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#King’s Disease II
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i’m all over the place today (sorry not sorry) [actually mildly sorry] BUT one does not simply control or ignore the hyperfixation.
anyways; i just replayed silent street on an alt and this will never fail to make me insane
Eärnil II says, “Who defies the claim of my son?” Eärnil II says, “Why does my son flee death?” Eärnil II says, “What vile force guides my hand?”
Mardil Voronwë says, “Has the King at last returned?” Mardil Voronwë says, “Your plans are ill-laid.” Mardil Voronwë says, “What cruel fate is this?” Mardil Voronwë says, “Eärnur... must fall.”
AND THEN
Boromir I says, "The Morgul-blade bites deep!" Boromir I says, "You cannot hold forever..." Boromir I says, "The blade... it is still... within." Boromir I says, "Feel the fading of your life!" Boromir I says, "Glory to Gondor!"
Telemnar says, "Plague-bearers! Slay them!" Telemnar says, "The Plague claims all!" Telemnar says, "The Plague rots us all!" Telemnar says, "I feel the Plague within me once more..." Telemnar says, "Let the Plague take you!"
Tarannon Falastur says, "Berúthiel, do you torment me still?" Tarannon Falastur says, "The Sea was to be my resting place!" Tarannon Falastur says, "Choke and sputter!" Tarannon Falastur says, "The Sea claims all!" Tarannon Falastur says, "What was it all for?"
Atanatar II says, "Come to mock me like the others?" Atanatar II says, "Suffer my fate!" Atanatar II says, "I will not fail my people again!" Atanatar II says, "Time erodes all."
and you also straight up fight meneldil who’s isildur’s nephew at the end of the fight which is. yk. fun.
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perceptions-in-flux · 1 month
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hiphopscriptures · 2 years
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Nas' King's Disease II Album Anniversary
King's Disease II is the fourteenth studio album by Nas. It was released on August 6, 2021, through Mass Appeal Records as a sequel to his 2020 album King's Disease. The album received widespread acclaim from critics, who praised its storytelling and cohesive production, and commended featured verses from Lauryn Hill and Eminem. At the 64th Annual Grammy Awards, the album was nominated in the Best Rap Album category. Read more about Nas here.
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kosmik-signals · 2 years
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(via Ms. Lauryn Hill Rapping is the Highlight of Nas' 'King's Disease II')
Nas & Lauryn Hill (2021)
Nas & Lauryn HIll - video “If I Ruled the World” (1996)
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andohmyloveiliedtoyou · 2 months
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Alicent being thrust into the life of the royal court by Otto, Alicent being forced to hide her anxiety and behave as a normal functioning adult at 14, Alicent being thrust into the role of administering to King Jahaerys at a young age, Alicent forced into the role of his caretaker, Alicent being thrust as the companion of Viserys, Alicent forced to continue that role despite the rumors of her being a whore with Jahaerys and later Viserys, Alicent forced to marry Viserys despite herself, Alicent forced to defend herself against Rhaenyra's anger at her marrying Viserys, Alicent forced to keep a balanced r/s with Rhaenyra as her new stepdaughter, Alicent thrown into the role of Rhaenyra's stepmother, Alicent being thrust as the role of a future queen, Alicent forced to have babies, Alicent being thrust into the role of a mother, Alicent thrown into the role of defending her future heirs, Alicent thrown into the role of team green defender, Alicent forced to defender her place as queen vs Rhaenyra, Alicent forced to defend her place vs Viserys, Alicent forced to insist her own blood is the rightful heir, Alicent forced to defend her own blood from Rhaenyra's influence with Viserys, Alicent forced to defend Aemond from Rhaenyra's own blood, Alicent forced to withstand Viserys siding with Rhaenyra and Luke, Alicent being thrust into the role of evil queen mother by Rhaenyra, Alicent forced into the decision of having more kids or not (Daeron), Alicent forced to continually defend her kids even as she's being forced to have more kids, Alicent forced to withstand Rhaenyra naming her new son Aegon, Alicent being thrust into the role of Viserys wellbeing and caretaker as his disease worsened, Alicent forced to decide how to administer to Viserys health, Alicent being thrown to the naysayers for administering to Viserys health, Alicent forced to defend herself from accusations of poisoning Viserys, Alicent thrust into the role of protecting Aegon ii as the rightful heir after Viserys death, Alicent forced to crown Aegon ii before Rhaenyra named herself heir, Alicent thrust into a war with Rhaenyra and the Blacks, Alicent forced into an assassination attempt by Daemon and Rhaenyra, Alicent forced into watching her grandson be slaughtered because of Rhaenyra and Daemon, Alicent forced to watch her daughter go mad because of Jahaery's death, Alicent thrust into the role of peace maker by offering to divide lands between Aegon ii and Rhaenyra, Alicent being forced to stay silent by Rhaenyra if ever the subject of bastardy came up, Alicent forced to struggle with Helaena dying by suicide, Alicent forced to struggle with Aemond's death, Alicent forced to struggle with Daeron's death, Alicent forced to struggle with Maelor's death, Alicent forced to thrust aside every role she was thrown into because of Rhaenyra, Viserys, and Otto, Alicent thrust aside.
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lovelykhaleesiii · 9 months
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Servant to the Moon.
HEADCANON
PAIRING: Alpha!Werewolf!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader
WORDS: 2,316.
SUMMARY: Aegon’s unfortunate condition, had him feeling unfavoured by the Gods, until he was blessed with your arrival... 
WARNINGS: mentions of ABO dynamic x human!reader, mentions of breeding kink, lactation kink, innocence kink, mentions of p in v sex, slight BDSM (biting), mentions of pregnancy/birth, mentions of complications in birth, swearing. 
A/N - my beloved friend, @ilikeitbetterangsty and I have created our own little monster, that is alpha Aeg, and now there is no turning back. I need him to bite me, claim me, breed me, and just down-right fuck me. in this little AU or in general, I always thought that Aemond leans more towards being a vampire and Aeg is werewolf coded. Perhaps Helaena could be a nymph hehehe <3 credit to the artist (I need to make proper moodboards)…
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Aegon was bit and turned at a young age: King Viserys had wronged and broken a promise to House Stark, that had long been associated to the folklore of werewolves. 
Nonetheless, Rickon Stark had demanded and sought for bitter vengeance, and who better than to target the long-awaited firstborn son, King Viserys had dreamt of. 
From a young age, Aegon was a quick-tempered and unpredictable boy: this new found “disease” [Viserys often labelled it] did not help. Upon each full moon, the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower sought to it that her son be secluded and highly confined in a desolate strong hold of the castle, with no light but a few dimly lit candles, beneath the dungeons, heavily guarded and armed, if need be... 
As a child, Aegon relented in these periods where he was often forcefully dragged away, tearful to be locked in heavy, cold metallic chains to his lonesome self. 
During his adolescent years, Aegon did often try to escape, run away before he could be taken and imprisoned against his will before turning, only to be caught. 
His mother and Ser Criston had often given him endless earaches, lecturing him about the dangers of him freely roaming, had he not yet learned to control his strength nor anger. 
As he grew older and mature, into the young man that he presently was, the more acquainted he got with the process, and defeatedly went along with it. No longer needing to be dragged, instead he found himself walking upon each full moon cycle, sometimes even chaining himself down. 
It was blatant to say, he hated turning. It was excruciatingly agonising, often his yells could be heard bellowing beneath the castle floors if one dared to loom close enough to the dark, desolate dungeon halls. 
Once the cycle had ended, his mother often found him close to unconsciousness, covered in matted, ripped clothes clinging to his heavy, heaving body. It pained her, seeing him in such a weakened state, out of his control, she blamed Viserys for his damnation. 
Nonetheless, Ser Criston was determined to help Aegon in steering his carnal urges, especially when in heat. He located outcasted werewolves and appointed them to help the “heir”, negotiating in return for gold, property, titles and copious women. During this process, they’d come to realise that Aegon had a formidable power over them, deeming him an alpha amongst omegas. 
Aegon in heat though, was Alicent’s worst nightmare come true. He was relentless and incontrolable, and as reluctant as she was to admit it, there was no hope in stopping him. Instead of blocking his urges, she allowed him to be, often organising whores for him to bed (not imprint), only able to perform damage control, having the maesters create and supply moon tea and other methods of birth control. Avoiding the risk of “pup” bastards at all costs. 
That was until you arrived, waltzing mindlessly into his life.
Your scent was the first thing that Aegon had noticed about you [without even actually seeing you, he could smell you out], the sweetness of your aroma was intoxicating to him. 
He managed to swiftly sniff you out, finding you in the castle gardens in the dull company of the royal women of the court. 
Feeling his heart pace growing faster and stronger, feeling the intensity of each pulse against his chest, the heaviness of his breath, his fangs naturally growing, and the aching throbs in his hardening crotch: it was all a visceral response, not one that he inflicted upon himself, although he’d made the decision.
You would be his one and only mate. 
Throughout the days you remained within the castle walls, your scent became stronger and more potent: Aegon could feel himself growing weaker, more debilitating to it, desperate to control his urges as to not hurt nor frighten you off. 
Having you around feasts or in the court yard amongst the youth, he needed you far from him, but seeing the keen interest and lustful eyes of the young men you’d caught, he felt inclined to stay. 
If they dared to defile you, he’d rip their throats out. 
Etching closer and closer to you, he could hear your innocent laughter from across the room, and your delicate voice, it made him helplessly smile, looking like a smitten fool.
He could fervently smell your virginity oozing from you, untouched by another man, intact, your aroma remained untainted, and with no ring sighted attached to your proposed finger, it drove him even more savage to think he could be the first to renounce you of your innocence. Day dreaming of fucking you beyond the ability to walk, think or speak coherently, earning a teasing chuckle from himself. 
If he could without being frowned upon, he’d fuck you right there and then, before the eyes of the realm. 
The nights were gruelling for him: not a single night went by since having met you, that he did not dream of you. Constantly, the same image replaying over and over again in his tainted mind: it began with him lustfully devouring you whole, passionately making love to your bare, naked body, eagerly marking you all over, enough for other male wolves to know that you belonged to him. He bites you, imprinting himself on you, before knotting inside of you, pumping his potent seed into you, filling you to the brim till your cunt is practically drowning in him. The last thing he’d see before he’d inevitably wake, is you swollen close to full term with his pup, just lovingly caressing your belly, thanking him. 
It was torture for him to carry on about his day: unknowing of how exactly to approach you. 
Coming up to his next cycle, Aegon found himself wandering eerily close by to your allocated quarters, being able to smell you, hunting your exact location like some predator, he found himself face to face with your shut door. 
Mustering every fibre of strength to resist his primal desire to force himself deep inside of you, piercing his canines deep into your flesh, imprinting his DNA inside of you. Whether you fought against him, would be meaningless he knew, for his strength had heightened greater than that of a human [much to Aemond’s displeasure when training with Aegon]. 
Nonetheless, by some ungodly force, he mustered himself away hastily, from now on having a reckoning of guards between him and yourself. 
Close to his next cycle, he opened up to his mother regarding his intentions about you. She initially did try to convince him otherwise, that this was just his “heat” talking, although seeing how determined and hopeless he was to have you, she promised to make the formal arrangements to betroth you to him, before leaving him to his cell. 
 When he recovered from this cycle, he’d been met with the happy news that the betrothal was offered and approved by your family. In a days time, Aegon and yourself had formally acquainted, and he felt immense content like he never had before. 
He was determined to keep you sated, safe and happy at all times: much to your surprise, surpass the intimidating, formidable look he had, he was pleasant and loving. 
The night before the marriage, Aegon along with his mother, Grandsire and Ser Criston Cole, had initially planned to disclose his condition to you, after consummation. However, he could not bring himself to deceive you. 
Hoping his honesty would be enough to compensate, he remained doubtful, convinced that you would change your mind about wanting to marry a “beast”, and had he gone with the initially plan, you would have been forced to remain in such a union. 
Yet he was blessed: you were not repulsed by him, though more so grew sorrowful and nurturing towards him. Saddened by his story, you reassured Aegon that he was unfortunately a victim caught in a feud between old men, and that this form was thrusted upon him. 
You were keen to remain by his side, to nurse him, to abide by him and most significantly, to love him. 
Nonetheless, he did not disclose to his family that he had told you the truth, and the marriage ceremony proceeded and was sealed before the law of the realm. 
The night of consummation, Aegon informed you that it would hurt, regardless, of the endless promises he’d made that he’d attempt to control himself. 
Imitating his dream, the reality surpassed his expectations. It hurt nonetheless, and often at times, you had to voice Aegon to take it easy, although he did what needed to be done, imprinting and knotting himself deep inside of you, opening you up wide enough, keen to keep his thick, girthy cock inside of you all night long. Now your sweet scent was masked heavily in his musky scent, he was definite no other male would dare to smell you out. 
Bite marks on your ass, is a must for Aegon.
In a few moons, the maesters confirmed of your pregnancy: your changes were rapid as it seemed to be an escalated circumstance due to Aegon’s genes overpowering yours. 
Aegon felt somewhat guilty for this: he ensured that maids were present at your beckon call, instructing you to not lift a single finger, even the slightest of movement from your half, a maid came rushing over, pleading to help. He forced the maesters to keep you bed ridden, confined in the Red Keep of your shared, private chambers, although he allowed for visitors of people’s company you enjoyed, including his mother. 
He made sure you were well fed, bathed and even sought to massaging you himself. 
When he was forced to be absent due to his recurring cycles, he loathed being teared apart from you: genuinely, it infuriated him. It became a habit to keep guards posted outside your chambers, even entrusting Aemond to keep you safe; instructing his dear mother or Helaena to keep you constant company from inside. He would often return in a frail state, yet remained eager to prioritise your needs above his own.
At this point, now that Aegon had a mate, he was more in control of his primal instincts: and was allowed to roam at a distance, far from the walls of King’s Landing, beyond deep into the woods, where he could turn freely.
Reassuring him that you were fine, you would tend to his wounds, as he cherished having you give him your full attention. 
In the months to come, closer to the birth of the babe, Aegon became stupendously possessive over you, with the right reasons though. As irritating as he could be, being constantly on top of you, refusing to leave the bedside to fulfil his princely responsibilities, training and duties, he was simply smitten for you. 
He even grew infatuated with your pregnant body, how your hips grew in preparation for the birth, your breasts swollen, tender, occasionally dripping with the warm milk for the pup, he drank to give you relief [his bright idea], and would teasingly bite at your nipples. Reminding him to keep the supply ready for the babe. 
Your belly was swollen beyond relief, often struggling to sleep or lay still, he hated seeing you in such discomfort. The maesters were certain, it was either twins or simply just a physically big babe [like its father]. 
The time had finally arrived: Aegon promised he would be present at the birth regardless, and he upheld it promisingly. It was a torturous experience to say the least, what felt like days [12 hours], nor could milk of the poppy sustain the aching contractions for a prolonged time. At one point, Aegon grew pale, fearful that The Stranger would make an appearance, and take you from him: he couldn’t bring himself to see you pass in his arms, growing quiet and distant. At one point, he noticed you growing drowsy whether it was from the milk of the poppy you or the constant blood trickling from below, his mind refused to make coherent, logical thoughts. Gripping your hand firmly in his, his deep, soothing voice flowed to your ears, drawing your attention, like a moth to a flame, he whispered, tender, encouraging words into your ear.
“I have asked for too much from you already, my love, my sweet, sweet wife. Yet here I am, to plead for more. I need you to stay with me,Y/N, promise me that you’ll stay with me. I cannot bear to live with myself in this ridden state, no more if you are not by my side, promise me you’ll make it.” 
Justice to his words, you pulled through strongly. A healthy, baby boy was born in the dawn, kicking and screaming vivaciously, holding him warmly and gazing upon him, made every agonising second of his coming worth it. 
He was a split image of his father, as Alicent softly decreed, the sight of the babe bringing joyful tears to her eyes as she reminesced. 
Aegon smitten over his son, was more relieved that you were alive and well, now determined to have you fully recover until the next babe. 
The next time Aegon would organise for maesters and midwives with more preparation and experience in birthing pups of his kind, Alicent also advised “the first is always the hardest, eventually it eases on the body”. 
Aegon slipped into fatherhood with difficulty. Fearful that his condition was thrusted upon his son, without choice just as he was, he grew wearisome that his son would eventually hate him, as he did his own father, for his own reasons. However, despite the outcome you reassured Aegon otherwise.
“Our son will love you regardless, Aegon. And so be it, if he bears the same fate, he has his father to guide him, where he had no one else. He will be grateful for you, I am certain.”
general taglist - @evenstaris @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @ilikeitbetterangsty @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @teamaemond @elegantsplendour​ @randomdragonfires
Aegon taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter​
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scotianostra · 3 months
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On December 25th in the year 1319 a two year truce between Scotland and England began.
This little known peace treaty is often overlooked, probably due to the Bruce’s government issuing the Declaration of Arbroath the following year.
After Bannockburn King Edward II of England never forgot his humiliation, and he threatened war against Scotland. The Bruce got there first, raiding south as far as York in a bid to capture prisoners to be held for ransom. Edward also had his troubles at home with a trebellion.
The King was also talking to some of the great Northern lords and it looked as if they would do a separate deal with the Bruce to stop him destroying their land. Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, was one of the rebel barons but paid for it with his life after the Battle of Boroughbridge was won by forces loyal to Edward.
Encouraged by ending the civil war in England, Edward came north with a great army, but Bruce deployed the same tactics he had used prior to Bannockburn, destroying anything that could be of use to the English, who were forced to retreat when famine and disease broke out.
In September 1319 The Bruce won a decisive battle at Myton in Yorkshire
Earlier that year Edward II had moved an army North and laid siege to Berwick in an attempt to recapture it from the Scots. In response the army of several thousand Scots, commanded by the Earl of Moray and the Good Sir James Douglas, bypassed the Northern town and marched through the north of England torching all in their path. Their secret objective lay in Edward’s court at York; where they hoped to abduct Edward II’s wife, the 21 year old Queen, Isabella. On September 20th 1319 they neared York and The Battle of Myton ensued.
The outcome of this unequal contest was never in doubt. Formed up according to their custom in a single division, the Scots uttered together a tremendous shout to terrify the English, the Highland charge began racing towards the men from York, who straightaway began to take to their heels at the sound.
The York contingent was an odd mixture of men thrown together to meet the emergency, including priests and monks losses were reported of 3,000, among them Nicholas Flemyng the city mayor.
For Edward II, already at odds with many English nobles, it was another disaster. Meanwhile the victorious Scottish army retreated back across the border into Scotland carrying their ill-gotten gains and prisoners.
Afterwards Edward was forced to raise the siege of Berwick and ultimately agreed to a two year truce.
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fairysluna · 1 year
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Hello, I just stumbled into your old account and read and LOVED one of your Aegon fanfics (What Should've Been) and I have a teeny tiny request, if you don't mind. It seems the reader had tuberculosis from the symptoms, especially the bloody coughs, and since Aegon was thoroughly exposed to it, I was wondering if you can maybe make a teeny tiny follow-up about how he also contracts the disease and dies and later joins the reader in the afterlife under the same weirwood tree where she's waiting for him in her wedding gown and Aegon goes to her and tucks a purple pansy in her ear and they walk off into the light, together at last.
Please, I'm terribly heartbroken (and depressed but that's just my usual depression) over this beautiful story and I'd love a follow-up, even if it's just bullet points of what happens 🥺🥺
Author's Note: Hi hun!! I love the fact that you love my story enough to come here and ask me to write more, I will always love to make a follow up of my fics... so this is entirely dedicated to you, love!! thank you for enjoying my writing (and srry for breaking your heart). These are bullet points btw and it is quite short, but i hope you like it!!🤍
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WHAT SHOULD'VE BEEN — Aegon's Grief.
Summary: The aftermath of the biggest loss in Aegon's life: you. An epilogue for this story.
Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Arryn!Reader
Tags/TW: angst, grief, death, mentions of depression, sickness, sensitive content. If something is missing pls let me know.
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Aegon didn’t leave his bed for days. The grief and sorrow in his heart was too much for him to bear. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t bathe, he wouldn’t even stand from his bed… the bed he used to share with you.
It was hard for him to go inside the room, the weeks before your funeral he couldn’t even bring himself to look at the door of it. Needless to say, he didn’t even step inside of it until the funeral was over. The sheets were still there, the shape of your body was still seen on the bed. He did not allow the maids to clean up the room; he could smell the scent of death that was left behind, but once he went closer to the bed he was able to smell your perfume… and that was enough for him to bury his face against the pillows as he sobbed and whined.
Alicent tried to go and persuade him to go back to his duties. He had become a King, but what kind of King he was if he didn't have his Queen by his side? What purpose was left for him when the most important person in the world was now gone? The forces of your love had left him without warming, the warmth of your love no longer covered his body in the shape of an affectionate kiss. He felt useless without you, for you were the only thing that brought meaning into his life.
Aemond would start to cover him up in the Small Council meetings and other duties. Aegon was in no condition to fulfill his activities, because not only his spirit was broken but his health was deteriorating with each passing day. The health of their King was starting to cause rumors around the halls, servants claimed that he went mad out of his own grief.
His chubby shape soon became a skeletal one. His rosy cheeks were now pale and bony, his cheekbones being too noticeable now. Alicent would go at night trying to make him eat something, but Aegon had lost his will to live the day he lost you. And eventually, the Gods were merciful enough… and they made him sick too.
Alicent knew what was coming, she had witnessed the same symptoms in you a few weeks ago before you took your last breath. She cried herself to sleep many nights as the Maester would only inform her that her son was slowly dying, with no signs of improvement at all. And then, the hallucinations started as Aegon was being slowly killed by the fever.
His already weakened body could not handle that sickness that came upon him. The lack of food, of sleep, along with his lack of will to live were enough to get him seriously ill, to the point when he started to speak to the maids thinking they were you.
"Oh, my sweet wife," he would say with a thin voice, barely audible. Most of his wording would be interpreted as mumbling and nonsense, "can't wait to see our beautiful child growing inside of you."
A few days later… Aegon passed away in the same bed that he used to share with you, grasping the same sheets that covered your body during your last days, and in the same bed where he held you close every night. And even though that was the day his body died, his soul had left him the same day you left him.
Alicent cried for days after the news, but she wasn't surprised at all. No one was. The love Aegon had for you was too obvious for everyone.
"Not even death could pull them apart," Aemond would say as he consoled his mother during the funeral, where Sunfyre was the one lighting the fire that ended up consuming his skeletal body.
Aegon thought he was dreaming when he found himself standing in the gardens, wearing a black suit but feeling light, the anguish that had haunted him for the past weeks was no longer there.
And then, he heard your laugh.
A small giggle that made him feel as if his heart was beating again. A sound so soft and gentle, delicate and blissful, that it brought a rose color upon his cheeks, which returned to be as chubby as they were before.
At first, he was afraid of turning around, thinking that it was a delusion, some trick of his mind making him hear things. But then, he heard it again, and the urge to look at your beautiful face once again was stronger than any fear that might succumb him. He needed to see you… and he did.
There you were, as beautiful as you have always been, wearing a tighter and less pompous version of your wedding gown. Your hair was falling down your shoulders in cascades, your eyes gleaming with pure happiness as you laughed at the pages you were reading. Aegon was enchanted, mesmerized by the angelic sound your laughter would produce.
He walked slowly towards you, as if he was scared you would become a pile of dust and fade into the wind, but you never did. Instead, you looked up at him and your eyes shined so bright that Aegon was sure he saw stars in them. You were so gorgeous, far from being the sick woman he saw before you passed. You were your old self, the woman who would make him laugh and make him fall in love all over again every single day.
"You came," you said with a radiant smile.
"You know I've never done well without you, my love," he replied.
You saw him picking up a flower from the greenest grass he's ever seen; a purple pansy soon was on your hair, and Aegon's heart felt alive once he felt your lips against the softness of his flushed cheeks. A gesture that he had terribly missed.
Aegon cupped your face between his hands, and looked down to you with admiration and pure devotion. Your eyes were full of life once again; a sight that Aegon wished to never forget again. Before you could say anything to him, he kissed you, and your lips felt warm and soft as they always were. Your touch made him feel like a teenage boy, the same boy that fell in love with you many years ago.
He realized then that he finally found heaven, that all his wishes and pleas were listened to by the Gods by sending him back to you; back to where he belonged.
Aegon saw your eyes once again, and right there he realized that the Gods were finally merciful, because now he got to spend the rest of his life by your side without having the constant fear of losing you again.
He finally found peace, because you were there with him.
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soberscientistlife · 1 year
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After the Berlin conference of 1884-1885, different European nations set out to mount their flags all over Africa.
—King Leopold II set out for the Congo and declared it his territory proclaiming it his property.
—Congo was rich in many minerals, but at the time it was richer in ivory and rubber.
—King Leopold II’s government declared that rubber harvesting was a necessary tax that would be paid to the crown by those who lived on the land.
—The rubber industry in Europe was booming and he had to meet the demands of the market. As punishment for not fulfilling the quota they cut-off of your limb or get murdered.
—Leopold II had an army which consisted of about 19,000 european mercenaries, called Publique Force. The military aggressively recruited Africans into its lower ranks as well. These Africans were press-ganged into service and they were executed if they resisted
—The European officials were so ruthless and based on their rubber hatred and targeting that they created a rule for soldiers to cut off and deliver the hands of any of the Congolese citizens killed for failing to fulfill their quota.
—The source began to decline thus becoming slightly scarce . It was then more difficult to obtain the rubber, as many individuals had to climb tall trees to reach the vines. People may often drop from the trees and fall to their deaths.
—In addition to the shooting and maiming, disease was another factor that caused millions to die. The wellbeing of the workers was not taken into account by the Belgians, most starved.
—However, this did not make the Belgians stop. they continued the slavery and enslavement of the people of the Congo.
The burning of their villages was one of the painful accounts of the genocide of the Congolese. The commissioners and their officers also gave a certain quota to a whole village to fulfill and if they failed their villages and inhabitants were burnt down.
Diplomatic talks and pressure from many quarters would later lead Leopold II to renounce his rule over the Free State of the Congo and then hand it over to the Belgian Government, and then the Congo to be named the Belgian Congo.
Source: africanarchives Instagram
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daydreamrot · 3 months
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II. Whispers
part two of three in “If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power” feat prince! leon x fem! reader
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link to song here || prev chapter || series m.list
summary: leon’s father has finally succumbed to his disease, which means prince leon is now king leon. the pressure to produce an heir has just increased tenfold.
word count: 5.4K+ || link to ao3
warnings: this work includes dark content including noncon. read at your own discretion. breeding kink, forced impregnation, unprotected p in v sex, thigh grinding, nipple play, alcoholism, spousal abuse (sexual, physical, emotional), vomit, blood, choking, crying, mention of leeches, mention of infidelity, historically accurate treatment of women in medieval times, hurt/no comfort, grief & loss. leon is likely a bit ooc due to the time period.
author’s note: definitely not usually the type of content i write, but i couldn’t get this warped medieval leon idea out of my head. when paired with halsey’s album, it just all molds so well in my brain. lyrics are once again bold & italicized. this is also the longest piece of writing i’ve ever done and i am really proud of it. i hope you enjoy!
**i am on vacation until jan 13th. i look forward to reading and replying to your feedback when i return. thank you so much for your continued support!
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you hardly saw your husband these days. his father’s condition had worsened and his passing would come sooner rather than later. he ran from coronation planning committees to military and politics strategy sessions all while trying to comfort his already grieving mother. he handled the funeral arrangements while making sure to spend any spare moment he had with his ailing father — to squeeze whatever wisdom he had to spare from him before he was lifted to the heavens. he would not fail. he could not fail. he would continue to lead the country to glory as his parents had in their prime.
the priest had come to read the king his last rites as the queen sobbed over his last breaths. leon remained steady, but you can tell his confidence wavered. seeing your father die in front of you changes you as a person, and you suspected you would find out the cost soon enough. leon’s jaw was tense, his shoulder’s set, and his blue eyes cold as they lifted the king’s corpse to be prepared for burial. you tried to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he practically barreled past you — wanting to make sure his father was properly handled. it was the first time he was ever cold towards you, but he had just lost his father, that changes a person.
the funeral dirge echoed across the cobblestone streets of the city surrounding the castle. the entire nation felt this loss and they mourned in black garments. the church welcomed anyone who wished to pay their respects before the grand funeral proceedings. many people prayed over his casket and blessed the poor queen whose grief had caused her mind to unravel. prince leon remained the steady face of the venture, but your heart fell for him. instead of just losing his father, his mother was lost to madness now too.
you didn’t know how to behave during such a tumultuous time. you felt a sadness when the king passed, sure, but nothing compared to the colossal grief everyone else was shouldering. you tried to focus your attention on being a good wife to leon, but all of your attempts were brushed off. women were better seen and not heard. he hadn’t called for you in a week or so, and it began to weigh on you. you felt stuck.
“it’s the thing in your thighs when you’re lonely at night / scroll through your phone getting high off the light / numb in your chest when you close the blinds / repose in time / and you tell yourself you’re fine but you / sabotage the things you love the most / camouflage so you can feed the lie that you’re composed”
you were called for one night, not by leon, but by the ailing queen who had fallen sick with madness. everyone worried how much time we had left with her now that the king was gone. after all, they say it is possible to die from a broken heart. it was rare for anyone to see her these days other than leon. she even dismissed all of her ladies-in-waiting. you worried about what this summon could be about.
the queen is eerily silent as you approach her bed chambers. she’s draped in her most regal black night gown and her dark hair falls down her back in wavy ringlets with hints of silver — a nod to her age and stress. her dinner lies untouched in the corner of the room. she looks gaunt, and pale. her skin clung to her bones for dear life. if you were to touch her, she may crumble. you were half convinced she was already an apparition speaking to you from beyond.
she turns to face you and gazes at you from her sunken eyes. you try to keep your expression neutral, knowing how little she hated the pity. “princess” she addressed you, in all your formality. you try to remember your manners as you bow your head in respect. “my queen, why is it you have summoned me?” you ask. she scoffs, as if the answer should be obvious.
“you forget your place here girl. admittedly the prince has been distracted, but the fact remains… with his father gone and my health waning, you must make haste in producing an heir,” she says with an aura of superiority. you thought the idea repugnant, and hoped it didn’t read across your face. your mind wandered elsewhere. what would you and leon’s offspring be like? what kind of mother would you be?
you can only nod, lost in your thoughts. “have you discussed this with the prince? he has not called for me in quite some time” you admit with your voice betraying the sadness you felt inside. you had only known affection through physical contact, so when leon didn’t call for you, it was hard not to wallow in your insecurities.
the queen nods. “leon has agreed. he understands that the future of the nation hangs in the balance, so i imagine he will rectify this soon enough. you must tempt him,” she explains. great, tempting men. just like old times. you were a natural at that. except with leon you had never tried to tempt him, he just wouldn’t leave you alone that night. you had your work cut out for you.
“i will not fail you my queen,” you promise. it comes across sincere enough. she dismisses you to your bed chambers. you spend the rest of your night tossing and turning. nightmares of blood and violence causing you to cry out. you felt like an imposter in your own life. tears roll down the apple of your cheeks. what more was there to do other than wipe your tears and face another day?
another week passes with no call from the prince. your anxiety begins to subside, maybe the matter isn’t nearly as pressing as you originally calculated. you even shared a few meals with leon and he seemed to be in better spirits these days. the grief was obvious and the stress shrouded him. his eyes were tired and his body fatigued. his mind seemed absent, but every now and then he made a silly joke. it reminded you of why you enjoyed his company in the first place. you longed to be a safe haven for him – to take him in your arms and let him forget his troubles just as so many men had done previously. leon was obstitant though, ignoring his urges and training harder. after all, he had to be a father worth having and a king fit to rule.
“this is the voice in your head that says ‘you do not want this’ / this is the ache that says ‘you do not want him’ / this is the glimmer of light that / you’re keeping alive when you tell yourself ‘bet i could fuck him’”
it’s almost been a month now since the king had passed on and leon still had not called you to his bed chambers. there was no further discussion on the matter of an heir, but still, you yearned for anyone to talk to. your moments with leon were fleeting, but he finally seemed to be finding his footing in time for his coronation ceremony. he spoke to you of grandiose ideas he had to better the kingdom, and even in all his grief, he still wished to defend the common people. after all, the woman who had captivated him was one of them. his idealism and optimism were adorable, you prayed he might never lose it, because you know what they say, “heavy is the head that wears the crown”.
coronations were a scared ceremony. everything had to be polished to even the most minute detail. you grew tired of the sound of your own feet pattering against the flooring of the old chapel as you took your regal seat beside the sanctimonious throne that leon graced. even the queen had made it despite her continued weariness. her consorts did much to dress her for the occasion but you knew better. you knew how haggard the grief had made her, and how her shallow breathes echoed that of a death’s rattle. she wasn’t long for this world, but she was here now. for leon. to see the future solidify before her eyes.
leon takes his vow before his people, where they all recognize him as the new head of the country. “God Save King Leon!” the townspeople cry as he takes his seat upon the sacred coronation throne. a throne carved centuries ago to usher in new monarchs. he is then surrounded by some of the most influential people. the head of the church offered him a blessing and a prayer for guidance before smearing him in holy water with an even holier coronation spoon. the choir erupts into traditional song and the crowd applauds. the pomp and circumstance is bewildering to an outsider like you, but you maintain your steady composure. a calm face was something you had perfected over the years.
the country’s noblemen recognize their new patriarch. another display of tactful handshakes in the name of alliance. there are tasteful bows of heads and rousing speeches of confidence. when you look at leon, you see no more than a boy playing pretend. the jewels he adorned betrayed him as the terror of ruling settled deep behind his irises. they were a reflective mirror of a boy bestowed with the power of a nation — pretty to look at, but not much else.
the finale. a march past the common folk. a way of showing them that the rulers represented them. more bullshit. it was nerve wracking. people clawing at your expensive robes just in hopes of a blessing for the upcoming years. an old superstition — tear a cloth from royalty on coronation day, you will be treated like royalty the entire year. you never believed it. you thought no one did until someone ripped your cuff right from your dress as you attempted to shake hands with a few folks. the queen shot you a pointed look, as if it was your fault that all of the security preened over the new king. needless to say it didn’t happen again. you kept your face neutral, a firm grip on leon’s arm and hummed along to the processional music until you arrived back at the castle. married to not just a prince now, but a king.
as much as i want to say that this transition went smoothly, it simply was not the case. leon was stumbling and tripping over every decision. he was the definition of sweating the small stuff as he panicked about what feast to serve the diplomats from the neighboring country. but of course, he would never admit he was struggling. you only saw the signs. he was battle weary, without even a true war on the horizon. you yet again wish you could kiss it all better. you settled for comforting touches. a sneaky caress of the thigh under the table. a kiss upon the back of his hand. a stolen dance or two when testing new musicians. leon seemed to relax against your touch. you calmed him. your presence was steady in the face of all this fast-paced change.
but more change was soon to come as the queen’s death rattle grew more and more prominent. every breath of hers was agony. to be near her was to pity her and pray god took her sooner rather than leon. it ripped leon’s flesh from his soul seeing his mother lie decrepit like this. tears brimmed in the bottom on his lashes as he sought comfort on her fragile bosom for the last time. his tears seemed to soak right through her thinned skin and gaunt figure. they seemed to nourish her just enough for her to tell him one last thing. a whisper into his ear. you dare not ask whatever it was. a vow sealed in death between mother and son.
she passed then. leon heard her last heartbeat. something broke inside him that day. leon’s body convulsed with sobs. his broad shoulders rotated inwardly as low, guttural sounds ripped from his chests. his eyes became red and puffy from crying. he could hardly breathe. snot dripped from his nose and unto his mother’s still-warm corpse. a loss so devastating to a mama’s boy, you couldn’t quite wrap your brain around it. you found yourself crying too, draping your arms across his back in shared melancholy. you shared everything with him. his grief, his anger, his sadness, his loss.
it was a gruesome sight. it took several people to pry leon off of his mother after she had gone cold, and several more to try and bar him from stomping off in rage. but leon knew his duty well and he would not fail his mother’s dying wish.
a girl who never knew her parents vs a boy who has always been sheltered by their love navigating such loss. what could possibly go wrong?
“why do you need love so badly? / bet it’s because of her daddy / bet she was brutal and bratty / bet that she’ll never be happy / I bet that you’re right / and I’ll show you in time”
for the first night in a month or so, the now king leon calls for you. your consorts panic and dress you in the finest regalia. you were no longer being called upon by the prince, but the king of the nation! you were a queen now and deserved even more fineries. you thought it was a bit extravagant. you figured leon likely only wanted to talk given he was still traversing the pitfalls of his grief. when you arrive in the room, you assess the scene.
the room smells putrid. it reeks of open liquor bottles, spilt beer and rotten food. you have to be careful where you step, it seems as though the king’s temper had caused him to throw his glassware at the stone walls. millions of shards of crystalline glass littered the left side of the room while a small pile of vomit gathered in the corner of the right. guess the prince didn’t make it to the chamber pot. however grim the scene looked, you still felt an overwhelming sadness for him.
“darling?” you speak, your voice soft and dainty. that was the first time you ever used a pet name. god, what was happening to you? you weren’t beginning to develop feelings towards him, were you?
he hiccups, but doesn’t look at you at first. he reeks of vomit and a volatile mix of alcohols. his posture remains hunched, like a cowering boy. “sweetheart?” you call just a bit louder. Christ, another pet name? Get a fucking grip. you walk slowly towards him, a gentle tap on the shoulder.
he turns to you, a husk of his former self after the alcohol had wreaked havoc on his system, desperate to feel anything other than grief. you notice the bath in the corner of the room is still warm. you coax him up and he clings to you, like a newborn child against his mother’s chest as you lead him there. he nods his consent as you slowly peel the drenched clothes off of his body. there would be a few cuts and scrapes to attend to as well.
leon clumsily steps into the bath, too drunk to resist you as you grab the pitcher and drape the warm water over him. you slowly rub his muscles, causing him to groan. you were positive if he weren’t so dehydrated, tears would fall down his normally round cheeks. you scrub the bile from his chest, and use a pumice stone to break up the parts where blood had caked to him. leon only responds in a series of low level grunts, but he doesn’t stop you.
once you had cleaned the blood, vomit and dirt from him, you disinfected his cuts. leon finally speaks as you stitch a particularly nasty gnash. “how’d” *hiccup* “you learn” *hiccup* “to do this?” he asks. you sigh softly, “I didn’t grow up in a palace leon.” that was probably the safest answer, better to leave details of your tragic backstory where they belong — the past. he only nods. “i miss my mom” he says quietly, staring at his hands. “i know,” you reply, not knowing what else you could say to comfort him.
“do you want know what she told me before she died?” leon says, still not making any eye contact with you. you freeze. a small pause before you begin, “I don’t know if I —“ “she told me we need to produce a son. an heir to the throne” leon says. you nod, almost as if you had suspected it. “leon, we don’t have to —“ you begin, but he interrupts you again. “I want too. I’ve been swallowed whole by this grief. It has consumed me and I have ignored you my queen. Let me make it up to you. Let me touch you again” he says softly, and he brings his eyes to meet yours.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea” you say softly, but he’s pulled you close. He feels warm and smells infinitely better. He presses a few gentle kisses down your neck, and you don’t want to resist him anymore. He needs this. He needs you.
you give in. let him take what he needs as he pulls you down on plush sheets of his four poster bed and draws the curtains. unlike the wedding night, he’s not nearly as nervous. he’s more frantic as he sucks a hickey into your collarbone, causing you to moan and clutch at the skin on his back. “hey, easy!” he hissed against your ear, “wouldn’t want to reopen my stitches would you?”
you chuckle. it’s breathy, barely there but enough to crack a smile on leon’s face too. your body moves without thinking and pulls his face into a tender kiss. his soft lips encapsulate yours and you ignore the lingering taste of mead in his breath. it’s full of conviction this time, fueled by carnal desire. your hands find themselves tangled in his blonde locks, urging him closer to you as he kisses you. he obliges, using his muscular thigh to push your legs open as he hovers above you ever so closer. then he kisses you deeper.
his tongue swipes at your bottom lip before pushing fully into your mouth. you taste sweeter (and cleaner) than he does right now and it’s almost as if it was nectar from God himself. he takes refuge in it, continuing to kiss you until you were out of breath. your lips were swollen and a bit of spit spilled out, but you didn’t want to stop. for the first time, in a long time, you had enjoyed kissing someone. you enjoyed the way his lips moved in a syncopated pattern, all in effort to please you, to claim you, to love you.
if you weren’t certain of your affections towards the king before, this surely confirmed them. your nails dug into his flesh, pulling him closer and closer. you realize you are just as desperate for connection, for distraction of all of the change you had been put through the last few months. leon’s hands ripped at your blouse, freeing your breasts from their confines. the sudden rush of cold air mixed with arousal caused your nipples to pebble and leon was quick to tease the peaks between his thumb and forefinger. you moaned softly as his name fell from your mouth in sacred devotion. he smirked against your skin as hot open-mouthed kisses adorned on your breasts caused you to squirm beneath him.
your hands delicately caress his scalp, scratching small patterns in his soft, dampened hair. he lets out a soft gasp in surprise against your chest, leaning into your touch as he moves to gently suckle your nipple into his mouth. a soft squeak leaves your lips as his other hand massages your other breast. the sensation is foreign to you, once again, never experiencing much foreplay. but it is quite euphoric. you find yourself wholly at his mercy, wanting to give him everything — not just a piece. “f-feels good leon” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. he smiles, pressing kisses along the valley between your breasts as he continues his minstruations on the other one. “im glad my love. you deserve to be cherished… taking such good care of me while I’ve been such a mess. wanna get you pregnant… make you a mom” he gushes, and you’re actually considering it.
your hands shake as they reach for his undergarments. you were lucky he didn’t think to redress fully after the bath you gave him. he nods his approval, taking the brief respite to gather more of the sheets around you to prevent you from getting cold. the prince was well-endowed. one of the bigger ones you had seen in your time doing sex work. it had pretty veins cascading down and a nice pink tip that was already leaking precum in anticipation. It was already half-hard, probably struggling just a tad after all the alcohol. poor leon must’ve been pent up to be worked up so bad over a few kisses. he looked like a painting in the dim candlelight of the room.
he keeps you pinned on your back, as all other positions were forbidden. they were remenant of animals which would cause bestiality charges or they could cause birth defects. missionary was the only acceptable choice. leon was still pretty inexperienced, even with a goal in mind. sex had to last an hour at minimum if you were to produce a child, so half the time leon just stayed on top of you — tracing circles on your bare skin and wiping sweat from his forehead. too much movement too soon after binge drinking, he would vomit on you. he’d rather avoid that.
he spent most of the time similar to what he did on the wedding night, just teasing you by grinding against your thigh and folds of your labia. whether or not that was what he meant to do, you would never know. (yes, you read that right. leon never even put it in on the wedding night). but his little grunts and soft moans made you feel warm inside. he saw something more in you than just a warm body. he saw a leader. a mother.
you tip his chin to hold your gaze and look at you. using your most gentle tone, you offer to help and guide him just a bit. he trusts you, allows you gently pump the length of his cock so he fully hardens to its full glory. the way his face scrunches in response is something you wish you could recreate in a painting it was so adorable.
you guide him again to the core, where he hopes to grant you the gift of motherhood as he sheaths himself inside. it takes everything in leon not to finish right then and there. he knows very little about sex but what he does know is that it must last an hour (even if you’re bored) and that both partners must finish simultaneously for the greatest chance of pregnancy.
thing is, scholars didn’t even have an inkling of what the clitoris was until the renaissance period (and even then the clit wasn’t fully discovered until 1998), so finishing was pretty unlikely for you in this scenario. leon’s hips jutted out and in shallowly, to create just enough friction to stimulate him. it was tantalizing. you wished you could have more, but that was selfish, greedy. you existed for his pleasure.
a few more rocks of his hips, leon stutters, his thighs clenching as he spills his load into your empty womb. he collapses on top of you, wanting to keep as much of his semen plugged into you to ensure the greatest success. he slurs praise into your ear, mostly about how beautiful you’ll look if this works and how sorry he feels for ignoring you until now. he doesn’t clean you afterwards, only wipes himself before smearing whatever remnants that dripped off of him onto your folds. your feet are elevated on pillows and you fall asleep covered in leon’s pheromones. before he wakes, you do a drastic thing — slipping a leech up your vaginal canal to ensure you bleed. if anyone in the castle knew the truth about your work in the brothel, they surely would blame you for all these shortcomings. you say a silent prayer that this attempt works, before you fall asleep.
but it doesn’t work. leon calls for you more often now, each attempt growing more and more violent. each attempt filled with more spite and vitriol than the last. like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum. he’s thrown full goblets of wine at you, staining your pristine silk nightwear. he’s shattered glass China above your head, leaving you to stitch wounds in your spare time. one time, when he was particularly enraged, he choked you so hard that you passed out beneath him. but even that was preferable to the time that he brandished a knife at you drunkenly, threatening to slit your belly open to ensure you weren’t lying about the lack of a developing fetus.
nothing was working. you still weren’t pregnant despite leon’s many attempts. the energy in the castle was vile with leon threatening to snap at a moment’s notice. more executions had been ordered this month than previously because anyone who gave him poor sexual advice was deemed a traitor to the current and future nation.
leon was no longer sweet. having sex with you was a chore he now despised. he hit you, often leaving you marked with bruises and cuts that were hidden under long gowns so no one knew the truth. you lived in constant fear of when he would strike next, often crying as your chambermaids dressed you to face him. many times you stood on the precipe of the balcony, looking for the courage to do something about the golden cage you were forced into.
the night you finally do get pregnant is a night you will never forget. the king did not call for you that night. he didn’t need to. he forced his way into your bedchambers, probably lost on his way back from drinking half the wine cellar, and took what he wanted. despite your pleas, “leon, you’re drunk, p-please stop!” you cry, the pain rendering tears to your eyes. “shut it whore, should’ve known better to have picked the bitch with the broken womb” he slurs, spitting onto your chest. his words sting, and his kiss feels like he’s injecting venom directly into your bloodstream. a sick and twisted way of him displaying ownership. you try to shove him off and deny him, but as he tears your clothes from your shaking body, you realize how helpless you really are. you were his prize to claim, and claim it he shall.
another round of bruises. another round of lashes. another shitty display of fake moans to convince him that his efforts were good enough while you wiped the tears from your eyes. he split you open, setting your belly on fire as you choked on sobs. no one would speak of what the king did that night. you didn’t know if you would ever speak again.
but this time, for some godforsaken reason, it works. a month of sheer torture passed and god grants you a blessing — a missed menstruation cycle, swollen breasts, and morning sickness. experienced women tested your urine several ways to help confirm the symptoms. you were pregnant.
you confirmed with your closest consorts and doctors before the king was alerted. if anything was to be avoided more than his wrath, it was false hope. but they all agreed that your symptoms matched their hypothesis — pregnant. the king was summoned at once and you excitedly gave him the news. and the monster that tormented you the past month suddenly disappeared before your very eyes.
leon’s joy was palpable and the shift was felt in even the darkest recesses of the palace. the nation was overjoyed at the announcement, even though you chastised him for promising all the subjects a son. “what if it’s a girl leon? a future queen, perhaps?” you ask inquisitively, just a gut feeling you had, no way of knowing. “preposterous. i did everything correct to produce a son. i will hear none of these fallacies” he dismisses. that was the final word on the subject.
the next few months suck for you. you waltzed the line between vomiting or being completely constipated. you were cut off of most enjoyable foods, stuck to eating only the healthiest procurements. you received a blessing to your womb daily by the religious advisors and Carlos had to babysit you on your walks around the palace grounds when Leon was busy. you didn’t mind though, Carlos had always been polite and handsome company, even when leon wasn’t. but around the 5th month of your pregnancy, you felt the quickening. the kicks of your growing baby in the womb and the pregnancy was truly confirmed.
however, the changed leon was much more fun to be around lately. he loved to feel your growing belly and fetch you anything, within reason, that your pregnant body desired. he’d rub your feet while going on and on about what skill he’d teach your strapping young boy first. he’d buy you freshly tailored maternity clothes and compliment how heavenly you looked with your ample bosom, and swollen stomach. he traced the stretch lines and smiled more than he ever had since his parents were alive. he even quit drinking and returned to his training. fatherhood was changing him for the better.
you think motherhood was changing you for the worse. you were more anxious than normal, probably to be expected given the month of trauma you had endured. you worried about the possibility of having a daughter and how leon would react to her if that were to come to pass. the pregnancy left you fatigued and sickly often, which meant many beautiful days locked away in your room recovering and trying to reason with the creature in your womb. of course, you didn’t have many others who would sympathize with your plight. you even worried the king may be cheating with your consorts, considering your body was now a holy sanctuary that nobody except professionals dare touch lest we upset the delicate balance of the womb.
“i’ve got a monster inside me / that eats personality types / she constantly changing her mind on the daily / think that she hates me / I’m feeling it lately / might have to trick her and treat her / to 70 capsules or fly to a castle / so at least we can say we died being traveled / cultured and flattered / and then I could trap her”
the nine months dragged on and on. you grew more and more swollen — a normal procedure, but an uncomfortable one. leon offered as much encouragement as he could, showering you in compliments and demanding people help you when you waddled your few blocks in the castle from food to your room. you were basically put on bed rest until the baby was born. pregnancy was a private affair after all. you were really only meant to discuss it with other experienced women and your hired midwife. leon was on a “need-to-know” basis.
the midwife had warned you labor could come anyday now so an immediate church service was held where you and leon sought the blessing of God for the birth. after all the prayers were said over you and your growing womb, it was time for you to “take your chambers”. you were to lie and wait for labor to begin, no need to put undue stress on the body. your room was donned in comforting tapestries and cloths to keep the light out. the room was your own womb of sorts, dark, warm and comforting. religious paraphernalia donned the walls to give you spiritual strength for the trials and tribulations of the birth to come. after all, one in three women died giving birth in medieval times.
so when your water broke, the king was notified as your midwife rushed to your side. with a clutched rosary in your hand, you began the birth of the newest royal baby.
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I. coronation
II. sex in medieval times
III. pregnancy and childbirth during medieval times
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Note
Ramses I
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Ramses the I is usually somewhat overlooked, partially due to being overshadowed by his eventual successors and namesakes, Ramses II and Ramses III, the former of which is considered to be 'Ramses the Great', and both of which achieved great things in the realm of battle and buildings. Also unfortunate for Ramses I is the length of his reign, which while disputed, is considered to have been relatively short.
Menpehtyre Ramses, born of Seti, started and was the first Pharaoh of the 19th dynasty of Egypt, and the dates of his reign are generally considered to be around 1292–1290 BC or 1295–1294 BC. However, he was born as a common man, and his father, Seti, was a military commander. Originally, Ramses I's name was Pa-ra-messu, and he eventually grew to succeed his father's rank in the military. Due to this, he became a close confidant with the Pharaoh of the time, the Pharaoh Horemheb.
You may know Horemheb as being one of the main successors of the throne after Tutankhamun's death which, to my knowledge, is wrapped in a little bit of a mystery, but was likely due to genetic malformations from his many diseases. Ay and Horemheb, the Grand Vizier and the General of Armies (respectively), held the main power of the country while Tutankhamun was Pharaoh. This was a time of turmoil––the country was just recovering from the reign of the heretic Akhenaten, who had banned religious worship of any God but the Aten, and essentially attempted to enforce monotheism upon a culture that had been polytheistic for thousands of years previously. Akhenaten had also severely neglected Egypt's relationship with foreign powers. Obviously, people weren't very happy with Akhenaten, and I think it likely they were not fond of Akhenaten's son, Tutankhamun, either. But Tutankhamun, with the help of his advisors and of Ay and Horemheb, reversed many of his heretic father's commands and laws. But Tutankhamun still sailed to the west at the age of 19. He had two baby girls, but neither of them survived past infancy. He had no successors, so Ay took the throne, and then Horemheb.
Horemheb enacted many more reformations to remove Akhenaten's efforts to change Egypt. He tore down the statues of Akhenaten and his monuments, reusing the stone in monuments and temples of his own. He also reused the monuments built for Ay and Tutankhamun, though this was a common practice in Egypt. But Horemheb had no surviving sons, so when it came time for Horemheb to pass on and appoint a new Pharaoh, his Grand Vizier took his place; Paramessu, who would take the name Ramesses I, meaning "Ra has fashioned Him". Ramses I was nearly 50 years old when he ascended to the throne. It was a remarkable age to become Pharaoh, as at this time, he would've already been considered elderly.
What little he did during his life was later completed by his son and successor, Seti I. He himself accomplished mainly one thing, which was to send additions to the garrison at Aswan, the border between Egypt and Nubia; though he also led a military expedition into west Asia and reopened turquoise mines in the Sinai. But the most remarkable things are the ones he didn't complete himself, such as additions to the Karnak temple complex in east Thebes, known as Waset at the time. He ordered to be carved great reliefs into the second pylon of the Karnak temple, which is a massive gateway that one sees relatively soon upon entering the complex. In Abydos, he began construction of a chapel and a temple, but it would have to be completed by his son, as Menpehtyre Ramses died in either the year of 1290 or 1294. His reign was so short that he had very little time to schedule or complete any great monuments, and even his tomb was rushed to be completed, and he was hastily buried in the Valley of the Kings. This rush unfortunately led to a great deal of errors being made in the paintings upon his sarcophagus. Later, however, Ramses I's son, Seti I, finished the chapel in honor of his father, with beautiful carvings and reliefs at Abydos.
His tomb was robbed thoroughly. By the time archaeologists got to it, all that remained were two six-foot tall (1.8 meters) wooden guardian statues who once had gold-foil skin, statuettes of Gods from the underworld, and the massive granite coffin which no longer carried its' owner. Menpehtyre Ramses had been taken to the Royal Cache, located above Hatshepsut's mortuary temple to the southeast. It was the tomb of the pharaoh Amenhotep II, but repurposed to be a protective place for the mummies of many Pharaohs and Queens, as most of the tombs of the Valley of the Kings had become victims of graverobbers. These protective actions were taken by the High Priest of Amun, Pinedjem II, in the 21st Dynasty.
Unfortunately this did not stop the usurping of Ramses I's body. He was stolen by the Abu-Rassul family of grave-robbers and sold by a Turkish vice-consular agent named Mustapha Aga Ayat in Luxor to a man named Dr. James Douglas. Douglas brought Ramses I to the US around the year of 1860, where he was placed in a museum in Niagara Falls with little information known about him. All that was speculated was that he was 'a Prince of Egypt'. Ownership of the museum, and thus of Ramses I, was passed through several hands, but his importance was only recognized with the help of the Canadian Egyptologist Gayle Gibson. Fortunately, in the year 2003, October 24, Menpehtyre Ramses was returned to his homeland of Egypt, and is now resting in the Mummification Museum in Luxor, Upper Egypt.
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anjelicawrites · 6 months
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The winner takes it all
Chapter II (previous)
Paring: Aemond Targaryen x reader
Synopsis: inspired by the Æthelflæd and Erik's storyline in The Last Kingdom. Might be spoilerish if you haven't seen it (go watch it!!!), even though I've just stolen the inspiration and went on with the story my way.
Warnings: Canon compliant violence, attempted rape, reader’s husband being a piece of shit, family annihilation.
A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns are used (they are called “lady” and “daughter of the North”). The only descriptor is that they have long hair
A/N 1: this is an AU. Look at me taking the canon story of Westeros and yell “Parkhour!” as I jump out of the window clutching it in my hands.
18+ only, tank you!
As the only offspring, and heir, of your Lord father, you had to study history, had to learn from the trials and mistakes of your ancestors, and one idea had always remained in your brain: the once free people of the Seven Kingdoms should have annihilate the first Targaryens the moment they set foot to Dragonstone, to stay. The looming danger of their dragons should have been enough to act, yet the once kings did nothing, waiting while Old Valyria was destroyed, while curious stories of disappearing babies kept sprouting everywhere, as white haired children appeared on that cursed place, while the Valyrians started inserting in each and every city and village, like a disease.
Nothing seemed to be the right reason for the kings to unite against the common enemy, and when Aegon I and his sister wives invaded, it was too late to act. Like tiles, every Kingdom fell under Targaryen dominion and their demented dream to recreate their lost home.
The North stood up once, against the peaceful colonization of Valyrian families and then with weapons and with the long, cold winters that nobody seemed able to withstand, but you children of the North. Your people did it, despite not having a ruling House, the power divided between the Starks, your House and your Lord husband’s: in spite of a marked destiny, the newborn Kingdom of North Valyria had to sign a peace treaty with the North, effectively stopping any more conquering attempt. For how long, though?
It is no secret that New Valyria wants to annex the North, the Targaryen trying many times to marry into one of the Northerner Houses, failing; you know there had been talks of you marrying the second son, promptly curbed by your Lord father, who made you decide between Cregan Stark and the man who became your husband.
When king Viserys had remarried and started a second bloodline of sons, you were young, but you still remembered the sheer panic you could breathe in your household, the frantic discussions about the time when those children would be old enough to want a piece of land of their own.
It was common knowledge that the king favored his firstborn daughter Rhaenyra, to the point that he had made her heir to the throne, despite having a brother who could ascend, if anything ever happened to him. Only an idiot wouldn't consider his children from Alicent Hightower, Aegon II, Helaena and Aemond, nothing if not spares, in the case anything happened to her. He didn't do a thing when Prince Aemond lost an eye to his nephew and all the Houses of the North whispered in fear of what those young men would do, when of age.
It was a statement that Prince Aegon II and Princess Helaena were married and produced heirs, the bonding of Prince Aemond with the powerful Vhagar was an even stronger statement, followed as it was by the terrible and cruel stories about him.
Yet, everyone was surprised when the spare Princes decided to overthrow Rhaenyra, annihilating her and all of her offsprings from her two marriages and Prince Aegon II was crowned king. “Kinslayers - everyone whispered - if they didn't have pity for their own blood, what would stop them from dishonoring the peace treaty with the North?”
What’s stopping them, now? You asked yourself many many times, looking at your Lord husband and his idiotic dream to become the King in the North. Can’t he see that a civil war will weaken us, against our cumbersome neighbor? We never had a ruling House and now shouldn’t be the time to try and seize power! What will stop those young men from taking what they surely believe it’s theirs? Nothing did, and that's why you find yourself prisoner.
                                                              ***
Your life has taught you fear can be a never ending feeling, but boredom is almost worse than that. At home, at least, you had to organize the life of the palace, help the women prepare for the oncoming winter or summer, settle issues between the ladies at court; yes, you were always under the judging stare of your husband, always ready to remind you of your mistakes and uselessness, but at least your days were full, here in your cell the only thing you can do is stare at the brick wall and pace like a caged animal.
You know what the brothers are doing, taking their sweet time before sending an envoy to your husband, assuming that the longer the wait, the mellower he’ll be. You are not so sure about that: if your father were still alive, this would have worked with him, his love for you bigger than any political strategy. When it comes to your husband you wouldn’t bet a copper coin that he’d put your life above this war. Granted, he has to consider all the families connected to your House by a bond of loyalty: through marriage they have become his subject, but you know that many noblemen hold no trust for your husband, nor love and him not trying to rescue you would be ill considered, something that the one who wants to become King in the North can’t risk. If there is going to be a North to govern, you think with sadness.
For what little you had managed to see, the brothers are ruthless and burn with a fire impossible to quench, their army is already huge, with your ransom they’ll be able to buy more mercenaries, even from Essos, and they have two dragons. You know your people are strong, although you are aware of your numbers: how will the North protect its freedom, when it’s already dwarfed the way it is? You are happy both your mother and father are dead, they will not have to see the capitulation of their home.
You start pacing again, your brain incapable of coming up with a plan of escape. You know this castle, the brothers have chosen wisely a fortress no one could escape from. What unnerves you is that there’s always a great number of people around, even if you managed to leave your room, would you have the chance to disappear?
The door opens with a bang and you stay still, rooted on the spot as the brute with mismatched eyes enters, tray in hand. He stares at the uneaten food and spits on the ground
“Nothing is good enough for you, right?”
“What I find pleasing is not of your concern. You might leave and take the tray with you, I am not hungry” you say, staring at him with disdain
“You are not hungry, eh? - he advances angrily, hand on his belt - I’ll make sure you’ll be after I am done with you, whore!”.
He launches at you and you retreat to dash on the right, your hand going for the bucket at the foot of the bed. You hand curls around the handle; with a swift move you pull it over your head and down again, to start hitting the brute with it, savagely, on the face, deaf to the sound of his bones breaking, possessed by a rage that was a long time coming, until he falls on your bed and you snatch his small sword, ready to gut him with a primal scream.
Strong arms curl around your frame, forcing your body up in the air, away from your enemy and you scream your rage trying to wriggle out of the impossibly strong hold while guards pour in, taking the injured man with them
“Nobody moves” comes from behind you and you realize that’s Prince Aemond the one keeping you still.
You can see the men freeze on the spot, eyes on your captor and you. Even your attacker stares at the one eyed prince with fear in his swollen eyes
“They are not to be touched, have I made myself clear? They are worth every damned hair on their head” he says coldly and his men silently agree.
After they leave, Aemond deposits your feet on the ground. Delicately, but with a steely hand around your wrist, he forces you to surrender your stolen weapon. You stare at him pissed and he looks equally angry
“It won’t happen again” he says, lilac eye cold and you can’t stop staring
“It wouldn’t be the first time” you confess.
His only eye hardens even more and both his hands curl into tight fist
“Which one of my men?”
“No, none of them - you try to say calmly under his scrutinizing gaze - it happened before you kidnapped me”.
If it’s possible, his whole posture becomes even more tight, a flash of anger on his face he can barely hide.
“I have forgotten how good it feels when you can fight back”.
Unexpectedly this wins you a smile, not bright enough to see his teeth, but his feature softens with it, his eye a fraction warmer.
“My men tell me you refuse to eat”
“How am I supposed to feel hunger, when all I can see are those brick walls? I wish to bathe and to breathe some fresh air, that’s what I desire, not food”.
Prince Aemond stares at you, taking your form in as if he is evaluating something, a soft hmm escaping his shapely lips. You do look like you need a bath even though you managed to wash most of the grime off you.
“Will you eat if I manage to fulfill your wishes?” he says
“Will you?” you are incredulous
“On my honor” he says
“Then I will” and you try not to sound giddy but you feel a small smile on your lips.
Against all your expectations, Prince Aemond takes your hand and kisses it gently, like a nobleman in court would, before stiffly leaving you with your food.
You cradle your hand against your breasts, feeling a warmness that should have no space in your circumstances. It’s only after you have polished the plate, that you realize that Prince Aemond wasn’t wearing those tight braids and his hair were down his shoulders like waves of silk. What are you supposed to do with this information?
Everythig taglist: @hightowhxre
Aemond taglist: @phantoms-main-blog
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bohemian-nights · 1 year
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Arlī(Anew) Chapter 9
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Word Count: ~10,044
Rating: 18+
Warnings⚠️: Uncle/niece incest; violence; blood
Description: Envy is a disease that festers. Rotting the mind like a wound that was never tended to. Becoming gangrenous as it spreads throughout the body. Infecting each limb and tissue along the way until the body is overwhelmed. Succumbing to the sickness at long last.
AN: This story takes place from episode 5 onward. I’ve changed things up a bit but I’ve kept the timeline intact
The finale.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8
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131 AC- Kings Landing
War is inevitable. Peace does not last forever. It can not. The nature of man will not allow it. The very nature that brings about men’s volatility and propensity for violence. Conflicts always arise. Old grudges are hard to forget. The sins of past wrongs bubbling to the surface. Our emotions can not be so easily pushed to the side. They can only be repressed for so long before we must give in. The cost being too high to not do so.
Nothing in life is without its costs. We are in a constant battle of give and take. When we do not get what we want we become hungry. Greedy for what we feel is ours. Seeking glory and redemption no matter the cost or the burden. Seeking to protect what is rightfully ours. Though the matter of what is yours or mine is a subjective one. Entirely fueled by our boundless wants.
Envy is a disease that festers. Rotting the mind like a wound that was never tended to. Becoming gangrenous as it spreads throughout the body. Infecting each limb and tissue along the way until the body is overwhelmed. Succumbing to the sickness at long last.
Such is the case with war. Those who yearn for power claim it through less-than-honorable means. Harvesting the seeds of discontent that were planted eons ago. The starving man can not help but feast upon its ripe flesh. Curing its weary soul and broken body. What is honor compared to desire? For he is hungry and has long since been denied. Envy makes bastards of us all.
Were envy and greed the reason why it had all come to this? Peacetime at long last ending across the Seven Kingdoms in the wake of Viserys death. Petty grievances and blood feuds perhaps killed it. It had been a slow painful death as was the late kings, but he had found relief in his departure from this mortal plane. That would not be the case for the Kingdom he had left behind.
For the first time since the dreaded bloody reign of Maegor the Cruel war was on the horizon. There was no stopping the not-so-distant sound of swords being drawn, shields clashing upon the battle, of dragons roaring above them, firing down upon them. There was no stopping it all. Not unless something drastic were to happen, but the balance was rapidly tipping in favor of the Warrior. One could only accept their fate and pray to the Gods that they would be spared. War was what was coming for them all.
“We hold twelve full-grown dragons to Rhaenyra’s five.” Daemon's voice reigned around the small council chambers that were already beginning to take on the image of that of a war room.
While the lords and ladies of court celebrated Aegon II's crowning, the prodigal son succeeding his father upon the Iron Throne, his chief supporters were called to the small council's chambers. There was too much to be done to leave it for the morrow. Drinking and feasting would be postponed. Their guests could enjoy the merriment for now. There was too much at stake. Too much that could go wrong. Too much that had already done so.
The king himself had chosen to sit in on the council meeting. His presence at his council was a shock though not necessarily an unwelcome sight. Some measure of duty must have snapped into him from his crowning. The adoration of the people was more sobering than any tonic that Grand Maester Orwyle could concoct and give to Aegon. He was king now. For the first time in Naerys nephew's life, he had a true purpose.
All eyes were upon Daemon as he lectured the council. Even Ser Otto who listened to the Targaryen man with a clenched jaw, but otherwise he too let the Rogue Prince lead on. A certain stilted truce had been erected between the two men. A common goal did wonders for their ability to tolerate the other’s presence though both took to glaring at the other in scorn when his head was turned. It was hard to forget the history that stood between them. Naerys strongly suspected that if given the chance they would strangle each other.
Nonetheless, the Hand of the King had offered Daemon a position upon the small council. His pick between his old position of Master of coin or Master of ships. He could be by the king's side, but it was the wrong king.
He declined both. For accepting any post would mean leaving Dragonstone in the care of Daenys and Aemond for the foreseeable future. Their daughter was more than capable of ruling in his stead. She had been groomed as heir since she was four name days old and by all accounts had the makings of a thoughtful and firm steward.
However, baseless as it may be, Daemon did not fully trust their new good-son with the sole care of their daughter nor did he see him as deserving of the position. The boy had been corrupted by his grandsire. He was not to be trusted. Who knows what he might do if he was not there to watch over her. It was a matter that Naerys would put aside to deal with later. They had more pressing concerns to deal with.
Aegon’s crowning, though successful, had almost been overshadowed by Rhaenys and her dragon. Uninvited guests. Crashing through the Dragonpit with no care for the small folk or its other occupants. It was not them who she spared. No, it was the king himself this time. A warning. He would not be so lucky the next.
“My niece will want to claim Dragonstone for her own.” Naerys recalled how Daemon and Otto spoke with hushed voices earlier that day. The older man walked beside them as they made their way out of the now-ruined Dragonpit back to their wheelhouse. Her husband’s grip on her loosened somewhat, but he had not let her go.
Rhaenys' stunt had shocked him enough not to. He kept her arm and hand resting in his, rubbing circles into the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. She had to confess, it had been a comfort.
The Rogue Prince had tried to grab ahold of Daenys as well, but the girl remained glued at her new husband's side. It was a battle he folded to Aemond with a clenched jaw. There was not much he could do on that front anymore. Their daughter was undoubtedly not just theirs anymore.
Daemon cast his violet gaze down at Naerys. Giving his niece-wife a small smirk as she had shifted where she stood. He knew exactly who would put it into Rhaenyra’s head to make way for Dragonstone. Sixteen years of marriage would tell him if nothing else. Ser Otto no doubt had his suspicions as did the rest of those present. It was more than obvious.
Naerys was the most likely person to aid in her aunt's ill-timed escape. She herself would not correct their assumption. The princess had intended on smuggling Rhaenys out of the Red Keep. Albeit under a different set of circumstances, but she was in part to blame for her flight. They all might have paid the consequences for her sentiments had not the elder princess exercised caution or her husband acted with haste.
Dragonstone had no dragonriders to speak of upon its shores then. They had an urgent need to remedy their seats' present circumstances. It would not do to let such an asset fall into the hands of Rhaenyra and her ilk. The small island presented too much of a temptation, a goldmine for her to turn a blind eye to.
“It is what I would do.” Rhaenyra would grieve for her father that could be sure. Her greatest supporter. The man who put her before all others was lost to his sick bed, but she could not grieve long. With Rhaenys flying for Hide Tide, they could be sure that the older princess would inform her that Dragonstone’s Lord and Lady were presently absent from their keep. “Naturally, she’ll try to install Jaecerys as Prince of Dragonstone.”
Driftmark was only a half-hour flight from Dragonstone. It did not take a military strategist to see that the Black Queen had a chance. A small window of opportunity that she would not be able to miss. Could not miss it. The island after all possessed an edge Rhaenyra desperately needed if she were to turn the odds in her favor.
Four unclaimed dragons called Dragonstone their home. Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost, Cannibal, and Vermithor. The first three were wild, having never been claimed by man, but the last, though not wild, had not been claimed for near on thirty years. For his last rider had been no other than Naerys' great grandsire, the Old King Jaehaerys.
Silverwing would often wander off to coil herself around Vermithor in his cavern beneath Dragonmont where he had taken up residence, but he was a fearsome thing. It would be a difficult endeavor to tame all the dragons wild and old alike though not impossible.
Riders would of course have to be procured. Dragonseeds were not so hard to find. One need only look for their silver heads, or their many shades of violet eyes, or both, upon the shores of Driftmark, Dragonstone, and the alleys of Kings Landing. The Targaryen’s had always been more than generous with their favors and amorous attention upon the small folk of the realm. It was a gift to bear the fruit of a God. Or as close to it as mortally possible.
The capture of Dragonstone could easily turn the tide of the war in Rhaenyra’s favor if she moved quickly. If she had enough sense and foresight to employ its treasures to their fullest extent. The Greens had precious little time before the Realms Delight would gather her strength and strike. They could not lose their advantage to the hands of the would-be queen and her allies.
The castle had been left in the care of Maester Orlys. The kindly old man was as loyal as they came. As were the rest of their household and islands’ occupants, including a small garrison numbering less than five hundred. Daemon had always inspired a certain level of loyalty in his men, from his time as lord commander of the city watch to now. Always rallying their spirits.
Their soldiers would defend the ancient Targaryen seat in their prince and princesses name, but what was their loyalty to the might of a dragon? Or better yet two full-grown dragons? The Blacks would take the island under threat of their queen's house words' reigning true.
Daenys volunteered to journey back to father's seat. She was to be Lady of Dragonstone after him. The island was her home. The young princess would not see it fall into her cousin turned half-good-sister's clutches. She had been born on its smoky shores and she would rule over them when the time came. Why should she not insure its safety?
Her father was needed in the capital and he would not want her mother out of his sight. The two rarely parted from each other. He would not wish for her to defend, but they did not have much choice. Aemond had his mission at Storm's End. As much as she loathed to be parted from her husband so soon after their nuptials, Daenys was well-equipped to handle the issue on her own.
Helaena, who had looked and sounded more than elated at the prospect, extended her own services. “Two dragons are better than one and Dreamfyre is swift as is Moondream.” Neither her good sister's parents nor her brother would allow Daenys to go by herself. The little queen would more than makeup for her brother’s temporary absence.
At any rate, the she-dragons, apart from Daeron's Tesserion, with rider and dragon alike gathering support in Oldtown, were the fastest dragons in their possession. Both were lithe nimble things that would take the new queen and her good-sister to Dragonstone before Rhaenys or Rhaenyra could rally their own dragons and ships to make way for the fortress.
Truth be told, Naerys thought that the young queen was a great deal overwhelmed with her newest occupation. Helaena had always been a girl who preferred the close intimacy and company of those she loved best. Not unlike her good-aunt.
Her ladies, her family, and her non-human companions shined brighter in her violet gaze than all the dazzle of court. She had never taken to the spotlight as her sister or even her now good sister had. The now queen would have made an excellent lord's wife. Somewhere in the Reach or the Westerlands mayhaps.
She would have done well to marry into her mother’s house. In the comfort and safety of Hightowers towering stonewalls. There was much entertainment and less idle tattling to be found outside the barrier erected by her crown. Alas fate had other plans for Helaena.
Although it was done with care, Aemond shot down his sister's assistance. “You are needed here sister. Kings Landing can not be left without its own protection.” In her own words, just as Dragonstone would be better off with two dragons instead of one so would the capital. “I shall journey with my wife.” The pale girl’s eyes lost some of their brilliance, but she conceded with a small nod of her silver head.
The one eyed prince would give Rhaenyra more of a pause than either Daenys or Helaena. She would hesitate to strike Dragonstone with her half brother and his dragon upon its shores. Slow and old Vhagar might be, but she had seen war. She was the largest dragon in the world and though her rider was untested in battle, he was a force to be reckoned upon dragonback with or without a sword in his hand.
Of course his business at Storms’ End could not be delayed. With Daeron away in Oldtown gathering the support of the Reach lords alongside their cousin Lord Ormund it fell down to him to insure an alliance with the Storm Lords. He was to propose a betrothal between one of Lord Borros’ daughters and his younger brother on his behalf.
Time could not be wasted on the onset of war. Aemond could only stay long enough to cement his wife’s position on Dragonstone before taking to the skies for the Baratheon seat. He would only be gone for a few hours, but that would be more than enough time for Rhaenyra to try something if she was alerted of his absence from his Daenys’ side. His wife would have her fathers guards, but Aemond, as men often want to mark their territory, wanted a man of his own with her.
The prince asked his grandsire for leave of Ser Criston. He was a valued friend and mentor. It was clear to all that he trusted the Dornish knight with his own life. He would be up to the task of guarding his little wife while both himself and her parents were away from Dragonstone. Should the need arise he would be able to whisk her away to safety.
A resounding no was the answer to his request. From his goodsire and grandsire and surprisingly Naerys. The first and viewed the knight with the utmost distrust. His wife was prone to agree with him. While she did not think she did not believe him to be a malevolent man as her husband would describe, she did not believe that he would do all in his power to defend her daughter if it came to it.
Thankfully, Ser Otto had need of him. As the new Lord Commander of Aegon’s Kingsguard Ser Criston could not leave the capital. Not while their new king's reign remained tested and the exact whereabouts and plots of their enemies were yet unknown. Aemond was given his uncle Ser Gwayne Hightower instead.
Though he was no Ser Criston he was a worthy and honorable knight. Unlike in the case of the Dornish knight, his regard for his nephew extended to Daenys. He viewed her as her mother’s daughter rather than her fathers. The issue was settled when no objection was given. While it pained him to admit to it, viewing him to be over familiar when it came to her, Naerys knew that her husband trusted him enough to see to their daughters welfare. For a short while at least, Ser Gwayne was safe from Daemon’s suspicion as long as he kept to his person and minded his post.
“Helaena mentioned a beast underneath the floorboards.” Daenys had leaned in to not so subtly whisper to her mother on the walk up the hill where Vhagar and Moondream rested. Apart from Naerys and her husband, who were to see the newlywed’s and the Hightower knight's departure, the rest of their party had gone back to the Red Keep.
The now queen in question had always been a unique child. Insects called to her more than people, even animals. Dragon dreams. A gift to some or rather a curse for others. She was a sweet girl, but it was clear that the Dreams had taken a toll on her.
Giving the appearance of a half-scattered mind. Daenys the Dreamer had been half made they say. Prone to getting lost within the rich fancifulness of her imagination rather than the solid reality that stood in front of her. Her imagination was what ultimately led to House Targaryen’s continued survival. Past the doom and beyond.
“Nyke gaomagon daor pendagon bona ao istan se cause hen skorion massitas? Muñnykeā. Nyke pāsagon ziry istan va moriot meant naejot massigon.” I do not think that you were the cause of what happened mother. I believe it was always meant to happen.
Naerys felt her face heat up as Aemond and Daemon guffawed at Daenys remark. Ser Gwanye could neither speak nor understand Valyrian, but he seemed to infer what had been said when he added his own chortles to the fray. Whatever doubt they had at her part to play in the incident vanquished. If both Daenys and Helaena could see what she had inadvertently caused, there could be no uncertainty.
“Do stop fussing kepa. You look so grim.” Daenys laughed lightly when her father placed a kiss into her curls after she had saddled her dragon. “My husband will see that I am comfortable before he leaves and he won’t be gone very long.” It went without saying that Ser Gwayne would deal with both Daemon and Aemond’s ire should anything happen to the young princess.
Daenys then went to place a kiss upon her mother's cheek as Naerys pulled her in for a hug. Letting out another round of laughter at her mother's tight grip. “Don’t fuse either. I shall see you both soon enough.” The newlyweds and Ser Gwayne, who climbed upon Vhagar’s back with some hesitation after his nephew, were off to Dragonstone.
With both Aemond and Daenys away securing Dragonstone and Storm’s End the present agenda rested on their strengths and allies in relation to Rhaenyra’s. The chief among them being their dragons.
The loss of Meleys was a greater inconvenience than her rider. There was always a danger that came with the opposition gaining an additional dragon, but they held both more dragons and dragonriders than Rhaenyra. They were at the advantage in the skies as Daemon had reminded the council, but he, and Aemond, would hesitate to send either herself or Daenys ride into war. In all likelihood they would not need to.
The Blacks' five dragonriders comprised mainly of the would-be queen's children. They all knew that Rhaenyra, like her uncle and second brother, would be reluctant to send any of her boys into battle unless need demanded it. Jacaerys and Lucerys, who while were more than adequate riders, were learning the commands and capabilities of their beasts as well as themselves. Joffrey's dragon was too small to be ridden into war. Rhaenys would no doubt hesitate to send her granddaughter the Lady Baela into battle as well.
Lady Rhaena had no dragon to speak of. Only three dragon eggs, given to her from one of Syraxes clutches that had all yet to hatch. Though the sweet young lady did pray to the Gods every night that she would be made a dragonrider as her mother the late Lady Laena had been. To join the fold beside her grandmother and elder twin. Naerys had heard that the youngest Lady Strong could seldom be parted with her eggs.
Dragons of course were not the only way to win a war. They were an advantage sure enough, but they were to be the last option on both sides. They brought more danger than they were worth many times over. For when dragons dance, the destruction can be endless.
It could not go without saying that the Rhaenys' escape had left them with little time to execute the Greens' more diplomatic plans. Plans which depended a great deal upon the older princess’s temporary captivity within her guest quarters. It was a setback, but not one that they would not be able to recover from.
Ser Otto had sent a raven to Driftmark for its maester. A man, who in addition to studying as a novice alongside Grand Maester Orwyle many ages past, was a great friend of Naerys' late uncle Ser Vaemond. So much so that he often sought his counsel ahead of that of his own brother. Of course, this tendency to seek guidance in the form of Hide Tide’s maester was helped by him being a blood relation to the Velaryon knight's now widowed lady wife.
When an acolyte takes his vows and forges his chain to become a maester, a degree of impartiality is expected to follow. One’s previous allegiances to their house, their name, and the lands from which they come from must fall to the wayside, but the call of blood is a hard bond to break. He had been shown to hold his lord's brother’s opinions and interests on matters relating to the Driftwood throne. The maester kept council and advised his sons in the wake of their father's untimely end.
Driftmarks maester would have alerted Ser Vaemond’s sons of recent events in the capital upon receiving the hands' letter. A king had been crowned. A king who was sympathetic to their woes. Knowing all too well of the plight of the rightful heir against that of their enemies.
Offering the hand of friendship if needs be. The need only to embrace said friendship and a hand would be lent to place one of Naerys' cousins upon their rightful throne. However, with Rhaenys traveling back to Driftmark they could no longer be so sure that their friends would be able to act on their good faith.
With good weather, the Queen Who Never Was could be back on Driftmarks shores by the day's end. Meleys was older now, but she rose to the task when needed. There could be no doubt that Rhaenys would alert Rhaenyra of the Greens' treachery and treason. Of the danger that would soon be upon her and her sons. Bringing her a worthy ally and a much-needed dragonrider. However, the situation at present was temperamental.
Naerys could not doubt that if she were to transport herself within High Tides' white stone walls she would find a den of discontent. Unease brewing from an unwelcome guest upon its shores. An interloper. Filling up every chamber within the castle. Waiting. Building up dread until the cup would overflow.
What was supposed to be a time of triumph had become a time of mourning for too many reasons to name. They had been made a fool. The sons of House Velaryon. The blood of the seahorse and old Valyria. The rightful heirs of their uncle’s throne. First Ser Vaemond and now they too were being pushed aside. Their pain was being paraded over by a feckless woman and her bastards.
If nothing else, the disquietude should unsettle the Black queen. She was an island surrounded by enemies. It did not occur to her that she had made a mistake coming to Driftmark. She had thought herself safe even with her sole advocate, the formidable Sea Snake lying in his sick bed. She had another that would scare off the monsters for her a thousand leagues away within the Red Keep, but he was dead now. Gone to the seven hells. If Rhaenys did not make it back to her husband's shores in time, Rhaenyra could find herself fighting her own battle within her chosen place of refuge.
A series of what-ifs had overtaken fate. Naerys cousins’ would not speak a word against Rhaenyra and her sons for fear of the king's might and reach, but their silence would only last for so long. They would not forget who made them so low. Never mind if it happened a day ago or ten years.
If Ser Otto’s letter was received before Rhaenys arrival it would only take to gag and bound the would-be queen and her sons. Delivering them to the Red Keep. To Aegon to do with as he pleased. All would be right with the world then. Driftmark returned to its proper heirs. If not, a fight would commence for another day.
“Our support lies heaviest in the south.” Ravens had been sent to houses small and great alike throughout the Seven Kingdoms but had yet to receive replies in mass. It was the early days yet. The lords of Westeros waited to see where the deck would land.
The Riverlands were divided at best. It had always been that way. The support of the Reach and the Westerlands were all but guaranteed. Aemond was dealing with the Stormlands. The North was unlikely to join their cause, but they were unlikely to be of much help to Rhaenyra either.
Winterfell and the lords of the North were a long way away from Driftmark much less Kings Landing and as the Starks' house words do so dutifully remind both friends and foes, winter is coming. With the heavy snows of winter, the journey south would be a long one. The fighting might be down before Lord Cregan Stark ever reached the neck. The Vale was without a doubt lost.
“Perhaps we might send the princess to parlay with Lady Arryn?” The new Master of Coin Ser Tyland suggested, but he backed into himself once Daemon began to glower at him from the opposite side of the small council table. “Or mayhaps a messenger or a raven might be better suited to offer terms of friendship.”
“Jeyne Arryn would sooner see the Prince of Dorne as king than Aegon.” Jeyne Arryn’s blood was Rhaenyra’s. Enmity remained well within the lady’s mind. Her opinion of Daemon remained sour. He was reason enough to side against the Greens. The Rogue Prince had twice done her kin over. Leaving Rhaenyra to fend for herself. Turning his back to her when she needed him most. The business of him marrying his daughter to the son of a traitor would further leave a foul taste in her mouth.
Lady Arryn neither trusted Ser Otto nor Alicent to keep her interests at heart. They had crowned an unworthy man, a usurper, all because he had the luck to be born with the right appendage betwixt his legs. She herself had to contend with countless attempts to unseat her as Lady of the Vale from her own less-than-worthy male relations. If they were to send an envoy it would be a wasted effort.
“We should send an envoy to Hide Tide.” Daemon turned to Ser Otto. “Before we do anything. We might be able to settle things peacefully.” Ser Otto held his tongue though he did narrow his eyes at the Targaryen man's suggestion. “She’s at a disadvantage.” War was a last resort or rather it should be, but for the Hand, Naerys had found that he believed war to be their only option. They were dealing with an unreasonable foe blinded by her emotions and entitlement.
“She has the support of House Velaryon and House Arryn at the least.” More houses were soon to follow. “She is not so weak.” Ser Otto said as his light eyes flitted to the map spread out in front of them. “The princess will not give in so easily.”
Rhaenyra was a proud woman. If she believed herself wrong or denied what was hers she would not give up. From where she stood, damn the laws of men and Gods alike. Her father had seen to such. The Iron Throne was hers. She would not turn her back upon it now. Or ever if she had the means to. She would fight. For as long as she could, but no one fights a war which they could not win.
“We still might reason with my aunt.” Rhaenyra had the support of House Velaryon, but without them, even with her four dragons, she would surely lose. No allies would come to her rescue if the Velaryon’s left her out to dry. Taking away her support would stop the chaos before it began. If they were to take away the Velaryon’s and their fleet, this war could be over by the end of the day.
Rhaenys did not want war herself. Not truly. Not a woman who had sacrificed her own crown near thirty years past to prevent one, but what could they offer her? She sided with Rhaenyra for her granddaughters. For their just due. Naerys did not doubt her aunt's words. Everything she did was for them. They could not offer her eldest granddaughter the crown, but perhaps they might offer Lady Baela Driftmark to rule over in her own right. By all the natural laws in the land, it should be hers.
“Rhaenys has made her decision.” The dowager queen kindly reminded her. Painfully so. The Dragonpit would take weeks to repair from her choice of action. Alicent gave her a soft smile and pulled her brown hand in her pale one before turning to face the rest of the council. “My good daughter has not. We might still reason with Rhaenyra. We offer her fair terms. Jaecerys will be the lord of Driftmark after Lord Corlys if he so wishes.”
It would anger Naerys' cousins, true enough. Though it was a necessary sacrifice for the time being. Surely a future betrothal could smooth things over when the time came to. War was too much of a burden to give into her cousin's demands as honorable as they may be.
“Lucerys a Lordship of his own. Joffrey may become Aegon’s cupbearer or Aemond’s squire at Dragonstone or your own Daemon.” Her husband snorted, throwing his violet gaze at the king's mother. However, he did not say anything against the proposal. Ser Otto looked as if he too wanted to object, but he once again stayed his tongue. The Hand of the King was increasingly becoming outnumbered.
“They all will be welcomed at court.” She gave a pointed look to her father who stiffened in his chair, “and they may keep their titles. On the condition that Rhaenyra journeys to Kings Landing, bends the knee, and swears loyalty to our king.” Alicent turned her eyes toward her son in acknowledgment. Aegon’s violet eyes seemed to liven at the image that his mother painted. “She is Viserys' eldest daughter. Not his son. It is time she recognizes that.” If Naerys' cousin were to give in she would stand as no threat. The once crown princess had bastards for heirs. She was a woman. She was not a threat.
Ser Otto conceded as did the rest of the council. The right course of action dictated it. Diplomacy demanded it. If there was any way to solve this matter civilly then by all means. The dragons may not dance yet. They must first exhaust all of their options before declaring war upon Rhaenyra and her allies. Only then if she rejected their offer of a truce. Their offer of kinship, would they have no choice, but to pursue less than peaceful measures.
It had been ten odd years since Naerys had last stepped foot onto Driftmarks shores. The castle remained unchanged. She wondered if it was even a possibility that it ever could. Some things were stuck within the ages. Remaining a static fixture in our memory. Hide Tide stood as a reminder of youth. An echo of a distant past. Of the joy and naivety she had in it.
The people, however, were a different story. Hide Tides' occupants were more changed than the castle in which they resided. Very much so. Seasons came and went and they were weathered by the passing storms of time. Weary from the days that stained and left their mark upon their skin and in their eyes. The hauntings of past lives and lost chances.
Rhaenys and to Naerys' shock her uncle Lord Corlys were waiting for them. Her mother's eldest brother's umber complexion looked dull in the dusk from his sickness. His neck had been wrapped in gauze. He should be resting, but the man had become especially obstinate in old age. No warm words of welcome were exchanged between the two factions upon the beach where they had landed Caraxes and Silverwing. The only greeting they received were weary looks. Her aunt would not fully meet her eye as she looked on ahead past them.
“Where is Princess Rhaenyra?” Ser Otto was the first to speak. His raspy voice sounded out over the crashing waves. Naerys and her uncle-husband were well suited to offer terms of alliance to Rhaenyra, but the older man had insisted upon journeying with them. His trust in Daemon was fickle at best and Naerys relationship with her cousin was less than idyllic. If they were to choose diplomacy, the occasion called for a steady hand to guide them which is what the Hightower man believed himself to be.
Lord Corlys lips parted in reply, but then there was no need to supply an answer. A roaring could be heard above them. Syrax’s. On top of the golden she-dragon sat Rhaenyra wearing her fathers crown.
Rhaenys was not the only one to have made a half-mad escape from the Red Keep during Aegon’s coronation. Ser Errk had turned his white cloak. At least in service of the new king. The last anyone had seen of him was brother seeing him off Blackwater Bay aboard a ship to Driftmark no doubt. To his queen. He had taken Viserys crown with him that now rested on top of the Black queen's white head. If Rhaenyra could not have the crown of the conqueror, her fathers would have to do.
“I wish to speak to my uncle.” Rhaenyra kept her eyes trained upon Daemon as she climbed off her dragon to face them. Only briefly strained her lilac gaze down at Naerys. She looked the part of queen. Had made her entrance as such, but she was ever herself. Queendom would only make her more so. “Alone.”
Daemon made to answer her. Something crude judging by the smirk upon his pale brow, but Naerys beat him to it. “Go with her kepus.” She met her cousin's narrowed stare with one of her own. A crown upon Rhaenyra’s head would not change her. Her father’s death would not bring her humility, but their was something upon her pallid visage that did show a chink in her queenly armor. She would not deny her closure. Let this be the last of it.
Daemon did not listen to his niece-wife. “My wife can wait in the hall dear niece.” He sneered at the realms delight as he grabbed Naerys small hand. Her husband pulled her along towards the castle without sparing the Black Queen a second glance. Rhaenyra fummed, but she held her head high when she saw her cousins’ dark amethyst eyes turning back to glimpse at her.
The rest of their party attempted to follow them, but guards blocked a positively vexed Ser Otto and his men from doing so. The Lord and Lady of Driftmark scampered off when they were back behind the safety of their stone walls.
They came to a standstill at the heavy oak doors leading to her uncle’s Great Hall. Her husband placed a kiss on her brown forehead smoothing back her silver coils before pushing her towards a bench outside of the hall. Her cousin took care to slam the door shut after Daemon went through.
Naerys did not know how long she remained sitting on that bench. Time seemed to become immaterial.There was nothing to mark it by. She did not worry herself with her thoughts. There wasn’t much Rhaenyra could do or say that would move her husband. There was no harm in leaving the two alone. Good may in fact come from it.
Her cousin cherished their uncle’s opinion above all. She was obsessed with it. If anyone could make her see sense it would be he. She heard no noises coming from behind those shut doors. Not until she heard a loud bang. Dread made her pull open the door. The scene she walked into was a half-surprise.
Daemon and Rhaenyra stood on opposite sides of the long table which occupied the center of the room. Much like a map of the Seven Kingdoms was spread out on top of it. Naerys' husband was leaning over a chair. Seemingly trying to control his breathing. Her cousin stood pacing around her side of the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Whatever queenly veneer she had slipped out from her.
“Leave us.” Rhaenyra turned her head to hiss at her. For a brief moment, Naerys was transported back sixteen years. Back to Dragonstones shores. A distant memory of her happening upon them when she went to fetch a book she left in the painted table’s chamber. She had told her the same then.
Naerys was frozen. Trapped in time. Mayhaps people change less than the chambers and halls in which they take up, but she wasn’t a girl anymore. She herself needed reminding of that. Her husband's voice snapped her back to the present.
“Do not listen to her little one.” Daemon breathed harder than he would have had he been sparing with his men around their training yard. He held out a white hand for her to take. His face had lost what little color it had. still leaning over the chair as he motioned her to him “Come here my sweet girl.” He kissed her forehead again before burying his face into the top of her coils when she had reached him. Drinking her in. He seemed to calm somewhat. “That’s a good girl.”
“Kepus.” Naerys tried to begin, but he only buried his head into her neck. The princess sighed as she brought a hand to run through his silver strands. Grazing the scars that ran down his neck. She would let herself bring him comfort once more. Questions on what had upset him could wait for when they were behind the safety of their own walls back at Dragonstone.
“Sweet kind Naerys, you’ve done everything that’s been expected of you.” Her face had turned sour. As if she had bitten into a lemon cake made without sugar. She spoke through clenched teeth. It was a wonder how they did not break from the strain. Her lips screwed up into a frown. “Everything apart from giving our uncle sons. I guess your womb is where it all comes to rot. You were never worthy of that.”
“You are a placeholder.” Rhaenyra continued on. Hurling half-truths in rapid succession. Her mask was put back into place. The appearance of ease. Of self-surety, but her eyes, the eyes always tell. Frustration. Neither darkness nor truth, but her displeasure was unrestrained. “That’s all you really are Naerys. My replacement. He couldn’t have me.” She would never let her forget that. My father wouldn’t allow it, so he took you.”
Why was she still here then? There was no need to have her still. If she had overstayed her welcome there was nothing tying him to her. Apart from what her dear cousin did not want to name. Daemon loved her. He was not an easy man, but she pleased him. She was sorry for it. Naerys pleased him beyond measure and that was what haunted the would-be queen. She made him happy as he did her. It was unexpected, but she would not feel ashamed for it.
“Rhaenyra, dear niece I couldn’t have your father.” Daemon let out a snigger that resounded around the room. No longer leaning upon Naerys to stand. while placing a hand to stroke down her arm. “We could have been each other’s everything had circumstances been different.”
Rhaenyra blanched at their uncle's words. Her thin mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish. “I even pictured Viserys in your place on occasion when we fucked. Naerys was the first time I hadn’t the need to.” Rhaenyra collapsed into a nearby chair. Naerys herself felt as if she too might collapse at her husband's admission had he not held her up rubbing circles into her back to calm her.
“You’ve bewitched him!” Naerys could not help but laugh at the utter ridiculousness of it. She had no tricks up her sleeve. No wiles which to capture him by. She had been a girl ten and five when she had married Daemon. Whatever she had done to make her husband care for her she had done unknowingly. One could not take what was freely given.
The anger came then in Rhaenyra’s pale glower. A frown dropped across her brow as her eyes darkened. A spark. Lit by scorn. By rejection. “Do not take it as a compliment dear cousin.” She spat the next words at her. Leaning over her chair to do so.
“I chose her.” He removed himself from his wife’s side to stride over to where Rhaenyra sat. “She does not know her power over me. She does not know she wields such a thing.” Rhaenyra sank further into her chair at her uncle's approaching form. She recalled the last time she had stoked his temper. Her dress's neckline covered the evidence of it. “Naerys did not climb into my bed in the middle of the night to seduce me away from you.” It had never been about her. “Have you actually ever loved anyone Rhaenyra?”
He came to a stop to bend down to meet her cousin's eye, but the woman avoided him. Taking to staring at Naerys instead, before Daemon yanked her head to face him. His eyes were grim. “I have already told you that if you had her you would understand. She’s given me more than I deserve.”
He reached out to take her wrist in his hold. Her cousin struggled against his strength, but he only tightened his grip. “She would have given me a son, but what good is a son without her?” Rhaenyra wasted no time in snatching away her hand when Daemon released his grasp. “I admit I am a selfish man, but I would do everything for her.”
“Nyke sorry ziry gaomagon ao.” I am sorry he used you. Naerys spoke out. Having to take a breath to steady herself. Both sets of pale violet eyes turned to face her. “Nyke sorry syt bona.” I am sorry for that. Her cousin was a victim in her own way. That could not be denied. Her husband had greatly misused Rhaenyra. He had used and discarded her when he had seen fit. More than either suspected. She knew her uncle. He would never apologize for it.
“Yn nyke emagon dōrī ōdrikagon ao.” But I have never hurt you. She had not made him do the things he had. Daemon was his own person and he had chosen to bend to her. He chose her own on his own violation. He had strung her cousin along, but Naerys was not the cause of it. The Rogue Prince had started his games long before her husband had set his gaze upon her.
“Nyke emagon dōrī jeldan ao ōdrikagon.” I have never wished you harm. Despite everything she had done to her to the ones she loved, Naerys could only feel pity for her rather than true contempt. Tried as she might to rid herself of the sentiment she could not hate her. To do that would mean she resented her. Rhaenyra had nothing of value that she wanted except for her surrender.
“Ziry does daor emagon naejot mōris bisa ñuhoso.” It does not have to end this way. Honey words. The call to kinship. The Lady of Dragonstone could not forget why they were here in the first place. Peace. It was for peace. It was up to the would-be-queen. They could avoid the destruction of their house. If she bent the knee to Aegon and gave up her claim to the Seven Kingdoms. She could live a life here among House Velaryon. Make her court there or wherever she wished. “Ao kostagon sagon dāez Rhaenyra.” You may be free Rhaenyra.
For all her posturing, Rhaenyra was not a warrior queen. She rode a dragon, but she was no Visenya. She was not even Queen Rhaena. She was a princess of leisure. Preferring the comforts of court and its admirer’s than the endless toil of battle. She was not a political woman either. She was no more suited for war than she was to sit upon the Iron Throne after she waged it and paid the price in blood she did not have.
Rhaenyra glared at her. A shadow blotted her face. She sensed her pity and she did not want it. Pride. It would keep her cousin from doing what was right. Her conceit would not fall today. It would be her undoing.
“You are considerate to try little one, but Rhaenyra is just as mad as her father.” Daemon removed himself from looming over the Black Queen, sauntering over back to Naerys. “Believing in dreams.” Letting out a chortle at her cousin's sullen expression. “Even if that prophecy my brother obsessed over is true, we are all the conqueror’s blood. It could mean any one of us. In case you have forgotten, my wife has given me a child. My blood, my grandson shall sit upon the Iron Throne.”
He grabbed her hand before Naerys could process the meaning of her uncle's words. So much had been said she felt as if she was being thrown from one revelation to the next. Barely keeping a hold onto her head. “If all you wish is to talk of is riddles, then there is nothing left to discuss.”
Daemon gestured to the Dark Sister at his side.“I could end it all here. I’d be doing the realm a favor but for the love I bore your father. I spare you this kindness. Let it be my last.” He left the chamber doors wide open as they made their exit. Storming out the castle at double the rate which they had entered into the halls of High Tide.
“You shall do as you please Lord Hand.” Daemon snarled as they passed Ser Otto. He had been proven right. The Hightower man’s eyes gleamed beneath his solemn face as he gave the signal to his men to move out. Naerys' husband helped her onto Silverwing before mounting Caraxes who was just as tempestuous as he rider. They took flight for their smoky shores without another word exchanged.
Dragonstone was quiet when they arrived back. Their welcoming party consisted of Maester Orlys and a couple of servants. The genial old maester informed them that Aemond had not yet returned back from Storms End. Daenys had retired to their new apartments in the Sea Dragon Tower far enough away from her parents in the Stone Drum.
That did not stop Daemon from ordering a servant to fetch Aemond as soon as he arrived so that he may enlighten him of the outcome of his mission. “It can wait kepus.” Naerys uncle’s mood remained foul, but that did not mean that he needed to bother the boy. It would be well past a decent hour whenever he and Vhagar landed. Whatever business he had with their good son could wait until the morrow.
Both he and their daughter deserved the night to themselves. He did not argue with her, but being reminded of their daughter's recent nuptials seemed to set him off further. Leading him to march up to their chambers while whispering curses under his breath.
Naerys could recollect that Daemon had kept her in their bed for a week after they had wed. He had not even loved her then. Of course love had very little to do with attraction. “I believe I have broken you.” He had laughed then when she frowned in confusion as she pulled slightly off his chest after their lovemaking.
She had been mostly frightened of him and the emotions he invoked in her. Emotions he likely shared. “Issa iā sȳz run dōna riña.” It is a good thing, sweet girl. He pulled her back down to lay her on top of him, lining her heat up again with his hardening member. Bringing the back of his rough hand up to caress her face. “Pāsan emā pryjatan nyke tolī.” I believe you have broken me too.
Naerys called for a bath to be brought for their chambers. It had been a long day. The first of many to come. They could worry about what would happen in the coming weeks tomorrow. For now, they needed to rest. They would be no good in the agitated state they were in.
The steaming water calmed their nerves. They sat in quiet contemplation. Daemon had taken to pulling her onto his lap after they had finished bathing the grime of the day off of each other. Resting his chin on top of her head. Stroking a warm hand up and down her bare arm while the other took her hand in his to play with her fingers. Naerys closed her eyes daydreaming of a not-so-distant future.
“It shall be nice to have children running around here again.” Daemon hummed in reply kissing her forehead. Naerys recalled that even in the darkest days when she was laid up in bed the little patter of Daenys feet and her laughter bouncing off their walls had been the most blessed sounds she heard. It had kept her sane in spite of her failures. “Future kings I suppose.” She would not pressure him for an explanation, it would come naturally.
“Aegon is not worthy to sit upon the throne.” Her husband looked at her as if it was obvious as she turned her gaze up to him. He was right about Aegon himself, but their nephew's line did not end with himself.
“Aegon has sons.” Jaehaerys and Maelor. Sweet little cherubs. They held their mothers' temperament rather than the impudence of their father. With the proper training, Jaehaerys could be an honorable heir. “Our nephew is healthy.” Their king was a lustful drunkard, but he otherwise was in perfect health.
“Men die every day as do children, especially in war.” Daemon breathed into the shell of his niece-wife’s ear. “In any case, they would need a regency.” It would never come to that. They both knew it. The lords of Westeros would rather seat a grown man upon the throne than boys even in peacetime. It was why during the Great Council Ser Laenor was passed over in favor of Viserys claim. “We would need a strong king to lead us.”
Aemond. He was next in line and conveniently married to their daughter. An overstep that Ser Otto and Alicent had missed in their haste to secure Dragonstone for themselves. An advantageous position for an ambitious man. For a second son.
“As well as a strong Hand to lead our king.” Her husband let out a chortle at her musings. Aemond no more liked his new good father than Daemon liked his good-son, but he was not too fond of his grandsire either.
Daenys would no doubt convince her husband who was besotted with his little wife that her father would make an excellent hand should it come to it. Naerys did not wish for her daughter to find herself in the precarious position of queendom, but our fate is rarely within our control. The Gods have the final say.
“Viserys was a weak man little one.” He sighed into her hair. “I will not let my affection for him blind me to his faults.” More than brotherly love by his own admittance. Or rather more than brotherly worship. It had been an obsession. “He is the reason why we find ourselves in this mess. My brother was never meant to sit upon that damned throne. He let vipers rule his court for him.” Daemon would not allow the same mistake to happen twice.
“From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.” The riddle. The one that had caused her husband to spiral before she arrived. Daemon let out a snort. “The conqueror’s blood. My brother thought it referred to his line as does Rhaenyra.” Presumptuous given that neither he nor Rhaenyra were the only ones with the blood of the man who united the Seven Kingdoms running through his veins. The folly of their house. A lack of hubris. “It could just as easily be ours.” Their blood upon the Iron Throne. A call to right the past wrongs. The idea was too great to ignore.
“Ziry dōrī ivestretan issa.” He never told me. Daemon took to gazing at the flames from their chamber’s fire. Its light cast shadows across his pale face. He squeezed her hand. Bringing it to his lips to place a kiss upon the back of it absentmindedly. Giving her a half smile. “Hae baseless hae ziry istan ziry dōrī ivestretan issa se nyke istan zȳhon dārilaros.” As baseless as it was. He never told me and I was his heir. Dreams were not always so baseless. Naerys wondered if her uncle truly believed his own words. Surely he could not. His face was too troubled for him to believe it was pure conjecture.
A knock sounded at the door. Daemon barked at the poor soul on the other side of their door to bother them in the morrow, but the interruption came with urgency. Aemond had arrived back worse for wear. Rambling. His Hightower uncle Ser Gwayne had been the one to greet him. Whatever condition the young Targaryen Prince returned in had stoked his uncles’ distaste. The two quickly found themselves in a shouting match within the Painted Tables Chamber.
Daenys was called for and she had tried her best to diffuse the situation, but she could not make sense of it and had descended into her own mutterings. They did not need to be told twice when their daughter was in great distress. Daemon Hastily jumped from the bath helping his wife dress before grabbing Dark Sister. The two bound for their map rooms chambers across the Stone Drum that remained eerily muted.
The reason for Ser Gwayne's repulsion and their daughter's distress was apparent to the naked eye when they entered the chamber. “What have you done boy?” Aemond was soaked to the bone. Half drowned was more like it. Drenched by rain from the Stormlands and something darker. Crimson specks scattered across his face and into his long silver strands. He paced the room running his hands down his face while his young wife was comforted by her lady’s maid. Ser Gwayne stood.
“I was owed an eye.” His expression, red with irritation and rage, was as wild as the rest of him. Turning to face his good-fathers assessment. Rancor had clouded his judgment. The fury of a vengeful God. Or rather a young man who thought himself such. “The debt has been paid nuncle.” At the cost of their lives.
“Lucerys was there.” Ser Gwayne supplied with his hand still furiously rubbing his temples. Bringing up the other to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Delivering a message from his mother. He had left. The boy had left, but he chased him down.”
“I was owed an eye!” Aemond repeated. Daenys tried to go to him, but her mother held her back. Pulling her daughter's head to her side. Petting her silver strands like she did to soothe her as a girl. The young princess had worked herself into a frenzy. “I had every right—”
“Were you owed his life as well?” Naerys' husband met the younger man’s wroth with his own cold fury. The boy backed down some. Glancing at Dark Sister strapped to his good-fathers person. Aemond played the part of a God Daemon was every bit a malevolent Valyrian God of old.
“Aemond did what he thought was necessary kepa.” Only Daenys came to her husband’s aid. Breaking free of her mother's hold. The young girl put her hand in his. Her honey face was pale and her violet eyes were red-rimmed. The first blush of a new bride was gone.
Aemond had the veracious nature of a man of his house. Feed by the fire of youth. He did not know how to control his temper. Rash anger rather than reason Daenys had gotten her first taste of the violent passions that a man such as her husband possessed. A Targaryen man in his prime. Naerys herself had married one. He had mellowed over the years, but sleeping dragons do not lie dormant forever.
“He was her son.” Aemond went rigid at Naerys' chiding. Not expecting his good-mother's reprimand. It was as if his mother was in the room with him and not in her chambers in the Hands Tower oblivious to what he had done. “Rhaenyra would gladly die for any of her children.” Her cousin was many things, but she was a mother above all else. Naerys knew what a mother's love could do.
“As would I! As would your mother!” He was a boy beyond his depth. He was not a mother. He did not understand the depth of that bond. To carry and give birth to a child only to have him snatched away from you. He could not know. His half-sister would repay them in kind ten times over.
“A son for a son. That is what she will want. Do you have any idea of what you have done you half-blind fool?” It was Naerys who had to rest her hand upon her husband to calm him. To stop him from throttling their good-son. “Aōha mandia jāhor emagon aōha bartos valonqar!” Your sister will have your head boy! The Lady of Dragonstone thanked the Gods Daemon had the good sense not to reach for Dark Sister.
Understanding that her new husband provoked her father's ire and that nothing good could come from staying in his company, Daenys dragged Aemond to their apartments. Putting some distance between the two Targaryen men was for the best. Ser Gwayne rushed from the chamber to the rookery to inform his father and sister of the events that had unfolded tonight.
Rhaenyra would not stop until she had her fill. Her feast upon their innards. Until they felt as she did. They would know her pain. A mother's broken heart. The sound of Valyrian steel slicing through bone and flesh alike played in Naerys head. Dragons flames. Burning everything in their path. Colliding with each other in a crimson blaze beneath ash and ruin. Only blood would pay for what was spilled today. The price of vengeance.
Ao3 Link:
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Text
The Bezzle excerpt (Part II)
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I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me next in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!
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Today, I'm bringing you part two of this week's serialized excerpt from The Bezzle, my new Martin Hench high-tech crime revenge thriller:
https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle
Though most of the scams that Hench – a two-fisted forensic accountant specializing in Silicon Valley skullduggery – goes after in The Bezzle have a strong tech component, this excerpt concerns a pre-digital scam: music royalty theft.
This is a subject that I got really deep into when researching and writing 2022's Chokepoint Capitalism – a manifesto for fixing creative labor markets:
https://chokepointcapitalism.com/
My co-author on that book is Rebecca Giblin, who also happens to be one of the world's leading experts in "copyright termination" – the legal right of creative workers to claw back any rights they signed over after 35 years:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/
This was enshrined in the 1976 Copyright Act, and has largely languished in obscurity since then, though recent years have seen creators of all kinds getting their rights back through termination – the authors of The Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley High Books, Stephen King, and George Clinton, to name a few. The estates of the core team at Marvel Comics, including Stan Lee, just settled a case that might have let them take the rights to all those characters back from Disney:
https://www.thewrap.com/marvel-settles-spiderman-lawsuit-steve-ditko/
Copyright termination is a powerful tonic to the bargaining disparities between creative workers. A creative worker who signs a bad contract at the start of their career can – if they choose – tear that contract up 35 years later and demand a better one.
Turning this into a plot-point in The Bezzle is the kind of thing that I love about this series – the ability to take important, obscure, technical aspects of how the world works and turn them into high-stakes technothriller storylines that bring them to the audience they deserve.
If you signed something away 35 years ago and you want to get it back, try Rights Back, an automated termination of tranfer tool co-developed by Creative Commons and Authors Alliance (whose advisory board I volunteer on):
https://rightsback.org/
All right, onto today's installment. Here's part one, published on Saturday:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease
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It was on one of those drives where Stefon learned about copyright termination. It was 2011, and NPR was doing a story on the 1976 Copyright Act, passed the same year that was on the bottom of the document Chuy forged.
Under the ’76 act, artists acquired a “termination right”—­ that is, the power to cancel any copyright assignment after thirty-­five years, even if they signed a contract promising to sign away their rights forever and a day (or until the copyright ran out, which was nearly the same thing).
Listening to a smart, assured lady law professor from UC Berkeley explaining how this termination thing worked, Stefon got a wild idea. He pulled over and found a stub of a pencil and the back of a parking-­ticket envelope and wrote down the professor’s name when it was repeated at the end of the program. The next day he went to the Inglewood Public Library and got a reference librarian to teach him how to look up a UC Berkeley email address and he sent an email to the professor asking how he could terminate his copyright assignment.
He was pretty sure she wasn’t going to answer him, but she did, in less than a day. He got the email on his son’s smartphone and the boy helped him send a reply asking if he could call her. One thing led to another and two weeks later, he’d filed the paperwork with the U.S. Copyright Office, along with a check for one hundred dollars.
Time passed, and Stefon mostly forgot about his paperwork adventure with the Copyright Office, though every now and again he’d remember, think about that hundred dollars, and shake his head. Then, nearly a year later, there it was, in his mailbox: a letter saying that his copyright assignment had been canceled and his copyrights were his again. There was also a copy of a letter that had been sent to Chuy, explaining the same thing.
Stefon knew a lawyer—­well, almost a lawyer, an ex–­trumpet player who became a paralegal after one time subbing for Sly Stone’s usual guy, and then never getting another gig that good. He invited Jamal over for dinner and cooked his best pot roast and served it with good whiskey and then Jamal agreed to send a letter to Inglewood Jams, informing them that Chuy no longer controlled his copyrights and they had to deal with him direct from now on.
Stefon hand-­delivered the letter the next day, wearing his good suit for reasons he couldn’t explain. The receptionist took it without a blink. He waited.
“Thank you,” she said, pointedly, glancing at the door.
“I can wait,” he said.
“For what?” She reminded him of his boy’s girlfriend, a sophomore a year younger than him. Both women projected a fierce message that they were done with everyone’s shit, especially shit from men, especially old men. He chose his words carefully.
“I don’t know, honestly.” He smiled shyly. He was a good-­looking man, still. That smile had once beamed out of televisions all over America, from the Soul Train stage. “But ma’am, begging your pardon, that letter is about my music, which you all sell here. You sell a lot of it, and I want to talk that over with whoever is in charge of that business.”
She let down her guard by one minute increment. “You’ll want Mr. Gounder,” she said. “He’s not in today. Give me your phone number, I’ll have him call.”
He did, but Mr. Gounder didn’t call. He called back two days later, and the day after that, and the following Monday, and then he went back to the office. The receptionist who reminded him of his son’s girlfriend gave him a shocked look.
“Hello,” he said, and tried out that shy smile. “I wonder if I might see that Mr. Gounder.”
She grew visibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Gounder isn’t in today,” she lied. “I see,” he said. “Will he be in tomorrow?”
“No,” she said.
“The day after?”
“No.” Softer.
“Is that Mr. Gounder of yours ever coming in?”
She sighed. “Mr. Gounder doesn’t want to speak with you, I’m sorry.”
The smile hadn’t worked, so he switched to the look he used to give his bandmates when they wouldn’t cooperate. “Maybe someone can tell me why?”
A door behind her had been open a crack; now it swung wide and a young man came out. He looked Hispanic, with a sharp fade and flashy sneakers, but he didn’t talk like a club kid or a hood rat—­he sounded like a USC law student.
“Sir, if you have a claim you’d like Mr. Gounder to engage with, please have your attorney contact him directly.”
Stefon looked this kid up and down and up, tried and failed to catch the receptionist’s eye, and said, “Maybe I can talk this over with you. Are you someone in charge around here?”
“I’m Xavier Perez. I’m vice president for catalog development here. I don’t deal with legal claims, though. That’s strictly Mr. Gounder’s job. Please have your attorney put your query in writing and Mr. Gounder will be in touch as soon as is ­feasible.”
“I did have a lawyer write him a letter,” Stefon said. “I gave it to this young woman. Mr. Gounder hasn’t been in touch.”
Perez looked at the receptionist. “Did you receive a letter from this gentleman?”
She nodded, still not meeting Stefon’s eye. “I gave it to Mr. Gounder last week.”
Perez grinned, showing a gold tooth, and then, in his white, white voice, said, “There you have it. I’m sure Mr. Gounder will get back in touch with your counsel soon. Thank you for coming in today, Mr.—­”
“Stefon Magner.” Stefon waited a moment, then said, for the first time in many years, “I used to perform under Steve Soul, though.”
Perez nodded briskly. He’d known that. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Magner.” Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared back into his office.
ETA: Here's part three!
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#copyright-termination
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shesjustanothergeek · 7 months
Text
His Love
|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|
Part Twenty-Four
Masterlist of Series
Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.
Author's Note: I hope y'all like this chapter. It's an interesting one. Just remember to stay with me and that everything will be alright. Well, as okay as an ending within this fandom can be. xD Just a quick FYI, this chapter takes place over a few months. Thank you so much for reading!
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Chapter Warnings: violence, blood, technically SA but it's very blurry, the reader is in her revenge era. 
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"You remember too much, my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that? And I said,
where can I put it down?
She said,
When you see these horrible images, why do you stay with them?
Why keep watching? Why not
go away? I was amazed.
Go away where? I said.
This seems to me a good question." - Anne Carson, The Glass Essay.
You fastened the last button of your gown, having already dismissed your maids for the day after your midday meal. It was an easy slip-on dress that didn't require assistance, and they bid you "good day" after nodding their heads once you assured them you would summon them for supper.
The council had adjourned for the day, the meeting ending with your ideas redirected and brushed aside. The Lords only cared for thoughts of war, taxes, and whether the scheduled shipments of Dornish wine had made it unharmed. It was not your first time bringing the impoverished inhabitants of Kings Landing to the table. More than once, you had suggested diverting the crown's frivolous spending habits toward a food program for those in need or gathering an entourage of the castle Maesters to provide medical care for the sick.
Ser Otto hadn't shot your ideas down per se; he did not see them worthy enough of a thought to decline. His priorities lay elsewhere, ensuring his lordlings and courtly allies were well satisfied. He did not need the support of the small folk, for when he supplanted Aegon on the throne, only those willing to die and sacrifice themselves for the inevitable war of succession.
You debated, bringing Viserys to the chambers again, but his health was finally on the mend, and you needn't put more stress on him than he was in.
With the passing of Grand Maester Mellos in the winter, Orwyle took his place. You had nothing against the deceased man other than his treatments. They were popular in the older generations of the Citadel, Orwyle told you, but the younger Maester explained different techniques, herbs, and potions brought over from Essos that he had seen work on Lepers. However, he refused to say the disease out loud. Lepers were only found in the slums of the poorest sections of Westeros, not within the land's nobility, let alone the King himself.
You observed your reflection in the vanity mirror, inhaling a calming breath that deliciously stretched the muscles of your abdomen. Your outfit was simple and purposely so. No pearls sewn into the fabric, no gemstones decorating the bodice. You need not be dripping in opulence as you typically were. For once, you wanted to avoid being seen, or at least not attract any more attention than you would already gather with your presence.
Slipping two golden hoop earrings into your ears, you stood, grabbing the embroidery loom you had asked your maids to get a few days prior. You knew how to sew before it was engrained into your head by your Septa. It was expensive to take the whores dresses to a sewist when you could barely even afford food, so you learned the essential art out of necessity rather than as a hobby like all the other noble women. However, you last picked up a needle and thread nearly three years ago. There were more important things than sewing.
You traveled along the carpeted halls of the Red Keep, your buckled shoes softly thudding over the imported rugs. Your noiseless footfalls soon turned into a light rapping on the red rock steps to the training yard, stopping your movements on the last landing to rest on a chiseled sandstone bench, the circlet and thread placed in your lap.
All that was left now was to wait and be patient, which came naturally. You were a lion flattened within the tall grass, lean muscles rippling as it crept closer and stalked lower, learning the patterns and movements of its prey to know the right moment to pounce.
***
The royal library was something unfrequented by the inhabitants of the Keep save for a few Maesters and Lords. You immensely enjoyed the silence of it. The only sounds heard were occasional deep inhaleings when you realized you hadn't taken a breath and the flipping of pages. Ser Arryk sat at a simple carved wooden table between the aisles of tomes, polishing his longsword as you rested against a cushioned window seat with a book.
It was just past high noon, and your stomach was full of soft cheeses, meats, and pastries after your luncheon with Helaena. It was an excellent start to your day and left an elated feeling in your stomach as you finished your chapter on Constitutional Laws of The Crown, your mind thoroughly bored with the plain prose of the text.
Your sworn shield turned to face you at the light sound of your book closing, doing one last swipe of cloth to metal as he put his sword in its sheath.
"You are dismissed for the day, Ser Arryk," you announced in silence. He stared, his hazelnut brows furrowed in confusion. "Ser Cargyll, I am giving you the afternoon to yourself. Take it."
The knight was unsure what to do, stunned by his unusual dismissal. He had nothing else planned. His days were filled endlessly with protecting the Princess, forever by her side and only away when it was time to rest. Arryk was her sworn protector and was required to be in her presence to do that. She couldn't dismiss him... Could she?
"If it will ease your conscious, Ser, I will be in the training yard with countless Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard. Should anything happen to me I am certain a dozen men could handle it," you offered with a crooked smile, hoping to appease his overprotective nature.
Arryk felt his heart skip in his chest, your perfect lips sending him a grin he had seen reserved for familial letters and Princess Helaena. He knew he should protest. Explain that men at arms can be just as dangerous as those with lower morals and values, but his will soften at your sweet expression. Ser Arryk would do anything for you if he saw that same look.
"As you wish, Princess," he acquiesced, standing from his seat with a bow and slight flush hidden under his facial hair.
You hid your smirk until he was no longer in eyesight, rolling your eyes and shaking your head.
That was easier than you expected. Usually, the kingsguardmen would put up a resistance to your desire to be alone. It annoyed you to no end, but you understood it was Arryk's duty, which you felt was unnecessary when you already knew how to defend yourself, but he didn't know. No one did in King's Landing beside the Queen and Ser Criston, and they only heard it when you brought the Prince back. Aegon was the only one who knew the true extent of your capabilities, having regularly attended your late-night training sessions.
A sudden stabbing struck through your chest, your fingers white-knuckling the window seat as your palm began to rub the affected area. You shook your head as if that would rid you of the sting, letting a sharp breath through your nose as you stood. You needed to focus on the task, grunting and ignoring the ache within your ribcage as you trekked to the training grounds.
***
Today, you decided to move from your usual spot on the landing, ensuring your presence was known to all who spared on the packed dirt of the yard. There was another bench of sandstone resting against the wall of the high steps, far enough away that you wouldn't be intruding but close enough to be seen.
Your fingers busied themselves with your current project of a dragon black as coal and piercing green eyes. You were sure the Cannibal would be proud of how you portrayed his likeness once you were finished, holding the taught square of fabric to the blazing sun.
"The training yard is no place for a Lady such as yourself, your Grace," a voice sneered from above.
You finished your last stitch, pulling the dark thread with a harsh tug and placing the circle in your lap. Looking up at the tall Dornish man, you smiled, though it was strained and did not meet your eyes.
"I am not training, Ser Cole. Simply observing. It gets rather boring sitting in council meetings all day." He hummed, glancing at your work before returning to your snarky expression.
"I see. Enjoy your observations. I hope the men are to your liking," Ser Criston said stiffly, bowing his head in farewell.
Your smile dropped as soon as he turned, unable to hide your exasperation for the man. You knew Cole would be here, but you hadn't thought the man brazen to approach you in front of his fellow men. He should've learned you were a woman, not so easily scared. However, the knight's little display did show to be advantageous. Every man had turned to see where he went, each countenance staring at the only person wearing a dress in a sea of trousers.
Your eyes danced across as many as you could, halting as you spotted one you would never forget. Withholding a searing gaze, you smiled slightly at the man, your brown and violet orbs flitting away as you fluttered your lashes. The man whose name you had yet to find out looked back, a smirk on his face as the whites of his teeth showed, bowing before resuming his tasks.
Unable to find the other one, you returned to your sewing. Initially, it was supposed to be your dragon, a love portrait for your sweet Cannibal, but an idea struck you. It would be much more fitting to display Cannibal's prowess. All were beneath him, even his fellow species, and showcasing his strength in the art felt right. Mentally, you mapped out the type of stitching you would use, the colors silver, cream, black, and gold, and the amount of space it would take up on your canvas.
The embroidery would be your finest work, and once finished, you would display it for all to admire.
***
You returned to the same spot you had yesterday, with all your supplies in tow, but today, you would only spend a little time on your craft. You observed silently as men in varying states of dress fought each other. Some sparring with thin silver breastplates and shin guards, others wrestling their brethren into the dirt.
It was chaos from the outside perspective, but you knew the complexities and talent it took to defeat an opponent. You had to keep your mind sharp, vision dancing across your rivals' forms, plan your moves, anticipate theirs, and ensure each limb was out of striking distance, all while trying to win. Despite what many arrogant Lords believed, swordplay and hand-to-hand combat took time to learn.
Ser Criston was nowhere to be seen today, a welcomed absence. Your plan worked around the knight's presence; it was a given he would be with his fellow men, so it was a relief that today he was not.
You stood from the chiseled bench, walking across the training yard to one of the weapons racks. Your fingers danced over each of them, admiring the dull practice blades, daggers, and flails. It had been some time since you saw the weapons in daylight, having been forced by the Queen to train at the hour of the bat. Unable to have a sparing partner, you had neglected swordplay, focusing more on the sharpened cutlass and archery.
It was so dull to be your only opponent, competing with yourself to see how many bullseyes you could get in a row. At one point, you had resorted to running endless laps around the training yard to at least feel some challenge.
"May I help you, your Grace?" A voice rang above the sounds of clashing swords and grunting men.
You traced the peaked line of a blade with the pad of your finger, slowly turning your head to them. Your expression of indifferent self-satisfaction quickly morphed into surprise, seeing the face of the man who held your Aunt's chains. You swiftly schooled your presentation into a practiced, polite one.
"If you would be so kind," you prompted coyly. The flush of anger on your cheeks was easily mistaken as one of abashment as the Gold Cloak took the sword you were admiring. "What is it?" you asked, feigning ignorance.
"It's called a spatha. 'Tis the most common doubled-edged sword among warriors. Swords have different uses, but this one is perfect for thrusting and slashing." The Watchmen punctuated each word with its respective motion, causing you to jump back and clutch your hands to your breasts.
He explained each weapon as if speaking to a tot, showing the intricate contrasts between a flamberge, a claymore, a seax, and a shamshir and then onto daggers. You hung onto every word like a young squire speaking to its higher-ranking knight, smiling, nodding, and giving small gasps and squeals when necessary. You felt like a fool from smiling so hard, your cheeks burning from the strain until you could no longer bear it.
"I never got your name, Ser." Your feminine voice was like the toll of the city bells in the mass of masculine sounds.
"My apologies, my lady," he said, placing the flail in his grasp onto the wooden rack. "Edder Dalt is what my mother named me, but you may call me Ed, your Grace. "
You plastered on your signature smile, looking up at the man as you repeated his name. "It's nice to meet you, ser. You've been such a pleasure speaking to me about weapons, though I fear your knowledge is far greater than my mind is capable of understanding." You dipped your head sheepishly, hiding the pink on your cheekbones.
"Oh, nonsense, Princess, the pleasure is all mine. Not many ladies desire to learn swordsmanship, and that alone is proof enough that you're brighter than you believe." Your lips turned into a grateful pout as you peered at him from under your thick lashes, taking a step closer to him as you saw his eyes flicker downwards.
"You are too kind, Ser Edder." You placed your fist delicately on his bicep, feeling the muscles ripple underneath your touch. "If it would not be trouble, could I hold one of them?" Your hand slid down to his elbow as you took another step closer, gaze wide and pleading.
Edder swallowed, his throat bobbing as he stared with fidgeting eyes, looking as if he was about to flee at any moment. You knew what you were doing. Touching a man who lacked the caress of a woman, a noble one at that, you let your fist slide just out of his reach, your warmth a whisper without your skin.
"Of course, Princess," he answered shakily, focusing on the armaments beside him.
He picked the lightest sword, the type Daemon made you use at the beginning of your training, and you had to bite back a laugh at the thought. Edder gently placed the feather-like hilt in your fist as if it were still in the process of being cast, supporting it underneath. Flashing him with an exultant grin whenever he relinquished his assistance, he stood back, observing with his fists on his waist as you held the instrument he believed would be too heavy.
As if on queue, your arms shook, and the blade nearly fell to the ground but was stopped by Edder's firm grasp.
"Easy there, my Lady. I fear your Father would have my head if you lost a toe," he jested, though his voice had some worry.
You giggled in what you hoped was a delightful sound, not the forced way you felt, the Gold Cloak shuffling behind you to help distribute the weapon's weight.
"Thank you, Ser Edder. Perhaps I overestimated my strength. I am grateful you are here to help me," you chortled bashfully, adjusting the hilt in your palm. "What is this one for again? There are so many," you questioned airily, turning your head to meet his regard.
His nose was mere centimeters away from yours, and the startled gasp you let out was not deceitful, promptly spinning your face away to look forward. You felt the rumble of his laugh against your back, your breath slightly hitching before you crushed your unease like an insect beneath your pretty boot. You would let him think you were just some hoydenish maiden, wide-eyed and in awe of his masculine knowledge, as you released a nervous giggle.
"This is a rapier, Princess. 'Tis the lightest blade one can carry, and even the common person can use it, especially for dueling." You tilted your crown upward in recognition as he continued. "It's used for fast reactions, slicing and thrusting your opponent down before they can reach their weapon."
Edder punctuated each word with a movement, causing diminutive gasps to leave your mouth as he moved forward with it. Though you were toward the back of the training yard, near the enormous stalwart oak doors, you felt like you were being watched like one of the many butterflies Helaena kept within a glass frame, their wings pinned with needles and on display for all to see. You hastily glanced around, trying to find the source of your tension but seeing the men still within their worlds, punching and swinging at one another.
It did not feel right to let someone watch you freely, their gaze penetrating your skull like a pick, and you decided, partially due to pride and the other apprehension, that you would find who they were and give them the same treatment. Hopefully, you scanned the shadows to spot the specific clubbed foot culprit known for this situation. Still, you did not see him, Ser Edder, continuing his monologue about the history of the rapier.
A glint caught your eyesight, the flash of an ornate metal in the afternoon sun as it moved. Aegon stood above you on the steps to the Keep, staring down his nose at the people before him as he nursed a goblet that seemed to be permanently attached to his hand. You felt your heart stop, your stomach falling to your feet, and momentarily forgetting the act you were putting on. Your bright, carefree expression slipped, a scowl taking place as you clenched the sword's hilt.
It had been nearly a fortnight since you last saw the Prince, and it was only in passing as you witnessed him lead a scullery maid into a secluded alcove. You still had to return to that part of the castle since then, even if it meant taking a longer route to your destinations. You would at least expect him to approach you and attempt to make some feeble apology that you wouldn't accept, but he didn't. He won't, you told yourself. Aegon went back to his old ways of drinking, gambling, and whoring without much thought, like it was his second nature, and perhaps it was.
Aegon was a pathetic excuse of a man, and you loathed yourself for feeling an ounce of anything but hatred for him. He didn't deserve your kindness or your love.
Edder noticed your abrupt shift in mood, following your line of sight to see where it was. You felt the man's grip stiffen over your fists, pulling you closer to his body as if it were a means to protect you. You nearly vomited onto the packed dirt below as if you needed his protection-- as if he needed to protect you. You could kill the Gold Cloak here and now if you choose to. You mentally grimaced.
"You needn't pay him mind, Princess," Ser Edder declared into your hair, causing your eye to twitch unconsciously. "He is a lecher, but his tastes tend to lead more toward the Silk Lanes and poor folk of Flea Bottom." This time, you did not hide how you bristled at his words.
"I am from Flea Bottom," you screamed, but your mouth did not move.
Aegon downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, wiping the remnants that escaped from his lips before throwing his brass goblet to the ground. Your mind lurched to go after him, to rub his brow that creased whenever he was upset, to smooth his sheared hair down his head as you held him close to your chest and whispered nothing but praises to him. You shook the thought, replacing your glare with a delicate gaze as you looked at Ser Edder.
***
Ser Edder introduced you to a few of his fellow men at arms in days past, one so happening to be the man that had given you a wolfish grin the day Ser Criston spoke to you. His name was Lorgan Sunderly, and judging by the fleeting moments you spent with him and the others, you could tell he had an appetite similar to Aegon's but knew better than to act on it. Despite being a bastard, you held a title above him, and if he wanted to keep his cock, he would have to think with his head.
You asked them to show some fighting stances since you 'admired their talents,' and each man was delighted to display them for you. Ser Lorgan was more skilled than Edder between the two City Watchmen, but his ego and brash movements blinded him. Lorgan was the Gold Cloak you would run from in the markets, the one your fellow inhabitants at Flea Bottom would fear, while Edder was fair, the one people would pray to be caught by if they were stealing.
Edder suddenly landed a harsh punch to Lorgan's gut that caused all the men around you to leer. They had removed their breastplates and were left only in their underclothes as they sparred in hand-to-hand combat. It seemed to be more of a pissing contest than training, and if your Father knew this was how his former soldiers acted, you were confident he would whip them literally and figuratively.
There was a break within the two grunting men where Lorgan began to taunt Edder, slightly hunched over as he spouted insults about his mother before shifting to you. You waved an ornate fan to the side of your face; your thin, lilac Myrish lace dress cut just above your ankles to release the trapped summer heat.
"Let's say whoever wins this bout gets a kiss from the Princess," Ser Lorgan announced.
You hid your offense at the unconsented offer behind the raising of your surprised brows, looking between the men. Edder glanced back at you, uncertainty written into the hard lines of his pale face.
"If the Princess agrees, then, yes."
You tilt your head to the side, unable to bite back the snarky remark before it forms. "You think yourself worthy of my kiss?"
Ser Lorgan barks a laugh as he circles his opponent, Edder's cheeks a flaming red.
"I do not need to be a champion to know I am worthy of your lips," Lorgan states, a marauding grin on his face. "Though, I do not believe Ed to be the same." You hum in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"I will decide at the end whether one of you shall receive my affections. A lady's kiss is a thing to be treasured, sers, something not to be taken lightly." The arrogant knight guffaws, pretending to lunge forward to tackle Edder.
In the end, Ser Lorgan is victorious, and you press a chaste kiss to his damp cheek, much to Edder's chagrin. You tell the sulking man that he may have lost to Lorgan today, but there is always a possibility he may earn your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as your nails dug crescents into your palms. He brightened exponentially at the prospect before you bid them a good day, heading to your rooms within the heart of the Red Keep.
***
This morning is like any other, waking to the blinding sun through green curtains and the smell of food. You groan at the sudden brightness louder than necessary, catching the attention of Jeyne and Fiorra. They exchange glances but continue with their early-day tasks until one of the maids pulls a chair, its wooden legs screeching across the stone floor.
"Please, my Ladies," you strain out in what you hope is convincing, "my head aches, and noise only worsens it."
Before you know it, Jeyne is perched on the side of your bed, raising the back of her hand to her forehead. "You do not have a fever, Princess. Is it something you ate?"
"Jeyne, please," you beg like a sickly child, wiggling further into the covers.
The oldest maid sighs, brushing the stands of hair that came loose from your sleep style, her touch as gentle as a mother's. "She's having one of her bouts again. Rain must be coming soon," she said to her counterpart, voice much softer. Jeyne rose from the mattress, the quiet rappings of her footfalls becoming near silent as she reached Fiorra. "You know what we must do. Go to the Maester and gather peppermint oil, lemon oil, and her tea. I'll be sure she eats something."
You don't hear a response from Fiorra, assuming she answered wordlessly as the door to your chambers creaks open and takes longer to shut than usual.
"Come now, Princess, you must eat to regain your strength." Jeyns assists you in leaving the bed, putting more weight on her than required as she plops you down at the wooden table to break your fast.
Once your maids ensure you have everything you need to battle what they believe to be a headache, they leave you with a large pitcher of cool water and a matching basin sitting next to it, promising to return at midday to bring you a light repast. You lay underneath the warm blankets of your bed, enjoying their comfort until you're sure the maids won't suddenly be returning. Seeing you dressed in your black attire, dagger strapped to your shin, and hair plaited to the best of your ability would shock them as you peeked through your chamber doors.
It was too premature for Ser Arryk to be at his post, though you knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the silver and white figure would stand guard. You had to be swift. It was the first rotation in daylight, and you needed to take advantage of the momentary disarray of men walking to different parts of the Keep, some finally going to rest after the night's watch, which Ser Lorgan so happened to be coming off of.
The court had yet to rise, leaving the halls nearly barren except for the few servants adorned in red as they bustled about with their duties. You were still on edge, ducking around every corner, looking left, right, and behind in case you caught a pair of unwanted eyes as you made your way to the White Sword Tower.
You knew Lorgan would be exhausted when he returned to his quarters. On more than one occasion when he had the nightwatch, the man complained relentlessly of how tired he was, how he would be unable to sleep properly for the rest of the sennight because of it. At the time, you answered his gripes with comforting words and hands, soothing the brute's unease as you provided an ear to confide in. It was hard not to roll your eyes as the rant continued throughout your time in the training yard, but you kept your annoyance at bay, beaming and nodding like the good little maiden they believed you to be.
Briefly, you glanced down the halls once more before knocking twice on the crudely carved door of the Gold Cloak's barracks. You could hear scuffling, the unhappy timber of a baritone voice through the wooden door, and the click of a lock unturning as you greeted with a scowling Ser Lorgan Sunderly in only his underclothes. His expression soon changed when he realized it was you, brows shooting to his hairline.
"Princess," he said breathlessly, "what brings you to my door?"
You smiled sheepishly, showing him the tiny bundle of cheese, bread, fruit, and boiled eggs in a large cloth. "I thought I might accompany you in breaking your fast. I know you had the night watch and how you detest it."
He gazed down at you with pleasant surprise, his green eyes widening before he stepped away from the door, wordlessly bidding you to enter. You took in the modest surroundings. For some reason, you envisioned a much more chaotic state of living for Lorgan, but nothing was out of place.
There was a small bookshelf on one end of his room, but no tomes lined it, and instead filled with small trinkets, one would collect over time. A small cot on the other end with wrinkled, scratchy woolen sheets tucked underneath the straw mattress, his sword and shield resting at the end of it.
Lorgan pulled out your chair as you placed the food on his small square table, organizing it on the cloth.
"Princess," he started, tentatively pulling a piece of bread from the loaf. "I must confess, I'm surprised to see you here. I considered you a pious maiden who would not venture to these parts of the Keep unchaperoned. Take no offense, my Lady."
You giggled, following his actions by peeling an egg. "Ser Lorgan, you know I am a bastard, correct? My mere existence is a contradiction of piety."
The Gold Cloak hollered a laugh too loud for the small space, causing you to dig into the delicate shell harder than intended, taking a chunk of the white with it. Lorgan pulled a trunk from the side of his room, having only one seat as he grabbed more food from the cloth. A neutral silence blanketed the knight's quarters, the only sound being his loud chewing.
You swallowed the last bit of the yellow-green yolk, the dry, almost powdery contents getting stuck in your throat. Lorgan looked up at you, concerned, wrinkling his brow as you sputtered and coughed.
"Water," you managed to speak, bringing your fist to your chest.
The Gold Cloak jumped from his lower position, running to the pitcher on his bedside table and pouring you a cup. You down the contents quickly, rubbing your throat as the liquid fell from the sides of your lips, unable to swallow all of it.
"Princess? Princess!" Lorgan called, crouching next to you and placing a comforting hand on your upper back. "Breathe. Do not die on me, my Lady, I could not handle the loss of such a beauty within my chambers."
Gods. Now, you were choking, but this time on your vomit at his nauseating words. You sputtered a few more moments as you held down your bile, clearing your throat and wiping at your chin.
"Thank you, Ser Lorgan. I'm unsure what I would've done if you hadn't been here," you blushed, rubbing at the front of your throat in mock pain.
"No need to thank me, my Lady. It is my duty as a member of the City Watch to protect its inhabitants." You graciously smiled, placing your hand on his shoulder as you faced him.
"But please, ser. Had you not acted as swiftly as you did, I would most certainly be meeting the Stranger." Your legs flushed with his, your palm slowly gliding up his neck and onto his cheek. Lorgan stayed crouched below you, a light dusting of pink blooming on his ears as they brushed against his stubble. "You are most worthy of my kisses," you offered timidly, your lashes fluttering as you leaned closer. "If you'll allow me."
The soldier below you grinned rapaciously, his teeth wet and shining in the candlelight. You took his expression as consent, closing the distance with your lips pressed against his. Unable to hold any longer, you ducked away, only for Lorgan to bring his fist to the back of your head, pulling against him again. Your free hand clenched your skirt, your nails nearly piercing through the fabric as you attempted to ground yourself. This is what you wanted. This is what you planned. It was all a means to an end, and it didn't matter how you went about it, but it did not make things more painless.
Ser Lorgan Sunderly was a horrible kisser, his mouth nearly engulfing your own as he moved his tongue against yours. It was nothing like before, and though you would never admit it to him or yourself, you were glad Aegon was your first kiss. You felt no desire churning in your belly with the Watchmen, no heat and insatiable yearning between your legs as you had with the Prince many times before. And so you proceeded into the recesses of your mind, becoming a spectator to your actions as you rose from your seat and to the small cot, Lorgan following your lead.
You placed the burley man onto the straw mattress and straddled his waist, having met no resistance. His hands went to your waist, and you had to refrain from the instinctual reflex to pry them off as he moved your clothed core along his hardening length. You could see yourself above him, your braids still neatly pinned back as Lorgan began to paw at your breasts. You couldn't stop the way you immediately went to move them but quickly disguised your disgust by placing them back on your hips, leaning down to kiss him again.
"I have never done this before," you whispered against his lips, your arm slowly slinking down your curves. "Will you be gentle with me?"
Lorgan's stomach tensed at your words, nodding feverishly as he chased your mouth with his. "Of course, my Lady." He could feel how your hand hiked up your skirt, his soon following along.
"Thank you."
You smiled against his lips, unsheathing your dagger as you plunged it into his chest. You didn't see the blade break through his skin before you stuck it in again, again, and again. The Gold Cloak watched in horror, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he released involuntary grunts, the air leaking from his punctured lungs. Unable to move and protect himself, you quickly removed the knife from his sternum, his blood flinging from the blade and onto his cheek before it found home in his
throat.
Red sprayed onto your face and dress, darkening the fabric further as you yanked it out. Lorgan's hand immediately pressed on the wound, his mouth opening and closing as words fought to break free. You didn't see his face before you, leaking the crimson liquid from his lips as you sliced through the side of his neck, his essence further showering your exposed skin like fresh spring rain.
The flesh easily split for your dagger as you sawed through muscle and tendons, the sound of your labored breathing covering that of slicing meat. You met resistance when you reached his bones, the tiny circular columns attaching his tissue to the rest of his body. Letting out a displeased grunt, you repeated your actions on the other side, snapping his neck from the nerves with your hands.
You stared at the Gold Cloak's lifeless face, his brown hair tangled between your white and crimson knuckled, his once lively green orbs glassy and looking upwards as blood still leaked from his mouth onto the flat pillow. The desire to place his head atop the same battlements Lyra's and Sara's were crossed your mind. A poetic justice, you thought. But that would be too risky, and it was already dangerous enough being within the apartments of the White Sword Tower. Kingsguard lurked around every corner and slept in every bed, and you wouldn't doubt their loyalty to their ruler outweighed any fear a bastard of Daemon Targaryen could inspire.
Surprisingly, guilt did not consume you as you worried it would at your immoral actions. A vindicated sense of triumph welled in its place as you stared at the decapitated corpse of Ser Lorgan Sunderly, smearing the excess blood from your hands onto his tunic.
You knew Lyra and Sara would not be proud of what you did if they were still here, but they weren't. They couldn't feel or think anything; Otto Hightower and the Queen's inaction ensured that. Lorgan's death was on their hands, and if they had not sentenced two innocents to a cruel fate, the Gold Cloaks would still have their brother.
Walking over to the small table, you sat at the same seat as before, pouring water and popping a slice of cheese into your mouth. You needed to use the cloth the food sat on to clean yourself, and there was no chance that you would place the snacks on a dirty, unvarnished table where a man had put god knows what on it. Besides, you needed to wait until the following guard change. Being caught was not an option, so you stayed, ate, made sure not a speck of blood dusted your skin, and cleaned your dagger while the lifeless pile of man soaked his sheets with red.
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Masterlist of Series
I hope you guys liked this chapter. We're getting to the parts of the story where you will either love or hate it. I'm very worked up about this chapter and the next, and that's partially why I had a hard time writing for a little bit. You have no idea how worked up I am about whether y'all will like this, so if you do, pretty please let me know. I live for praise. xD
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allyriadayne · 1 year
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Alicent Hightower and Tyland Lannister, the last two members of the Greens left alive after the death of King Aegon II.
Rhaenyra Targaryen's son took the throne as Aegon III Targaryen in 131 AC. [...]. She once terrified her granddaughter by suggesting she slit Aegon's throat. Since Alicent refused to be reconciled, Ser Tyland Lannister, the Hand of the King, ordered her confined to Maegor's Holdfast.
Alicent remained in her chambers for the last year of her life. Her only company was her septa, serving girls, and guards. [...] She died in 133 AC, during the outbreak of the Winter Fever. (x)
In early 133 AC, when it was discovered that Winter Fever had broken out across the city and the realm, Tyland ordered the gates of the city and the Red Keep closed, to prevent the disease from spreading. But as the Winter Fever was nearing its end, Tyland himself fell ill. He died after only two days, in the presence of Septon Eustace and King Aegon III, who took his hand as Tyland took his last breath.
Tyland is not remembered fondly, partly due to his physical appearance after being tortured and partly due to his actions during the Dance of the Dragons. Some blacks hated him for having urged King Aegon II Targaryen to put Aegon the Younger to death and some greens hated him for serving Aegon III faithfully in the aftermath of the war. (x)
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