#Grand Maester Gerardys

[stromuprisahat]

When Rhaenyra asked why Ser Robert had not come to meet her, Ser Alfred replied that the queen would be seeing “our fat friend” at the castle. And so she did…though Quince’s charred corpse was burned beyond all recognition when they came upon it. Only by his size did they know him, for Ser Robert had been enormously fat. They found him hanging from the battlements of the gatehouse beside Dragonstone’s steward, captain of the guard, master-at-arms…and the head and upper torso of Grand Maester Gerardys. Everything below his ribs was gone, and the Grand Maester’s entrails dangled down from within his torn belly like so many burned black snakes. The blood drained from the queen’s cheeks when she beheld the bodies, but young Prince Aegon was the first to realize what they meant. “Mother, flee,” he shouted, but too late. Ser Alfred’s men fell upon the queen’s protectors.

Fire and Blood × The Princess and the Queen (George R. R. Martin)

First he "leaves behind" his younger brother, then he becomes the only child and support left to his mother, only to "fail" to save her?

When Prince Aegon snatched up Ser Harrold’s sword, Ser Alfred knocked the blade aside contemptuously.

I'm sure that wouldn't leave a mark on a ten-year-old's psyche...

#ASoIaF #The Princess and the Queen #Fire & Blood #valyrianscrolls #ch: The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Overthrown #Rhaenyra Targaryen #Aegon III Targaryen #Dance of the Dragons #Blacks #Alfred Broome #Robert Quince #Grand Maester Gerardys #V #GRRM #books #quotes

[horizon-verizon]

A day and a night of labor left Laena Velaryon pale and weak, but finally she gave birth to the son Prince Daemon had so long desired—but the babe was twisted and malformed, and died within the hour. Nor did his mother long survive him. Her grueling labor had drained all of Lady Laena’s strength, and grief weakened her still further, making her helpless before the onset of childbed fever. As her condition steadily worsened, despite the best efforts of Driftmark’s young maester, Prince Daemon flew to Dragonstone and brought back Princess Rhaenyra’s own maester, an older and more experienced man renowned for his skills as a healer. Sadly, Maester Gerardys came too late. After three days of delirium, Lady Laena passed from this mortal coil. She was but twenty-seven. During her final hour, it is said, Lady Laena rose from her bed, pushed away the septas praying over her, and made her way from her room, intent on reaching Vhagar that she might fly one last time before she died. Her strength failed her on the tower steps, however, and it was there she collapsed and died. Her husband, Prince Daemon, carried her back to her bed. Afterward, Mushroom tells us, Princess Rhaenyra sat vigil with him over Lady Laena’s corpse, and comforted him in his grief.

Fire and Blood, by George R.R. Martin, pg 378

#laena velayron #laena's death #year of the red spring #the red spring #red spring #fire and blood quotes #Fire and Blood #asoiaf quotes #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #laena and vhagar #vhagar #rhaenyra i #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #laena and daemon #laena and rhaenyra #rhaenyra laena daemon #maester gerardys #grand maester gerardys #a question of succession #dance of the dragons #dying of the dragons

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

House of the Dragon 1x10 (new still): Grand Maester Gerardys during the day council.

#hotd #hotd 1x10 #house of the dragon #hotd stills #grand maester Gerardys #new promo #new pictures

[hordebreaker]

Before killing Rhaenyra's kids:

Her first act as queen was to declare Ser Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent traitors and rebels. “As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister, Helaena,” she announced, “they have been led astray by the counsel of evil men. Let them come to Dragonstone, bend the knee, and ask my forgiveness, and I shall gladly spare their lives and take them back into my heart, for they are of my own blood, and no man or woman is as accursed as the kinslayer.”

“A Grand Maester should know the law and serve it,” she told Orwyle. “You are no Grand Maester, and you bring only shame and dishonor to that chain you wear.” As Orwyle protested feebly, Rhaenyra’s knights stripped his chain of office from his neck and forced him to his knees whilst the princess bestowed the chain upon her own man, Maester Gerardys, “a true and leal servant of the realm and its laws.” As she sent Orwyle and the other envoys on their way, Rhaenyra said, “Tell my half-brother that I will have my throne, or I will have his head.”

After killing Rhaenyra's kids:

Broken by the loss of one son, Rhaenyra Targaryen seemed to find new strength after the loss of a second. Jace’s death hardened her, burning away her fears, leaving only her anger and her hatred. Still possessed of more dragons than her half-brother, Her Grace now resolved to use them, no matter the cost. She would rain down fire and death upon Aegon and all those who supported him, she told the black council, and either tear him from the Iron Throne or die in the attempt.

“And what of my half-brothers?” Rhaenyra demanded, when the Sea Snake put this plan before her. “What of this false king Aegon, and the kinslayer Aemond? Would you have me pardon them as well, they who stole my throne and slew my sons?” “Spare them, and send them to the Wall,” Lord Corlys answered. “Let them take the black and live out their lives as men of the Night’s Watch, bound by sacred vows.” “What are vows to oathbreakers?” Queen Rhaenyra demanded. “Their vows did not trouble them when they took my throne.” Prince Daemon echoed the queen’s misgivings. Giving pardons to rebels and traitors only sowed the seeds for fresh rebellions, he insisted. “The war will end when the heads of the traitors are mounted on spikes above the King’s Gate, and not before.”

#rhaenyra targaryen #fire and blood #hotd #the blacks

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 5: I’m Coming Back]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: I adore you all so much!!! Only 3 more chapters left. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, expert-level witchcraft, Adventures With Aegon™️, sexual references, pregnancy, combat-related violence, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow​ @tclegane​ @daddysfavoritesexkitten​ @poohxlove​ @imagine-all-the-imagines​ @nsainmoonchild​ @skythighs​ @bratfleck​ @thesadvampire​ @yor72​ @xcharlottemikaelsonx​ @mochimommy2002 @loverandqueenofdragons​ @omgsuperstarg​ @endless-ineffabilities​ @devynsshitposts​ @vencuyot​ @ladylannisterxo​ @ariesbabycitlaly @itzwhatever123 @cranberryjulce​ @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz​ @liathelioness​ @mirandastuckinthe80s​ @haezen​ @fairaardirascenarios​ @penteknati @darkened-writer​ @weepingfashionwritingplaid​ @signyvenetia​ @abrielleholland​ @crossingallmine​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @yummycastiel​ @lol-im-done​ @lovemissyhoneybee​ @nomugglesallowed​ @witchmoon​ @yoshiplushie​ @404slayer404 @sunafterthethunder @torchbearerkyle​ @sweetashoneyhoney​ @quartzs-posts​ @lauraneedstochill​ @nctma15​ @queenofshinigamis​ @rapoficeandfire​ @hinata7346​ @curiouser-an-curiouser​ @eleganttravelercloud @meadowofsinfulthoughts​ @imjustboredso​ @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine​ @myspotofcraziness​ @bregarc​ @mikariell95​ @doingfondue​

💜 Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! (Also I’m sincerely sorry if Tumblr refuses to tag you!!!) 💜

On Dragonstone, Jace and Luke are sparring as the surf of the Narrow Sea gurgles at their heels. Their footprints mark the wet sand like bruises. Their swords clang and screech against each other. Daemon is coaching them, but somewhat halfheartedly; his mind is elsewhere. His mind is in the throne room, in the future, in the past. Rhaenyra is watching the match with great enthusiasm and shouting encouragements. And this is when Grand Maester Gerardys brings the rogue prince the scroll.

Daemon still has friends in the City Watch from when he served as their Commander, and so a raven found its way to him. Even if he did not possess such clandestine disciples, Daemon would have soon learned of the events transpiring in King’s Landing. Everyone knows about them. Maesters are waking up to tapping, squawking ravens from the Reach to Winterfell.

He unravels the scroll, reads it once, raises his eyebrows, reads it again. And then Daemon begins to snicker. It’s a sharp, sardonic, goading sound. It’s the sort of sound that begs for someone to stab their knuckles into him, to give him an excuse to bury them. Rhaenyra glances over at Daemon. He stops snickering, thinks about it some more, picks back up again.

“What is so amusing?” Rhaenyra asks, smiling a little. After all these years, there remains an immutable part of her that can’t resist seeing him happy. It doesn’t happen so often now. It is a thing to be treasured. She could never put into words how she feels about him, how she has always felt about him; it is something deeper than flesh. It is an entanglement of souls.

Daemon’s eyes—impish, mutinous—rise from the scroll. “You are never going to believe what Aemond Targaryen has done.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Helaena brings you lemon cakes and clean clothes. Alicent brings you a prayer book so you can beg the Seven for absolution. Sir Criston brings you his gallant, reticent well-wishes. Aemond brings you his body and his voice, everything he’s made of; he sits on the floor and holds your hands through the iron bars, both of them, like you’re back under the heart tree together reciting marriage vows in the sight of gods older than the stars. He asks if you are warm enough, if you are eating, if you are in any pain, if you want him to cut down the guards and free you from this prison and smuggle you away to Dorne. You steadfastly refuse his offer. Aemond’s future is here in King’s Landing, and there is nowhere you can run without losing him. Everything in you fights with bared teeth and drawn claws against leaving. It is an instinct so strong it borders on premonition.

There are four levels of dungeons in the Red Keep. The second is for people like you: those of noble birth, those still entitled to some comforts. Your cell is windowless but otherwise adequate. It is private and sparsely furnished with a bed, wash basin, and table and chair for meals. You eat on the floor with Aemond instead, passing whispers and morsels of food through the bars. It need not have ended up this way. If when Axel Hightower reappeared you had promptly agreed to return to him—to Oldtown, his keeping, his bed—no one could have begrudged you an honest mistake committed under the assumption that he was dead. The lords and ladies of Westeros would have been all too happy to overlook any sordid dalliances provided you left the prince free for one of their daughters to wed. But that’s not what you did. You refused to return to your legal husband. Aemond refused to relinquish you. He stood in front of you threatening to gut anyone who tried to touch you until you told him that it was alright, that you would willingly go to a dungeon cell, that you were not afraid. It has been three days since then. And tomorrow, the gods—the court believes the Seven, but you think immortals of a different sort—will decide to whom you are truly married.

In the depths of the night when you are alone with your thoughts, staring up at the ceiling with rage-orange torchlight trickling in from the hallway, you wonder about things for which there are no answers: How am I going to cast a spell if I’m locked up in here? How am I going to protect Aemond?

“Do you think he can win?” you had asked Sir Criston as he stood on the other side of the iron bars, his eyes averted and his face grim. He is a man at war with himself: his morals are outraged, but his loyalty is irrevocable. If you are indeed Aemond’s wife, then you are an extension of Alicent’s children, and he is honor-bound to support you.

“No,” Sir Criston had said. “But I’ll help him try.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are attempting to read the prayer book Alicent gave you—poor reading material is better than no reading material at all, and you’re trying to appreciate it as a work of fiction—when you hear footsteps. You don’t recognize them at all. They reverberate down the hallway, the only sound in the cool stony quiet. You are the sole prisoner currently held on this level. The guards watch from the doorway of the hall, but they do not interfere when you have visitors. The footsteps come to a stop outside your cell. Axel Hightower stands there.

You glance up at him momentarily, then back down to your book. “I hope the prince doesn’t know you’re here. You should leave before he murders you.”

“We need to talk.”

“There is nothing for us to discuss, I assure you.”

“There is, wife,” Axel insists. “There is.”

You put down the prayer book. He is the man who you remember, but he also isn’t; he is wiry and solemn and jagged in places where he was soft before. You cannot imagine this man riding in a lighthearted joust and asking for your favor as he once did. You cannot imagine him smiling with chubby, childish cheeks and mellow eyes. You search yourself for any semblance of affection for him. If you ever had it, it is long gone now. “What do you want?”

“To implore you to relent, to see reason,” he says. “I will overlook this indiscretion. You believed I was dead, you were in need of comfort, you were…” He hunts for the right word. “Vulnerable. Impressionable. I will forgive you entirely for what happened with Prince Aemond. He took advantage of you, I’m sure of it. He is monstrous in both body and mind.”

“He sees more with one eye than you do with two.”

Axel’s gaze narrows. It is brimming with confounded, small-minded vexation, like a child who’s been told not to play with something that could destroy them: fire, perhaps, or an irresistibly gleaming blade, light reflecting from polished metal like sunbeams off waves. “Why are you being so stubborn?”

“I won’t go back to you, Axel.”

“You must. There is no other possible outcome. Don’t you understand? If I let you go, I would be ruined. No well-bred woman would marry me while the realm mutters about me being a bigamist behind our backs. There is no walking away from this union. And I will not be made a laughingstock, a cuckold. The Seven saved me from starvation on that island. They surely have a greater destiny in store for me than watching my reputation crumble into ash.”

You refuse to give him the victory of your full attention. You stare at the wall instead, counting the stones there. They are chipped and cracked and irregular, jutting out like dragon teeth. “I won’t do it.”

“But I will provide for you!” he says, exasperated. “I will pardon you, I will raise this child as my own. We can build something incredible together. We can ask for favors from Otto Hightower, lands and castles and enviable positions at court for our children one day, and he will give them to us as payment for our willingness to remedy this…this…disaster!”

“I am aware of no disaster,” you reply defiantly.

Axel’s face ages, darkens, sharpens. His skull is a demon straining against his leathery, sun-lined skin. You imagine moon-white bone splitting through the flesh. You imagine your stomach lurching with revulsion if he ever touches you again. “Oh, seven hells. You really think you’re in love with him.”

“I owe you no explanations.”

“You owe me everything!” he snarls, gripping the iron bars as he glares into the cell at you. “A marriage to me, into my house, was the best possible match your father could hope for. And now that isn’t good enough for you? Now you think yourself worthy of a Targaryen, of a prince? You are delusional, wife. Perhaps your grief for me drove you mad. Perhaps you cannot be trusted with the care of that child once it’s born.”

“The only thing that could drive me mad is the thought of your hands ruffling my child’s hair, lifting them onto a horse, teaching them to wield a sword. You are so unworthy it sickens me.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m not going to live in fear, Axel. Not of you. Not of anyone.”

He takes several deep breaths, rubs his face with both hands, regroups, calms himself. “In any case, what you want is of little consequence. Ivar Kellington will win the trial by combat, this is a certainty. It need not result in death. All Prince Aemond has to do is yield. He will yield, wife, this I guarantee you. And you will return with me to Oldtown.”

“I’ll throw myself from a balcony first.”

He studies you with wounded, bewildered eyes. “You’re so different from the woman I used to know.”

You reply without looking at him. “You never knew me at all.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The footsteps race down the hallway; they rustle through the straw that litters the dirt floor. These ones are light and swift and wholly familiar.

“I heard he was here,” Aemond says in a rush. He hates Axel bitterly, perhaps almost as much as he hates Rhaenyra’s sons. The vitriol between them is so great that Otto Hightower has knights of the Kingsguard following each of them around the castle to ensure neither kills the other. Presently, two knights are hovering in the doorway of the hall and trading hearsay with three dungeon guards. They are discussing Ivar Kellington’s manslaughter record; is it ten victims, or twelve? You try not to listen.

“Fear not. He caused me no harm and retreated quickly. I made him very unwelcome.”

“I wish he had the valor to fight me himself. I would take great pleasure in introducing his entrails to his boots.”

“I know, Silver.” You touch his face through the bars, your palm pressed to his scarred cheek. He kisses you; the cold, rough, flaking metal that separates you scrapes both of your skin. It’s a pain that you would bear a thousand times over. You wonder if you will ever feel him inside you again. You wonder if he will ever meet his child. “I suppose I should offer to return to Axel and free you from this conflict, this suffocating weight. I should offer to let you go.”

“There is no need. I have told you already. I will have no other.” He kisses you again, knots his fingers in your hair, murmurs something in High Valyrian that you can’t understand.

“You are not permitted to use words I don’t know yet.”

“Then I’ll just have to teach you them all. We have time. We have the rest of our lives.” He lowers his voice so the knights and guards cannot hear, and for the first time you see fear—raw, primal fear—flicker in his eye, blue like the ocean, like fresh bruises, like veins. “I could use your help, Moonstone.”

“You have it. But I can’t do much from in here.”

“What do you need?” he asks softly. “For a protection spell. I remember the scent of sage. And the bloody bear teeth, of course.”

“Rosemary. Sea salt. A few pieces of black jade, small enough for me to crush with a mortar and pestle. A candle. It has to be white, pure white. And my flint and dagger to light it.”

Aemond nods distractedly. “I can get all of that. The dagger, flint, and mortar and pestle are still hidden in your room. Sir Criston can help me with the bear. The maesters can help me with the rest of it.” His eye shifts to the iron bars of your cell. “I can’t get you out of here though. I am followed by the Kingsguard anywhere I go within the castle walls. They are posted outside my chambers at night. The only guests granted privacy are Sir Criston and members of the royal family.”

You mull this over; you steep in it like a swelteringly hot bath. At night, the dungeon guards are stationed on the other side of the hallway door to give you privacy. They peek in on you every few hours—the creaking of the door sometimes wakes you—but otherwise they play cards and exchange off-color jokes and maybe even indulge in a nap or two as far as you know. They leave the keys to your cell hanging from a rusty nail protruding from the hallway wall. Aemond could go hunting with Sir Criston and that would raise no suspicions; he’s spent a great deal of time with the knight preparing for the trial by combat. He could speak with the maesters in the library and that would be perfectly fine. He could accept packages from them, even. He could enter Helaena’s chambers—which contain your bedroom as a (former, fallen) lady-in-waiting—and emerge with a bundle of goods tucked under one arm, and no one would bat an eye. But he cannot bring anything to you without the Kingsguard following him, without the dungeon guards jolting awake to oversee him. There is no way to free you so you can cast your spell beneath the heart tree. There is no way for Aemond to deliver you the necessary ingredients and tools without exposing you as a witch. If only there was someone else, anyone else…someone versed in deceit and slinking and shameful, treacherous secrets. At last you ask: “Who aren’t they watching quite so closely?”

The idea hits Aemond like a fist. He smiles. “You know, it is said that there are hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep. Maegor the Cruel had the castle builders executed so they could not spill its mysteries. I, being the upstanding and honorable prince that I am, am completely inexperienced with such things. But perhaps I know a man who is less…virtuous.”

Your lips meet one final time, hot and famished in the damp, ominous chill of the dungeon. You thread a lock of his sleek silver hair between your fingers. His hand closes around your moonstone pendant, his eye shut as if in prayer.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is not long after midnight—judging by your rough estimation—when you hear a scratching out in the hallway like rat claws. There are rats in the dungeons, even on this level, you’ve seen more than a few of them (though you did not mention that to Aemond); but this is no rodent. You creep out of bed and wait by your cell door, clutching the cold iron bars. As you watch, a small, square wooden flap opens up out of the dirt and straw of the hallway floor. Disturbed, ancient earth puffs up into the air like filthy smoke. Out of the opening, which is just wide enough for his shoulders to fit through, rises Aegon Targaryen. He stifles a cough in the crook of his elbow and crawls out into the hallway.

“Hi,” you whisper, amused.

“Hi.” He looks around in the dim torchlight, locates the ring of keys hanging by a rusty nail, and starts trying to shove them one by one into the lock of your cell. The fourth key is the winner. The cell door squeals as he opens it.

“Shh!”

“The hinges are old, what do you want me to do?!” he whispers back. He smells like wine and sweat and dirt, but he is relatively steady. There are cobwebs in his white-blond hair. “Bad dungeon cell, bad, you be quiet!”

He puts the ring of keys back on the wall. You scurry to your bed and begin bunching up the blankets and pillows so it might look like you’re obediently sleeping there upon a cursory check.

“Don’t bother,” Aegon says, then points to the wooden door he came through. “We can’t cover that back up if we both go in.”

You nod, understanding perfectly. You don’t have much time.

You follow him through the trapdoor. You have to crouch in order to pull it shut by the rope handle; the passageway is only about half as tall as you are. There is weak torchlight coming from farther down the tunnel. “This way,” Aegon says. You crawl towards the light, and after a while there is a steep decline like a colossal step on a staircase. When you drop over the other side—facing backwards so you can grip the top of the step as you lower yourself down—you find a corridor tall enough to stand upright in. Aegon hands you the lit torch from a sconce on the wall and picks up the burlap sack he left on the floor here, the one Aemond must have given him. He groans as he lifts it; the mortar and pestle give it considerable heft. “It took me two hours to find you, can you believe that? I’ve been using these passageways for years but I’ve never had cause to visit the dungeons before. I drank all the wine already. Now I’m almost sober. It’s a terrible inconvenience.”

The floor is made of packed, reddish earth. Cobwebs swing limply from the stones that form the walls and ceiling. There is a cold, biting draft; the sun never touches this place to warm it. There are clusters of bats suspended by their feet. There are stark white specks on the ground…rat bones, you realize. “You’ve brought women here?”

“As if you are above getting impregnated in surreptitious, gloomy places.” He opens the burlap sack to peer inside. “What’s this stuff for, anyway? There’s a knife, and some rocks, and, like, leaves, I guess, and…oh, what the fuck! There are teeth in here!”

“Bear teeth,” you say. “But I think I need something stronger this time.”

In the firelight, he blinks at you, the pieces clicking together: the horrid ingredients of a forbidden spell, Aemond’s peculiar luck in the joust, your strange Northerner blood, this errand he’s been conscripted for. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

You reply without answering him. “I need you to take me to Balerion’s skull.”

Aegon weaves through a series of snakelike corridors, barely needing the torchlight to navigate. A hidden door opens out into a hallway that leads to the vast, vacant chamber. What remains of the Black Dread is suspended over an altar of lit candles. In the shadowy, treacherous light, you can catch glimpses of eyes glaring hungrily from Balerion’s empty sockets; not a muddy green like Vhagar’s, but blood-red, wrathful, murderous.

“You seemed to know your way here well enough,” you note.

“Nothing gets women wetter than hearing about how I’m ‘the blood of the dragon’ and all that.” He leaves the burlap sack on the floor and climbs up onto the altar, stomping out candles as he does. He looks doubtfully at Balerion’s large, crooked, protruding teeth. “You really think we can pry one of those out?”

“We have to.” You slide the torch into a sconce and take your dagger—decorated with the roaring bear of House Mormont—out of the burlap sack. You scramble up onto the altar, burning your ankles and shins in the process, and jab the sharp, narrow blade into the sliver of space where the fanglike tooth is fused to Balerion’s upper jaw. You saw the dagger back and forth, trying to loosen the root of the tooth.

“Let me do it,” Aegon says, extending his open palm.

“I can manage.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to be overexerting yourself? Why do you think I didn’t have you carry your little bag of contraband? Just give me the dagger.” He picks up where you left off, grunting with the effort of wrestling with the tooth. “Is this sacrilegious? My participation in witchcraft?”

“I don’t think you’re getting into heaven either way.”

“There are seven heavens, you heathen.”

“And none of them will want you.”

“Says the bigamist.” He smirks at you. His tone is fond, but there is trepidation there as well. “It’s a shame that Axel’s a Hightower. Otherwise Aemond could just kill him. But alas…” He recites this next part as if he has heard it a million times on a million separate occasions. He’s almost mocking it. “No man is so accursed as the kinslayer.”

You think of your chosen husband, the prince, the man you love. He is quick to threaten, true, but you have never detected a certain violence in him, a certain nonchalant quality when balancing the value of human life. “Has he ever killed anyone before?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of.”

“But you think he’s capable of it.”

“Oh yes. Under the right circumstances. He’s prepared his whole life to spill blood in pursuit of legacy. He’s studied warfare and weaponry. He’s trained with the sword. He’s coveted the crown. He’s wanted it for so long, but he’s never felt its weight.” Aegon frowns as he struggles with Balerion’s stubborn tooth. “Maybe it should have been him who was born first. Maybe it shouldn’t have been. I don’t fucking know.”

You stare into the Black Dread’s sinister dead gaze, ice-cold dread twisting through your bones like tendrils of ivy. “I shouldn’t have fought Axel. I should have agreed to leave King’s Landing with him. I could have prevented all of this.”

Aegon shakes his head, chuckling. “No, Aemond will never surrender you. You are a peace offering from the Seven. Or the Old Gods, or the universe itself, or fate or destiny, whatever you choose to believe in.”

“What do you mean?”

“They took his eye but gave him a dragon. They took his throne but gave him you.” Balerion’s tooth pops loose. Aegon hands it to you, grinning. “Now what comes next, witch?”

You leave the torch in a secret passageway that leads out into the godswood; there can be no inessential light to attract the attention of the myriad of noble guests slumbering in the Red Keep. Under the heart tree where you were wed just days ago—days that feel like decades—you ignite the white candle with your dagger and flint and let the melted wax become one with the ancient root like bloodlines knit together in the womb. You grind the bloody bear teeth, sage, rosemary, sea salt, and pieces of black jade with the mortar and pestle. As you do this, and under your direction, Aegon crushes the dragon tooth into fragments with a rock. Then you mix Balerion’s savage essence with the other ingredients.

“What will this do?” Aegon says, meaning the spell. And then he adds with deliberate skepticism: “If it works, I mean.”

“It will protect him.” And you chant the familiar, ancient words as you finish grinding the herbs and salt and grains of black jade and shards of teeth into a fine pinkish powder, candlelight dancing across your skin: “Protect him. Break others if you must, burn others if you must, bury others if you must…but protect him.”

You hear the distant snap of a twig. You whirl towards the noise. In the darkness—punctuated only by light from the moon and stars—it is impossible to discern details. Your eyes search for movement, for faces. You cannot find any.

“What?” Aegon asks.

“Nothing. Never mind.” You pass him the mortar full of pale pink dust gingerly, as if it is a small child. He places it into the burlap sack. “You have to spread it under his bed. All of it. Every last crumb.”

“I will.” And something about the way Aegon says this makes you trust him entirely.

After taking a moment to consider it, you hold out your dagger from Bear Island. “Give him this too.”

Aegon escorts you back to the dungeon. Everything is exactly as you left it; if anyone has inspected your cell, there are no apparent signs. When Aegon disappears through the wooden trapdoor, you cover it with a layer of dirt and plenty of straw as well. Then you return to your cell. You can’t lock the latch from inside without keeping the ring of keys and thus revealing your temporary escape, but you can shut the door and hope the guards don’t notice or—more likely—assume it was their own oversight. You lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling. In disjointed, dreamlike flashes, you think of Aegon and Helaena and Axel, Sir Criston, the sad queen, the dying king, Rhaenyra and Daemon on Dragonstone, your child, your mother, your husband, dragonfire. And you are balancing on the knife’s edge of sleep when you hear a guard come in to check on you.

He lumbers down the hallway, rattles the cell door, mutters about his idiot colleague, and re-locks it. Then he retreats back to his post to nap the rest of his night shift away.

~~~~~~~~~~

The trial by combat is held in the courtyard where Prince Aemond has trained since boyhood. Nobles—men, women, children, swooning aspiring princesses—encircle the dirt-floored arena and babble amongst themselves, offering prayers and wagering bets. They do not gamble on who will win, but rather how long it will take before Aemond yields: two minutes, one minute, less. The royal family is watching from above in their seats on top of the castle wall. The withering king is absent. Otto Hightower is stern-faced and anticipating an imminent resolution of this crisis: Aemond will yield, Axel’s cause will prevail, and you will be dragged back to Oldtown to rot in obscurity while the prince marries a Baratheon or a Stark or a Lannister or some other daughter of a powerful and wealthy house. What Queen Alicent wants is less clear. Her face is pale and pained, perhaps even conflicted. Helaena is wringing her hands. Aegon is very, very drunk. He lurches out of his chair—decorated with a seven-pointed star—and reels down the steps to visit you. As you are not yet (nor ever likely to be) an accepted member of the royal family, you are standing on the ground with the other courtiers. They keep their distance from you. They act as if touching you would give them greyscale or plague or worse.

“You look lovely,” Aegon slurs. You are dressed in the moonstone gown you last wore on the night Axel’s reappearance ruined your life. It matches the pendant strung around your neck.

“You look barely conscious.”

“Yes,” Aegon says woefully. “I don’t care to witness what happens next.”

The crowd cheers as the combatants enter the courtyard. Ivar Kellington, towering and heavily armored, strides in with Axel trotting alongside him. Aemond is accompanied by Sir Criston, who is still offering last-minute wisdom, demonstrating techniques with his own sword. The prince spots you, smiles, approaches you as nobles grumble disapprovingly. When he is close, you can see that he has rubbed the dust from your spell onto his forearms, his palms, his throat. To anyone else it would look like mere chalk or salt. To you it is a declaration of faith. Axel glowers at you both from the other side of the courtyard.

Aemond is wearing hardly any armor at all. His strategy is moving quickly and agilely; heavy armor would only constrain him, slow him down, obstruct his already halved vision. Knights of the Kingsguard follow him towards you and then look uncertainly to Otto for guidance. Otto Hightower sighs and covers his face with one hand. The knights stand by.

“I have much to thank you for,” Aemond says, and gestures to what hangs from his belt: his sword, his dagger, and your own dagger as well, the roaring bear of the hilt glinting in the sunlight. His hands cradle your face and he kisses you deeply, feverishly, his tongue darting between your lips. Your knees go weak; your thoughts, for one blissful moment, dissolve into a haze. “I’ll be needing more of you soon. I’m starving for it. I’m coming back.”

“Aemond,” you plead in a whisper, the first time you’ve ever called him by his true name.

“I’m coming back,” he repeats determinedly, his grin crooked. “Fear not, wife. You cannot rid yourself of me. I have claimed you for life.” And then he murmurs something in High Valyrian—the same thing he said when he visited you in the dungeon, the words you have not yet learned—before breaking away to meet Sir Kellington in the center of the courtyard.

You look to Aegon for a translation. Your husband often laments his siblings’ lack of scholarly interest in High Valyrian. Helaena knows only the dragon commands. Aegon refuses to study the language beyond what he needs to communicate with Sunfyre, but he can understand quite a bit of it. He overheard plenty of conversations between Rhaenyra and King Viserys as a young boy. The king never bothered to teach High Valyrian to his children with Alicent.

The racoon-eyed, firstborn son smiles. “He said that he loves you.” And then he totters away to sit with his family on top of the wall.

There is a septon spewing some ritualistic opening words. “We are gathered here in the sight of gods and men…”

You recite your own words within your mind. Protect him, protect him, protect him.

Axel Hightower is staring intensely, trying to catch your gaze. You ignore him. You had meant what you said about throwing yourself off a balcony before you would submit to returning to him. But perhaps you would prefer cutting his throat.

Ivar Kellington and Aemond face each other, clutching swords in their right fists. The man they call Killington is deathly still. Aemond is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, keeping himself lithe and alert. He looks so small next to the giant, so young. You picture him as the boy he once was, runtish and outnumbered when his eye was carved from his skull. He was so brave. He was so alone. Sir Criston circles the combatants from a distance, preparing to shout instructions to Aemond. You tug on your pendant as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. Aemond twirls his sword as he waits for the trial to begin. And then it does.

The prince lunges at Kellington with weightless, manic speed. His sword parries Kellington’s once, twice, again, and then lands a strike on the giant’s helmet. The clang echoes through the courtyard. There are awed applause and whistles. The crowd expects Kellington to win, of course—they depend upon it, if they hope for their daughters to have a chance at marrying into the royal family—but they would be pleased to witness an honorable performance from Aemond. There is no shame in losing well. Sir Criston is smiling, just barely. Kellington swings his sword—nearly twice the size of Aemond’s—but the prince easily maneuvers around it. His blade hits Kellington in the back, the gut, the knees. The giant bellows in pain and frustration. He sounds like a lion or a bear or a dragon. He sounds more like an animal than a man.

Aemond’s eye is scrutinizing Kellington’s armor for weak points: at the neck, under the arms, the naked face. He dives to bury his sword in Kellington’s massive armpit but is rebuffed. He strikes instead at the giant’s head again, and then his chest, loosing metallic booms. Kellington swings blindly, clumsily. Aemond manages to get his hands around the giant’s helmet and wrenches it off, tossing it into the crowd. There are claps and cheers from some, groans from others who have already lost their bets.

And then Kellington’s armored elbow slams into Aemond’s face on his bad side, his blind side. Blood spurts from Aemond’s nose and split lip. The prince hurtles away, half-falling and half-sprinting to get out of the giant’s reach. He shakes his head, trying to clear out the pain like smoke from a room. He turns with his sword raised to block Kellington’s blow, but the giant’s strength is too great; Kellington’s blade knocks Aemond’s sword from his grasp. It goes flying off into the courtyard.

“No!” Sir Criston howls, unable to stop himself.

Aemond regains his footing and draws his dagger. He side-steps rapidly, keeping Kellington in his view, his blue eye wide and hurting and vicious. The giant’s sword slices through the air but the prince evades it. Aemond leaps forward with his dagger aimed for Kellington’s face. The giant seizes Aemond’s right forearm, squeezes it, crushes it. The crack of snapped bone rings out through the courtyard. Now the audience is appalled, fearful. Aemond does not scream, but there is a choked sort of gasping; the dagger tumbles out of his grip. You can see blood pouring into his hand from where the bone of his arm split the skin. You can see the disbelief and terror taking shape in the lines of his face.

Twisting his broken arm, Kellington forces Aemond down to his knees. With his right hand, the giant lays his sword against Aemond’s bare neck. Dust from your futile spell mars the pristine, reflective metal of the blade. “Do you yield?” Kellington snarls.

Calls for Aemond to yield reverberate through the courtyard—through the whole world, it seems—but above it all you can hear the words that he spoke to you weeks ago on Bearstone. They don’t make any sense, they are random and tragic and useless…and then, suddenly, they aren’t.

Jace threw dirt in my face and Luke cut me.

“Do you yield?!” Kellington says again.

Aemond stares up at him, hateful and agonized and—Jace threw dirt in my face—defiant.

“Yield!” Otto commands.

“Yield, Prince Aemond, yield!” the crowd cries out with mounting frenzy.

“Yield, you idiot!” Aegon shrieks.

You are the only one who remains silent, outwardly at least. The words rise up in you like fire in the mouth of a dragon. They echo in your skull, soundless and yet blaring. Like when you were a boy, like when you were a boy, like when you were a boy…

You see the realization ripple across Aemond’s face. He grabs a fistful of earth with his left hand. He flings it into the giant’s eyes. And as Kellington is trying to blink and paw the dirt away—in those few fateful seconds—Aemond rips your dagger from his belt, jumps to his feet, and slits Ivar Kellington’s throat to the bone. Blood flows like a river, gushes into the earth, bubbles in the wreckage of Kellington’s severed windpipe. The giant plummets face-first into the ground, never to rise again.

The sounds that engulf you are a storm of jeers, applause, triumph, bitter disappointment. The horde is pulsing and ungovernable. Aemond finds you in the deafening crowd and pulls you against his chest with his unbroken arm, sheltering you from the shoving and the cheers and the hisses. He rests his forehead against yours. Blood drips down from his face and his hair onto you. You are both bathed in hot, slick, scarlet rain. Your moonstone gown is freckled with it; your cheeks are stained. You taste its coppery stickiness when you kiss him. “Your arm—”

“It will heal, wife,” he says hoarsely. “Perhaps miraculously quickly, with your talents.”

“I love you too.”

“I certainly hope so. You are mine for life.”

The septon is proclaiming to the thunderstruck audience: “The Seven have spoken. The lady’s marriage to Axel Hightower is hereby annulled. Her marriage to Prince Aemond Targaryen is declared legal and indisputable, and any issue they produce is legitimate.” Otto Hightower’s jaw hangs open. Queen Alicent is weeping grateful, elated tears. Helaena is beaming. Aegon wears a glazed, vague, drunken smile. Axel has collapsed and is pounding the earth with his fists.

From his island in the sea of shouts and blood, Larys Strong watches you. He was in the godswood last night as sure as he is here now, and he has valuable information to share with the queen. Now is not the time; now she is overcome with relief and pride and the limitless compassion of a mother sloshing in her veins like the reddest wine. But the right time will come. In plain sight and yet unseen, Larys smiles malevolently, yearningly.

Oh yes, the time will come very soon.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

[dyannawynnedayne]

Which character parallel do you like the best?

Aemond and Daemon: art by @keliasavocados (1, 2)

Stannis and Rhaenyra: art by stavrosmissionary

Propaganda is encouraged!

Daemon and Aemond

Connection to Visenya

He was knighted at six-and-ten, like Maegor I, and Jaehaerys I himself gave Daemon the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister for his prowess.

The World of Ice and Fire- The Targaryen Kings: Viserys I

Afterward, Aemond was known as Aemond One-eye—though he did manage to win Vhagar. 

The World of Ice and Fire- The Targaryen Kings: Viserys I

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Rhaenyra and Stannis

Believes the crown is theirs by law, and their younger brother is the unlawful usurper

“A Grand Maester should know the law and serve it,” she told Orwyle. “You are no Grand Maester, and you bring only shame and dishonor to that chain you wear.” As Orwyle protested feebly, Rhaenyra’s knights stripped his chain of office from his neck and forced him to his knees whilst the princess bestowed the chain upon her own man, Maester Gerardys, “a true and leal servant of the realm and its laws.” As she sent Orwyle and the other envoys on their way, Rhaenyra said, “Tell my half-brother that I will have my throne, or I will have his head.”

Fire and Blood: The Dying of the Dragons—The Blacks and the Greens

It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert's heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son. I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother.

ASOS, Stannis IV

#fave parallel poll #round one #group c

[thevelaryons]

CORLYS + LAENA

Following up from my other post where I compared Alyn & Laena, I wanted to delve a bit into the similarities Laena shares with her father. She's very much Corlys' mini-me too, in her own way.

ADVENTUROUS & DARING

Corlys Velaryon was a man apart, a man as brilliant as he was restless, as adventurous as he was ambitious. [...] At age sixteen, he became a captain himself, taking a fishing boat called the Cod Queen from Driftmark to Dragonstone and back. In the years that followed, his ships grew larger and swifter, his voyages longer and more dangerous.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

A fiery young maiden, freshly flowered, Lady Laena had inherited the beauty of a true Targaryen from her mother, Rhaenys, and a bold, adventurous spirit from her father, the Sea Snake. As Lord Corlys loved to sail, Laena loved to fly, and had claimed for her own no less a mount than mighty Vhagar, the oldest and largest of the Targaryen dragons since the passing of the Black Dread in 94 AC.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

MARRIAGE TO A RED DRAGON RIDING TARGARYEN WHOSE CLAIM TO THE IRON THRONE WAS PUSHED ASIDE

Rhaenys, at six-and-ten, was a fearless young beauty, and more than a match for her mariner. A dragonrider since the age of thirteen, she insisted upon arriving for the wedding on Meleys, the Red Queen, the magnificent scarlet she-dragon that had once borne her aunt Alyssa. “We can go back to the ends of the earth together,” she promised Ser Corlys.

— Fire & Blood, The Long Reign

Armed with Dark Sister, the prince made short work of his rival, and wed Lady Laena Velaryon a fortnight later. [...] Prudently, the prince and his new bride took themselves far from Westeros soon after the wedding, crossing the narrow sea on their dragons. Some said they flew to Valyria, in defiance of the curse that hung over that smoking wasteland, to search out the secrets of the dragonlords of the old Freehold.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

BEFRIENDING SOMEONE WHO COULD HAVE BEEN A RIVAL

Reports had reached the court that Corlys Velaryon was massing ships and men on Driftmark to “defend the rights” of his son, Laenor, whilst Daemon Targaryen, a hot-tempered and quarrelsome young man of twenty, had gathered his own band of sworn swords in support of his brother, Viserys. A violent struggle for succession was likely no matter who the Old King named to succeed him.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

In Daemon Targaryen he found a willing partner.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

Though Princess Rhaenyra had been proclaimed her father’s successor, there were many in the realm, at court and beyond it, who still hoped that Viserys might father a male heir, for the Young King was not yet thirty. Grand Maester Runciter was the first to urge His Grace to remarry, even suggesting a suitable choice: the Lady Laena Velaryon.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

Whilst Princess Rhaenyra misliked her stepmother, Queen Alicent, she became fond and more than fond of her good-sister Lady Laena.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

MORE INTERESTED IN BOATS/DRAGONS THAN ROMANCE

Daella became seasick crossing Blackwater Bay, however, and on her return complained that “he likes his boats better than he likes me.” (She was not wrong in that.)

— Fire & Blood, The Long Reign

Only Lady Laena herself seemed untroubled. “Her ladyship shows far more interest in flying than in boys,” the maester at High Tide wrote to the Citadel.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

DEATH UPON THE STEPS

For all these reasons, the realm suffered a terrible blow on the sixth day of the third moon of 132 AC, when Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, collapsed whilst ascending the serpentine steps in the Red Keep of King’s Landing. By the time Grand Maester Munkun came rushing to his aid, the Sea Snake was dead.

— Fire & Blood, Under the Regents

Sadly, Maester Gerardys came too late. After three days of delirium, Lady Laena passed from this mortal coil. She was but twenty-seven. During her final hour, it is said, Lady Laena rose from her bed, pushed away the septas praying over her, and made her way from her room, intent on reaching Vhagar that she might fly one last time before she died. Her strength failed her on the tower steps, however, and it was there she collapsed and died.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

#valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #corlys velaryon #laena velaryon #corlys & laena #meta #tbh all of corlys' children take after him in some way and some more than others

[twoiafart]

RHAENYRA RETURNS TO DRAGONSTONE Artwork by Ertaç Altinöz  

For despite the advice of her remaining followers, Rhaenyra insisted on returning to Dragonstone where there were dragon eggs and the hope of new dragons.

The queen arrived on Dragonstone on a rainy day, finding the port almost lifeless. An escort forty strong, led by Ser Alfred Broome, met her at the docks. Alas for Rhaenyra, Broome was not a friend to the queen. Though he was the most senior knight on the isle, he had been passed over as castellan by Rhaenyra, who had preferred the younger and more charming Ser Robert Quince.

As Rhaenyra approached the castle, the first thing she saw was the burned corpse of Ser Robert hanging from the battlements, alongside other members of her former household. Even Grand Maester Gerardys was dead—though all that was displayed was his head and upper torso. Everything below his ribs was gone, and the Grand Maester’s entrails dangled down from his torn belly like so many burned black snakes. Before Rhaenyra and her son could run, Broome and his men cut down Rhaenyra’s protectors—including the last three of her Queensguard.

#asoiaf art #rhaenyra targaryen #dragonstone #ertac altinoz

[aegor-bamfsteel]

“That same year, across Blackwater Bay, the Sea Snake was stricken by a sudden fever. As he took to his bed, surrounded by maesters, the issue arose as to who should succeed him as Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark should the sickness claim him. With his trueborn children dead, by law his lands and titles should pass to his grandson Jacaerys … but since Jace would presumably ascend the Iron Throne after his mother, Princess Rhaenyra urged her good-father to name instead her second son, Lucerys. Lord Corlys also had half a dozen nephews, however, and the eldest of them, Ser Vaemond Velaryon, protested that the inheritance by rights should pass to him … on the grounds that Rhaenyra’s sons were bastards sired by Harwin Strong. The princess was not slow in answering this charge. She dispatched Prince Daemon to seize Ser Vaemond, had his head removed, and fed his carcass to her dragon.

Even this did not end the matter, however. Ser Vaemond’s younger brothers fled to King’s Landing with his wife and sons, there to cry for justice and place their claims before the king and queen. King Viserys had grown extremely fat and red of face, and scarce had the strength to mount the steps to the Iron Throne. His Grace heard them out in a stony silence, then ordered their tongues removed, every one. “You were warned,” he declared, as they were being dragged away. “I will hear no more of these lies.”

Yet as he was descending, His Grace stumbled and reached out to right himself, and sliced his left hand open to the bone on a jagged blade protruding from the throne. Though Grand Maester Mellos washed the cut out with boiled wine and bound up the hand with strips of linen soaked in healing ointments, fever soon followed, and many feared the king might die. Only the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra from Dragonstone turned the tide, for with her came her own healer, Maester Gerardys, who acted swiftly to remove two fingers from His Grace’s hand to save his life….

After the loss of his fingers, Viserys I never sat upon the Iron Throne again. Thereafter he shunned the throne room, preferring to hold court in his solar, and later in his bedchamber, surrounded by maesters, septons, and his faithful fool Mushroom, the only man who could still make him laugh (says Mushroom). His Grace did recover some of his old vigor when Grand Maester Mellos passed away and was replaced by Grand Maester Gerardys, whose potions and tinctures proved more efficacious than the leechings Mellos had preferred. But such recoveries proved short-lived, and gout, chest pains, and shortness of breath continued to trouble the king. His health failing, Viserys left ever more of the governance of the realm to his Hand and small council.” —The Rogue Prince

I’m not forgiving the HOTD writers for trying to cast the Tàrgs during this incident in a heroic light, rather than the tyrannical murderers and mutilators they were.

#anti hotd #anti targaryen

[feyhunter78]

The Small Council of Queen Rhaenyra, First of Her Name—TDQ Universe

Hand to The Queen: Lady Alicent Hightower, The Dowager Queen

Grand Maester: Maester Gerardys

Master of Coin: Lord Lyman Beesbury

Master of Laws: Lord Jasper Wylde

Mistress of Whispers and Confessions: Lady Mysaria, The White Worm

Master of Ships: Lord Tyland Lannister

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Harrold Westerling

Adviser: King Harwin Strong

Cupbearer: Jacaerys Targaryen-Strong

#tdq series #queen rhaenyra #just something I made for fun #and so I could keep track of stuff #alicent hightower #lyman beesbury #jasper wylde #tyland lannister #harwin strong #maester gerardys #jacaerys velaryon #yeah I put Rhae and Ali's gifs back to back bc they're smiling at each other #and one of my goals was to fix their friendship #mysaria #ser harrold westerling #rhaenyra targaryen

[playlistashton]

Rhaenyra small council (pre war)

Hand of the King: Otto Hightower followed by Daemon Targaryen

Grand Maester: Maester Orwyle followed by Maester Gerardys

Master of coin: Tyland Lannister

Master of law: Lyman Beesbury followed by Visenya Targaryen

Master of ships: Corlys Velaryon

Master of whisperers: Larys Strong

Lord Commander of the Queensguard: Criston Cole

Visenya small council

Hand of the King: Otto Hightower

Grand Maester: Maester Alfador

Master of coin: Tyland Lannister

Master of law: Roland Hunter

Master of ships: the was position offered to Corlys Velaryon but later given to Meryn Redwyne

Master of whisperers: Cassandra Lannister was the unofficial master of whisperers of Visenya.

Lord Commander of the Queensguard: Ser Arryk Cargyll

Advisor: Oswin Targaryen

Jacaerys small council

Hand of the King: Daemon Targaryen followed by Oswin Targaryen, then followed by Saera Targaryen

Grand Maester: Maester Gerardys

Master of coin: Bartimos Celtigar followed by Medrick Manderly

Master of law: Jasper Wylde

Master of ships: Dalton Greyjoy and Corlys Velaryon both seemed to hold the position at various points in time

Master of whisperers: Larys Strong

Lors Commander of the Kingsguard: Criston Cole followed by Ser Lorent Marbrand

A daughter or a bastard

Index

#a daughter or a bastard #hotd #asoiaf #oc #mine

[stromuprisahat]

Death visited the court again a short time later, when Grand Maester Mellos collapsed one night whilst he was climbing the serpentine steps. His had always been a moderating voice in council, forever urging calm and compromise whenever issues arose between the blacks and the greens. To the king’s distress, however, the passing of the man he called “my trusted friend” only served to provoke a fresh dispute between the factions. Princess Rhaenyra wanted Maester Gerardys, who had long served her on Dragonstone, elevated to replace Mellos; it was only his healing skills that had saved the king’s life when Viserys cut his hand on the throne, she claimed. Queen Alicent, however, insisted that the princess and her maester had mutilated His Grace unnecessarily. Had they not “meddled,” she claimed, Grand Maester Mellos would surely have saved the king’s fingers as well as his life. She urged the appointment of one Maester Alfador, presently in service at the Hightower. Viserys, beset from both sides, chose neither, reminding both the princess and the queen that the choice was not his to make. The Citadel of Oldtown chose the Grand Maester, not the Crown. In due time, the Conclave bestowed the chain of office upon Archmaester Orwyle, one of their own. King Viserys did seem to recover some of his old vigor once the new Grand Maester arrived at court. Septon Eustace tells us that this was the result of prayer, but most believed that Orwyle’s potions and tinctures were more efficacious than the leechings Mellos had preferred. But such recoveries proved short-lived, and gout, chest pains, and shortness of breath continued to trouble the king. In the final years of his reign, as his health failed, Viserys left ever more of the governance of the realm to his Hand and small council.

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

It's nice Viserys likes to honour rules and traditions (especially if it means the responsibility would fall on someone else), but how likely it is his new Grand Maester will be impartial? Being sent from the seat of Hightowers?

His ability to ignore brewing troubles, and leave Rhaenyra to her own devices is almost astonishing.

#ASoIaF #Fire & Blood #valyrianscrolls #ch: Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession #Viserys I Targaryen #Blacks #Greens #Rhaenyra Targaryen #Alicent Hightower #Grand Maester Mellos #Grand Maester Gerardys #Maester Alfador #Grand Maester Orwyle #V #books #quotes #GRRM

[horizon-verizon]

Even this did not end the matter, however. Ser Vaemond’s younger cousins fled to King’s Landing with his wife and sons, there to cry for justice and place their claims before the king and queen. King Viserys had grown extremely fat and red of face, and scarce had the strength to mount the steps to the Iron Throne. His Grace heard them out in a stony silence, then ordered their tongues removed, every one. “You were warned,” he declared, as they were being dragged away. “I will hear no more of these lies.” Yet as he was descending, His Grace stumbled and reached out to right himself, and sliced his left hand open to the bone on a jagged blade protruding from the throne. Though Grand Maester Mellos washed the cut out with boiled wine and bound up the hand with strips of linen soaked in healing ointments, fever soon followed, and many feared the king might die. Only the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra from Dragonstone turned the tide, for with her came her own healer, Maester Gerardys, who acted swiftly to remove two fingers from His Grace’s hand to save his life.

Fire and Blood, by George R.R. Martin, pg 386-387

#a question of succession #viserys i #asoiaf quotes #fire and blood quotes #Fire and Blood #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #rhaenyra targaryen #maester gerardys #grand maester mellos #grand maester gerardys

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

HOTD 1x10: What should follow

That’s my thoughts on what should follow after the end of episode 10, to all the Daemyras out there. It’s not the end, it’s just the beginning.

As soon as Daemon enters the room, Rhaenyra knows something was wrong, very wrong. She could feel it through their blood bound, through his head down. Someone must have died. Voices were speaking to her, but she could only lock her eyes to Daemon, who slowly approaches her. Then, she feels his hand gently taking her hand and guilds her in front of the fireplace. Next, Daemon murmurs softly to her ear that Lucerys is dead, that Aemond is responsible. At those words, Rhaenyra drops Daemon’s hand and stumbles in direction of the fire, of the heat. Again, her belly hurts her so much that she needs to bend over in pain, but she will not let them win, she will not collapse on the floor. So she does what she must have done from the beginning, she strengthens up, turns around with fire in her eyes and declares loudly and angrily:

“- First, they killed Visenya, my only daughter. Then, they stole my crown and now, Aemond killed Lucerys. They shall answer for it! I want them all dead for their crimes.”

Daemon quickly comes to her sides in front of Aegon the conqueror’s table and states powerfully to everyone in the room while holding Rhaenyra’s hand:

“- Visenya and Lucerys shall be avenged. An eye for an eye, a daughter for a daughter, a son for a son.” He follows with those words to Grand Maester Gerardys, “Dear Grand Maester write at once to the White Worm saying that her presence to Dragonstone is required on the morrow.”

At this moment, Rhaenyra only wants to be near her husband, touching his skin, feeling his lips on her body.

“- Please leave us, we should resume the battlefield tactics in the morning.” Rhaenyra tells everyone in the room.

“- What’s wrong?” Daemon asks her.  

“- I want you. We shall burn together.” Rhaenyra replies while jumping on Daemon with all her ardour.

“- You were right. I shouldn’t have given them the benefit of the doubt. I was soft and weak.” Rhaenyra continues to say while kissing his jaw, his neck, his cheek.

Finally, Daemon recognizes his wife, her blaze burning stronger than ever before. The girl he felt in love with, the girl who have dared to retrieve Baelon’s egg, the girl who followed him to the pillow house, the girl who asked him to take her to Dragonstone and make her his wife during her wedding. Rhaenyra was back and in his arms. They were finally burning together. Just before seizing her lips with his own, he promises her.

“- Your desire should be answer.”

Then there was no stopping back. Each other become fearless for the other. Lips are devoured, passion are met.

While kissing passionately, Rhaenyra and Daemon start to undress. It’s chaotic, each of the other wanting to disrobe the other. Once fully naked, Daemon seats Rhaenyra on the painted table surrounding by candles and flames, which increase their lust. Before continuing, Daemon sees the marks he has left on Rhaenyra’s neck. First, he brushes them delicately with his fingers, then with his lips.

“- I’m sorry my love, I should never have put hands on you. This won’t happen again.” Daemon declares.

Then he worships Rhaenyra’s body from head to toes, not living a flesh of skin unattended. After some times, Rhaenyra locks her thighs around Daemon’s waist. She couldn’t wait any longer. She needs him fully inside her, feeling his member through her walls. Knowing what Rhaenyra wanted, Daemon brings his thick length to her entrance and slowly slips in, then pulling out before trusting deeper. His want is all consuming and their fire increase in delight. Finally, they are back together, feeling as one. Daemon speeds up cautiously as Rhaenyra begins moving her hips in time with his, while he bends his head to devour her lips again. He feels Rhaenyra moaning his name.

“- Daemmooonnn…”

They are each other balance. They are the blood of the dragon. They are restless and chaotic. They are burning together.

Rhaenyra comes in the same time as Daemon, quaking around him, her legs locking tight around his waist. Her hair is messy and all over the place, but Viserys’s crown is still on her head. The picture is incredibly powerful : their two bodies on Aegon the Conqueror’s table surrounded by a multitude of flames and having both of them fire in the eyes. Outside Syrax and Caraxes are matching their riders, screaming loudly into the night.

“- Now, let’s do it all over again in our bedroom,” Daemon whispers into Rhaenyra’s ears, while taking her into his arms in direction of their room.

#hotd #hotd 1x10 #house of the dragon #hotd thoughts #hotd fanfiction #daemyra #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon x rhaenyra #rhaenyra x daemon #rhaenyra and daemon wedding #hotd 1x10 the end #thoughts #pensée #we are meant to burn together

[hordebreaker]

 In 111 AC, a great tourney was held at King’s Landing on the fifth anniversary of the king’s marriage to Queen Alicent. At the opening feast, the queen wore a green gown, whilst the princess dressed dramatically in Targaryen red and black. Note was taken, and thereafter it became the custom to refer to “greens” and “blacks” when talking of the queen’s party and the party of the princess, respectively.

Yet late in the evening, after King Viserys had departed (for His Grace still tired easily), Mushroom tells us that Aemond One-Eye rose to toast his Velaryon nephews, speaking in mock admiration of their brown hair, brown eyes…and strength. “I have never known anyone so strong as my sweet nephews,” he ended. “So let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.” Still later, the fool reports, Aegon the Elder took offense when Jacaerys asked his wife, Helaena, for a dance. Angry words were exchanged, and the two princes might have come to blows if not for the intervention of the Kingsguard

…Yet as he was descending, His Grace stumbled and reached out to right himself, and sliced his left hand open to the bone on a jagged blade protruding from the throne. Though Grand Maester Mellos washed the cut out with boiled wine and bound up the hand with strips of linen soaked in healing ointments, fever soon followed, and many feared the king might die. Only the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra from Dragonstone turned the tide, for with her came her own healer, Maester Gerardys, who acted swiftly to remove two fingers from His Grace’s hand to save his life.

“Our uncle calls us Strongs, but when the lords see us on dragonback they will know that for a lie. Only Targaryens ride dragons.” Mushroom tells us that the Sea Snake grumbled at this, insisting that the three boys were Velaryons, yet he smiled as he said it, with pride in his voice.

Luke’s young brother Joffrey (Jace was still away on his mission north) swore a terrible oath of vengeance against Prince Aemond and Lord Borros. Only the intervention of the Sea Snake and Princess Rhaenys kept the boy from mounting his own dragon at once.

i know I am a photoshop master🙈

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra #rhaenys #rhaenys targaryen #corlys velaryon #jace velaryon #jacerys targaryen #luke velaryon #lucerys velaryon #joffrey velaryon #viserys i #dragonstone

[finitefall]

What do you think of the scene where Caraxes screams and breaks the windows of the Jonquil tower when Daemon watches Nettles leave? A lot of people say that's the ultimate proof that Daemon was in love with Nettles, but that doesn't prove anything either. Yes, Caraxes is reacting to Daemon's emotions as he watches Nettles leave, except we don't know exactly what Daemon had in mind at the time. I see Nettles leaving as a breaking point for Daemon from all the other shit he's been through since the start of the war. But people act like that possibility is impossible, always saying he's looking at Nettles, so he's only thinking about her, which is... based on nothing? Anyway, I'm curious to hear your opinion on this pass?

Hi nonnie. I'll go back in time a little bit: we know Daemon and Nettles are in Maidenpool and Rhaenyra in King's Landing, and we know people around Rhaenyra are talking about how Ser Addam Velaryon and Nettles were planning to betray her, with only Lord Corlys and Grand Maester Gerardys to speak in their defense. Septon Eustace wrote about Rhaenyra's state of mind back then:

Her Grace had been betrayed so often, by so many, that she was quick to believe the worst of any man. Treachery no longer had the power to surprise her. She had come to expect it, even from those she loved the most.

Yet, she still had doubts and asked Mysaria, as she obviously trusted her and the informations she could have as mistress of whisperers (in all but name). But Mysaria told her the same version Mushroom would want us to believe about the relationship between Daemon and Nettles. I'll skip a little now and go to the part where Manfryd Mooton, Lord of Maidenpool, received a raven from the Queen telling him to kill Nettles and bring her back her head, as the girl had been judged guilty of high treason. Maester Norren is the one going to give Daemon the letter Lord Mooton received from the Queen, and this is what he said:

Weary after a long day of fruitless flight, they were sharing a simple meal of boiled beef and beets when I entered, talking softly with each other, of what I cannot say. The prince greeted me politely, but as he read I saw the joy go from his eyes, and a sadness descended upon him, like a weight too heavy to be borne. When the girl asked what was in the letter, he said, 'A queen's words, a whore's work.' 

Daemon tells Maester Norren to leave and speak no word of it until the day after. Now, I said here what I thought about their relationship: Nettles, a bastard girl without any family, with Valyrian blood, a dragonrider, was taken under Daemon’s wing who taught her, gave her gifts etc, like a father would do with his daughter. Daemon loved Nettles as a daughter, and he’s very loving and protective of his family.

He’s losing another loved one, again, and he knows Rhaenyra’s state of mind. He doesn’t blame her, he immediately understands that Mysaria is the one who told his wife that twisted version of his relationship with Nettles. It could also be that Mysaria, if we accept the version where Daemon had Rhaenyra’s permission to have sex with her, felt abandoned when he left King’s Landing and heard about him doting on this young girl. It’s only speculation, of course, but she might have been jealous if it was more than sex for her (unlike for him who was in love with Rhaenyra until the end) and seeking revenge.

So, let’s see: he's lost his unborn child when he sent a pregnant Mysaria away and her ship sailed (all because his brother was furious at him for wanting a dragon egg for his future child and told Daemon to go back to the woman he had been forced to marry). Then his second wife Laena, mother of his two daughters, died in childbirth as well as their son. He’s happy when he marries Rhaenyra: they’re in love, they have a beautiful family with two more sons together, Rhaenyra is gonna be Queen after her father one day. Except that the Greens commited treason, Rhaenyra gave birth to a stillborn daughter, Luke died, Jace died, and when Rhaenyra finally has the throne which belongs to her... she’s the one who became a tyrant, but Daemon didn’t want to hear any more than she did about making peace with the Greens. They’re angry, rightfully so: there will be no peace.

And now, he’s losing another loved one. He’s losing another child, since she was like a daughter to him. He asked the Maester to wait until the day after. Why? To prepare. Nettles leaves, and he says immediately after that he’s leaving for Harrenhal, where he will wait for Aemond and finally avenge Luke (driving Dark Sister into his blind eye instead of the other one wasn’t a coincidence).

How the prince and his bastard girl spent their last night beneath Lord Mooton's roof is not recorded, but as dawn broke they appeared together in the yard, and Prince Daemon helped Nettles saddle Sheepstealer one last time. [...] No word of farewell was spoken betwixt man and maid, but as Sheepstealer beat his leathery brown wings and climbed into the dawn sky, Caraxes raised his head and gave a scream that shattered every window in Jonquil's Tower.

Could it be what he’s thinking about as Nettles leaves and that Caraxes feels? Because yes, that’s sure to break a lot of windows.

#ASOIAF #Daemon Targaryen #Nettles #Rhaenyra Targaryen #answered