as whenever I am deep in thought I’m told I look like a murderous bitch)

Now, here is what we know about Jaqen H’ghar from the text:

He’s a Faceless Man.

That’s it. That’s literally it. How does being a faceless man equate to being an intellectual? It doesn’t. We have no reason to assume that about him. (Its possible he might not even be a “him” for all we know, the rules are unclear about whether the faceless men are capable of using a glamour to change gender). We can’t extrapolate any of his words or actions as indications of his nature, since anything and everything he says and does are part of the character he is playing at the time and would be completely different were he wearing a different face.

2. Canon evidence that Jaqen H’ghar is an “intellectual”:

NONE.

3. Canon evidence suggesting Arya has any romantic feelings toward Jaqen H’ghar:

NONE. 

4. Canon evidence of Arya’s actual feelings regarding Jaqen H’ghar:

Jaqen made me brave again. He made me a ghost instead of a mouse.

-ACOK, Arya IX

It was Jaqen who had given her the iron coin. He hadn’t truly been her friend, the way that Syrio had, but what good had friends ever done her?

-AFFC, Arya I

Compare that to Gendry “the only true friend I have” Waters. Oh wait, there is no comparison.

Jaqen H’ghar has one function within Arya’s narrative. One. He is her introduction to the Faceless Men. He gives her three deaths, thus helping her and her friends escape Harrenhal, and he gives her the coin, and a glimpse of the true power that the faceless men possess:

Jaqen passed a hand down his face from forehead to chin, and where it went he changed. His cheeks grew fuller, his eyes closer; his nose hooked, a scar appeared on his right cheek where no scar had been before. And when he shook his head, his long straight hair, half red and half white, dissolved away to reveal a cap of tight black curls.Arya’s mouth hung open. 

“Who are you?” she whispered, too astonished to be afraid. “How did you do that? Was it hard?”

-ACOK, Arya IX

Mission accomplished. Arya is intrigued. She is interested. She has a list of people she hates and damn it sure would be handy if she could learn that trick. Thanks for the mysterious coin and secret password, now move along. After this, Jaqen does not reappear in her arc. Let me say that again for the shownlies. Jaqen H’ghar does not interact with Arya at all after this. He is not the priest she meets at the house of Black and White. She has no further contact with him. In fact, to the best of our knowledge, the Faceless Man that was Jaqen is now in the Citadel (as Pate) for reasons we are all still theorizing about.

So, I believe what that anti meant to say is that they prefer Jaqen H’ghar for whatever reason - most likely because they have made several leaping assumptions about his character based on little to no textual evidence and/or they just like the guy from the show.

But you and I both know it will never happen in the books. Not even close. Not even in the realm of possibility. Sorry not sorry.

#GENDRYA #arya stark #gendry waters #arya x gendry #CANON #asoiaf #anon ask #i love you guys #also can we stop assuming that Rhaegar and Lyanna were MEANT TO BE because??? #smh these antis

[storyswept]

Sansa: Five Suitors For Her Claim and One For Love

I knew the Ashford Tourney had been linked to Sansa’s storyline and when reading the Dunk and Egg novellas myself, I couldn’t help but notice her common points with Rohanne Webber, known as the Red Widow.

When I started writing this post, I didn’t realise that norwaywolf123 had already adressed the Sansa Stark-Rohanne Webber connection on Westeros.org (link here). He thinks that Sansa might marry Jaime, which is certainly not outside the realm of possibility.

I have a different interpretation which expands on the Ashford theory, so I still decided to post this.

The Ashford Tourney Theory: A Recap

I’d like to give credit to nobodysuspectsthebutterfly and bluefoot3 (reddit) for noticing the parallel between the champions at the end of the first day and Sansa’s suitors in the books.

You can check out nobodysuspectsthebutterfly’s post here and bluefoot3′s here.

The Tourney is organised by Lord Ashford to celebrate the thirteenth birthday of his daughter, who is reigning Queen of Love and Beauty. Each of her defenders is wearing her favor, a wisp of orange silk knotted around their arm.

At the end of the first day, the champions are:

Lyonel Baratheon, Tybolt Lannister, after defeating Robert Ashford and Androw Ashford respectively (the brothers of the thirteen years old maid)

Leo Tyrell

Humfrey Hardyng, unable to continue after his tilt with Aerion Targaryen, whose lance targeted his horse in a display of bad sportmanship.

Prince Valarr Targaryen

Four of these champions share a family name with Sansa’s suitors, which raises the question: is a Targaryen going to be her next suitor?

The Tourney doesn’t proceed the next day. A trial of seven is organised instead, after Aerion attacks a group of puppeters for slaying a mummer’s dragon, and Duncan intervenes, striking the Prince.

Rohanne Webber and Sansa Stark’s Similarities

Both have red hair

Rohanne Webber’s red hair was bound up in a braid so long it brushed past her thighs, and she had a dimpled chin, a snub nose, and a light spray of freckles across her cheeks.

- The Sworn Sword

"Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.

- ACOK, Catelyn VII

They’re said to use poison or sorcery to kill husbands / betrothed

Dunk wanted no trouble with the Lady of the Coldmoat. At Standfast you heard ill things of her. The Red Widow, she was called, for the husbands she had put into the ground. Old Sam Stoops said she was a witch, a poisoner, and worse.

- The Sworn Sword

Assuming Joffrey had not simply choked to death on a bit of food, which even Tyrion found hard to swallow, Sansa must have poisoned him.

- ASOS, Tyrion IX

"What wife?"

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head."

That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.

- ASOS, Arya XIII

One of their husbands / betrothed was said to have died by choking

My brother was [the third husband], Ser Simon Staunton, who had the great misfortune to choke upon a chicken bone.

- The Sworn Sword

The High Septon knelt beside him. "Father Above, judge our good King Joffrey justly," he intoned, beginning the prayer for the dead. Margaery Tyrell began to sob, and Tyrion heard her mother Lady Alerie saying, "He choked, sweetling. He choked on the pie. It was naught to do with you. He choked. We all saw."

- ASOS, Tyrion VIII

Suitors are more interested in her lands than her person

Cleyton Caswell and Simon Leygood have been the most persistent [suitors], though they seem more interested in her lands than in her person.

- The Sworn Sword

"His Grace the royal pustule has made Sansa's life a misery since the day her father died, and now that she is finally rid of Joffrey you propose to marry her to me. That seems singularly cruel. Even for you, Father."

"Why, do you plan to mistreat her?" His father sounded more curious than concerned. "The girl's happiness is not my purpose, nor should it be yours. Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark."

- ASOS, Tyrion III

They both disappear on a Lannister husband, (thought to be) a kinslayer

A genial man, known to be exceedingly clever, Gerold had served as regent for his young niece, but the suddenness of her death at such a tender age set tongues to wagging, and it was whispered widely in the west that both Lady Cerelle and Tybolt had died at his hands.

(...)

He ruled the westerlands for thirty-one years, earning the sobriquet Gerold the Golden. Yet the tragedies that befell House Lannister in the years that followed were proof enough for Lord Gerold's enemies. His beloved second wife, Lady Rohanne, vanished under mysterious circumstances in 230 AC, less than a year after giving birth to his lordship's fourth and youngest son, Jason.

- A World of Ice and Fire

Of course, Rohanne Webber also shares common points with other characters: Margaery and Cersei (Rohanne’s great-granddaughter) for example. She and Sansa also have their differences (last I checked, Sansa did not take up archery). Still, it’s interesting to see how much they have in common.

Sansa’s Fifth Suitor: Aegon Targaryen

If the Ashford theory is true, Sansa’s next suitor should bear the name Targaryen.

While it has been theorised that Sansa’s fifth suitor could be Jon (if R+L=J), I think it’s more likely that it is “Aegon Targaryen”.

Five reasons why:

1. The Name: Aegon Targaryen fits with the pattern previously etablished, Jon Snow does not.

While I think Jon will probably find out about his heritage at some point (it would be strange to hint at a character’s hidden heritage, if it doesn’t have any effect on the plot), I don’t believe Jon will start calling himself “Targaryen” unless he has to.

It’s not the name he always yearned for. Not to mention he might not be able to use it (depending on whether he’s legitimate or not).

2. Timing: at the end of ADWD, Aegon Targaryen arrives in Westeros. It’s mentioned in passing that a marriage alliance would be a good way to gain support in his quest for the Iron Throne.

"My lord does have one prize to offer," Haldon Halfmaester pointed out. "Prince Aegon's hand. A marriage alliance, to bring some great House to our banners."

- ADWD, The Griffin Reborn

If the Key to the North was to resurface, no doubt she would be thought of as an interesting prospect.

Meanwhile... Jon Snow still knows nothing about his origins. Nor has he a reason to wish for Sansa’s hand, who...

he thinks is his sister

he hasn’t seen since they left Winterfell

he could have taken Winterfell from, if he wished (I’m referring to Stannis’ offer)

Jon’s feelings towards Sansa could take a non-platonic turn in future books. Even so, it will take revelations and time for marriage to be considered. Time during which Aegon might have asked for Sansa’s hand.

3. The Mummer’s Dragon: during the tourney of Ashford, there’s not only a Targaryen champion, but a mummer’s dragon as well...

As he ate he watched a painted wooden knight battle a painted wooden dragon. The puppeteer who worked the dragon was good to watch too; a tall drink of water, with the olive skin and black hair of Dorne. She was slim as a lance with no breasts to speak of, but Dunk liked her face and the way her fingers made the dragon snap and slither at the end of its strings. He would have tossed the girl a copper if he’d had one to spare, but just now he needed every coin.

There were armorers amongst the merchants, as he had hoped. A Tyroshi with a forked blue beard was selling ornate helms, gorgeous fantastical things wrought in the shapes of birds and beasts and chased with gold and silver.

- The Hedge Knight

Several hints link this passage to Aegon:

Quaithe’s warning to Daenerys:

“The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun’s son and the mummer’s dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal.”

- ADWD, Daenerys II

Aegon survived because of Varys, who used to be a mummer and has been plotting to put Aegon on the throne.

The Dornishwoman as slim as a lance. Elia Sand, who also calls herself Lady Lance, is travelling with Arianne (Dornish, but not known to be flat-chested) to meet with Aegon Targaryen.

Tyroshi blue: when posing as Young Griff, Aegon was dying his hair blue, supposedly in honor of his Tyroshi mother.

4. Rohanne Webber’s Fifth Husband: Eustace Osgrey fought for Daemon Blackfyre, the King who Bore the Sword.

Like Eustace Osgrey, Aegon’s family has suffered losses for being on the losing side. To regain what was lost, he needs a Spider’s help.

5. Aegon’s Link to Daemon Blackfyre: like Daemon before him, Aegon wishes to take another’s place on the Iron Throne and had set his sights on a Daenerys Targaryen. Daemon ended up marrying Rohanne of Tyrosh instead... whose namesake, Rohanne Webber, shares a lot of similarities with Sansa...

Additionally, Aegon shares some similarities with Valarr. He’s also a king’s grandson, with a Dornish mother. I didn’t cite this among my arguments because if R+L=J, Jon is also a king’s grandson and like Valarr, he takes after his mother in looks.

Sansa’s Sixth Suitor: Will Marry Her For Love?

Should we ever wed, you'll have to send Saffron back to her father. I'll be all the spice you'll want."

He grinned. "I will hold you to that promise, my lady. Until that day, may I wear your favor in the tourney?"

"You may not. It is promised to...another." She was not sure who as yet, but she knew she would find someone.

- TWOW, Alayne I

I believe that Sansa may have a sixth suitor, different from the previous ones, paralleling Rohanne Webber’s six husbands.

From AWOIAF, we know that Rohanne Webber’s last husband was Gerold Lannister. He was already mentioned as a possible suitor in “The Sworn Sword”, though he had yet to make an appearance.

Were I given to wagering, I should place my gold on Gerold Lannister. He has yet to put in an appearance, but they say he is golden-haired and quick of wit, and more than six feet tall …” “… and Lady Webber is much taken with his letters.” The lady in question stood in the doorway, beside a homely young maester with a great, hooked nose. “You would lose your wager, good-brother. Gerold will never willingly forsake the pleasures of Lannisport and the splendor of Casterly Rock for some little lordship. He has more influence as Lord Tybolt’s brother and advisor than he could ever hope for as my husband. (...)”

- The Sworn Sword

Rohanne didn’t believe Gerold would marry her, because he had nothing to gain from it.

Sansa doesn’t believe anyone will ever marry her for love.

It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. 

- ASOS, Sansa VI

Well, maybe someone will...

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #sansa stark #asoiaf theory #rohanne webber #original post

[lyannas]

"Remember, she is Dornish.”

Or, Dorne is Westeros’ erotic, exotic, made complete with a helping handful of racism on top.

As someone from a West Asian culture living in a Western country, I had noticed something early on in the depiction of the Dornish that hit close to home and sat ill with me. To begin with, we were informed of the existence of the Dornish yet did not meet a prominent Dornish character until book 3, Oberyn Martell, who was observed through Tyrion’s POV chapters . Before we meet him, a few things are made clear: Dorne makes wine, they’re still upset over Princess Elia’s death, and they are very much the other. When anyone from north of Dorne speaks about the Dornish, they specify it as such, referring to them as Dornish, Dornishmen, and Dornish women.  They are set apart from other Westerosis in the similar way to the Iron Islanders. Their culture is different, therefore specifications are required. While this in no way is a bad thing, as all cultures should be different in some way, discussion of Dornish culture by non-Dornish sources reveals a type of racism reserved specifically for the Dornish.  Tyrion when he first meets Oberyn considers cracking asking “if he knew how a Dornishman differed from a cowflop”, an example of the casual racism that all non-Dornish seem to hold of the Dornish.

The problem goes beyond the racism of the Westerosi characters, however. George R. R. Martin failed the Dornish (and the Essosi) in several aspects of writing, by using racist tropes in his depiction of them and by introducing the Dornish so late and with so little. He did not introduce a prominent Dornish character until book 3, did not provide a Dornish POV until book 4, and even then gave us very little. Of the 9 Dornish POV chapters in books 1-5, one of them belongs to the pretty racist Reachman Arys Oakheart, 2 belong to the Norvoshi Areo Hotah, and the last 6 are split between Quentyn (4 chapters) and Arianne (2 chapters). While there appears to be more Arianne chapters to come in TWOW (2 so far), this is a shockingly small amount of Dornish perspective, with Quentyn’s story not even taking place in Dorne (and ending with his death).

In this essay, I’ll tackle the history of this anti-Dornish racism, how it is practiced by those in Westeros and abroad, and the (often racist) tropes Martin uses to prop up it.

Culture and Ethnicity

Before delving into the issue of anti-Dornish racism itself, it might help to provide context as to who the Dornish are, and what makes them so culturally and ethnically unique in the first place.

Dorne was first populated by the First Men and later by a smaller group of Andals. They had also historically been an ununited country with many kings and lords. That was until about 1,000 years prior to the events of ASOIAF, when Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar led her people on ten thousand ships from the Rhoyne to Dorne. The Rhoynar who boarded her ships were the last survivors of the Rhoynish Wars fought between the Rhoynar and the Valyrians.

Perhaps recognizing her power and her great numbers, Mors Martell pursued an alliance with the Rhoynish princess, and together the two of them managed to conquer Dorne and unite it for the first time since Dorne was settled. The two would marry, and their children presumably continued the Martell line. Princess Nymeria would also later marry two other Dornish lords-- a Lord Uller and a Ser Davos Dayne.

The Rhoynar brought with them some significant customs. One such custom was House Martell’s new titles of “princes” and “princesses”, instead of “kings” and “queens”. Yet despite this being a specific Rhoynish custom, there is a misunderstanding among canon sources re: Nymeria’s title. She is often referred to as a “warrior queen” in the context of the books, and there is even a book titled “The Loves of Queen Nymeria”-- despite the fact that Nymeria was never a queen, she was a princess, as per the Rhoynish fashion. It’s a small and subtle proof of how Rhoynish culture (and by extension, Dornish and Essosi cultures) are misunderstood by outside sources. Another thing was their religion, which died out in favor of the Faith of the Seven. The third and perhaps most culturally significant thing was their laws of inheritance. The Rhoynar practiced absolute primogeniture, which allows the firstborn child, regardless of gender, to inherit their parents’ titles and lands. This is a practice that is carried out among most Dornishmen, though GRRM had noted in an interview that some houses in the mountains still practice the First Men laws of male-preference primogeniture.

The alliance with the Rhoynar also came with extensive intermarriage:

When Mors Martell took Nymeria to wife, hundreds of his knights, squires, and lords bannermen also wed Rhoynish women, and many of those who were already wed took them for their paramours. Thus were the two peoples united by blood.

It also came with “wealth”, described mostly as their skill in metalworking:

The Rhoynar brought considerable wealth with them; their artisans, metalworkers, and stonemasons brought skills far in advance of those achieved by their Westerosi counterparts, and their armorers were soon producing swords and spears and suits of scale and plate no Westerosi smith could hope to match.

This in particular is of interest, as a brief exchange between Tyrion and Illyrio shows how Westeros underplays the Rhoynish influence on metalworking in favor of emphasizing Westerosi accomplishments:

"What sort of gods make rats and plagues and dwarfs?" Another passage from The Seven-Pointed Star came back to him. "The Maid brought him forth a girl as supple as a willow with eyes like deep blue pools, and Hugor declared that he would have her for his bride. So the Mother made her fertile, and the Crone foretold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons. The Warrior gave strength to their arms, whilst the Smith wrought for each a suit of iron plates."

"Your Smith must have been Rhoynish," Illyrio quipped. "The Andals learned the art of working iron from the Rhoynar who dwelt along the river. This is known."

"Not by our septons." --Tyrion II, ADWD

There is also the Rhoynish “water magic”, which is credited for the natural growth of Dorne:

Even more crucially, it is said the Rhoynish water witches knew secret spells that made dry streams flow again and deserts bloom.

Thus after a thousand years of intermarriage, assimilation and unity, it’s acknowledged that the Rhoynar invasion had a great impact on Dornish culture and their ethnic makeup. The Rhoynar were theorized to have olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, features we see continue to exist in the Dornish, namely in those who live along the coast and in central Dorne. The permissive attitude towards same-sex relationships is also credited to the Rhoynar.

During his unsuccessful Conquest of Dorne, Daeron I would proceed to categorize the Dornish based on his own observations, categories that may not necessarily be reflective of the true ethnic makeup of the Dornish. He categorized them as Salty, Stony, and Sandy Dornishmen, noting that the Stony Dornishmen as descended from the First Men and least touched by Rhoynish blood. He also attributed general physical characteristics to each group. Yet despite the variability in physical appearances amongst the Dornish, one thing is made abundantly clear: they are all ethnically Dornish. They practice many of the same customs and share a common culture; there is no evidence of stony/sandy/salty distinction amongst the Dornish that the Westerosi employ and seems to be only a form of Westerosi colorism. The Westerosi themselves do not consider one group of Dornishmen to be better than the other. They are Dornish, and that is that.

Dorne is also home to a huge commerce hub, as they have many types of spices, fruits, their own brand of wine, and their famous sand steeds, reputed for being the fastest horses with incredible endurance. They are also noted as trading across the sands using caravans, and conducting trade in Essos. These are among the many things that mark the Dornish as unique from the Westeros. Unfortunately, it is also their uniqueness that’s used against them by prejudiced Westerosis.

History

The reasons for Dorne’s distinction are made clear when analyzing the history of Westeros and its relationship with Dorne. Dorne had been the only kingdom not conquered by Aegon and his sisters, and was left unconquered for nearly 200 years, until Daeron I Targaryen tried to do what his predecessors could not. This cost him his life, as well as the lives of Lyonel Tyrell and Rickon Stark, both the respective lords of their houses. It was estimated that at least 50,000 Westerosi died in the conquest, which had come undone through a Dornish rebellion, and did not end until Baelor Targaryen sought peace with the Dornish. This peace was sealed through the marriage of Daeron II Targaryen and Mariah Martell, and Daeron II brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms through another marriage between his sister Daenerys Targaryen and Maron Martell.

But before Daenerys and Maron’s marriage, King Aegon IV launched an unprovoked attack on Dorne in hopes of conquering them again. Aegon IV was noted as having an intense hatred of the Dornish, one that likely began during his time as a commander during Daeron I’s Conquest of Dorne. Such a hatred did not prevent him from taking Cassella Vaith, a Dornish hostage, as a “mistress”, where he kept her confined to his rooms and presumably raped her, as Cassella would be described as suffering a sharp decline in mental health after the ordeal.

Aegon IV used that same hatred he had that thrived in the marches, stormlands, and the Reach to launch an attack on Dorne that proved to be a complete and utter failure. His son, Daeron II, was married to Mariah Martell at this point, and had the support of the Prince of Dorne. It was no secret that Aegon IV hated Daeron II, hated the Dornish, and tried to undo their power before he died-- which ultimately, he would fail at.

The bloody events of the conquest and the prolonged period of time in which Dorne was an independent kingdom had served to further other the Dornish, who despite joining the Seven Kingdoms, had retained much of its unique culture. Even so, they negotiated multiple marriages into the royal family, one of which would peacefully bring Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms. Martells would marry Targaryens three times, and there is one recorded marriage between a Dayne (Dyanna) and a Targaryen (Maekar I). All of these marriages resulted in the current generations of Martells and Targaryens, save for the marriage of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen (provided that Young Griff is not truly Aegon VI).

These marriages unfortunately did not increase their popularity amongst the Westerosi. The World of Ice and Fire notes that the concessions that Dorne had won through the marriage between Daeron II and Mariah Martell had upset some the powers at court (concessions that took two years to settle, not exactly easily given). Such concessions included keeping House Martell’s titles of “Prince” and “Princess”, lax tax collection, and the autonomy to maintain their own laws. Daeron II’s court whispered that his firstborn son, Baelor, looked “more Martell than Targaryen” with his black hair and eyes, and he was derided for his name, as the Baelor who came before him was perceived as feeble (and coincidentally, was remarkably merciful and forgiving towards the Dornish; he had pardoned the Dornish prisoners taken during the conquest when they were set to die). Those who opposed Daeron II would cite the Dornish court and Daeron’s peace with the Dornish as part of their reasoning for support Daemon Blackfyre in the Blackfyre Rebellion. In fact, it was precisely because of hate for the Dornish that Daemon gained greater support:

In truth, the seeds found fertile ground because of Aegon the Unworthy. Aegon had hated the Dornish and warred against them, and those lords who desired the return of those days—despite all the associated misrule—would never be happy with this peaceable king. Many famed warriors who looked with dismay on the peace in the realm and the Dornish in the king's court began to seek Daemon out. -- The World of Ice and Fire

Thus, anti-Dornish racism played an essential part in sparking the very first Blackfyre Rebellion, which Daemon Blackfyre would lose and which left terrible scars on the realm, stretching to present canon.

Another more subtle form of anti-Dornish sentiment came in the response to the marriage between Daenerys Targaryen and Maron Martell. Rumors began to fly that Daenerys was actually in love with Daemon Blackfyre, despite the fact that there was no evidence to support these claims. Their marriage appeared to be a peaceful and fruitful one and Maron Martell would actually come to build the Water Gardens for his Targaryen wife. We learn through the Dornish chapters that Doran has a great fondness for the Water Gardens, and enjoyed spending his days watching the children play there. It is duly significant in the fact that Daenerys Targaryen was credited for allowing children of all social classes to come play at the Gardens, and had pointed out to her son and heir re: the different children, “There is your realm, remember them, in everything you do.”-- a sentiment that Doran said was repeated to him by his mother, proof that the Dornish cherished this alliance and the peace it brought far more than the disgruntled Westerosi. Peace with the Dornish and acceptance of their presence was something many Westerosi did not want; they preferred to hate them and go to war with them instead.

A similar sentiment can be seen in the marked divide between the Reach and Dorne. This divide is an old one, as the two nations had long fought over possession of the Dornish Marches along their borders. It was deepened by the assassination of Lyonel Tyrell during the conquest where Lord Tyrell, who took on the practice of sleeping in the lord’s chambers of the Dornish castles he conquered, was murdered in a bed of scorpions. Then the divide was renewed again when Oberyn Martell unhorsed a young Willas Tyrell during a tourney joust, and Willas’s leg got caught in the stirrup, rendering that leg crippled. Despite the fact that it was an accident, and that Oberyn and Willas remained friends who kept a correspondence, this had set the Dornish and the Reach against each other once again. Olenna calls Ellaria “the serpent’s whore”, and in King’s Landing fights break out between Dornishmen and Reachmen.

Yet the most disturbing anti-Dornish sentiment we see does not stem from sour memories of war and conquest, but from plain and simple racism.

Stereotypes and the Exotic-Erotic

Pop culture, particularly pop culture in the West, and the pop culture that GRRM grew up with, has done much to regress various Asian cultures to a few simple things: sex, violence, and trickery. From Dragon Lady to harem girl to terrorist to bloodthirsty Arab tribal leaders preying on innocent white women, there’s no shortage of demeaning, othering, and fetishizing stereotypes that are still alive and well in the minds of many.

A subset of these tropes fall into a broader “exotic-erotic” trope, which involves the hypersexualization of a foreign culture. This sort of writing, where the foreign people are the most sexual people, are exemplified in pop culture tropes such as the dragon lady trope, harem girl, hot g*psy woman, spicy latinas, fetishization of black women,-- all tropes and real life stereotypes associated with non-white or foreign people being more sexually aggressive, attractive, or having lax attitudes about sex in contrast with their more reserved white counterparts. It is not a positive trope; it is a reductive and fetishizing trope meant to conflate foreignness with sexiness that far overshadows any other cultural markers that might exist. And of course, it is often exemplified by women.

Now, I should preface this by saying there is nothing wrong in theory with a society being sexually liberated, or a society that is accepting of a spectrum of sexualities. There is a problem, however, when these sexually liberated societies are almost exclusively associated with characters coded as characters of color, as I noted with the tropes listed above. This is because the sexual liberation of these characters are not actually liberating; it is part of the dehumanization of these characters and their culture, as it reduces them down to sex. This is an issue that goes far beyond Dorne, and far beyond even the scope of the characters in A Song of Ice and Fire. This is a fundamental issue with Martin’s writing.

To start with, I’ll address how this is a pervasive issue with the writing of non-Westerosi cultures. Practically every society outside of pre-Dornish conquest Westeros is associated with some form of eroticism.

The Summer Isles: Sex is considered a holy skill and is not taboo in any context. It also happens to be populated by dark-skinned, specifically “ebony-skinned” people.

Meereen: In Daenerys III of ADWD, Dany is a witness to a bizarre sex show, where dancers have artsy sex while music plays in the background. This is apparently not that unusual for the culture at all.

Dothraki: Orgies at a wedding are a normal thing. Public sex is regarded as normal, to the point where Drogo can have sex with Dany in front of his whole khalasar and no one blinks an eye. They are also amongst one of the worst written racist caricatures in the books.

Lys: Worship a “love goddess” and are known for their pillow houses and bedslaves. They are a light-skinned people, but are Essosi nonetheless.

Dorne: The people are “hot-tempered, wild, and wanton”. People sing a song about a Dornishman’s unfaithful wife and the hot-headed revenge he enacts on her partner, and everyone thinks it’s hilarious.

So essentially, as soon as you step outside of mainstream Westerosi culture, you are immediately bombarded with sex. With the majority of the characters being in Westeros, and Essos being considered the foreign side show, it becomes particularly apparent that their sexual liberation is not a mark of an advanced or more socially accepting society, but a mark of foreignness. After all, there are other practices in Essos that are amoral, such as slavery and forced castration, that are more unusual and far more abhorrent, and do not take place in Westeros.

Moving apart from the issues in writing, the exotic-erotic stereotype is also manifested in the attitudes of the Westerosi toward the Dornish. For instance, there is a song titled “The Dornishman’s Wife” that narrates the story of a man who sleeps with a Dornishman’s wife, and the hot-headed Dornishman’s revenge on said man. While it’s largely seen as a funny and bawdy song, it is actually in line with what many people truly believe of the Dornish. Westerosis push the narrative that the Dornish are incapable of monogamy and would have sex with anyone. It is oft repeated that the Dornish are hot-headed, wanton, and highly sexual. This mindset is displayed in plain terms by Arys Oakheart, who himself is from the Reach:

She sighed. "With your other princess. You will make me jealous. I think you love her more than me. The maid is much too young for you. You need a woman, not a little girl, but I can play the innocent if that excites you."

"You should not say such things." Remember, she is Dornish. In the Reach men said it was the food that made Dornishmen so hot-tempered and their women so wild and wanton. Fiery peppers and strange spices heat the blood, she cannot help herself. -The Soiled Knight, AFFC

Yep. It is a commonly repeated sentiment in the Reach (and elsewhere) that the Dornish’s spicy food is what makes them “hot-tempered” and “so wild and wanton”.

On the topic of Arianne Martell, she is presented to us first through Arys Oakheart as a lusty Dornish lover. Our first impressions of her come from Arys, whose racism towards her and the Dornish is sexualized, who describes the details of her body in cringeworthy detail, and informs us of the gross stereotypes about the Dornish outlined above. Martin sets up her character as the hypersexualized, exotic-erotic foreign girl: lusty and sexy and with huge nipples, apparently. She exudes sexuality and greatly enjoys sex, and we later learn that this is not entirely an act-- Arianne is sexual in a way that no other POV character is, which is significant when there are only two Dornish POV characters. Aside from her first highly sexualized introduction, in her POV chapters we learn that she has a huge sexual imagination (she’s even imagined having sex with her uncle Oberyn) and sexual experiences from a young age. She notes that she had her first sexual experience with Drey, accompanied by Tyene, at only ten years old where it might have escalated further if it were not for Drey’s overexcitement. She would lose her virginity to Daemon Sand at fourteen years old. By 23, she has had many lovers, including the knight of the Kingsguard, the pretty racist Arys Oakheart.

But it must be said that sex does play an important role in Arianne’s narrative. As she said herself, “Prince Oberyn had armed each of his daughters so they need never be defenseless, but Arianne Martell had no weapon but her guile.” She uses sex, seduction, and manipulation as her weapons of choice to get what she wants. There is nothing wrong with this in itself; not every woman can or should have to carry a weapon to assert herself, and Arianne holds autonomy over her own body. Cersei too uses the same weapons to get what she wants, though her relationship with sex is different, sometimes even negative, and she was not allowed full autonomy with her body the way Arianne had. Arianne is still a markedly more sexual character than most of the other POV characters-- and it’s something Arys notes and uses to reinforce the stereotype he knows about “wanton” Dornish women. The exotic-erotic trope fits Arianne almost perfectly, and at the same time is used as justification for casual racism against her. In that respect, her sexuality becomes a double-edged sword.

Before I’m misunderstood, let me say that Arianne enjoying sex is not the problem here; Asha Greyjoy also enjoys sex, but she is in a very different position than Arianne. Asha is a warrior who does not rely on sex as a weapon, therefore sex is not prominent or even important in her narrative. Asha is also in a position where she has to challenge the gender roles of her traditionally patriarchal culture without being totally dismissive of her own womanhood (“Cunt again?...”). Asha is not hypersexualized by any stretch of the imagination, and no one around her attempts to paint her as such. She is depicted to us as a warrior woman with a normal, healthy sex life, and sex does not infiltrate her thoughts nearly as often as it does with Arianne. It also helps that the Iron Islanders have been in the books since book one, that they have four POV characters, and that we know that despite other stereotypes about the Iron Islanders, none of them imply that the food they eat make their women sex-crazed and “wanton”.

While we know that Tyene and Arianne had early sexual experiences, it seems the trend only continues. In a released Arianne chapter of TWOW, we see fourteen year old Elia Sand on the lap of a man twice her age and kissing him. While Arianne is quick to end the tryst, it begs the question why GRRM would write such a scene to begin with, if not to reinforce the hypersexualization of the Dornish, even amongst young girls.

However, despite the introduction of a few “sex positive” (in this case, I’d argue that they’re needlessly hypersexualized) characters, we know that this is not reflective of all of the Dornish. One has only to look to Doran Martell to see that the stereotype of overtly sexual and non-monogamous Dornishmen is untrue. Doran, despite being separated from his wife for many years, was not noted to have taken on paramours or ever even sought out an annulment or divorce. It could also be surmised that Elia Martell was similarly loyal to her husband, despite his public humiliation of her. The same could be said of Dyanna Dayne and Mariah Martell, and could be implied with many other Dornish women. Quentyn is described as almost painfully shy, what with his hiding his infatuation with Lord Yronwood’s eldest daughter for years. He was awkward with girls, and at 19 was still a virgin.

Thus, the exotic-erotic trope at play becomes a mixture of racist writing at its surface, and racist outlooks within the narrative itself. To write hypersexualization into key Dornish characters and then allow the characters around them to develop harmful stereotypes around it ruins whatever sex positive message the Dornish might have been able to send across. Worse, it is used against them in the fandom itself. The fact that “Elia would have been okay with Rhaegar running away with Lyanna because she’s Dornish” is still an oft repeated argument is proof enough. What Oberyn, a second son, has with Ellaria, which is a monogamous relationship where they share partners, is not reflective of what Elia, a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, would have wanted in her own marriage, and in fact would have posed a risk to her living children re: succession, given House Targaryen’s bloody history of what happens when the realm may choose the one sibling over another (see: The Dance of the Dragons and the Blackfyre Rebellion).

Among the Essosi, we also see this exotic-erotic trope done with Taena of Myr, for example, who despite being married admits to having had a Myrish lover and sleeps with Cersei (there is of course a power imbalance here that should be noted), and even has her genitalia referred to as a “Myrish swamp”. While that last point may be Cersei’s perspective on Taena and not Martin’s, it does again conflate Taena’s foreign national identity with her sexuality, and reflects how the exotic-erotic stereotype works in Cersei’s head. Taena’s bisexuality and her open sexuality is not a coincidence either; this trope of hypersexuality is also often accompanied by non-heterosexuality.

To better explain this, one needs only to look to the few confirmed LGBT characters we have in the books. There are some notable ones: Renly Baratheon, Loras Tyrell, Jon Connington, Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, and Nymeria Sand.

Renly and Loras are a picture of devotion and true love. When Renly dies, Loras does not seek out the company of other men, instead insisting that “once the sun has set, no candle can replace it”. He is devoted to his lover in death, as he was in life. Jon Connington has a similar attitude. He was confirmed as being gay by GRRM, and indeed in the books we see him harbor romantic and entirely non-sexual thoughts and feelings for Rhaegar. Both of these loves are depicted as something pure, singular, and everlasting. They do not seek other partners, and have no desire to either.

This is in stark contrast to the writing of the Dornish characters. While Oberyn and Ellaria are indeed devoted to each other, it is confirmed that they also enjoy sharing sexual partners, and they are both bisexual. Nymeria Sand is confirmed to have two lovers, the Fowler twins, both of whom she is found abed with, implying that she is either bisexual or a lesbian. Whether or not she has other lovers is unclear, but being a lover to a pair of female twins certainly sets her apart from the sexual norms of Westeros. Their sexualities are not depicted as virtuous within the context of the books, but instead are conflated with hypersexuality-- something that is not done with Renly, Loras, or Jon Connington.

More deviations from Westerosi standards of society in Dorne includes their fair treatment of bastards, and the rather overblown concept of having “paramours”. A paramour is a lover, which Westerosi noblemen have all the time, only the Dornish are more public about it, thus it is perceived as a Dornish perversion. At least, that is what we learn from the maester who narrates TWOIAF:

There are other customs besides that mark the Dornish as different. They are not greatly concerned if a child is born in wedlock or out of it, especially if the child is born to a paramour. Many lords—and even some ladies—have paramours, chosen for love and lust rather than for breeding or alliance. And when it comes to matters of love, that a man might lie with another man, or a woman with another woman, is likewise not cause for concern; while the septons have often wished to shepherd the Dornishmen to the righteous path, they have had little effect. Even the fashions are different in Dorne, where the climate favors loose, layered robes and the food is richly spiced, ready to burn the mouth with dragon peppers mixed with drops of snake venom.

Here he mentions all of these customs as “mark the Dornish as different” that I had mentioned before. Bastardy, paramours, non-heterosexuality, all of it has been perceived as not “righteous”, particularly by septons who try to change these customs. Even the spiciness of the food is mentioned!

That is not to say that any of these customs or practices are necessarily bad. On the contrary, their kinder treatment of bastards and women is perhaps one of Dornish society’s greatest points. There is less blame and shame placed on a child born out of wedlock, and they can comfortably rise to great heights, as is demonstrated by Oberyn’s daughters and Daemon Sand. Their paramours are no different than a Westerosi’s mistress or secret lover; there is only less shame attached and more visibility, as paramours and their bastards are treated far better within society. Then of course, there is nothing wrong with same-sex love, though it is perceived as abnormal in Westeros and is the source of far too many “jokes”. However, this all ties in with how Westeros perceives Dorne: as non-righteous, hypersexual people who needed to be shepherded onto a more righteous path. All while ignoring their own faults, of course, because there is certainly very little that is righteous about Westerosi society.

In fact, in regards to sex, Westeros has made female sexuality into a public source of shame or fear. For example, Cersei’s walk of shame, which involved her walking through King’s Landing, shaved and stripped, was her punishment for having sex as a widowed woman. There is also the bedding ceremony to consider, which involves stripping the bride naked and making lewd comments about her while escorting her to her marriages chambers, an experience that was noted as frightening by Catelyn and infamously resulted in “liberties” (AKA some form of sexual assault) taken by Aerys II during Joanna Lannister’s bedding.

While I had noted before the the Dornish and Essos are both othered and sexualized in a similar fashion, we learn something extremely interesting from the Norvoshi Areo Hotah:

Dorne had seemed a queer place to him as well when first he came here with his own princess, many years ago. The bearded priests had drilled him on the Common Speech of Westeros before they sent him forth, but the Dornishmen all spoke too quickly for him to understand. Dornish women were lewd, Dornish wine was sour, and Dornish food was full of queer hot spices. And the Dornish sun was hotter than the pale, wan sun of Norvos, glaring down from a blue sky day after day. -The Watcher, ADWD

Areo’s initial perception of Dorne is not unlike the Reach’s perception. “Dornish women were lewd, Dornish wine was sour, and Dornish food was full of queer hot spices” is Areo’s version of “In the Reach men said it was the food that made Dornishmen so hot-tempered and their women so wild and wanton. Fiery peppers and strange spices heat the blood, she cannot help herself”. Areo’s perception of Dorne may have changed since, but the fact that this is something he perceived of the Dornish as someone who hailed from Essos is telling.

Conclusion

There is no denying that anti-Dornish racism exists in Westeros, and even may extend into some circles in Essos. They are the only Westerosis who are coded as characters of color, they alone intermarried with a large Essosi population, and theirs was the kingdom that had been independent the longest. A mixture of history, bad blood, and plain and simple racism + xenophobia served to create reductive and offensive stereotypes for the Dornish.

I will say this much: Westeros’s racism and xenophobia is not unrealistic. The fact that I may cite exotic-erotic tropes and even feel personally connected to the treatment of the Dornish indicates that Martin has, at the very least, accurately portrayed how a few stereotypes could affect a giant society’s outlook on a single nation, even if it was not done on purpose. The racism and self-righteousness the Westerosi possess towards the Dornishmen is realistic, but it is obviously harmful and not acceptable.

What is also not acceptable is the fandom buying into Westeros’s racist view on the Dornish. We as readers were not raised as Westerosi, thus adopting their views is unacceptable. Too many times I have seen fans use the stereotypes and lies perpetuated about the Dornish and had them passed off as fact. Someone being Dornish doesn’t automatically make them sex crazed, or hot tempered, or permissive of extramarital affairs. We should know better, and do better.

There is also Martin’s lackluster and sometimes even tone deaf writing to consider. There is no denying that the tropes he employed in writing the Dornish and Essosi are racist and poorly done. There is really no good excuse for writing in the Dornish so late, then hypersexualizing them the way he did, then employing racist tropes around that hypersexualization, then using similar racist tropes to describe the Essosi. As the only characters of color in Westeros, it stands out as more than a little heinous that they are the exotic-erotic fantasies. The Martells are also worst served when it comes to writing; there are only 5 Martell POV chapters while the Starks, Greyjoys, and Lannisters are much better served and better characterized.

This study on Dorne and the racism surrounding their writing and their narrative only serves to scratch the surface on the issue of racism in the books (and by extension, in the fandom), but I hope I’ve covered all my bases on this topic and am excited to hear the dialogue this may spark.

Special shout-out to @bitchfromtheseventhhell who edited this post for me, correcting my 100,000 spelling and grammatical errors while providing more insight in what I should and should not cover. Thank you Celia <3

And shout-out to @joannalannister, who asked me to write this up 84 years ago. <3

Thank you for reading!

#dorne #house martell #asoiaf #racism in asoiaf #meta #my meta

[jonsameta]

the tourney at ashford theory and sansa’s future husband

This is a repost from reddit, you can find the original thread here. Interestingly, Aegon doesn’t exist. So... sub in Jon for Aegon? :)

In the Hedge Knight, Dunk and Egg go to a tourney held at Ashford to celebrate Lord Ashford's daughter's 13th name-day. Lady Ashford has 5 champions fighting on her behalf and anyone who defeats a champion ends up replacing their opponent as a champion for Lady Ashford. In the end, the 5 champions who end up defending Lady Ashford are:

Lyonel Baratheon

Leo Tyrell

Tybolt Lannister

Humfrey Hardyng

Prince Valarr Targaryen

When you look at the names of the champions' families and the fact they fight for a 13 year old maid, especially with the family Hardyng, we find out that they correspond strongly with Sansa's suitors in A Song of Ice and Fire.

Sansa's first betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon

Sansa's then planned to be wed to Willas Tyrell

Sansa's married to Tyrion Lannister

Sansa's now being betrothed to Harry Hardyng

The fact that GRRM put Hardyng in that mix is what really makes me think this is a sly foreshadowing of Sansa's future husband/suitors in TWOW and beyond. But, there's one suitor that we have yet to see, the Targaryen suitor (foreshadowed by Valarr Targaryen).

I think this makes a particularly strong case for Aegon VI Targaryen being a suitor for Sansa in TWOW or ADOS. It would round out the set nicely and lend credence to Sansa playing a large role in Westerosi Politics in the upcoming books.

Why Aegon and not Jon?

You might say "Aegon's not really a Targaryen! He's Varys' puppet and a Blackfyre to boot! Wouldn't this hint at Jon being Sansa's future suitor?"

To that I say: For this foreshadowing, what matters are the family NAME of the suitor and not the actual blood of the suitor. Joffrey would be considered the Baratheon even though he's a Lannister because of his name, and thus Aegon would be considered a Targaryen even if he's a fake, so it works out.

Additionally, Aegon is planning his invasion and will need allies.

One could argue he already has the Martells because he's Elia's son. A marriage with Arianne would not be necessary to gain the allegiance of Dorne.

By TWOW he has already captured Storm's End, thus giving him a stronghold in the Stormlands.

Jon Connington mentions that the Golden Company still has friends in the Reach, which probably makes courting Margaery unnecessary

The Lannisters are on the throne and Aegon's biggest enemies. They'll never be able to win the allegiance of the Westerlands.

Both Aegon and Jon Connington seem to have abandoned hope of Daenerys joining them soon, and have already begun plotting to conquer Westeros

The 3 Kingdoms Aegon has left to win are the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. And guess which girl has the strongest ties to each of those Kingdoms? Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell, niece of Edmure Tully, and currently betrothed to the heir to the Vale.

If this foreshadowing is true, what does this mean for TWOW?

It means that Harry the Heir is a stop-gap solution, a true red-herring if there ever was one, and will soon be killed or out of the game.

It means the isolationist Vale saga should come to an end by TWOW, and the Vale will have to take sides in this war if Aegon happens to be a suitor for Sansa. 

It means either LF has abandoned the Vale-Hardyng plan for Sansa and is using her to woo Aegon, or maybe LF's no longer in power and Sansa is left to meet Aegon on her own.

It means that LF and Varys conflict will finally come to a head. At this point, we must assume that Aegon is championed by Varys while Sansa is being championed by Littlefinger. But if Aegon appears to be enamored or interested in having Sansa, you'll have to wonder if LF will just let his prized possession just waltz into Varys' hands.

It means that the Dornish Alliance with Aegon will be a lot more complicated that we think. Arianne and Doran would definitely want Aegon to marry Arianne to cement an alliance, but what if Aegon demands their allegiance by virtue that he's Arianne's cousin? If he goes after Sansa, I wonder how they will react.

What probably will happen

If anyone believes this is a precursor to a great romance, you'd have to take a look at all of Sansa's previous suitors. Joffrey, Tyrion, Willas, and Harry are all suitors Sansa was forced into choosing, something that was out of her control. Moreover, none of the pairings ever seemed to have a happy ending. Harry the Heir looks to be another Robert Baratheon, so I think we can assume Sansa isn't going to fall in love with him either.

If we follow this pattern, Aegon will not likely be a suitor Sansa chooses for love, or even chooses at all. Likely this will be another political ploy Sansa will be forced to face, and none of those have had a happy ending. I think this is just more and more problems for Sansa (especially if they marry and Dany shows up).

Finally: What happened to the suitors at the Tourney of Ashford?

We don't know what's going to happen in TWOW, but we do know what happened in the Hedge Knight.

None of the 5 champions ended up marrying Lady Ashford

No information was given about Lady Ashford afterward

Humfrey Hardying was wounded in a fight in a Trial of Seven during the tourney and died of his wounds

Valarr Targaryen ended dying from the Great Spring Sickness

I'd like to think this foreshadows Harry's imminent demise (perhaps by LF or another party) and Aegon Targaryen's death by greyscale (courtesy of Jon Connington). He has doom written all over him anyway.

As for Sansa, she's still left to deal with Harry. I don't think she'll marry him because Aegon will come by soon. Whether or not she marries Aegon is up for debate. All I know is there is no happy ending to any of these pairings.

TL;DR Aegon and Sansa will be paired up sometime in the future. The ending's not going to be good.

Edit: Just so you know, I don't claim to believe this theory 100%. The evidence for Arianne/Aegon hooking up to get Dorne is convincing as well. Still, I do think Aegon/Sansa is now a possibility we must consider, especially since it marks a showdown between Varys and Littlefinger who champion Aegon and Sansa respectively.

Edit 2: So apparently this observation has been made before. Here's the link:http://nobodysuspectsthebutterfly.tumblr.com/post/28846787945/re-reading-the-hedge-knight-for-the-bazillionthEven if people have picked up on this detail, it's definitely fun to discuss the implications.

Edit 3: People have been throwing around a bunch of ideas for a name for this theory; my personal favorite is the The Fifth Suitor Theory as suggested by /u/DrDalenQuaice

#tourney at ashford #reddit