#and then aegon placing enough trust in him to want him to rule in his stead

[navree]

https://href.li/?https://www.reddit.com/r/HouseOfTheDragon/comments/zjkdxf/now_this_is_an_interesting_tidbit_from_tom/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

what do you think of this? aegon and aemond were loyal to one another till the end in the book, I really hope their relationship "spiralling" isn't permanent

I think it's not out of the realm of possibility that we're going to see the relationship spiral for a period of time. TGC makes some good points in that video, which is that Aegon and Aemond have a lot of complicated feelings towards one another that have yet to be fully expressed or resolved. One thing we also have to keep in mind is that Aegon and Aemond are going to go from massive highs to massive lows in a really short amount of time in season 2. Aegon is the only person, in the book, who isn't viscerally angry/horrified/disgusted with Aemond following the events of Storm's End (he literally throws him a party my son I love you), and I think that'll likely be important for Aemond, now that the show's made it clear that he didn't intend to kill Lucerys and clearly understands that this is a massive fuckup. So we might see them get closer for a moment, if Aegon's the one trying to stick by his side while Alicent and Otto are upset with him, both out of whatever brotherly affection might exist, as well as knowing what it's like to be seen as the screw up.

Problem is, Blood and Cheese follows soon after. Blood and Cheese, for however much it was spurred by Aemond's actions, is an attack on Aegon. It's Aegon's mother who is physically assaulted in her own rooms, it's Aegon's children who are terrorized, it's Aegon sister and Aegon's wife who is being psychologically tortured, it's Aegon's daughter threatened with rape at one point, and it's Aegon's son who is murdered. Blood and Cheese are a strike by Rhaenyra against Aegon, his son for her son. And while everyone in the family is going to be hugely affected by what happens, we know from the book that Aegon takes it really badly, that he "raged, and drank, and raged", and I don't think it's out of the realm of possibility that, in that rage and that grief over what's happened to his family, is going to let loose on Aemond. Blood and Cheese say point blank "an eye for an eye, a son for a son", Jahaerys for Lucerys, and who killed Lucerys? Aemond did. It's entirely possible that Aegon is going to blame Aemond for what happened, and be vicious in doing so, and that the relationship will spiral out for a time, especially if all those other unresolved feelings get dredged up in the ensuing conversations.

I don't think it'll be a permanent rift. Things said in grief and anger are often excused, and Aegon's going through it in a way nobody else except for Helaena could understand, and Aemond's likely going to go the route of blaming himself for what happens (personally I think we should get one of those scenes where Person A allows Person B to beat them into the ground without fighting back because they think they deserve it, I would like to see it), but whatever spiraling that happens as things reach an emotional crescendo with them doesn't have to last, and likely won't. Rook's Rest happens soon afterwards, where Aegon and Aemond are fighting together against Rhaenys, and Aemond's going to be named the Prince Regent (and despite wanting to be king, very conspicuously doesn't name himself as such and only calls himself "Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm" while Aegon recovers).

And even beyond all of that, one thing to remember is that the actors aren't the writers. TGC has amazing insights into Aegon as a character and generally seems to get him far better than even the writers do sometimes, but he is still ultimately beholden to act out what he's given, and what he says at a convention isn't necessarily gospel truth unless the writers take what he says into account when starting pre-production for the next season. So his interpretations isn't necessarily how it's even going to go.

#personal #answered #anonymous #do i want to see blood and cheese? no i think it's going to be horrible #but am i excited to see how the interpersonal relationships and dynamics react to it? yes yes i am #but god i can really see the miasma of complication coming from that as it relates to aegon and aemond #and i for one am ready #i do wonder if they're going to have them both fight meleys at the same time #or if it'll be aemond and vhagar against rhaenys and meleys first #and then sunfyre and aegon swoop in to help #considering that the book makes a note of the fact that meleys could have won if she was just fighting vhagar alone #but adding in sunfyre was the thing that sealed her fate #and then of course vhagar helping save sunfyre when it seems like meleys is about to kill him #two bros saving each other and whatnot after the whole mess that came from aemond's mistake #and then aegon placing enough trust in him to want him to rule in his stead #and know that he won't usurp the crown even if he might actually want it #i think they should do some sort of 'break apart to grow closer' type thing with them they really should

[aglaias-blog]

"Wicked Game"

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Author's note: in honour of my 9 year anniversary on this hellsite and us finally getting fed with some new hotd content, here is my contribution to whatever the craziness of the last two days was.

I saw this post by the amazing, the great @ewanmitchellcrumbs and thought that I had to post this, it was in my drafts far too long haha Feedback is welcome and appreciated 💖

TW: dub!con, MDNI, afab!reader, fem!reader, degradation kink, jealousy, hatefucking, possessiveness, Aemond is a meanie, reader is a brat

Summary: You make Aemond jealous on purpose as a punishment for him always having his eye on you. But his reaction is clearly more than you have bargained for.

Taglist: @watercolorskyy

Never before had you seen your husband this angry. Sure, he had had his moments – when you had barged into the Small Council to give the King a piece of your mind or when you had humiliated him in front of his brother – and countless other instances. But never infuriated like this.

It had been a perfectly good day in the Red Keep. You were just walking past the Armory when you had seen Ser Davios Rane. He had become a good friend of yours over the years, since you had been married to Prince Aemond. It was a simple conversation; friendly, but reserved, as usual.

The courtyard was buzzing with people in preparation for King Aegon’s name day festivities: servants running around, carrying baskets, tapestries, tableware and many other things from one place to another, the invited Lords and Ladies just arriving taking a look at the Red Keep, engaging in conversation.

Yet somehow your husband had managed to see only you - and just the part of the conversation where you had laughed at Ser Rane’s comment - and put your hand on his arm. A grave mistake, you had realised immediately.

Aemond had been by your side in an instant, cutting the conversation embarrassingly short. You hadn’t even seen him coming, it was the frightened expression on Ser Rane’s face that had betrayed the arrival of your husband.

He had scolded you in front of everybody present – quietly, of course, but it was obvious that they knew what was happening by his body language alone. Servants had stopped in their tracks to observe the humiliating spectacle, the nobility’s conversations had quietened down to hear his heated whispers. And you – well, you had only ripped your arm from the tight grip he had your wrist in, and ran away. As childish as it was, you couldn’t stand being gawked at while your husband chastised you like a little child. Of course, he had followed you, but not before throwing a threatening glare in Ser Rane’s direction. He would take care of him later.

You hadn’t meant to make him jealous – at first. It was only when you had felt his sharp gaze on you everytime you spoke with somebody – be it a servant, a Lady, a Lord, a goldcloak – that you wanted to give him something to look at. A sort of punishment for always stalking you, for never trusting you enough to follow his rules. Surely, it couldn’t hurt to teach him a little lesson?

Well, now he was chasing you through the corridors of the Keep, taking his jealousy out on you.

„Are you content now? Was it your plot to infuriate me like this?“

Your husband had talked himself into a rage since you both had left the middle bailey, following you to your shared quarters. His face was marred by unadulterated wrath, his predatory gaze focused only on you.

„You are a Princess of this house! You’re much too sharp to think that it would be seemly to throw yourself at some goldcloak in this shameful manner!“

You had only wished to make him a little jealous – you should have known better. There was no moderation with Aemond Targaryen, only extremes. And once he whipped himself into this obsessive state, he was insufferable to be around. No word of explanation would get through to him.

„Did you think that I wouldn’t see? Attracting the attention of a mere goldcloak, in broad daylight, too, like a common whore!“

You couldn’t stand the thought of being in his presence any longer. He would drive you insane, you were sure of it! So, once in your quarters, you ran to open the door to your bedchamber and darted inside.

The sound of the lock turning sounded absurdly loud in the sudden silence.

„Open the door.“

His voice sounded treacherously calm.

You had leant against the table opposite the door, your trembling fingers gripping it tightly, your chest heaving with quick breaths of anticipation. What could he do now?

Tipping your head back, the tense giddiness in your body broke out of you in gleeful laughter.

„Open the door. Now!“

Oh, how you loved having him at your mercy.

„Say ‚Please, my love, be so kind as to open the door‘!“, you yelled, giggling.

„No“, was the only response that passed through the door.

„Fuck you, then!“

Your anger had returned with a sudden force. Who did he think he was? He had humiliated you in front of everybody, the whole court had borne witness to your embarrassment! How did he have the gall to talk to you as if to a little child? He could rot in the seventh Hell for all you cared!

He hadn’t responded yet. The sudden silence was highly suspicious. Did he give up - had he actually left? Oh, he was no fun!

Your victorious smile was wiped from your face the moment you heard the crash. Through splintered wood flying into all directions, your husband appeared on the threshold – breathing heavily, bearing his teeth, his gaze wild - the embodiment of fury.

After three quick strides he lunged himself at you – his hand painfully gripping your jaw, towering over you.

„You forget yourself, wife“, he snarled through gritted teeth, the vein in his forehead throbbing.

„You should have the good sense to remember your place.“

You simply stared up him calmly, defiantly, searching for the darkness in his eye that let you know that he was almost there, almost – before spitting in his face.

Before you had time to think, your head was whipped to the side, the heat of your blood throbbing in the place where his hand had just been. The slap had come out of nowhere - the sharp sting of pain in your cheek forced tears into your eyes – and yet you couldn’t help the wicked smile that formed on your lips. You had him exactly where you wanted him now, and he had fallen right into your trap.

This was the twisted game you played. You both knew it. Yet it didn’t feel like you were pretending. The rage was real. And so was the intoxicating thrill.

„Oh, this is all a game to you, isn’t it?“, he sneered, nostrils flaring. Let’s see if this is still a game to you now.

„Bend over.“

„No.“

„I’m not going to repeat myself.“

„Make me, then“, you said brattily, challenging him to make good on his word.

And he did. In the blink of an eye, he had his hand in your hair, turning you on your stomach and slamming your face into the table.

You felt your heartbeat in your whole body for the few seconds it took him to bunch up your skirt and loosen the ties on his breeches – you couldn’t move, his hand on your neck forced you to stay still, his leg between your thighs made sure that you kept them apart.

And before you knew what was happening, he sank into your wetness, immediately setting an unforgiving pace. He allowed you no time to adjust, completely merciless. You cried out, struggling against his hand that held you down, hands blindly reaching behind you, clawing at whatever part of his body you could reach. It was no use though – he wouldn’t slow down.

You could only hear him groan depravedly in response - he liked the way you tried to fight him, it dawned on you. The more you tried to resist him, the faster he slammed into you. Fed up with your antics, he grabbed both of your hands in his, bent forward and slammed them above your head. The new angle made your knees buckle.

„Don’t go weak on me now, wife“, he laughed into your ear. He laughed!

„Smug cunt“, you moaned. Immediately, you received your punishment. The sting on your ass hurt less than his hand in your hair, yanking you up against him, forcing you to arch your back almost painfully.

„Think you’re too good for me? Hm?“ His laboured breathing was hot on your neck. „But good enough for Davios Rane?“ He spat the name like a curse.

You could only whine in response, not being able to stop the desperate moans.

„Should we open the window, let him hear you? Hmm?“

He slammed into with such force then that it made you squeal. You couldn’t get a word out. With your eyes rolled back you couldn’t even formulate a simple thought.

„No? Then shut - your fucking - mouth“, he growled, emphasising each word with a thrust.

You couldn’t. You tried, you truly did, yet you failed miserably. Your body reacted before you had time to think, the loud pleasured whimpers and moans fell from your mouth before you could try to control them. He forced them out of you with each of his rough movements, knowing well that you had lost control over your own body.

He placed his other hand on your mouth to muffle your whines for you. The sharp edge of the table digging into your hips over and over again combined with his painfully pleasurable thrusts forced humiliating tears into your eyes. He could feel them flow over his hand down to your chin.

„Oh, are you sorry now?“

„Mmph!“, was the only muffled sound that passed through his hand on your mouth, as you shook your head ‚no‘.

„Say it“, he growled. „You know damn well that you need this, you’d do well to say it. Now!“ He lifted his hand from your mouth, giving you a chance to do as he told you.

„Detestable bastard!“, you only spat out through sobs, your hair still twisted painfully in his hand.

„What was that?“, he said harshly, stilling his movement completely, threatening to pull out.

„You’re sick, Aemond!“ Who cared if he left you now? You certainly didn’t! At least you would be left with your pride intact.

Yet, when he pulled out of you, the vast emptiness you felt made your heart ache. You regretted every single word you had said up until that point.

„N-no, I’ll say it!“, you sobbed, hating that he had this power over you. Hating that he could make you hate yourself, taking your dignity like this. Making you weak.

Patiently he waited for the words he had demanded. „Go on, humiliate yourself. Like you humiliated me“, he growled in your ear. Abruptly, he pulled your head farther back to get a better look at you. His fevered gaze was on you, as he watched your tear-stained face intently, curious as to what choice you would make.

He not only wanted you to swallow your pride; he wanted you to crush it, destroy it completely in a display of sacrilegious devotion to him.

Tears of shame were running down your face freely now. You didn’t want to do as he told you, hadn’t he degraded you enough already? This was more than you had bargained for – you hadn’t expected him to react this way when you had started your little game earlier in the day.

Now you had to pay the price for having dared to challenge him.

The feeling of his cock between your thighs made sheer desperation curse through your veins. You wanted him so badly, it was driving you mad! It would’ve been so easy to just- just wriggle down a bit to-

„Don’t!“, he hissed, biting down on your shoulder. Hard.

It broke you.

„I’m sorry!“, you cried. Through your sobs your words were almost unintelligible. „I’m sorry, I didn’t – I-I don’t care about him, I just – I need you, only you, please, Aemond-“

It truly was a pitiful sight – and disturbingly arousing. His wife with her dress sliding down to her waist, begging for him, her tears streaming down to her bare chest, degrading herself– all this only to have his cock inside her again. With a sick satisfied smirk, he watched you babbling on, only gibberish leaving your mouth now. He had driven you to your breaking point.

And now, you needed to learn your lesson. He let go of your hair suddenly, letting you fall back on the table weakly.

Your jaw went slack, eyes rolling back, when you felt him slide back into you with one smooth movement, settling back into his merciless pace, two hands holding your hips in a bruising grip - pounding you as if he hated you. You rested your head on the tear-soaked surface of the table, moving with every delicious thrust he gave you. With your eyes closed, you gave yourself completely to the sensation, to him.

He was everywhere, all around you, in your nose, your hair, your body, your mind, your soul.

„Fuck“, you heard him curse with a trembling breath. He had bunched up the fabric of your dress over your hips, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight – the way your glistening cunt swallowed him whole, coating his cock in your wetness was simply too much. The perverse sound of your slickness alone would drive him mad, he was sure of it.

He had to remind you that you were his, that he possessed you completely. He couldn't allow you to forget it - he had to ensure that the only thing he held dear in his life would never dare leave him. It was this wicked desire that drove him to insanity everytime he saw you with somebody else, somebody who wasn’t him.

„I own you“, he moaned, his hand had found its place in your hair again – twisting it threateningly when you didn’t respond. He didn’t allow you enough time to catch your breath, you had to concentrate to form any sensible words.

„I’m yours“, you responded hoarsely, without resistance this time. „Only yours, Aemond, yours, yours, yours…“ Like a prayer you mumbled the words – yet it felt like somebody else had put them there.

His eyes rolled back in his skull with a helpless groan at your admission. Those were the only words he ever wanted to hear you say - such a shame that he had to force them out of you brutally.

He could make you say anything he wanted, but your body was yours, still. You knew him like yourself, you anticipated what he would want, long before he said it out loud – so you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of reaching your peak on his cock simply because he told you to.

He could fuck you stupid, and you would refuse him what he most wanted – an admission of carnal weakness.

But the terror crept up on you slowly, and with your eyes wide with fear it dawned on you - this little rest of resistance had already been crushed. Your body had cruelly betrayed your mind.

The savage groan Aemond gave when he felt you clench around him wiped all thoughts from your mind. He didn’t withhold his moans, showing you so openly the pleasure your body gave him – it made you squeeze down on him again. It was raw, primal – beyond your control.

In an effort to stifle his groans he bent forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder again, making sure to leave a mark.

„Your body knows it belongs to me“, he cooed. „No matter how convincingly you try to deny it.“

The hand that had been in your hair now moved around your hip, finding its way between your trembling thighs.

„N- no!“, you gasped, trying to squirm out of his grasp. „Aemond, please!“

Your humiliation would be complete should you give in to him now. You could pretend that he didn’t own your mind, but you couldn’t pretend with your body – it knew that it was his. It was honest. Always. And he knew it.

„Oh, you don’t want to reach your peak?“, he chuckled darkly.

„There’s no use in lying, wife. I can feel you clenching around me.“

He groaned again when your body proved him right.

„Your treacherous body belies your words.“

He knew that he had to draw your peak from you tenderly, he couldn’t brutally force it, like he forced those beautiful sounds from your throat.

The sudden sensation of his soft fingers overwhelmed you entirely – it was so in contrast to his harsh words and his merciless thrusts inside you. Your whole body was fragile now, having been so abandoned by loving touch that you jolted in his grip the moment his fingers gently made contact with the most delicate part of your body.

His other hand went to your shoulders, immediately pushing you down when he noticed you trying to get up again. You couldn’t let him do this, you couldn’t, you had to-

„Don’t - refuse me!“, he gritted out through clenched teeth. With his brow furrowed, he had to focus on his fingers on your cunt - he would come undone this very moment should he allow himself to take in the glorious sight in front of him, feel your writhing body underneath his hands, pushing him away and pulling him in at the same time.

„Please!“, you choked out. You didn’t know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For him to continue?

You had been prepared to withstand his roughness, thinking that he would use you for his own pleasure and then cast you aside. You had been starving for his kisses, adoring words and gentle caresses on your body – you had been so hungry for any sign of love that his unexpected soft touch on you now would make you fall apart.

The feeling of lightness cursed through you, as your mind went numb. Your body, however, felt his every move – outside of you, inside of you, around you, all at once.

The lighter you felt, the hotter the pleasure coiling in your stomach became - you tried to fight it until the end, defying the urge to give in to the warmth that spread from your innermost core – and then it effortlessly crashed over you in waves, pulling you under, drowning your resistance completely.

As if under water, you heard him come undone behind you, spilling himself inside you with choked moans and curses, gripping your hips so tightly, so painfully tight…

And then - floating. You were floating. He had pushed you too far. You didn’t feel anything anymore - you had slipped into a place where time had no meaning.

You felt weightless and then crushed down to earth again - heaviness and lightness played their ever-changing game with you.

You tried your best to find a way out of the fog in your mind, but you were just so tired, so utterly spent…You didn’t want to think, to fight, to do anything – surrendering to the divine nothingness seemed so inviting now, you wanted to stay in its warmth, to just float forever…

#aggiewrites #aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond #aemond targaryen x you #aemond the kinslayer #aemond one eye #prince aemond #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x female reader

[nebulaafterdark]

Can I get something Aegon x Velaryon(Strong) reader where she is his betroth but when he wears the crown she takes side with her mother. Rhaenyra annuls the betrothal and betrothes reader with Cregan Stark. Reader goes to Storm’s End with Luke to gain support. Well the rest is like in the show but Aemond takes her to King’s Landing forcefully after he kills her brother and when Aegon learns she’s betrothed with Cregan he weds her and makes her his queen no matter how much she resist. If you are uncomfortable you don’t have to make it yandere or dobcon/noncon. There can be smut or something else it doesn’t matter. I trust your imagination. I really love your Aegon x Velaryon(Strong) reader theme. There is no enough content in Tumblr about Aegon x niece!reader. Most Aegon contents are about Aegon x sister!reader and those contents doesn’t fulfill my thirst for enemies to lovers plot.

I love it! Enemies to lovers just hits different. But I feel they’re more like frienemies to start. Aegon definitely pulled her hair as a kid and if anyone hurt her (besides him) may the gods give them rest lmao. Let’s get into it 💜

Storm’s End

Aegon x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Warning: Targcest, Yandere!Aegon, dark subject matter, mentions of sex, themes of non/dubcon.

Storm’s End. Not a place Aegon’s given much thought to, until now.

Storm’s End. Where the new ruling King sends his brother, Aemond, to retrieve what is his. His half sister’s sweet daughter, Y/N.

Not so long ago they had been betrothed. Before Viserys died and any semblance of ‘family’ shattered. Y/N chose her mother, because she always did.

‘I am no more or less than a vessel tossed about to create the illusion of peace. As my mother’s eldest child, I go willingly, to protect that which come after me.’

That’s what she’d told him. So it came as no surprise when Aegon learned Rhaenyra had betrothed Y/N to Cregan Stark instead. It stung a bit at first, Y/N was the only person he’d bothered getting to know. Unlike his family, affections for him were not guaranteed. Unlike the whores from the pleasure house, she was not required to give him time of day; only to wed him and bear his heirs.

It is no secret that Aegon is intrigued by the Princess. He spent most of his days imagining where she would fit into his life, what their children would look like, how his cock would feel stuffed inside every hole she had. Perhaps it was wrong, perverse at the very least. But so long as she was his no one could stop it. No one would dare.

When word comes that Rhaenyra’s camp has begun flying about the realm, trying to steal his throne, Aegon sees his opportunity and he seizes it. But from the sound of his future Queen, all but growling like a caged animal, something must have gone amiss.

Aemond enters the room, with Y/N kicking and swinging at him, as they go.

“Get your hands off me, you fucking traitor.” Y/N demands, tossing her head back against Aemond with enough force to dislodge his nose.

“Quiet, bastard!” He seethes, shoving her toward his brother to tend his bleeding.

“I told you I wanted her unharmed.” Aegon rushes to Y/N, taking her around the waist. Partly to comfort, mostly to restrain. Her dark hair falls carelessly about her, escaping from the braid trailing down her back. Her cheeks stained with tears, nose running unabashedly. She is inconsolable.

“She did not come easy.” Aemond informs him, through gritted teeth.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere with you, murderer!” Y/N jerks in his arms, lunging for Aemond as best she can.

“What’s she on about?” Aegon demands, attempting to gentle her to no avail.

“He killed my brother.” Y/N wails, the words wrenching from her throat in an inhuman manner.

“Lucerys owed me a debt.” Aemond half smirks.

“He was a baby.” Y/N cries, “he was just a little boy.”

“Leave us,” Aegon commands.

Aemond nods, clearing the room with the other occupants, until only the King and his Queen remain.

Y/N continues to fight against Aegon, wrestling him to the ground.

“Stop it,” Aegon huffs. His body lying over hers, restraining her hands with his own.

Y/N rears back, spitting in his face.

“Oh my dearest love,” he chuckles, “I’ve missed you too.”

Y/N clunks the back of her skull into the stone floor of the throne room. “Kill me,” she pleads, “do it and be done with it.”

“Shhh,” Aegon frowns, “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to make you my Queen.”

“No,” she shakes her head.

“Wed you in the tradition of our house and Old Valyria, bind our blood forever. Fuck you full of my children. Tear the Seven Kingdoms apart and rebuild them in your image.”

Y/N lets out a sob. “Please, Aegon. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll say you helped me escape.”

Aegon click his tongue at her. Leaning down to her ear, “if I can’t have you, no one will.”

————————————————————————

However improper, Aegon is the one to prepare her for their ceremony. Trickling warm water from the bath over the delicate features of her face.

“Lean up, I’ll wash your hair.” Aegon taps her chin with his forefinger.

Y/N shifts forward, curling in on herself, knees to chest. Arms wrapped tightly around them. “Why are you doing this, Aegon.” Her voice is tired, drained as her body.

It isn’t love, it’s too dark, too selfish, too one sided. It isn’t lust, for he wants more than her body. He hungers for her mind, her soul, to become one in every way. Thoughts of her are all consuming. “Because you’re mine.”

“I’m nothing special. Plain featured bastard at best, by all accounts of your mother.”

“I do not find you plain.” Aegon dampens her locks, smoothing through knotted pieces with his fingers. The dark hair he’s yearned to stroke softly in comfortable silence, to brush sweat damp from her skin as he fucks her.

Y/N peers over at him slowly. Here she has the King on his knees, tending her like a prized possession. She would have married him willingly, in another life. She would have loved him. Instead he chose the crown over her. And she chose her mother over him.

He washes and dries her with a devotion Y/N has never known. Helping her dress in the customary gown.

She is not allowed to leave his side until they are wed before the eyes of thousands. Sliding the blade of her late grandsire’s knife over her palm, pressing it to Aegon’s. Allowing their blood to mingle, seeping into the gauntlet between them.

Y/N feels nothing, not the bite of the blade. Nor the split of her lip, the cool metal of her crown. She is Queen. Traitor to her poor mother who has lost her son. Does she know? Y/N wonders as Aegon reels her in for a kiss. Lapping at the cut on her bottom lip, which matches his own. Does my mother know I’ve betrayed her?

Y/N was always meant to be Queen, one day when Rhaenyra was cold and in her grave. Not now, as she lives and breathes. Does she think I’m dead too?

The bedding ceremony is customary. Y/N goes quietly, draping herself dutifully over the mattress, praying that Aegon is quick about it.

Perhaps he does love her with all the pieces of his decrepit heart. Perhaps she does love him with the fragments of her own. But does it truly matter if this is all they have to show for it? Put on display for the small council as they make love for the first time. To breed children who will feed back and repeat the same jaded cycle.

The sound this thought wretches from Y/N causes Aegon to falter and uncomfortable shifting in the viewing gallery. “I am sorry, sweet girl.” He squeezes her fingers in his.

Had he always been holding her hand?

A lifetime passes in that room and yet no time at all. When it is done the crowd clears; they are alone. Y/N cries, Aegon does too.

If only she and Luce had been sent elsewhere that day. Anywhere but Storm’s End.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” Aegon whispers, stroking her hair with an affection he shouldn’t be capable of. “We’re going to steal away on a ship, sail away, never to return.”

Y/N curls her fist against his chest. “Why would you do that for me?”

“I never wanted this,” he breathes. Not the crown, not the stupid chair. “I wanted you.”

Cregan Stark might have been nice. He might have been a better ally to their cause. In time, he might have come to care for her. But Cregan wouldn’t scour the narrow sea in search of her. Aegon would.

Part 2

#house of the dragon #hotd aegon #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen smut #aegon smut #aegon targaryen #aegon x you #aegon x reader #aegon the elder

[leviathanspain]

you’ll learn to hate me

aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader, aegon targaryen x targaryen!reader

chapter seven: the traitor

synopsis: it was a fight you didn’t know you had lost

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

your screams roared as the guards took you away. your dragon wailed as you did, keepers risking their lives as they stopped vermithor from tearing the pit in half, you kicked and trashed against the guards as you looked at aemond.

you had been convinced that he had come to save you, save you from everyone else, but the moment you saw the guards, you realized what a grave mistake you had made.

aemond didn’t say anything as he looked at the ground, your screams dying out the farther they dragged you.

your room had been made into a cell. the door replaced with bars, everything stripped bare except for a bed, not even books to entertain you.

you were past being angry, the rage had subsided as you realized yelling wouldn’t help your escape.

but the anger towards aemond had boiled over into something else. you had trusted him, trusted him enough to take you and your baby away to someplace safe.

the red keep with aegon as king was anything but safe, especially since you were considered a traitor to the crown, how he probably reveled in the news of your capture and return.

you heard footsteps approach your cell and you moved towards the door.

aegon was standing there, a crown perched on his head, he held out a single book to you.

for a moment, you hesitated, until he waved the book around, you took it.

“this was the book you were reading before you left. i figured you would want to finish it.” he murmured, looking down at his feet.

you set the book on the bed and you moved to the cell door, “i assume you know everything?” aegon nodded, “and am i right to assume the baby isn’t mine?”

you shrugged, “could be yours. could be his. at this point, i would want it to be yours.” you sighed, moving a hand over your belly, you were getting closer to the end.

aegon shook his head, “aemond hasn’t said a word to any of us since you’ve been back. i think he’s just being a brat because mother forced him to bring you back, but i think he’s also ashamed.” aegon spoke truths ever so rarely, but this was something that had you listening. “i understand him. he, like i, is in love with you. but only one of us had the guts to do what was right.”

aegon looked at you, “once you birth my heir, you will be free until i stuff you full of my heirs again. there was once hope that you and i would rule together, but it seems like that just isn’t in our favor anymore, wife.” aegon’s voice was dripping with quiet rage. that act he had fronted with the book made a cold feeling shudder down your back.

as he exited, you stared at the book, and slammed it against the wall, the spine coming undone as pages fell to the ground.

your screams echoed through the keep. aegon had been the first to be alerted. you were laboring, and had been for hours. aegon looked at the crib with a dragon egg already placed in the baby’s stead. soon, his heir would lie with his dragon, and soon, you would come to regret your decision of trusting his brother.

your voice rattled off the walls and back to your own ears. you were writhing on the bed in pain, a nurse was wiping your brow with a rag as another checked you. “i see the head.” she opened the cell door and ushered in a maester.

you screamed as the labor intensified, “i cant.” you cried, “i cant do this.” you sobbed. you were alone, no one to hold your hand, no one to encourage you.

as the maester urged you to push, you could feel the screams rip through you effortlessly, “aemond!” you screamed, “aemond, please!” you sobbed, screaming for his support, the ma ester urged you again to push.

aemond had heard your cries from all the way down in the library. he had tortured himself for the weeks since he had retrieved you, not able to see you. he wished how he could see you, apologize for his betrayal, explain himself at the very least. but even as he heard his name being screamed from your lips, he hoped that in that time you had found it in yourself to forgive him.

your head fell back into the pillows. you felt the blood gushing down your legs as your eyes wavered to close. the nurse above you was calling your name, shaking you as you struggled to stay awake. the baby’s cries sounded muffled as you shut your eyes, hoping that death would be a mercy upon your suffering.

the nursemaid held the baby in her arms, as she was ushered into aegons chambers. sat with him where his brother and mother. aegon had heard you scream his brothers name, but had refused to acknowledge it, especially with alicent in the room.

“it’s a boy.” the maid announced, “a healthy boy.” she presented the child to the greens. he was sleeping soundly, and aegon admired the babe for a moment until he looked at the maid, “how’s my wife?”

the nursemaid faltered, and aegon nearly shoved her and the baby out of his way as he practically ran to see you.

as he approached the room, the somber feeling overwhelmed him and he saw the group of maesters around you.

“your grace.” they greeted him, and aegon was speechless. your face was pale, lips discolored as he looked at you. your gown was drenched in blood, and more towels on the floor soaking up the rest of the blood, you were unconscious.

“she is resting. we have hope that she will pull through the night, but..” he trailed off, “i would suggest saying your farewells.”

aemond had refused to even look at the child. the nursemaid had explained your condition and it had made him sick to know that your killer was peacefully sleeping in alicent’s arms. alicent was too busy cooing at the baby to even care about you. hardly did she ever, but this wasnt just about you.

“what should we name him?” alicent pondered, “otto?” she toyed with the name and aemond broke the silence, “stop acting like this is your child. she isn’t dead, yet. have the fucking decency to wait until she is.” aemond had snapped, watching as his mother glared at him, “and he’s yours?” she raised her eyebrows as aemond stayed silent, “this child will have the honor to never know his traitorous mother.” she caressed the baby’s cheek and the baby began to cry.

alicent looked at the baby and suddenly she had no idea what to do. she yelled for a nurse, a maid, anyone, to take the screaming child.

aemond watched as she handed the baby off and shook his head, “you’re pathetic. y/n isn’t rhaenyra, but you like to act as if she is. killing her, won’t kill rhaenyra.”

alicent was close to smacking her son. she stood up from her seat and with a tight lipped expression, she inhaled, “you have no idea what you speak of. remember what i had said, don’t make me tell you again.” she threatened, and aemond quieted as she left.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

<< previous chapter <<

>> next chapter >>

a/n: trust me this child is NOT named otto, i would petrify before he was.

#hotd #hotd imagine #hotd aemond #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen x targaryen!reader #aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen angst #aegon targaryen x y/n #aegon targaryen smut #aegon targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #hotd angst

[vivacissimx]

Heyy hope you're well. Ignore this if you want but I'm curious, do you believe in the Maester Conspiracy?

Let me take this step by step. Long post incoming but you asked, so:

WELCOME TO VIVACISSIMX'S CONCLUSIVE POST ON THE MAESTER CONSPIRACY!!!

The Maester Conspiracy is the theory that the maesters of the citadel work in concert with one another to effect certain political ends in line with their longstanding designs for Westeros — including a specific aim to hamper the existence/return of magic via living dragons.

The only dragontamers during the times of Fire & Blood and ASOIAF are Targaryens, so it ties together as: the maesters have sought to limit/manipulate/end Targaryen rule because they are anti-magic for reasons known best to them.

Do I believe in this? Textually it's pretty clear that this phenomenon exists.

FIRST: REASONS THE MAESTER CONSPIRACY IS DEFINITELY ACTUALLY FACTUALLY REAL

ONE: Multiple characters from different backgrounds tell us so.

Pycelle’s breathing was rapid and shallow. “All I did, I did for House Lannister.” A sheen of sweat covered the broad dome of the old man’s brow, and wisps of white hair clung to his wrinkled skin. “Always.. for years... your lord father, ask him, I was ever his true servant... ’twas I who bid Aerys open his gates... ” That took Tyrion by surprise. He had been no more than an ugly boy at Casterly Rock when the city fell. “So the Sack of King’s Landing was your work as well?” “For the realm! Once Rhaegar died, the war was done. Aerys was mad, Viserys too young, Prince Aegon a babe at the breast, but the realm needed a king... I prayed it should be your good father, but Robert was too strong, and Lord Stark moved too swiftly... ” “How many have you betrayed, I wonder? Aerys, Eddard Stark, me... King Robert as well? Lord Arryn, Prince Rhaegar? Where does it begin, Pycelle?”

—ACOK, Tyrion VI + emphasis mine

[Archmaester] Marywn smiled a ghastly smile, the juice of the sourleaf running red between his teeth. “Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords?” He spat. “The world the Citadel is building has no place in it for sorcery or prophecy or glass candles, much less for dragons. Ask yourself why Aemon Targaryen was allowed to waste his life upon the Wall, when by rights he should have been raised to archmaester. His blood was why. He could not be trusted. No more than I can.”

—AFFC, Samwell V

Why can't Archmaester Marwyn be trusted? Since it's the same reason Aemon can't be trusted?

"Archmaester Marwyn's Book of Lost Books." [Rodrik Harlaw] lifted his gaze from the page to study her. "Hotho brought me a copy from Oldtown. He has a daughter he would have me wed." Lord Rodrik tapped the book with a long nail. "See here? Marwyn claims to have found three pages of Signs and Portents, visions written down by the maiden daughter of Aenar Targaryen before the Doom came to Valyria.

—AFFC, The Kraken's Daughter

His interest in Targaryen prophecy, perhaps? (Aemon is also seen to have said interest, corresponding with Rhaegar Targaryen on the matter.)

[Barbrey Ryswell:] "[Maesters] heal, yes. I never said they were not subtle. They tend to us when we are sick and injured, or distraught over the illness of a parent or a child. Whenever we are weakest and most vulnerable, there they are. Sometimes they heal us, and we are duly grateful. When they fail, they console us in our grief, and we are grateful for that as well. Out of gratitude we give them a place beneath our roof and make them privy to all our shames and secrets, a part of every council. And before too long, the ruler has become the ruled. "That was how it was with Lord Rickard Stark. Maester Walys was his grey rat's name. And isn't it clever how the maesters go by only one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from… but if you are dogged enough, you can still find out. Before he forged his chain, Maester Walys had been known as Walys Flowers. Flowers, Hill, Rivers, Snow… we give such names to baseborn children to mark them for what they are, but they are always quick to shed them. Walys Flowers had a Hightower girl for a mother… and an archmaester of the Citadel for a father, it was rumored. The grey rats are not as chaste as they would have us believe. Oldtown maesters are the worst of all. Once he forged his chain, his secret father and his friends wasted no time dispatching him to Winterfell to fill Lord Rickard's ears with poisoned words as sweet as honey. The Tully marriage was his notion, never doubt it, he—"

—ADWD, The Prince of Winterfell

Please note these quotes touch on some of the largest political shifts to occur in Westeros. From germinating the idea of alliances between Great Houses in the mind of Rickard Stark who later betrothed/fostered his children to the Arryns of the Vale, the Tullys of the Riverlands, and the Baratheons of the Stormlands; to the Sack of King's Landing; to the circumstances around the Great Council that named Aegon V the Unlikely as king. I am not saying the Citadel was the sole mastermind behind all of these events, or even that maesters all act as one without their own interests/personalities guiding them... but more on that later.

TWO: The Glass Candle test.

Glass candles are obsidian—dragonglass— candles that apparently only burn when magic (see: dragons) exists in the world. Daenerys Targaryen has been hearing about these glass candles for a while now.

Xaro looked troubled. "And so it was, then. But now? I am less certain. It is said that the glass candles are burning in the house of Urrathon Night-Walker, that have not burned in a hundred years. Ghost grass grows in the Garden of Gehane, phantom tortoises have been seen carrying messages between the windowless houses on Warlock's Way, and all the rats in the city are chewing off their tails.

—ACOK, Daenerys V

Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal."

—ADWD, Daenerys II

Read: What Quaithe tells Daenerys here is that because the glass candles are burning, people (powerful, dangerous, with their own designs in mind) are becoming aware of her dragons. It means they're coming and Daenerys needs to be cautious of them.

And who is watching the glass candles?

Armen the Acolyte cleared his throat. “The night before an acolyte says his vows, he must stand a vigil in the vault. No lantern is permitted him, no torch, no lamp, no taper… only a candle of obsidian. He must spend the night in darkness, unless he can light that candle. Some will try. The foolish and the stubborn, those who have made a study of these so-called higher mysteries. Often they cut their fingers, for the ridges on the candles are said to be as sharp as razors. Then, with bloody hands, they must wait upon the dawn, brooding on their failure. Wiser men simply go to sleep, or spend their night in prayer, but every year there are always a few who must try.” “Yes.” Pate had heard the same stories. “But what’s the use of a candle that casts no light?” “It is a lesson,” Armen said, “the last lesson we must learn before we don our maester’s chains.

—AFFC, Prologue (Pate)

So, the Citadel has this tradition that every single guy ever to graduate from their school has to at least be aware of the glass candles, which basically serves the purpose of letting them know whether or not there are dragons in the world. Okay, fine, it's a lesson on failure, sure. What's interesting is that this mystical and compelling lesson on failure can only be as old as the death of the last dragon in 153 AC, otherwise they'd all be able to light the candles. So it began at most 147 years ago.

Notably, for years after the death of the last dragon, various Targaryens attempted to hatch more.

So what is the true purpose of the Glass Candle test? Why would the Citadel have a convenient means of knowing immediately if a new dragon was hatched/magic was returning, despite ostensibly having a Grand Maester on every single Targaryen King's Small Council ever?

What was their investment?

THREE: It aligns with the actions/beliefs of the maesters we see on-page.

Old Cressen might be, yet he was still a maester of the Citadel. “I need no crown but truth,” he told her, removing the fool’s helm from his head. “There are truths in this world that are not taught at Oldtown.” [...] As he sank to his knees, still he shook his head, denying [Melisandre], denying her power, denying her magic, denying her god. And the cowbells peeled in his antlers, singing fool, fool, fool while the red woman looked down on him in pity, the candle flames dancing in her red red eyes.

—ACOK, Prologue (Maester Cressen)

[Maester Luwin:] "Perhaps magic was once a mighty force in the world, but no longer. What little remains is no more than the wisp of smoke that lingers in the air after a great fire has burned out, and even that is fading. Valyria was the last ember, and Valyria is gone. The dragons are no more, the giants are dead, the children of the forest forgotten with all their lore.

—ACOK, Bran IV

Note: Maester Luwin actually has a Valyrian Steel chain and has attempted to do magic but by the end of his Citadel studies, he no longer believed in such. Due to his own failure to harness it, yes, but perhaps also due to his teachings under the archmaesters at the time.

Alleras stepped up next to Sam. "Aemon would have gone to [Daenerys] if he had the strength. He wanted us to send a maester to her, to counsel her and protect her and fetch her safely home." "Did he?" Archmaester Marwyn shrugged. "Perhaps it's good that he died before he got to Oldtown. Elsewise the grey sheep might have had to kill him, and that would have made the poor old dears wring their wrinkled hands."

—AFFC, Samwell V

FOUR: Citadel Maesters are super into dragons in general, perhaps a bit too into them, you be the judge.

In what place, if any, has there been an accumulation of dragonlore? Valyria. The Citadel. Dragonstone. Probably some of the Free Cities as well. Maybe Asshai in the far east.

—So Spake Martin, May 2000 (the Citadel clocking in at #2, technically #1, considering RIPValyria)

[H]e brushed the dirt off Colloquo Votar's Jade Compendium, a thick volume of tales and legends from the east that Maester Aemon had commanded him to find. The book appeared undamaged. Maester Thomax's Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons had not been so fortunate. It had come open as it fell, and a few pages had gotten muddy, including one with a rather nice picture of Balerion the Black Dread done in colored inks. Sam cursed himself for a clumsy oaf

—AFFC, Samwell I

Tyrion had read much and more of dragons through the years. The greater part of those accounts were idle tales and could not be relied on, and the books that Illyrio had provided them were not the ones he might have wished for. What he really wanted was the complete text of The Fires of the Freehold, Galendro's history of Valyria. No complete copy was known to Westeros, however; even the Citadel's lacked twenty-seven scrolls. They must have a library in Old Volantis, surely. I may find a better copy there, if I can find a way inside the Black Walls to the city's heart.

He was less hopeful concerning Septon Barth’s Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. Barth had been a blacksmith’s son who rose to be King’s Hand during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. His enemies always claimed he was more sorcerer than septon. Baelor the Blessed had ordered all Barth’s writings destroyed when he came to the Iron Throne. Ten years ago, Tyrion had read a fragment of Unnatural History that had eluded the Blessed Baelor, but he doubted that any of Barth’s work had found its way across the narrow sea. And of course there was even less chance of his coming on the fragmentary, anonymous, blood-soaked tome sometimes called Blood and Fire and sometimes The Death of Dragons, the only surviving copy of which was supposedly hidden away in a locked vault beneath the Citadel.

When the Halfmaester appeared on deck, yawning, the dwarf was writing down what he recalled concerning the mating habits of dragons, on which subject Barth, Munkun, and Thomax held markedly divergent views.

—ADWD, Tyrion IV

Maesters who have written on dragons: Munkun, Grand Maester to Aegon III The Dragonbane whose efforts to revive the dragons all failed - he wrote True Telling about the Dance of the Dragons as well; Thomax, unknown time; and Anonymous, who wrote a real banger that the world isn't ready for, apparently. This last one will come into play later.

There is also Truth by Maester Anson, cited in AWOIAF, which is only mentioned insofar as it disagrees with Septon Barth's statement that dragons can switch sex.

So there are at least four books written by maesters on dragons, and more that the Citadel library has collected from the world over!

(The books by Thomax and Anonymous, while both being titled The Death of Dragons, are confirmed not the same.)

There is potentially one more, if the unnamed tome Arianne encounters is unique:

During the daylight hours she would try to read, but the books that they had given her were deadly dull: ponderous old histories and geographies, annotated maps, a dry-as-dust study of the laws of Dorne, The Seven-Pointed Star and Lives of the High Septons, a huge tome about dragons that somehow made them about as interesting as newts.

—AFFC, The Princess in the Tower

In summary: the Citadel's investment in dragons/magic is rigorous, a matter serious enough that they lock knowledge on it away in a vault, in order to take a maester's vows you must undergo a test that disavows magic's existence, there are maesters willing to die to deny arcane arts, potentially maesters willing to kill for that too. To a man, maesters dismiss magic... but are they actively engineering it's downfall?

This is where it gets murky. I myself would say that they take advantage of circumstances to have others do their dirty work. That maesters seek to preserve the status quo but also manipulate it to serve their own ends. Which brings us to the next point

SECOND: HOW THE MAESTER CONSPIRACY FUNCTIONS IN ASOIAF (POSSIBLY)

In ASOIAF timeline, the dragons are all already dead and magic is subdued. As a result, the winters are longer and the summers are shorter, another thing the Citadel is deeply concerned with, being the people who officially announce the changings of the seasons.

As established, we know of Pycelle's involvement in opening King's Landing for Tywin after Rhaegar died — this is where the concept of maester's having differing motives and personal loyalties comes up.

Pycelle is a pretty clear case study, he's both deeply loyal, as a maester of the Citadel, to preserving a nominal peace regardless of the dishonorable & murderous ends required to do so... but he also personally is loyal to Tywin Lannister, who is his ideal ruler.

In a letter to the Citadel, Pycelle wrote that the divisions within the Red Keep [between Aerys and Rhaegar] reminded him uncomfortably of the situation before the Dance of the Dragons a century before, when the enmity between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra had split the realm in two, to grievous cost

—AWOIAF, The Targaryen Kings: Aerys II

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, a process that seemed to take some minutes. "My order serves the realm, not the ruler. Once I counseled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert now, so I bear this girl child of his no ill will. Yet I ask you this—should war come again, how many soldiers will die? How many towns will burn? How many children will be ripped from their mothers to perish on the end of a spear?" He stroked his luxuriant white beard, infinitely sad, infinitely weary. "Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so that tens of thousands might live?"

—AGOT, Eddard VIII

“For the realm! Once Rhaegar died, the war was done. Aerys was mad, Viserys too young, Prince Aegon a babe at the breast, but the realm needed a king... I prayed it should be your good father, but Robert was too strong, and Lord Stark moved too swiftly... ”

—ACOK, Tyrion VI

We know from the books of the unswerving Pycelle's loyalty to the Lannister and precisely to Lord Tywin. Why this loyalty? Was there any event we don't know yet?

There´s backstory yet to be revealed, certainly, but if you asked Pycelle he would insist that he was acting in the best interests of the realm.

—FORUM: Asshai Chat July 27, 2008

It's possible that Pycelle's advice given to Aerys was personally motivated by his own political beliefs on who was best suited to rule & his acceptance that the war was already over, so he needed to get out on the winning side. GRRM has hinted that there's more to the story.

It's additionally possible that Maester Walys, Rickard Stark's maester born from a Hightower mother and an alleged archmaester father, was advising Rickard on making alliances down south simply because that's what he thought was smart politicking.

However, it's interesting that multiple maesters were involved in arranging the chess board of power in Westeros against House Targaryen, and, now, are shown to be aligned to preserve power in the hands of... the Lannisters. More accurately, I would say they seek to preserve whoever is a) currently in power and b) amenable to a maester's advice and manipulation. More on this when we get to Stannis.

Now, Pycelle is personally loyal to the Lannisters because that is what he thinks is in "the best interests of the realm," but otherwise, maesters in general are invested in preserving the power structure as is, because war disrupts their slowgoing machinations (Marwyn's words: the world the Citadel is building). In fact, as the Lannisters infight throughout ACOK and become unstable, only to be saved by an alliance with the Tyrells, there is a response from the Citadel that indicates they're willing to switch to whoever is the dominant side, it if means protecting their influence.

[T]he Conclave accepted the fact of Pycelle's dismissal and set about choosing his successor. After giving due consideration to Maester Turquin the cordwainer's son and Maester Erreck the hedge knight's bastard, and thereby demonstrating to their own satisfaction that ability counts for more than birth in their order, the Conclave was on the verge of sending us Maester Gormon, a Tyrell of Highgarden. When I told your lord father, he acted at once." The Conclave met in Oldtown behind closed doors, Tyrion knew; its deliberations were supposedly a secret. So Varys has little birds in the Citadel too. "I see. So my father decided to nip the rose before it bloomed." He had to chuckle. "Pycelle is a toad. But better a Lannister toad than a Tyrell toad, no?"

—ASOS, Tyrion II

Before we get into cartoon villain territory, let's caveat that their involvement in the deaths of the dragons and the Targaryens who could potentially hatch them once more does seem to be a one-off for them in terms of puppet-mastering against a monarch, and indeed, they never intended war, preferring to function methodically in the background.

"Be that as it may. My father sat where I sit now when Lord Eddard came to Sisterton. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' Our maester chuckled at me and told us that Prince Rhaegar was certain to defeat this rebel.

—ADWD, Davos I

They maximize their influence — they don't overstep.

On to Stannis.

[Alys Karstark:] "Arnolf [Karstark] is rushing to Winterfell, 'tis true, but only so he might put his dagger in your king's back. He cast his lot with Roose Bolton long ago … for gold, the promise of a pardon, and poor Harry's head. Lord Stannis is marching to a slaughter.

—ADWD, Jon IX

“Y-your Grace, my order is sworn to serve, we…” “I know all about your vows. What I want to know is what was in the letter that you sent to Winterfell. Did you perchance tell Lord Bolton where to find us?” “S-sire.” Round-shouldered Tybald drew himself up proudly. “The rules of my order forbid me to divulge the contents of Lord Arnolf’s letters.”

—TWOW, Unreleased Theon Chapter

Here we have Arnolf Karstark, castellan of Karhold, who pledges to Stannis... but secretly he's actually pledged to Roose Bolton, who is in league with the Lannisters. Together they planned the Red Wedding. The Karstark maester is seen assisting in this plot to see Stannis dead via the Karstark-Bolton-Lannister network.

Does Stannis have his own maester with him? No, Maester Cressen dies in the ACOK Prologue, and his replacement, Pylos, is not mentioned as having accompanied Stannis North. Stannis is far from the influence of the Citadel and has publicly declared his new faith in R'hllor, something for the Citadel/general Westerosi hegemony to worry about, and now we have a maester helping to plot against him...

Once more, it's possible that said maester is simply acting of his own volitions & values. Conveniently in service to House Lannister which currently holds power. However, he's not the only Northern maester to have conflicting loyalties South:

[Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor:] If Stannis wonders that my letters say so little, it is because I dare not even trust my maester. Theomore is all head and no heart. You heard him in my hall. Maesters are supposed to put aside old loyalties when they don their chains, but I cannot forget that Theomore was born a Lannister of Lannisport and claims some distant kinship to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Foes and false friends are all around me, Lord Davos.

—ADWD, Davos IV

Something to consider.

THIRD: ADDRESSING THE FERTILITY OF TARGARYEN WOMEN

Let's take it back for a minute. I'm separating this section because a whole bunch of it comes from AWOIAF/Fire & Blood and I know not everyone is super familiar with those, so I'm taking time to explain it fully. A big facet of the Maester Conspiracy has to do with magic and dragons ergo House Targaryen. We have covered the Aerys/Pycelle, Maester Aemon, and Daenerys portions.

But there is a larger relevant point: The miscarriages and stillbirths of Targaryen women.

From AGOT we know that the birth of dragons is tied to blood magic, but specifically, that magic which is performed by Daenerys — a pregnant Targaryen. She has prophetic visions both asleep and awake that lead her to the final hatching of the dragons... and it's the deaths of Rhaego in her womb, Drogo by her hand, and Mirri by her order that facilitate this.

She was lying there, holding the egg, when she felt the child move within her… as if he were reaching out, brother to brother, blood to blood. "You are the dragon," Dany whispered to him, "the true dragon. I know it. I know it." And she smiled, and went to sleep dreaming of home.

—AGOT, Daenerys IV

"You will not hear me scream," Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing. "I will," Dany said, "but it is not your screams I want, only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life."

—AGOT, Daenerys X

So, let's posit that there is some matriarchal link between fertility, motherhood, and births... even of dragons.

The theory here is that maesters, operating under the idea that Targaryen wives's fertility was somehow related to the blood magics/births of dragons, meddled with their pregnancies to prevent said magics/births of dragons.

The reason the maesters may have suspected this? Well according to AGOT and Fire & Blood, at certain times, Targaryen women/wives experienced miscarriages of fetuses that were "monstrous." Dragonlike, some might describe them (some being me, in the following list) — so the contention that the women of House Targaryen were magically involved in literal dragon-birthing does seem possible.

The miscarriages in question:

1A) Maegor Targaryen and Alys Harroway's stillborn: a monster, with twisted limbs, a huge head, and no eyes.

1B) The hatchling born to Alyn Velaryon and Baela Targaryen's daughter Laena: the dragon that wriggled from the egg was a monstrosity, a wingless wyrm, maggot-white and blind

2A) Maegor and Jeyne Westerling's stillborn: a legless and armless creature possessed of both male and female genitalia → eventual death in childbirth

2B) Maester Aemon in AFFC Samwell IV: Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame

3A) Maegor and Elinor Costayne's stillborn: a malformed and stillborn child, an eyeless boy born with rudimentary wings

3B) In The Hedge Knight, the last dragon to ever live is described as small with unformed wings

4A) Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon's stillborn: the babe was twisted and malformed, and died within the hour → eventual death in childbirth

4B) Laena's stillbirth unique because it's implied that Rhaenyra's maester, Gerardys, who arrived slightly too late, might have been able to assist in saving Laena's life following the birth — the same way he was able to save Viserys I's hand and life when other maesters couldn't. Thus, incompetence or malice on the part of the present maester might have contributed to Laena's death.

5A) Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen's stillborn Visenya, Rhaenyra's early labor brought on by the news of her father's death and her usurpation by Aegon II:

The princess shrieked curses all through her labor, calling down the wrath of the gods upon her half-brothers and their mother, the queen, and detailing the torments she would inflict upon them before she would let them die. She cursed the child inside her too, Mushroom tells us, clawing at her swollen belly as Maester Gerardys and her midwife tried to restrain her and shouting, “Monster, monster, get out, get out, GET OUT!” When the babe at last came forth, she proved indeed a monster: a stillborn girl, twisted and malformed, with a hole in her chest where her heart should have been, and a stubby, scaled tail.

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

5B) Rhaenyra's usurpation by Aegon II is a parallel to the usurpation of the Amethyst Empress by her younger brother the Bloodstone Emperor, in the ancient Great Empire of the Dawn. This is said to have been what caused the first Long Night to occur and indeed, after Rhaenyra, we see the dragons die out, magic disappear, summers grow short, and winter grow long.

When the daughter of the Opal Emperor succeeded him as the Amethyst Empress, her envious younger brother cast her down and slew her, proclaiming himself the Bloodstone Emperor and beginning a reign of terror. [...] In the annals of the Further East, it was the Blood Betrayal, as his usurpation is named, that ushered in the age of darkness called the Long Night.

—AWOIAF, The Bones and Beyond: Yi Ti

6) Naerys Targaryen's multiple miscarriages/stillbirths vs. 2 living children → eventual death in childbirth

7) Rhaella Targaryen's 8 miscarriages/stillbirths/child deaths vs. 3 living children → eventual death in childbirth

8) Daenerys with Rhaego:

"Monstrous," Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. The knight was a powerful man, yet Dany understood in that moment that the maegi was stronger, and crueler, and infinitely more dangerous. "Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat. When I touched him, the flesh sloughed off the bone, and inside he was full of graveworms and the stink of corruption. He had been dead for years." Darkness, Dany thought. The terrible darkness sweeping up behind to devour her. If she looked back she was lost. "My son was alive and strong when Ser Jorah carried me into this tent," she said. "I could feel him kicking, fighting to be born."

—AGOT, Daenerys IX

With these in mind, we can ask: why would anyone think these similar descriptions have anything to do with outside interference? Couldn't it just be that Targaryen babies are weird, it's the blood magic and the incest, nothing to see here?

The thing is that all of Maegor's stillborn children (3/6 examples of dragonesque children) were poisoned, by Tyanna of the Tower. Rhaego was also poisoned, by Mirri Maaz Duur's blood magic.

So 4/6 of these hybrid children were born under the influence of some sort of darker magic. This still leaves Rhaenyra and Laena's respective draconic stillbirths. It opens the question of whether poison was involved in those, too. In my personal opinion, it might also intend to raise a question mark on the matrilineage of Targaryen women who birthed children & brought about dragons — a private theory but raised by the idea of Rhaego's description and the concept of him being "dead for years."

That said, the two serious cases I think we can look into here are Naerys and Rhaella's serial miscarriages/stillbirths/child deaths.

Both these women suffered from frail health and abusive circumstances. Naerys was extremely slight and small of stature, it's possible that she simply struggled with the physical toll of pregnancies. Rhaella gave birth for the first time under traumatic circumstances (the burning of Summerhall and deaths of her family) when she was 14 years old, totally reasonable that she'd be permanently affected by that. In fact, these are two women for whom it would not be suspicious should they experience fertility issues. So if there were ever two people who you could get away with pulling this on...

The reasons to consider each more closely —

NAERYS TARGARYEN: Naerys's successful birth of Daeron (later Daeron II) happened the same year the last dragon died. After this, King Aegon III The Dragonbane started attempting to hatch new dragons whereas before he was extremely resistant to dragon-anything. Naerys's miscarriages and stillbirths begin only after attempts to hatch dragons commence — a likely time, if a link between her fertility and future dragons was suspected by bad actors. Her only other living child Daenerys Lateborn is born 17 years later, and in fact is one of a set of twins, the other child dying at birth. So, it's possible that pregnancy was also tampered with, and simply did not succeed on both twins

Counterpoint One: Naerys was not a healthy or robust person, nor did she desire to carry children. They were forced on her by her purposely cruel brother-husband Aegon IV. It's possible she was not poisoned and simply suffered from miscarriages/stillbirths naturally.

Counterpoint Two: Naerys was married to a man who had many mistresses, lovers, bastards, and grasping councilors. It's possible that she was poisoned, but not by maesters, rather by those who sought to gain power by opening up the position of Queen.

RHAELLA TARGARYEN: Aerys and Rhaella were married to one another based on a prophecy by the Ghost of High Heart that through them, The Prince/Princess That Was Promised would be born.

"Why did they wed if they did not love each other?" "Your grandsire commanded it. A woods witch had told him that the prince was promised would be born of their line."

—ADWD, Daenerys IV

"Maester Aemon believed that Daenerys Targaryen was the fulfillment of a prophecy... her, not Stannis, nor Prince Rhaegar, nor the princeling whose head was dashed against the wall." "Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy." Marwyn turned his head and spat a gob of red phlegm onto the floor.

—AFFC, Samwell V

Someday the dragons will return. My brother Daeron's dreamed of it, and King Aerys read it in a prophecy. Maybe it will be my egg that hatches. That would be splendid

—The Hedge Knight

The prophecy is known to at least one maester of the Citadel... seems realistic that it would be known to multiple! The prophecy in question regards the birth of the Prince/Princess That Was Promised, the herald who will bring dragons back into the world, and the culmination of House Targaryen. When Rhaella became pregnant and was close to her due date, the King Aegon V had all the Targaryens gather in Summerhall where he intended to attempt to hatch seven dragon eggs (perhaps he also had some suspicion about the connection between the blood magic needed to hatch dragons and Rhaella's imminent potentially prophesized birth?)

… the blood of the dragon gathered in one … … seven eggs, to honor the seven gods, though the king’s own septon had warned … … pyromancers … … wildfire … … ames grew out of control … towering … burned so hot that … … died, but for the valor of the Lord Comman …

—AWOIAF, The Targaryen Kings: Aegon V

This is what remains of the story of Summerhall. Who wrote this note? Maester Corso, of course. Where did he send this letter? The Citadel. Woof. Innocuous on it's own but for the purpose of this post, in line with the idea that the Citadel was keeping a close eye on all things dragon.

The Maester Conspiracy would ask: who is to say what really went wrong at Summerhall? All we know is that Rhaella gave birth there amidst the chaos and then she didn't give birth to a child who lived past a year for 17 years to come. Miscarriages, stillbirths, child deaths... she had them all. Aerys's paranoia grew and grew until Rhaella was completely isolated. It was under these conditions of extreme scrutiny that Rhaella finally had Viserys, and Viserys lived, and then Daenerys was born while isolated on Dragonstone & raised far from maester's influence following.

Here's the point that sticks out though:

"Lannisport was the end of our voyage," Prince Oberyn went on, as Ser Arron Qorgyle helped him into a padded leather tunic and began lacing it up the back. "Were you aware that our mothers knew each other of old?" "They had been at court together as girls, I seem to recall. Companions to Princess Rhaella?"

"Just so. It was my belief that the mothers had cooked up this plot between them.

—ASOS, Tyrion X

The Unnamed Princess of Dorne and Joanna Lannister were both companions to Princess Rhaella. The exact timeline is unclear but it's definite that the Unnamed Princess was older than the other two. She'd given birth to Doran over a decade before Rhaegar was born, although Rhaella was a very young mother (13 or 14). However, they were close enough to cook up 'plots.' It seems realistic that the Unnamed Princess was present earlier in Rhaella's life while Joanna came about later. GRRM is not trustworthy with ages and timelines anyway, so that's a supposition.

All three of these women had the same experience: a firstborn who lived, followed by a long expanse of fertility issues, followed by another successful birth (or more).

"I was the oldest," the prince said, "and yet I am the last. After Mors and Olyvar died in their cradles, I gave up hope of brothers. I was nine when Elia came, a squire in service at Salt Shore. When the raven arrived with word that my mother had been brought to bed a month too soon, I was old enough to understand that meant the child would not live. Even when Lord Gargalen told me that I had a sister, I assured him that she must shortly die. Yet she lived, by the Mother's mercy. And a year later Oberyn arrived, squalling and kicking.

—AFFC, The Captain of the Guard

Doran was nine before his mother had another successful birth after two child deaths. Her manner of death is unknown. Tyrion is likewise nine years younger than Jaime & Cersei. Joanna Lannister's possible fertility issues in the in-between are unknown, but she died in childbirth. Viserys is 17 years younger than Rhaegar (similar to how Daenerys Lateborn is 17 years younger than Daeron II). Rhaella Targaryen died in childbirth. If all three of these women who canonically shared time, meals, chambers, etc together suffered from similar infertility issues and timelines, with Rhaella being the worst affected, can we theorize that there might have been issues of poison at play?

Pycelle was the Grand Maester at the time — we know he was involved in other plots with poison at the center (Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn most notably), and we also know that Tywin Lannister married for love. So despite his loyalty to Tywin, couldn't it be that Pycelle never expected Tywin to match with his cousin of few advantages, and that Joanna's struggles were perhaps an unintended, unforeseen consequence?

Could this be the additional backstory regarding Pycelle and Tywin that GRRM is referencing?

Counterpoint One: If the maesters were aware of the prophecy and Rhaegar fulfilled it, they shouldn't have continued with Rhaella

Counterpoint Two: The timeline for the various births of Rhaella, Joanna, and Unnamed Princess are all over the place. It's possible that GRRM didn't simply flub the timeline and actually there is no connection between these three women's similar fertility issues.

Counterpoint Three: Rhaella was traumatized from her young birth and Summerhall's tragedy, her fertility issues arose naturally.

All possibilities.

FOURTH: IS ALL OF THIS GOING TO BITE THE CITADEL IN THE ASS SOMEHOW? WHY ARE THEY EVEN DOING THIS? (SPECULATION)

My theory as to the roots of the Maester Conspiracy is threefold:

ONE: The Citadel, like all institutions of higher academia, is not politically neutral and is invested in specific visions for the future. They inherently seek to preserve the status quo which allows them to function and expand their own influence. They are as liable to corruption as any of the other institutions we see (monarchy, knighthood, the Faith, the Night's Watch, the Kingsguard, etc.) and while maesters do not act as one, they do act as an informal web pushing forth specific beliefs and ideals.

TWO: Not all maesters are created equal. Archmaesters and other such influential members of the Citadel are closer to certain truths than others, it's in the handchosen placement of maesters in the ears of specific lords/political players that we see a larger plan.

THREE: The Citadel is aware of prophecies foretelling a second Long Night to come. To combat this, they have long sought to destroy one of the heralds of said disaster, that being dragons. To put it simply: All magic is from the same root / all magic must be destroyed.

That's my theory.

Now, is this going to bite them in the ass? Hahaha of course!

ONE: The Faceless Men are infiltrating the Citadel due to some plan we are not yet privy to. The AFFC Prologue shows us the novice Pate being body snatched by an FM implied to the Jaqen H'ghar — what is he after, though? Potentially the extremely rare book titled The Death of Dragons that is solely kept in some locked basement of the Citadel... which he just acquired a key for?

TWO: Euron Greyjoy is coming to sack Oldtown, and he is obsessed with dragons/arcane arts/doing experiments with pregnant women (back to my point about connecting dragon births and human fertility)... but above all, he is not nice.

THREE: Daenerys Targaryen is coming to Westeros, and she's the Mother of Dragons. The Dragons are here. By focusing on dragons, it's possible the maesters have lost sight of the bigger picture — the incoming Long Night, wights, and Battle for the Dawn.

That was such a long post I fear and way beyond the question you asked. I appreciate it anyway, seeing as I've wanted to get all these thoughts out for a while to organize what I think & what the text itself points to.

To answer your question: Yes I do think the Maester Conspiracy is a real thing! I believe it's been set up mainly insofar as it will guide Samwell Tarly's POVs in Oldtown, the upcoming Euron Greyjoy plotlines, and potentially Arya due to the Faceless Men connect.

Eventually it will bring Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow into play (the latter likely due to the Arya and Sam of it all, which winks to the importance of Jon now having an Oldtown-bred squire in Satin), probably in line with the concept of the Second Dance George has been teasing us about.

Just how it will all play out, though, I couldn't say. We shall have to see. Drink water. Manifest TWOW. Speaking of manifesting...

#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf meta #text #maesters #maester aemon #maester cressen #maestern luwin #archmaester marwyn #rhaella targaryen #naerys targaryen #samwell tarly #tyrion lannister #daenerys targaryen #the citadel #joanna lannister #unnamed princess of dorne #magic in asoiaf #asoiaf speculation

[horizon-verizon]

Doesn’t Rhaenyra having illegitimate children affect Alicent? A lot of people say that it’s “none of Alicent’s business” but it is. Rhaenyra having obvious bastard children puts Alicent’s own children in danger, because there will be people that want her son to be king over Rhaenyra’s bastard. It doesn’t matter whether Aegon wants the throne or not. People would still rally behind him which would threaten Jace’s rule, and Jace would eventually be forced to kill him to eliminate the threat.

I agree that Rhaenyra as a woman would always face opposition, but her having three obvious bastards really didn’t help her case, and it put her siblings in even more danger. I don’t blame Rhaenyra for not being able to have children with Laenor, but I do blame her for choosing Harwin to father her children. So I think Alicent trying to expose Rhaenyra’s bastards is her way of trying to protect her children’s lives.

A) I've addressed bastards and Rhaenyra this in the following:

A Semi-Master Post of Links

On Blaming Rhaenyra Alone and Specifically, sans discussion of bastards, for what happened to her and Not about Choosing Harwin

The Post already linked in the post/reblog linked in #2 as "Counterpoint"

In other words, they were NEVER in serious enough danger from any set of lords other than the greens. Neither in show nor book/canon lore.

B) About Harwin...

Do not mention Rhaenyra getting a Valyrian-descent man of either noble birth (which could only come from Houses Celtigar, Velaryon, or that one that starts with "Q"). There is the issue of how much she and Viserys could trust such a hypothetical man to not come back around and try to claim that he's the dad of these kids she would have with him more than if she could with a hypothetically straight/bi Laenor. Laenor was her closest cousin and had a good character. Laenor also came with the benefit of Corlys wanting grandkids as rulers. The problem worsened once you tried to find another hypothetical candidate from Essos, since his presence would need to be explained with Rhaenyra already married. AND, as I think I already mentioned in the post I linked above as #3, Rhaenyra using say, a Lysene sex slave or Pentoshi prostitute. Same issue as the hypothetical Essosi nobleman--you need to explain their presence and risk loss of reputation or at least it's suspicion that would lead to such loss. But if a slave, then we have another amoral act that we don't want anyone to perform: forcing an enslaved person to father your child for your own gain. Plus that's expensive and something not worth the money, with all its unnecessary and potentially damning risks.

Rhaenyra loved Harwin, and the reverse is true as well. She trusted Harwin as an individual and was sexually/romantically attracted to him. Trusted him with her and her loved ones' lives. Because she trusted him to not backstab her or block her, even would just see their kids as belonging more to her than to him, she saw someone necessary to her and their kids' security. Theirs was not just a political or business relationship, and in feudal politics, the personal and "business" can't ever be truly separate because reproduction is the business of marriage arrangements and alliances.

C) Finally....the Targs at this moment of ruling Targ history has the most dragons, more than the three Conquerors who managed to conquer all of Westeros (except Dorne) in less than three years....I think Jace was fine. Especially as long as Alicent's kids stayed in place and ALL FIFTEEN (or so) DRAGONRIDERS put down the hypothetical and unlikely rebellious lords:

*Daemon/Caraxes (if he somehow outlived Rhaenyra)

*Rhaenys/Meleys (if she outlived Rhaenyra)

Jacaerys/Vermax

Joffrey/Tyraxes

Aegon the Elder/Sunfyre

Aemond/Vhagar (or if he hadn't been sneaky, some other dragon)

*Helaena/Dreamfyre (if she were allowed to fight)

Aegon the Younger/Stormcloud--not really bc he is a child

Viserys (Rhaenyra's son)/whatever dragon he would have claimed--not really bc he is a child

Baela/Moondancer

Rhaena/Morning

*Jaehaera/Morghul (if allowed to fight, but she shouldn't because of really severe mental disabilities)--not really bc she is a child

Jaehaerys (Helaena's son)/Shrykos--not really bc he is a child

Maelor/whatever dragon he would have had--not really bc he is a child

PLUS whatever kids Aemond or Daeron would have had with their Andal wives and their dragons

I think that such a bevy would have been enough of a deterrent for the Andal-FM lords who would wish to rebel, even if there were any dumb enough to try. Expect maybe the ironborn, but those who mainly wage war by sail never really presented themselves as real trouble against the Targs after the Conquest and while the Targs had dragons. It is when we get to the Dance, when the Targs are fighting themselves that the ironborn really became a worse threat and it wasn't because of bastards so much as profiting off of the green's usurpation.

All those too young to fight would still leave behind enough grown riders who are intimidating enough.

**All Listed Riders and Dragons are by the time Jacaerys is king: Rhaenyra, Lucerys, Laena, Laenor**

#asoiaf asks to me #hotd comment #fire and blood characters #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra's characterization #alicent doesnt have any points #westerosi bastards #rhaenyra and feminism #fire and blood comment #rhaenyra and harwin #harwin strong's characterization #harwin strong #fire and blood #asoiaf #hotd

[jackoshadows]

 “You,” Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, “will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be Knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon.” - Eddard, A Game of Thrones

My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down, I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown - Arya, A Storm of Swords

“Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. He has been trained in arms, as befits a knight to be, but that was not the end of his education. He reads and writes, he speaks several tongues, he has studied history and law and poetry. A septa has instructed him in the mysteries of the Faith since he was old enough to understand them. He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them.” - Kevan, A Dance with Dragons

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

So this is an essay of sorts on my speculation/theory that Arya is going to end up as a leader of the North by the end of the series. I will split this into several parts:

Arya and leadership

Arya and Northern leadership

Arya and Nymeria

Skillsets

Importance of being a Warg/Skinchanger

Succession

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

Arya Stark and leadership

“Know the men who follow you,” she heard him tell Robb once, “and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.“  - Arya, AGoT

Arya has always been a leader rather than a follower. Just like Jon at the wall, she initially chafes at having to follow orders instead of doing what she thinks is the right thing to do. Despite Gendry and Hot Pie being older than her, she’s the one giving the orders and making the plans. She manipulates or forces characters into doing what she wants – getting Gendry to leave Harrenhal and forcing Jaqen to help her free the Northmen.

Arya took the lead, kicking her stolen horse to a brisk heedless trot until the trees close in around her. Hot Pie and Gendry followed as best they could. From time to time Arya glanced over her shoulder, to make sure the two boys had not fallen too far behind, and to see if they were being pursued - Arya, ASoS

Like most of our protagonists, Arya is ambitious and interested in being an active participant at the top. She wanted to become a King’s councilor and build castles. That entire little speech that Varys gives about the ideal candidate for ruling fits Arya to a T.

Arya has gone hungry, scrubbed and cleaned, cooked and kept house, sewed and mended clothes, bound up wounds, been hunted, been scared for her life – and done all this with limited protection. Just survived on her wits. Arya can wield a sword, is fluent in several languages and has studied with a Septa.

We also see war torn Westeros and the suffering of the smallfolk through Arya’s eyes in ACoK and ASoS. It doesn’t matter if it’s Stark or Lannister, the smallfolk suffer the same – Septon Meribald’s ‘Broken Men’ speech in AFfC embodies what Arya observes. After Arya frees the Northmen using weasel soup and Vargo Hoat betrays the Lannisters, there are reprisal killings, torture and rape enacted by Stark bannermen and the sellswords. The smith, Maester and the head maid are executed for merely serving Tywin – something on which they had no choice. Gendry points this out to Arya and she feels guilty for her part in all this.

“I hate this lot worse. Ser Amory was fighting for his lord, but the Mummers are sellswords and turncloaks. Half of them can’t even speak the Common Tongue. Septon Utt likes little boys, Qyburn does black magic, and your friend Biter eats people.”

The worst thing was, she couldn’t even say he was wrong. The Brave Companions did most of the foraging for Harrenhal, and Roose Bolton had given them the task of rooting out Lannisters. Vargo Hoat had divided them into four bands, to visit as many villages as possible. He led the largest group himself, and gave the others to his most trusted captains. She had heard Rorge laughing over Lord Vargo’s way of finding traitors. All he did was return to places he had visited before under Lord Tywin’s banner and seize those who had helped him. – Arya, ACoK

"It’s not a village, it’s only black stones and old bones. “Did the Lannisters kill the people who lived here?” Arya asked as she helped Anguy dry the horses.

“No.” He pointed. “Look at how thick the moss grows on the stones. No one’s moved them for a long time. And there’s a tree growing out of the wall there, see? This place was put to the torch a long time ago.”

“Who did it, then?” asked Gendry.

“Hoster Tully.” Notch was a stooped thin grey-haired man, born in these parts. “This was Lord Goodbrook’s village. When Riverrun declared for Robert, Goodbrook stayed loyal to the king, so Lord Tully came down on him with fire and sword. After the Trident, Goodbrook’s son made his peace with Robert and Lord Hoster, but that didn’t help the dead none.”

A silence fell."  - Arya, ASoS

"Wolves, she thought again. Like me. Was this her pack? How could they be Robb’s men? She wanted to hit them. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to cry.” - Arya, ASoS

The smallfolk in the Riverlands are caught between the Starks, Tullys and Lannisters with no good choices. And on the ground level, Arya sees this, understands this and acknowledges this. Her actions benefited house Stark and no one else. She understands the cost of war.

Arya is also very keen on justice. In that she not only thinks that characters deserve justice, but she wants to actively participate and deliver justice. She considers the execution of Dareon from the NW as a just one.

Dareon had been a deserter from the Night's Watch; he had deserved to die. - Arya, AFfC

“Guilty!” Arya shouted with the rest. “Guilty, guilty, kill him, guilty!” …

Arya could only think of Mycah and all the stupid prayers she’d prayed for the Hound to die. If there were gods, why didn’t Lord Beric win? She knew the Hound was guilty… - Arya, ASoS

Her father beat her so often and so brutally that she was never truly free of pain or fear until she came to us.”

“Did you kill him?”

“She asked the gift for herself, not for her father.”

You should have killed him.“ - Arya, ADWD

Arya drew back from him. "He killed the slave?" That did not sound right. "He should have killed the masters!" – Arya, aDwD

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

Arya and Northern leadership

I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. - Hugo Wull

The North has famously never had a female leader in House Stark. So is it possible for valiant Ned’s precious little girl to become the first Lady Stark to lead the North?

In terms of personality, Arya resembles some of the other female leaders/members of Northern houses. She is bold and forward like Lyanna Mormont and Wylla Manderly. She has trained with the sword and learned how to use a bow and arrow. She proactively engineers her own escape like Alys Karstark. Characters like Ygritte and Alys remind Jon Snow of Arya.

Arya venerates Ned Stark. She follows his advice as much as Robb, Bran and Jon do. Even more so. She executes a NW brother for desertion. And that is important for the Starks.

I should kill them myself. Whenever her father had condemned a man to death, he did the deed himself with Ice, his greatsword. - Arya, ACoK

The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. - Bran, AGoT

“The Starks do not use headsmen. Ned always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the blade, though he never took any joy in the duty.” - Catelyn, ACoK

“Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold.” Robb lifted the heavy axe with both hands. “Here in sight of gods and men, I judge you guilty of murder and high treason. In mine own name I condemn you. With mine own hand I take your life. Would you speak a final word?” - Catelyn, ASoS

The pale morning sunlight ran up and down his blade as Jon clasped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and raised it high. “If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” he said, expecting one last curse. - Jon, ADwD

Arya is one of the Starkiest Starks of the whole lot. She is also the only Stark to actually have the Stark look. She is stubborn and determined to do things the Stark way. She often uses her father’s advice to guide her way.

Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. “Know the men who follow you,” she heard him tell Robb once, “and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.“ - Arya, aGoT

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father’s table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms.- Arya, AGoT

Whenever her father had condemned a man to death, he did the deed himself with Ice, his greatsword. “If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him go look him in the face and hear his last words,” she’d heard him tell Robb and Jon once. - Arya, ACoK

Now there are theories that it is future Bran who was communicating with Arya through the weirwood at Harrenhal, but she does gain strength from her father’s words when she prays to the Old Gods.

Gooseprickles rose on Arya’s skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father’s voice. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said. “But there is no pack,” she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m Nan.” “You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.” - Arya, ACoK

And while Arya is travelling incognito, GRRM keeps her connected to the North, house Stark and the Northern plot. She starts her journey from KL with a NW brother Yoren. She’s disguised as a boy like Danny Flint, Manderly requests a song about brave Danny Flint at Ramsay’s wedding with ‘Arya’. In the Riverlands, Arya’s plot intersects with her father’s bannermen, she participates in the capture of Harrenhal for house Stark and is there for Roose Bolton’s war council. She meets both Roose Bolton and Aenys Frey – our antagonists in Winterfell facing off against Stannis in ADwD. She meets Robett Glover – who is currently in White Harbor - when she lets him out of the dungeons. She gets Jaqen to help her father’s men.

“Vargo Hoat’s come back with prisoners. I saw their badges. There’s a Glover, from Deepwood Motte, he’s my father’s man. The rest too, mostly.” All of a sudden, Arya knew why her feet had brought her here. “You have to help me get them out.” – Arya, ACoK

Arya looked. She knew all of her father’s men. The three in the grey cloaks were strangers. Arya, AGoT

Twin towers. Sunburst. Bloody man. Battle-axe. The battle-axe is for Cerwyn, and the white sun on black is Karstark. They’re northmen. My father’s men, and Robb’s. - Arya, ACoK

Harwin?” Arya whispered. It was! Under the beard and the tangled hair was the face of Hullen’s son, who used to lead her pony around the yard, ride at quintain with Jon and Robb, and drink too much on feast days. He was thinner, harder somehow, and at Winterfell he had never worn a beard, but it was him—her father’s man. Arya, ASoS

“I bet there are Winterfell men too.” Her father’s men, the Young Wolf’s men, the direwolves of Stark. - Arya, ASoS

Arya is also involved in betrothals/marriage – first to Elmar Frey and then married off to Ramsay Bolton to hold the North. As a side note, her connection to all these bastards is indeed interesting - Elmar Frey, Ramsay Bolton, Gendry and Jon Snow. Is GRRM trying to say something here?

We now have the Northerners and Freys that Arya sees in Harrenhal transposed to Winterfell and ‘her father’s men’ rising up for Arya Stark.

Now, we can speculate and assume that these Northerners would have done the same for the other Starks, but that’s not the point here. In the books, GRRM has written this story to revolve around Arya. The mountain clans are marching for ARYA. The Northern houses are fighting alongside Stannis for ARYA. When lady Barbrey Dustin points out the anger of the Northmen at the treatment of ‘Valiant Ned's precious little girl’ she is talking about ARYA.

GRRM has Stannis wanting to rescue Arya for Jon. He has Mance trying to rescue Arya for Jon. He has Jon breaking his vows and dying trying to rescue Arya. A large part of what drives this plot forward is that it’s Arya, and her special relationship with Jon Snow influences a lot of what is happening south of the wall. The story only happens this way with Arya in the North. And that’s why it’s Arya’s story and not that of any other Stark. Superimposing this or that Stark in place of Arya to make a case for why they would be leader of the North makes no sense. GRRM writing in the marriage of Arya Stark to hold the North makes the case for why Arya is important to the North.

So, Arya has actively helped free Northmen in the Riverlands, engaged with important Northerners and Freys at Harrenhal and drives the plot to take down the Boltons in the North. With her leadership skills, her ability to wield a weapon and fight, looking like Ned, following in Ned’s footsteps and advice, her fierce personality, her loyalty to bannermen, her desire for justice and to help the weak and powerless, her huge direwolf - she would be like the Kings in the North of yore.  I think the Northerners will be fine with Arya Stark being the Stark in charge.

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Arya and Nymeria

“What if the wolves come?” “Yield,” Arya suggested - Arya, ACoK

The direwolves are an important part of the books, and an important aspect of the Starks.They are as much a part of the Starks as Dany’s dragons are a part of her. They cannot be ignored as unimportant pets who will end up serving no purpose.

“He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.”  - Catelyn, ASoS

Ghost did not count. Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him - Jon, ADWD

“Part of you is Summer, and part of Summer is you. You know that, Bran.” - Bran, ACoK

“Wolves and women wed for life,” Haggon often said. “You take one, that’s a marriage. The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.” - Varamyr, ADWD

You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord…The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. -  Bran, AGoT

“Roose Bolton has Lord Eddard’s daughter. To thwart him White Harbor must have Ned’s son … and the direwolf. The wolf will prove the boy is who we say he is, should the Dreadfort attempt to deny him.“ - Davos, ADWD

GRRM has mentioned several times that they are important.

The Lannisters are always likening themselves to lions, for example, and their motto “Hear me roar” speaks of a certain way of looking at life. But I think for the Starks it goes a little bit beyond that, especially in this generation, with these direwolves. It’s more than just a handy metaphor with them - GRRM, interview

"Wolves have been part of European folklore, of which America's descended, going back thousands of years. In Rome, Romulus and Remus -- there's always been this relationship between wolves and men." That relationship is seen time and again in Martin's series, and it's one that will Martin says will continue as the last two books are eventually released. Arya's wolf, Nymeria, in particular, will play an important role. "You know, I don't like to give things away." says Martin, a grin spreading across his face. "But you don't hang a giant wolf pack on the wall unless you intend to use it." - GRRM interview

The direwolves are important especially for Arya whose theme is ‘The lone wolf dies but the pack survives’ and there are constant mentions of the pack in her POV chapters. Nymeria is an alpha, a leader of her pack like Arya is a leader of hers.

“She says there’s this great pack, hundreds of them, mankillers. The one that leads them is a she-wolf, a bitch from the seventh hell.” - Arya, ACoK

Throughout ACoK and ASoS, Arya mentions the wolves in the Riverlands. They appear to be just ahead of her or behind her. In her chapters there are mentions of wolves eating people, of Roose going wolf hunting. It’s almost like the wolves are traveling with her. They even help her escape – the wolf howl giving the signal – from harrenhal. And it’s possible the pack was picking off Roose Bolton’s riders chasing Arya because they were following right behind.

She could hear the sound of her own breath, and the wolves as well, a great pack of them now. They are closer than the one I heard in the godswood, she thought. They are calling to me. - Arya, ACoK

Once, from the crest of a ridge, she spied dark shapes crossing a stream in the valley behind them, and for half a heartbeat she feared that Roose Bolton’s riders were on them, but when she looked again she realized they were only a pack of wolves. She cupped her hands around her mouth and howled down at them, “Ahooooooooo, ahooooooooo.” When the largest of the wolves lifted its head and howled back, the sound made Arya shiver.   - Arya ASoS

Nymeria keeps amassing this huge wolf pack and Arya being a strong warg can sense this

She was no little girl in the dream; she was a wolf, huge and powerful, and when she emerged from beneath the trees in front of them and bared her teeth in a low rumbling growl, she could smell the rank stench of fear from horse and man alike. - Arya, ASoS

She dreamed of wolves most every night. A great pack of wolves, with her at the head. She was bigger than any of them, stronger, swifter, faster. And her brothers and sisters were with her, many and more of them, fierce and terrible and hers. - Arya, ASoS

In her wolf dreams she was swift and strong, running down her prey with her pack at her heels. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

The wolf dreams also helps Arya connect to Bran, Jon and Rickon. We see Ghost able to sense the other direwolves and Bran trying to communicate with Jon.

Nymeria is a grey wolf and the stark sigil is a grey wolf on a white background.

 “The rain had washed the guard’s blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid.” - Arya, ACoK

“Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks.” - Reek, ADwD

What’s in a name? I have already mentioned in another post, the symbolism of the names for the direwolves and them being an indication of the future for the Starks. Arya’s direwolf is named Nymeria – a Rhoynish warrior queen who led her people to safety. Something that Arya may well do in the future when the North is under attack from the Others.

More importantly, Nymeria in Dorne changed the customs and rules of house Martell to follow those of Rhoynar and allowed for female rulers. Nymeria herself was the first female leader and was followed by her daughter. Nymeria changed the norm for Dorne and we could see the same happening with Arya Stark in the North.

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Skills and Education

Look with your eyes, Syrio had said, listen with your ears.- Arya, ACoK

Education at Winterfell:

Arya was mainly taught by Septa Mordane and received the same education as Sansa. She would have been taught history and about the Faith by the Septa, she can read and write, and is good with sums. She’s better than Sansa at managing a household. She can ride a horse like a Northman and is an excellent swimmer. She knows some high Valyrian. Besides the Septa, Arya also hangs around Ned Stark when he is teaching the boys. Many of his words of wisdom that she remembers is from when he is teaching the boys. She mingles with her father’s men, the cooks, the stable boys etc.

Kings Landing:

Water Dancing style of swordfighting from Syrio Forel.

Harrenhal:

Being incognito allows Arya to move around like a mouse or the ghost of Harrenhal and observe and learn things. She is privy to Roose Bolton’s war council and listens to them discuss the Northern campaign against the Lannisters. We get the first inkling of the Red Wedding in these chapters between Roose and the Freys.

Arya observes the different people, analyzes their movements and figures out how to approach them.

The night she was caught, the Lannister men had been nameless strangers with faces as alike as their nasal helms, but she’d come to know them all. You had to know who was lazy and who was cruel, who was smart and who was stupid. You had to learn that even though the one they called Shitmouth had the foulest tongue she’d ever heard, he’d give you an extra piece of bread if you asked, while jolly old Chiswyck and soft-spoken Raff would just give you the back of their hand. - Arya, ACoK

And as lords and ladies never notice the little grey mice under their feet, Arya heard all sorts of secrets just by keeping her ears open as she went about her duties. Pretty Pia from the buttery was a slut who was working her way through every knight in the castle. The wife of the gaoler was with child, but the real father was either Ser Alyn Stackspear or a singer Lord Lefford made mock of ghosts at table, but always kept a candle burning by his bed. Ser Dunaver’s squire Jodge could not hold his water when he slept. The cooks despised Ser Harys Swyft and spit in all his food. Once she even overheard Maester Tothmure’s serving girl confiding to her brother about some message that said Joffrey was a bastard and not the rightful king at all. “Lord Tywin told him to burn the letter and never speak such filth again,” the girl whispered. - Arya, ACoK

She aids in the escape of the near hundred Northmen imprisoned in the dungeons and even Roose is impressed enough to make her his cupbearer. And the next time, she conceives of, plans and executes their entire escape all by herself. She plans for the logistics – weapons, transportation, people, travel route, what to wear.  She makes sure she is warmly dressed, takes the map from Roose’s chamber, uses her position of cupbearer to manipulate several men,  manipulates Gendry into escaping with her, takes down the guard and leads them away. It’s an endeavor that showcases her intelligence, cunning, determination, ability to strategize and lead.

Arya also shows a lot of restraint and keeps her secrets. She doesn’t trust the Glovers or any of the Northmen in Harrenhal - and considering the Red Wedding, it’s a good decision.

Their captors permitted no chatter. A broken lip taught Arya to hold her tongue. Others never learned at all. - Arya, ACoK

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. - Arya, ACoK

On the road Arya had felt like a sheep, but Harrenhal turned her into a mouse. She was grey as a mouse in her scratchy wool shift, and like a mouse she kept to the crannies and crevices and dark holes of the castle, scurrying out of the way of the mighty.- Arya, ACoK

Braavos:

Arya’s education here is not limited to killing for the Faceless Men. She is also educated in poisons and languages. She improves on her high Valyrian and is now fluent in Braavosi and other Essosi languages. She learns acting/mummery. Not showing emotions on one’s face, detecting emotions in another person.

“A man does not need to be a wizard to know truth from falsehood, not if he has eyes. You need only learn to read a face. Look at the eyes. The mouth. The muscles here, at the corners of the jaw, and here, where the neck joins the shoulders.” He touched her lightly with two fingers. “Some liars blink. Some stare. Some look away. Some lick their lips. Many cover their mouths just before they tell a lie, as if to hide their deceit. Other signs may be more subtle, but they are always there. A false smile and a true one may look alike, but they are as different as dusk from dawn. Can you tell dusk from dawn?”

Arya nodded, though she was not certain that she could. “Then you can learn to see a lie… and once you do, no secret will be safe from you.”  - Arya, AFFC

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People skills

“I will remember, Your Grace," said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people's loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me.” - Sansa, ACoK

Arya’s ability to make friends wherever she goes highlights her people skills. And Arya is able to communicate and connect with people from all walks of life.

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. - Sansa, AGoT

She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children., Arya, AGoT

Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. “Know the men who follow you,” she heard him tell Robb once, “and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.“ - Arya, AGoT

Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, Brewers and bakers and beggars and whores - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

Her girls were nice as well; Blushing Bethany and the Sailor’s Wife, one-eyed Yna who could tell your fortune from a drop of blood, pretty little Lanna, even Assadora, the Ibbenese woman with the mustache. They might not be beautiful, but they were kind to her - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

She’s also loyal to her pack. She doesn’t betray Jon even to her father. She helps free her father’s men. Despite Gendry talking of leaving Lommy or Weasel behind, she refuses. And despite the odds, she tries to help Gendry.

It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they had Gendry. Even if he was stubborn and stupid, she had to get him out. She wondered if they knew that the queen wanted him. - Arya, ACoK

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Importance of being a Warg/Skinchanger

She was the night wolf, no scraps of skin could frighten her. - Arya, ADwD

Since this is a fantasy series, magic is a big part of the story with a magical existential apocalyptic threat on the horizon. The North is the first bastion facing this threat. Jon and Dany both have magical pets and prophetic dreams. Bran is the 3ER. They are leaders or will become leaders by the end. Arya is a strong warg/skinchanger. Apart from Jon and Bran, she’s the only other Stark to use these abilities so far. As GRRM as indicated, having a direwolf is going to be useful in battle – we are going to be seeing direwolves involved in the battle for Winterfell for example. Arya is able to warg Nymeria from all the way over in Braavos. She skinchanges cats and sees through their eyes, when she is blind. She is deft with a sword, knife and decent with a bow and arrow (she could be better now using her FM senses). She would be an effective fighter to have against the Others and her warging skills could prove useful in battle.

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Succession

I’m not a lady, Arya wanted to tell her, I’m a wolf. - Arya, ASoS

And finally we come to succession. This is the hardest part and entirely speculation and we need the next book to get an inkling of where GRRM is heading towards. I am also basing all of this on Hibberd more or less confirming that King Bran on the Iron Throne is GRRM’s ending.

So of the true born Starks, Arya is pretty much last in line. With the inclusion of Robb’s will, we have 5 Starks left. Bran is the rightful heir to the North. Taking him out of the running, leaves Jon, Rickon, Sansa and Arya. Assuming Jon ends up North of the wall – in his dreams the Old Kings in the North in the crypts reject him, maybe foreshadowing that he doesn’t belong in Winterfell - that leaves Rickon, Sansa and Arya.

As for Sansa, again there is a plot significant reason for why GRRM has put an obstacle in her path, allowing for Arya to jump the queue. Sansa is currently married to Tyrion Lannister, a marriage that cannot be easily annulled (With an enemy regime in KL) or ignored like the show did. Robb Stark has most likely disinherited/removed her from the line of succession and named a legitimized Jon Stark his heir and Lord of Winterfell. If he has the support of the Northern houses who want an experienced, older Stark to lead them, Jon Stark could well be the next KITN over Rickon Stark. I don’t think a 7 year old Rickon would object to Jon in charge. So that makes it Jon Stark, Rickon Stark and Arya Stark.

Does Rickon have to die for Arya to become Wardeness of the North? It’s possible Rickon dies, but it’s also possible he doesn’t.  It could be that Rickon does not want to lead the North – by the end of the book, he would be 8 or 9. Of course there’s the argument of a regent doing the job for Rickon until he’s ready. Or, he could just give way to his sister because he wants to. Something similar to Aemon refusing the throne and it passing to his younger brother Aegon.

Or we could have the traditional situation where Rickon becomes lord of Winterfell as next in line, while it’s Arya who is involved in running the day to day affairs. However, that would very much be status quo - with Rickon at WF and Bran down south in KL, it would be men ending up in positions of power everywhere once again, except maybe Dorne. If this happens, then Arya would be a leader of the North, but the Stark line would continue with the male line.  

It’s possible Jon Stark as King could change things for the North. Jon treats the spearwives the same as the brothers of the NW, he respects Val’s abilities, he trusts in Alys Karstark. If Rickon refuses the mantle, it could very well be that Jon Stark relinquishes his position to his favorite person ever, Arya Stark, to be the next Wardeness of the North.  Thus paving the way for Arya Stark to be the first female leader of the North like her hero Nymeria in Dorne.

It would be fitting for the character who introduced Jon Snow to equal rights for women.

“The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

“The woman is important too!” Arya protested. - Arya, AGoT

Could King Jon reverse Sansa’s disinheritance after her marriage is annulled when KL is in friendly hands? Sure. But we don’t know how the Sansa/LF/Vale group will react to Jon as KITN and whether they will mount a challenge in Sansa’s name. And if Jon has to choose between Sansa and Arya as to whom he wants in charge of Winterfell, we know who it is he will think is more capable and will always choose.

I do think Winterfell succession will not be as clearcut as many Stark fans are hoping. Too many factions supporting the different Starks. GRRM loves to write about dysfunctional families and the Starks are not anything special in that regard. TWoW will tell us of whether there will be any kind of Stark civil war.

Is Arya too young for all this? I predict that by the time we get to the end of the books, about 5 years would have gone by. At 14, Arya would still need a regent – one of the many lords of the houses in the North. But I think considering her experiences, skillsets, a huge direwolf, Ned Stark’s wisdom and strong connections to the North, she will be an able leader. As GRRM said,

“[Arya is] older than some of the 40-year-olds in the book.” - GRRM

Either way, whether she gets Winterfell or not, Arya will end up as a leader in the North. Either she rules for Rickon and takes care of the day to day responsibilities or she does so in her own right as Lady of Winterfell/Wardeness of the North. She’s not going anywhere or sailing off on a boat. The show’s ending makes absolutely no sense for a character yearning for home in 5 books after going on the nightmare ‘adventure’ from hell. She will be in the North, in Winterfell, being a leader and continuing Ned Stark’s legacy.  She will counsel her brothers and build and her people will love her just like they loved her father.

So in conclusion, I think there is enough story, character build up, characterization and set up for Arya to go North and take over as a leader of house Stark to face the threat of the Others along with Bran, Jon, Dany and Tyrion.

#Arya Stark #asoiaf #TWoW speculation

[une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir]

The Dragon has Three Heads

"Three heads of the dragon... yes... but the third will not necessarily BE a Targaryen..."

~ GRRM @ at some convention

The conclusion is simple. The heads of the dragon refer to people and while the two are Targaryens, the third might not be one.

We can ignore anything that says this group of things are of different things (for example, I've seen "two Targaryens plus a concept"), as that makes no narrative sense. The key is exactly that last sentence, the third one may not be a Targaryen, which implies the three heads are all people and that two are Targaryens and the third is not quite one. Therefore, these three dragon heads must refer to people associated with dragon, with two of them being Targaryens but the last one not necessarily being one.

The most popular theory is that the two Targaryens are Danerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, with the third being the youngster that claims to be Aegon VI Targaryen and appears first in ADWD. This identification ignores the narrative framework for both Aegon VI Targareyn and Jon Snow.

On one hand, Aegon is often associated with kingly imagery (for example, the chapter he's introduced starts with six chests, the kid himself is introduced as standing at a higher ground than the rest, and ends with a turtle who is said to witness the birth of kings), he's accompanied by a lot associated with his parents such as Jon Connington (his father's hand of the kind) and some dornish / royne people (his mother's land and culture). Another thing to note is that Varys introduces him as the real thing to a dying man.

Moreover, there is at least one "baby switch" story that shadows this one, a prince baby being switched with a nobody, sent away to protect against a Baratheon. In specific, Mance Rayder's son (the wildling "king") being switched with Gilly's son, then sent South for protection against another Baratheon, which is notably a plan concocted by Jon Snow (another of Rhaegar's kids, as if preparing him and the reader to "believe" such a scenario is possible).

On the other hand, Jon Snow's core character revolves around two facts, that he is a bastard and that he loves his Stark family. The reveal that he's not Eddard Stark's bastard but Lyanna Stark's child doesn't erase the latter, as he's a Stark through his mother. Still, the nature of Rhaegar and Lyanna's relationship may erase the former. If Jon is illegitimate, that doesn't erase the former, but if he's legitimate somehow (Targaryens are said to take multiple wives), that erases the former and replaces it another. It can go either way.

Moreover, there is at least one "legitimized bastard" story that shadows this one. In specific, Jon Snow is offered to be legitimised both by Stannis Baratheon (something that is a true temptation, as it would give him everything he secretely longed for all his life), but also by Robb's will as it names Jon Snow as his heir over sisters and that's only possible through legitimising him. It's my conviction that "the rule of three" applies, therefore that Jon will reject Robb's will like he rejected Stannis' offer, but will have a third legitimization opportunity and that this time around he'll acept.

To be more specific and in contrast with Aegon, who's introduced with kingly imagery, Jon is introduced with bastardy imagery. Bran introduces him into the narratve as his bastard brother, while Jon's first POV chapter starts with him musing that he's a bastard. While Jon has "kingly" imagery, it doesn't come associated with imagery from his father's side, and seems to be self-contained to the North (for example, the first inside joke is "kings hiding under the snow" or Mormont's crow calling him king while he's at the wall). Jon's hidden parentage comes along with prince imagery instead (for example, the anti-parallel with bastard prince Joffrey). With my conviction explained above, I do believe it will come to Aegon legitimising Jon as his heir until he has kids (a parallel to Robb's will). Most (if not all) foreshadowing falls into place. Aegon VI is king, Jon is the (bastard) prince. An example would be Sansa's "Glory to your betrothed," Ser Arys answered at once. (...) "He is the dragon's heir." which fits with Jon as Aegon's heir.

Combined, this interpreation suggests that the popular theory is actually backwards: Aegon VI is the real thing while Jon Snow is the Blackfyre (bastard Targaryen). This is in accordance to the way the text is presented.

House of Undying

"THe dragon has three heads" is referenced for the first time to Danerys Targaryen in a prophetic inducing Shade of the Evening tripping out at the House of Undying.

The man had her brother's hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. "Aegon," he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. "What better name for a king?"

"Will you make a song for him?" the woman asked.

"He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany's, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door. "There must be one more," he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in the bed she could not say. "The dragon has three heads." He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way.

I'll say that whatever the House of Undying shows, may not be reality. Rhaegar wanting to fulfill some prophecy with three kids is not referenced anywhere else, except this moment which is the equivalent of a very bad drug trip. It's worth mentioning though, Ratgar saw a comet in the sky and thought he should impregnate his wife, against medical advice because she who was recovering from giving birth his first child. It could be, but it could not be.

Regardless, what's important to note is what's being prophetized. Much like GRRM's convention remark, Rhaegar identifies the three heads as people. So far so good. However, he also gives us an order: omitted Rhaenys as she was born already, Aegon in mother's lap, Danerys when Rhaegar looks up to "see" her at the door, then finally Jon when he says "there must be one more". On one hand, Rhaenys was murdered and Danerys is in this as well, so the conclusion is that the former "replaced" the latter in the prophecy. On the other hand, if this had been a real memory, than Rhaegar would have two legitimate kids at the time (Rhaenys and Aegon) such saying "there must be one more" suggests a third child (Jon), which goes well with GRRM saying "the third may not be a Targaryen". So in order, we have Aegon, Danerys, Jon.

Danerys later reflects upon what this prophecy means and comes the conclusion that these heads are supposed to be people. This is because the Targaryen coat-of-arms is a dragon with three heads, each head representing three Targaryens.

"The dragon has three heads," she sighed. "Do you know what that means, Jorah?"

"Your Grace? The sigil of House Targaryen is a three-headed dragon, red on black."

"I know that. But there are no three-headed dragons."

"The three heads were Aegon and his sisters."

(...)

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne," Ser Jorah said. "But if he was this prince that was promised, the promise was broken along with his skull when the Lannisters dashed his head against a wall."

"I remember," Dany said sadly. "They murdered Rhaegar's daughter as well, the little princess. Rhaenys, she was named, like Aegon's sister. There was no Visenya, but he said the dragon has three heads. What is the song of ice and fire?"

(...)

"Your Grace," he conceded, "the dragon has three heads, remember? You have wondered at that, ever since you heard it from the warlocks in the House of Dust. Well, here's your meaning: Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar, ridden by Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—three dragons, and three riders."

(...)

When Brown Ben left, she lay back on her cushions. "If you were grown," she told Drogon, scratching him between the horns, "I'd fly you over the walls and melt that harpy down to slag." But it would be years before her dragons were large enough to ride. And when they are, who shall ride them? The dragon has three heads, but I have only one.

(...)

"No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners," Armen the Acolyte said firmly. "That was a heraldic charge, no more. Furthermore, the Targaryens are all dead."

"Not all," said Alleras. "The Beggar King had a sister."

(...)

"The dragon must have three heads," he wailed, "but I am too old and frail to be one of them. I should be with her, showing her the way, but my body has betrayed me."

The prophecies in ASOIAF are always misunderstood. Danerys is no exception, as she's wrongly identifing people and their motives. One thing is for sure in all these mentions though, the "dragon heads" are meant to be people and one of them is Danerys.

Danerys thinks these three dragons are supposed to mimic the original trio, with herself as Aegon and two men she'll take as lovers as the two sister wives. This is where the misunderstanding is, because it's obvious from the framework that is backwards.

These at least she could rely on, or so she hoped . . . and Brown Ben Plumm as well, solid Ben with his grey-white hair and weathered face, so beloved of her dragons. And Daario beside him, glittering in gold. Daario and Ben Plumm, Grey Worm, Irri, Jhiqui, Missandei . . . as she looked at them Dany found herself wondering which of them would betray her next.

The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters.

Danerys is a dumb bitch and the text shows us exactly how. The idea of Danerys being betrayed comes together with the other two heads. They're not lovers, they're betrayers. It occurs again in ADWD as she's in the Dothraki Sea, contemplentanting if the "king" betrayed her and a wolf answers in the distance.

The framework fits this foiled scenario. The original trio was a man married to both his sisters, but only he became king (later, only the man could rule according to Targaryen law). In contrast, Danerys is a woman (foil) and both her brothers are dead (foil), whom are replaced with nephews that have a bigger claim than her (foil) and whom will not be involved / married with her (foil).

It's also thematically relevant and poignant for the trios to be foiled. The Targaryen king dynasty started with an alliance between three dragons, it's fitting that it ends with a war between three dragons. It's what they've been threatening all along with the Dance of the Dragons after all.

#anti daenerys targaryen #queue

[nooneeverlookedforagirl]

AU where Drogo does not kill Viserys.

Jhiqui runs to him when Viserys drags Doreah to their tent by her hair. She says the foreigner is mad with anger and she fears for the khaleesi. He walks in just in time to see him slap Daenerys so hard she falls to the floor. Daenerys, the girl Viserys gifted him. Daenerys, his wife. Daenerys, the moon of his life. Daenerys with their son in her belly.

Whatever Viserys might have done or said after hitting her was nothing. His fierce little wife strikes him so hard across the face with a golden chain that it leaves a mark. He falls to the side just as Drogo reaches them, and he picks Viserys up by the throat with one hand.

Drogo might have killed him then and there, but his wife begs for his life. He is her brother, her only family, she says, in broken Dothraki. Perhaps he does not understand all the words, but he understands enough. Send him away, Daenerys pleads, but do not kill him.

It might have been better if he had. Viserys follows them on foot for many days. On their first encounter with another khalasar, just outside Vaes Dothrak, Drogo gifts him to the other khal. The Andal tells his wife, he knows, but she says nothing to him and if she is angry it does not show.

Then Drogo falls from his horse on the Dothraki Sea, and Daenerys is reborn in fire and blood. One of their children she names Viserion, for her brother.

When Daenerys burns the khals one of their riders brings her a gift. It's Viserys, filthy and despondent, but alive. Neither knows what quite to do with the other, the beggar king and the dragon queen. Still, for the blood they share, Daenerys gives him a simple tent and male servants and a single horse, and he rides with her when they leave.

He rides with her all the way to Meereen, for when she finds Drogon on the Great Grass Sea she tames him with nothing except a whip, her khalasar in awe as she lands him in their midst. She looks at Viserys, and he at her, and then she pulls him onto Drogon's scales and together the last dragons fly toward the besieged city.

Daenerys keeps looking at him like she expects a fit, like she expects him to demand what is rightfully his, from a crown or a Targaryen bride to rooms suitable for the queen's brother. He does none of that. When the city has calmed and the slavers have died, he goes to her in her counsel room and kneels before her, taking her hands in his.

"I'm sorry." Viserys says, looking up into her eyes. "I was a poor brother and a worse king. I hurt you, I thought only of myself, I sold you into slavery. I was young and afraid and desperate, but I should have protected you. All we had was each other."

This Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, she is above all a rescuer. Daenerys drowned the slaver cities in blood rather than leave strangers to their chains, she can scarcely abandon her own brother. Instead she drops to her knees beside him on the floor and tells him of all that has happened since they parted.

When she is done, Viserys says, "I cannot be the king. You must go on in my stead."

"The throne is yours by right." Dany replies.

Viserys pauses, then admits, "I can father no children, Dany. You are the last of our house. You hatched dragons and conquered cities. You must be the queen."

"The maegi said-"

"That you would go to the Dosh Khaleen and become one of them. Or that you would die on Drogo's funeral pyre." Her brother touches her face with a gentleness she has never felt from him before. "A witch who murdered your son and husband is not a reliable source of information, Dany."

"If one of us has a child, then they must take the throne," she insists, "I am the blood of the dragon and for that I ruled, but Viserys I only want peace. The little house with the lemon trees and the red door. Peace."

"Let us rule together, then. As brother and sister," Viserys tells her, "We are the last of our blood and we only have each other."

Then they return to Westeros, where Cersei and the White Walkers await them. The dragons do not allow Viserys to ride, but they seem to like him. Brother and sister, Viserys rides behind Dany on Drogon's back, the last dragons the five of them.

"You are not here to be queen of the ashes," Tyrion tells her.

"Nonsense," Viserys scoffs, "You've lived through a starving Kings Landing, Lord Tyrion. It's said they ripped people apart and ate them still living in front of your eyes."

Drogon burns the Red Keep to the ground with its inhabitants inside but saves thousands from starvation and wildfire. The siblings find Cersei dead on the throne, having poisoned herself, and Tyrion weeps over her. Daenerys returns her body to the Rock, for his sake, and names Olenna Tyrell their Hand.

"With the queen's permission I'll go north and take one," Jorah Mormont offers.

"None of our men are going beyond the Wall. This is all ridiculous. You, the "King in the North" are going to personally go to the most dangerous place in the world for the sake of Jaime Lannister and his men?" Viserys touches his sister's shoulder gently. "You can never trust a Lannister," he tells her, Tyrion looking more uncomfortable by the second, "when Tywin Lannister swore to our father that he would fight for him, he sacked the city and murdered Rhaegar's family. Rhaenys, all of three. Aegon, the rightful king. Elia of Dorne. Jaime Lannister himself broke his sworn oath to our father. Do not trust them. Do not."

Jon Snow goes without Jorah Mormont, and of all the men that step beyond the Wall only he makes it back, bloody and battered, barely alive. Those that had gone with him had traded their lives for his, and had died for nothing. Jon has his wight. Jaime Lannister does not stir from the Rock. Perhaps he swears not to attack them, but he did not have the strength to fight in the field anyway.

"You will rule wisely and well, while she-" Varys begins, but Jon cuts him off.

"If you want another ruler, go and speak to Viserys."

And Varys has, but whatever happened to him in Essos has made it so that he will hear not a word of it. What Varys did say he expects made it back to Daenerys. "Viserys is his father's son, just so, and Rhaegar's son comes before his brother."

Varys will burn that night, when Viserys and Jon both swear that he is a traitor. Viserys would burn Jon too, but Dany refuses him. Burning the North's chosen ruler will do little to make them love her, she says. I love him, she does not, but he hears anyway.

Viserys has seen Jon's eyes. He is a Targaryen, that one, not a Stark, not like his beloved Ned. He takes to wearing full armor, even on Dragonstone, and warns Grey Worm as well. They come to an understanding, if an uncertain one, for Grey Worm has lost Missandei and he will not lose her as well.

As the Red Keep is rebuilt, Dany goes to walk among the ruins. Sometimes she goes up to the Iron Throne, although that room has not been started yet, just to be alone and think. She takes no guards but her children. In the throne room, she welcomes Jon to her, angry or not. They argue.

Casterly Rock has burned, and Viserys is looking for his sister. He finds her usual guard in the hall, and asks where she is. "The throne room," they say, "Jon Snow is with her."

He starts to run. Alarmed, the Unsullied follow him. She had commanded to be left alone, but Jon Snow is one of her generals, one of her trusted allies. The queen has been alone with him before, in more intimate places, and

"You are my queen." Jon says, and she lets him embrace her. There is a blade in his belt, one that almost killed his brother. He reaches for it.

Yet Viserys is not fast enough. He is only a man, but Drogon is not. While he is not Viserys' in the way he is Daenerys', he still feels his fear, still knows it's for his mother. With a flap of his great wings he shakes the snow away and soars up to the ruined keep.

Viserys bursts into the throne room steps ahead of the guards to find Daenerys naked and on her knees, weeping over the corpse of her lover, half-burned away along with her clothes. He still holds the blade he would have killed her with.

Removing his cloak, he drapes it over her instead, hiding both her nakedness and the swell of her stomach as she cries. Viserys pulls her away from the body, turning her face into his shoulder. His mother was careful, so careful, to shelter him from the worst of his father's atrocities, but this is not the first time he has smelled burning flesh. It's all he can do to mummer in High Valyrian to his sister, trying to calm her.

"You were right." Are her first words. "I should never have trusted him. You were right."

Above them is Drogon, the son she bore from Khal Drogo's pyre. Because of her they sit in the halls their ancestors built and call themselves king and queen. Three cities yet stand in Essos, their slaves free for the first time in thousands upon thousands of years. All her doing.

Viserys accepted a long time ago that he was never going to take back the Seven Kingdoms. He was never going to go home. Yet here he stands, all because of his little sister. Viserys had wanted his father's throne; Daenerys envisioned a new world. Jon Snow is but dush and ash.

"No," he presses a kiss to her forehead, and tries to wipe away the tears. "You're a conqueror, Dany, you're a queen. He chose the old world, and you will craft a new one."

#daenerys targaryen #viserys targaryen #game of thrones #fanfic #this started out much darker #but why can't they be happy?

[aboveallarescuer]

All mentions of Dany in other POVs

This is a list with all mentions of Dany and/or her dragons and/or events involving Dany in other POVs.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Epilogue

“We have these tales coming from the east as well. A second Targaryen, and one whose blood no man can question. Daenerys Stormborn.”

“As mad as her father,” declared Lord Mace Tyrell.

That would be the same father that Highgarden and House Tyrell supported to the bitter end and well beyond. “Mad she may be,” Ser Kevan said, “but with so much smoke drifting west, surely there must be some fire burning in the east.”

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head. “Dragons. These same stories have reached Oldtown. Too many to discount. A silver-haired queen with three dragons.”

“At the far end of the world,” said Mace Tyrell. “Queen of Slaver’s Bay, aye. She is welcome to it.”

“On that we can agree,” Ser Kevan said, “but the girl is of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and I do not think she will be content to remain in Meereen forever. If she should reach these shores and join her strength to Lord Connington and this prince of his, feigned or no … we must destroy Connington and his pretender now, before Daenerys Stormborn can come west.”

ADWD The Queen's Hand

He stood beside the parapets of the highest step of the Great Pyramid, searching the sky as he did every morning, knowing that the dawn must come and hoping that his queen would come with it. She will not have abandoned us, she would never leave her people, he was telling himself, when he heard the prince’s death rattle coming from the queen’s apartments.

~

At his command, Quentyn Martell had been laid out in the queen’s own bed. He had been a knight, and a prince of Dorne besides. It seemed only kind to let him die in the bed he had crossed half a world to reach. The bedding was ruined—sheets, covers, pillows, mattress, all reeked of blood and smoke, but Ser Barristan thought Daenerys would forgive him.

~

He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. As he covered the boy once more, he found himself wondering whether there would be anyone to cover his queen, or whether her own corpse would lie un-mourned amongst the tall grasses of the Dothraki sea, staring blindly at the sky until her flesh fell from her bones.

“No,” he said aloud. “Daenerys is not dead. She was riding that dragon. I saw it with mine own two eyes.” He had said the same a hundred times before … but every day that passed made it harder to believe. Her hair was afire. I saw that too. She was burning … and if I did not see her fall, hundreds swear they did.

~

“They await the Hand’s pleasure below.”

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen’s protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate.

~

“The fighting pits will remain closed,” said Selmy. “Blood and noise would only serve to call the dragons.”

“All three, perhaps,” suggested Marselen. “The black beast came once, why not again? This time with our queen.”

Or without her. Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. The very men sitting at this table would soon be at dagger points with one another. A young girl she might be, but Daenerys Targaryen was the only thing that held them all together.

“Her Grace will return when she returns,” said Ser Barristan.

~

The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. “I heard you the first hundred times. No.”

“Queen’s Hand,” Skahaz grumbled with disgust. “An old woman’s hand, I am thinking, wrinkled and feeble. I pray Daenerys returns to us soon.” He pulled his brazen wolf’s mask down over his face. “Your council will be growing restless.”

“They are the queen’s council, not mine.”

~

Though he had assumed the title of Hand, Ser Barristan would not presume to hold court in the queen’s absence, nor would he permit Skahaz mo Kandaq to do such. Hizdahr’s grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan’s command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

~

“You had best guard that tongue, ser.” Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. “Prince Quentyn’s death was his own doing, and yours.”

~

“He offered her his heart,” Ser Gerris said again. “She needed swords, not hearts.”

“He would have given her the spears of Dorne as well.”

“Would that he had.” No one had wanted Daenerys to look with favor on the Dornish prince more than Barristan Selmy.

~

“What he did he did for love of Queen Daenerys,” Gerris Drinkwater insisted. “To prove himself worthy of her hand.”

The old knight had heard enough. “What Prince Quentyn did he did for Dorne. Do you take me for some doting grandfather? I have spent my life around kings and queens and princes. Sunspear means to take up arms against the Iron Throne. No, do not trouble to deny it. Doran Mar-tell is not a man to call his spears without hope of victory. Duty brought Prince Quentyn here. Duty, honor, thirst for glory … never love. Quentyn was here for dragons, not Daenerys.”

~

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. Other Kingsguard had served as Hand before him. Not many, but a few. He had read of them in the White Book. Now he found himself wondering whether they had felt as lost and confused as he did.

~

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

~

“Have there been any further tidings of our sweet queen?”

“None as yet.”

“I shall pray for her. And what of King Hizdahr, if I may be so bold? Might I be permitted to see His Radiance?”

“Soon, I hope. He is unharmed, I promise you.”

“I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place.”

“He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom.”

“I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand,” the Green Grace said. “If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne.”

“Only the queen can do that.”

~

“I know these were not the words you wished to hear,” said Galazza Galare. “Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon’s wroth.”

“Her Grace is not … she …”

“… is dead. May the gods grant her sweet sleep.” Tears glistened behind her veils. “Let her dragons die as well.”

ADWD The Dragontamer

“Is that rain? Your whores will be gone.”

“Not all of them. There are little snuggeries in the pleasure gardens, and they wait there every night until a man chooses them. Those who are not chosen must remain until the sun comes up, feeling lonely and neglected. We could console them.”

“They could console me, is what you mean.”

“That too.”

“That is not the sort of consolation I require.”

“I disagree. Daenerys Targaryen is not the only woman in the world. Do you want to die a man-maid?”

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again. “Do you think Daenerys would be pleased to hear that I had bedded some whore?”

“She might be. Men may be fond of maidens, but women like a man who knows what he’s about in the bedchamber. It’s another sort of sword-play. Takes training to be good at it.”

The gibe stung. Quentyn had never felt so much a boy as when he’d stood before Daenerys Targaryen, pleading for her hand. The thought of bedding her terrified him almost as much as her dragons had. What if he could not please her? “Daenerys has a paramour,” he said defensively. “My father did not send me here to amuse the queen in the bedchamber. You know why we have come.”

“You cannot marry her. She has a husband.”

“She does not love Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

“What has love to do with marriage? A prince should know better. Your father married for love, it’s said. How much joy has he had of that?”

~

“Dorne remembers Aegon and his sisters. Dragons are not so easily forgotten. They will remember Daenerys as well.”

“Not if she’s died.”

“She lives.” She must. “She is lost, but I can find her.” And when I do, she will look at me the way she looks at her sellsword. Once I have proven myself worthy of her.

~

“What’s that for?” Arch asked.

“Daenerys used a whip to cow the black beast.” Quentyn coiled the whip and hung it from his belt. “Arch, bring your hammer as well. We may have need of it.”

~

Warrior, grant me courage, he prayed. He did not want to do this, but he saw no other way. Why else would Daenerys have shown me the dragons? She wants me to prove myself to her. Gerris handed him a torch. He stepped through the doors.

The green one is Rhaegal, the white Viserion, he reminded himself. Use their names, command them, speak to them calmly but sternly. Master them, as Daenerys mastered Drogon in the pit. The girl had been alone, clad in wisps of silk, but fearless. I must not be afraid. She did it, so can I. The main thing was to show no fear. Animals can smell fear, and dragons … What did he know of dragons? What does any man know of dragons? They have been gone from the world for more than a century.

~

Last and longest the beast stared at Pretty Meris, sniffing. The woman, Quentyn realized. He knows that she is female. He is looking for Daenerys. He wants his mother and does not understand why she’s not here.

Quentyn wrenched free of Gerris’s grip. “Viserion,” he called. The white one is Viserion. For half a heartbeat he was afraid he’d gotten it wrong. “Viserion,” he called again, fumbling for the whip hanging from his belt. She cowed the black one with a whip. I need to do the same.

ADWD The Kingbreaker

“One guardsman amongst forty. All waiting for the empty tabard on the throne to speak the command so we might cut down Bloodbeard and the rest. Do you think the Yunkai’i would ever have dared present Daenerys with the head of her hostage?”

No, thought Selmy. “Hizdahr seemed distraught.”

“Sham. His own kin of Loraq were returned unharmed. You saw. The Yunkai’i played us a mummer’s farce, with noble Hizdahr as chief mummer. The issue was never Yurkhaz zo Yunzak. The other slavers would gladly have trampled that old fool themselves. This was to give Hizdahr a pretext to kill the dragons.”

Ser Barristan chewed on that. “Would he dare?”

“He dared to kill his queen. Why not her pets? If we do not act, Hizdahr will hesitate for a time, to give proof of his reluctance and allow the Wise Masters the chance to rid him of the Stormcrow and the bloodrider. Then he will act. They want the dragons dead before the Volantene fleet arrives.”

Aye, they would. It all fit. That did not mean Barristan Selmy liked it any better. “That will not happen.” His queen was the Mother of Dragons; he would not allow her children to come to harm.    

~

“Daario might piss on us if we were burning. Elsewise do not look to him for help. Let the Stormcrows choose another captain, one who knows his place. If the queen does not return, the world will be one sellsword short. Who will grieve?”

“And when she does return?”

“She will weep and tear her hair and curse the Yunkai’i. Not us. No blood on our hands. You can comfort her. Tell her some tale of the old days, she likes those. Poor Daario, her brave captain … she will never forget him, no … but better for all of us if he is dead, yes? Better for Daenerys too.”

Better for Daenerys, and for Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen loved her captain, but that was the girl in her, not the queen. Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses. All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love, in defiance of their father’s wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire, and grief.

Her love for Daario is poison. A slower poison than the locusts, but in the end as deadly. “There is still Jhogo,” Ser Barristan said. “Him, and Hero. Both precious to Her Grace.”

“We have hostages as well,” Skahaz Shavepate reminded him. “If the slavers kill one of ours, we kill one of theirs.”

For a moment Ser Barristan did not know whom he meant. Then it came to him. “The queen’s cupbearers?”

“Hostages,” insisted Skahaz mo Kandaq. “Grazdar and Qezza are the blood of the Green Grace. Mezzara is of Merreq, Kezmya is Pahl, Azzak Ghazeen. Bhakaz is Loraq, Hizdahr’s own kin. All are sons and daughters of the pyramids. Zhak, Quazzar, Uhlez, Hazkar, Dhazak, Yherizan, all children of Great Masters.”

“Innocent girls and sweet-faced boys.” Ser Barristan had come to know them all during the time they served the queen, Grazhar with his dreams of glory, shy Mezzara, lazy Miklaz, vain, pretty Kezmya, Qezza with her big soft eyes and angel’s voice, Dhazzar the dancer, and the rest. “Children.”

“Children of the Harpy. Only blood can pay for blood.”

“So said the Yunkishman who brought us Groleo’s head.”

“He was not wrong.”

“I will not permit it.”

“What use are hostages if they may not be touched?”

“Mayhaps we might offer three of the children for Daario, Hero, and Jhogo,” Ser Barristan allowed. “Her Grace—”

“—is not here. It is for you and me to do what must be done. You know that I am right.”

“Prince Rhaegar had two children,” Ser Barristan told him. “Rhaenys was a little girl, Aegon a babe in arms. When Tywin Lannister took King’s Landing, his men killed both of them. He served the bloody bodies up in crimson cloaks, a gift for the new king.” And what did Robert say when he saw them? Did he smile? Barristan Selmy had been badly wounded on the Trident, so he had been spared the sight of Lord Tywin’s gift, but oft he wondered. If I had seen him smile over the red ruins of Rhaegar’s children, no army on this earth could have stopped me from killing him. “I will not suffer the murder of children. Accept that, or I’ll have no part of this.”

~

That is what I fear. If King Hizdahr was innocent, what they did this day would be treason. But how could he be innocent? Selmy had heard him urging Daenerys to taste the poisoned locusts, shouting at his men to slay the dragon. If we do not act, Hizdahr will kill the dragons and open the gates to the queen’s enemies. We have no choice in this. Yet no matter how he turned and twisted this, the old knight could find no honor in it.

~

Some of them had been training for the fighting pits when Daenerys Targaryen took Meereen and freed them from their chains. Those had had a good acquaintance with sword and spear and battle-axe even before Ser Barristan got hold of them. A few might well be ready. The boy from the Basilisk Isles, for a start. Tumco Lho.

~

Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia’s companions … though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab.

Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara’s smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. Daenerys has the same eyes. Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara’s daughter …

~

The boy went running off, and the king turned back to Selmy. “I dreamed you found Daenerys.”

“Dreams can lie, Your Grace.”

~

“It was your pit, your box, your seats. Sweet wine and soft cushions, figs and melons and honeyed locusts. You provided all. You urged Her Grace to try the locusts but never tasted one yourself.”

“I … hot spices do not agree with me. She was my wife. My queen. Why would I want to poison her?”

Was, he says. He believes her dead. “Only you can answer that, Magnificence. It might be that you wished to put another woman in her place.” Ser Barristan nodded at the girl peering timidly from the bed-chamber. “That one, perhaps?”

The king looked around wildly. “Her? She’s nothing. A bedslave.” He raised his hands. “I misspoke. Not a slave. A free woman. Trained in pleasure. Even a king has needs, she … she is none of your concern, ser. I would never harm Daenerys. Never.”

“You urged the queen to try the locusts. I heard you.”

“I thought she might enjoy them.” Hizdahr retreated another step. “Hot and sweet at once.”

“Hot and sweet and poisoned. With mine own ears I heard you commanding the men in the pit to kill Drogon. Shouting at them.”

Hizdahr licked his lips. “The beast devoured Barsena’s flesh. Dragons prey on men. It was killing, burning …”

“… burning men who meant harm to your queen. Harpy’s Sons, as like as not. Your friends.”

“Not my friends.”

“You say that, yet when you told them to stop killing they obeyed. Why would they do that if you were not one of them?”

Hizdahr shook his head. This time he did not answer. “Tell me true,” Ser Barristan said, “did you ever love her, even a little? Or was it just the crown you lusted for?”

“Lust? You dare speak to me of lust?” The king’s mouth twisted in anger. “I lusted for the crown, aye … but not half so much as she lusted for her sellsword. Perhaps it was her precious captain who tried to poison her, for putting him aside. And if I had eaten of his locusts too, well, so much the better.”

~

“You will be kept a prisoner until the queen returns. If nothing can be proved against you, you will not come to harm. You have my word as a knight.”

ADWD Victarion I

The war for Meereen was won, the captain claimed; the dragon queen was dead, and a Ghiscari by the name of Hizdak ruled the city now.

Victarion had his tongue torn out for lying. Daenerys Targaryen was not dead, Moqorro assured him; his red god R’hllor had shown him the queen’s face in his sacred fires. The captain could not abide lies, so he had the Ghiscari captain bound hand and foot and thrown overboard, a sacrifice to the Drowned God.

~

Sailing out of Myr, the Dove brought them no fresh news of Meereen or Daenerys, only stale reports of Dothraki horsemen along the Rhoyne, the Golden Company upon the march, and others things Victarion already knew.

~

They had been running empty, Victarion learned, making for New Ghis to load supplies and weapons for the Ghiscari legions encamped before Meereen … and to bring fresh legionaries to the war, to replace all the men who’d died. “Men slain in battle?” asked Victarion. The crews of the galleys denied it; the deaths were from a bloody flux. The pale mare, they called it. And like the captain of the Ghiscari Dawn, the captains of the galleys repeated the lie that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

“Give her a kiss for me in whatever hell you find her,” Victarion said. He called for his axe and took their heads off there and then. Afterward he put their crews to death as well, saving only the slaves chained to the oars. He broke their chains himself and told them they were now free men and would have the privilege of rowing for the Iron Fleet, an honor that every boy in the Iron Islands dreamed of growing up. “The dragon queen frees slaves and so do I,” he proclaimed.

~

“The silver queen is gone,” the ketch’s master told him. “She flew away upon her dragon, beyond the Dothraki sea.”

“Where is this Dothraki sea?” he demanded. “I will sail the Iron Fleet across it and find the queen wherever she may be.”

The fisherman laughed aloud. “That would be a sight worth seeing. The Dothraki sea is made of grass, fool.”

~

“He bearded the lion in his den and tied the direwolf’s tail in knots, but even Dagon could not defeat the dragons. But I shall make the dragon queen mine own. She will share my bed and bear me many mighty sons.”

~

His dusky woman was enough to satisfy his appetites until he could reach Meereen and claim his queen.

~

A great wind came up then, a wind that filled their sails and swept them north and east and north again, toward Meereen and its pyramids of many-colored bricks. On wings of song I fly to you, Daenerys, the iron captain thought.

ADWD The Griffin Reborn

“Prince Doran’s younger son has been betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon, which would suggest that the Dornishmen have thrown in with House Lannister, but they have an army in the Boneway and another in the Prince’s Pass, just waiting …”

“Waiting.” He frowned. “For what?” Without Daenerys and her dragons, Dorne was central to their hopes. “Write Sunspear. Doran Martell must know that his sister’s son is still alive and has come home to claim his father’s throne.”

~

“My lord does have one prize to offer,” Haldon Halfmaester pointed out. “Prince Aegon’s hand. A marriage alliance, to bring some great House to our banners.”

A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar’s wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon’s birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward.

“Daenerys Targaryen may yet come home one day,” Connington told the Halfmaester. “Aegon must be free to marry her.”

ADWD The Spurned Suitor

“Even if the queen returns, she’ll still be married.”

“Not if I give King Harzoo a little smack with my hammer,” suggested the big man.

“Hizdahr,” said Quentyn. “His name is Hizdahr.”

“One kiss from my hammer and no one will care what his name was,” said Arch.

They do not see. His friends had lost sight of his true purpose here. The road leads through her, not to her. Daenerys is the means to the prize, not the prize itself. “ ‘The dragon has three heads,’ she said to me. ‘My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes,’ she said. ‘I know why you are here. For fire and blood.’ I have Targaryen blood in me, you know that. I can trace my lineage back—”

“Fuck your lineage,” said Gerris. “The dragons won’t care about your blood, except maybe how it tastes. You cannot tame a dragon with a history lesson. They’re monsters, not maesters. Quent, is this truly what you want to do?”

“This is what I have to do. For Dorne. For my father. For Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry.”

“They’re dead,” said Gerris. “They won’t care.”

“All dead,” Quentyn agreed. “For what? To bring me here, so I might wed the dragon queen. A grand adventure, Cletus called it. Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren. But Cletus will never father a child, unless he left a bastard in the belly of that tavern wench he liked. Will will never have his wedding. Their deaths should have some meaning.”

~

“Denzo, I thought you told me that the dragon queen had married some Ghiscari.”

“A Meereenese nobleman. Rich.”

The Tattered Prince turned back to Quentyn. “Could that be true? Surely not. What of your marriage pact?”

“She laughed at him,” said Pretty Meris.

Daenerys never laughed. The rest of Meereen might see him as an amusing curiosity, like the exiled Summer Islander King Robert used to keep at King’s Landing, but the queen had always spoken to him gently. “We came too late,” said Quentyn.

~

“How long do you think the Yunkishmen will want to continue paying wages to four free companies?”

The Tattered Prince took a sip of wine and said, “A vexing question. But this is the way of life for we men of the free companies. One war ends, another begins. Fortunately there is always someone fighting someone somewhere. Perhaps here. Even as we sit here drinking Bloodbeard is urging our Yunkish friends to present King Hizdahr with another head. Freedmen and slavers eye each other’s necks and sharpen their knives, the Sons of the Harpy plot in their pyramids, the pale mare rides down slave and lord alike, our friends from the Yellow City gaze out to sea, and somewhere in the grasslands a dragon nibbles the tender flesh of Daenerys Targaryen. Who rules Meereen tonight? Who will rule it on the morrow?” The Pentoshi gave a shrug. “One thing I am certain of. Someone will have need of our swords.”

~

“So. Let me see if I understand. A proven liar and oathbreaker wishes to contract with us and pay in promises. And for what services? I wonder. Are my Windblown to smash the Yunkai’i and sack the Yellow City? Defeat a Dothraki khalasar in the field? Escort you home to your father? Or will you be content if we deliver Queen Daenerys to your bed wet and willing? Tell me true, Prince Frog. What would you have of me and mine?”

“I need you to help me steal a dragon.”

ADWD The Discarded Knight

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with the cushions that Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr had replaced the bench with two imposing thrones of gilded wood, their tall backs carved into the shape of dragons. The king seated himself in the right-hand throne with a golden crown upon his head and a jeweled sceptre in one pale hand. The second throne remained vacant.

The important throne, thought Ser Barristan. No dragon chair can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it’s carved.

~

“Is it true?” a freedwoman shouted. “Is our mother dead?”

“No, no, no,” Reznak screeched. “Queen Daenerys will return to Meereen in her own time in all her might and majesty. Until such time, His Worship King Hizdahr shall—”

“He is no king of mine,” a freedman yelled.

Men began to shove at one another. “The queen is not dead,” the seneschal proclaimed. “Her bloodriders have been dispatched across the Skahazadhan to find Her Grace and return her to her loving lord and loyal subjects. Each has ten picked riders, and each man has three swift horses, so they may travel fast and far. Queen Daenerys shall be found.”

A tall Ghiscari in a brocade robe spoke next, in a voice as sonorous as it was cold. King Hizdahr shifted on his dragon throne, his face stony as he did his best to appear concerned but unperturbed. Once again his seneschal gave answer.

Ser Barristan let Reznak’s oily words wash over him. His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening without hearing, especially useful when the speaker was intent on proving that words were truly wind. Back at the rear of the hall, he spied the Dornish princeling and his two companions. They should not have come. Martell does not realize his danger. Daenerys was his only friend at this court, and she is gone. He wondered how much they understood of what was being said. Even he could not always make sense of the mongrel Ghiscari tongue the slavers spoke, especially when they were speaking fast.

Prince Quentyn was listening intently, at least. That one is his father’s son. Short and stocky, plain-faced, he seemed a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful … but not the sort to make a young girl’s heart beat faster. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent. Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

~

Martell was dancing in a vipers’ nest, and he did not even see the snakes. His continued presence, even after Daenerys had given herself to another before the eyes of gods and men, would provoke any husband, and Quentyn no longer had the queen to shield him from Hizdahr’s wroth. Although …

The thought hit him like a slap across the face. Quentyn had grown up amongst the courts of Dorne. Plots and poisons were no strangers to him. Nor was Prince Lewyn his only uncle. He is kin to the Red Viper. Daenerys had taken another for her consort, but if Hizdahr died, she would be free to wed again. Could the Shavepate have been wrong? Who can say that the locusts were meant for Daenerys? It was the king’s own box. What if he was meant to be the victim all along? Hizdahr’s death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war. Daenerys might have had no better choice than Quentyn and his marriage pact.

~

Reznak mo Reznak cleared his throat noisily. “Meaning no offense, yet it seems to me that Her Worship Queen Daenerys gave you … ah … seven hostages. The other three …”

“The others shall remain our guests,” announced the Yunkish lord in the breastplate, “until the dragons have been destroyed.”

A hush fell across the hall. Then came the murmurs and the mutters, whispered curses, whispered prayers, the hornets stirring in their hive. “The dragons …” said King Hizdahr.

“… are monsters, as all men saw in Daznak’s Pit. No true peace is possible whilst they live.”

Reznak replied. “Her Magnificence Queen Daenerys is Mother of Dragons. Only she can—”

Bloodbeard’s scorn cut him off. “She is gone. Burned and devoured. Weeds grow through her broken skull.”

~

Ser Barristan watched them, thoughtful. What would Daenerys want? he asked himself. He thought he knew.

~

“Leave the city. Return to Dorne.”

The Dornishmen exchanged a look. “Our arms and armor are back in our apartments,” said Gerris Drinkwater. “Not to mention most of the coin that we have left.”

“Swords can be replaced,” said Ser Barristan. “I can provide you with coin enough for passage back to Dorne. Prince Quentyn, the king made note of you today. He frowned.”

Gerris Drinkwater laughed. “Should we be frightened of Hizdahr zo Loraq? You saw him just now. He quailed before the Yunkishmen. They sent him a head, and he did nothing.”

Quentyn Martell nodded in agreement. “A prince does well to think before he acts. This king … I do not know what to think of him. The queen warned me against him as well, true, but …”

“She warned you?” Selmy frowned. “Why are you still here?”

Prince Quentyn flushed. “The marriage pact—”

“—was made by two dead men and contained not a word about the queen or you. It promised your sister’s hand to the queen’s brother, another dead man. It has no force. Until you turned up here, Her Grace was ignorant of its existence. Your father keeps his secrets well, Prince Quentyn. Too well, I fear. If the queen had known of this pact in Qarth, she might never have turned aside for Slaver’s Bay, but you came too late. I have no wish to salt your wounds, but Her Grace has a new husband and an old paramour, and seems to prefer the both of them to you.”

“This Ghiscari lordling is no fit consort for the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That is not for you to judge.” Ser Barristan paused, wondering if he had said too much already. No. Tell him the rest of it. “That day at Daznak’s Pit, some of the food in the royal box was poisoned. It was only chance that Strong Belwas ate it all. The Blue Graces say that only his size and freakish strength have saved him, but it was a near thing. He may yet die.”

The shock was plain on Prince Quentyn’s face. “Poison … meant for Daenerys?”

“Her or Hizdahr. Perhaps both. The box was his, though. His Grace made all the arrangements. If the poison was his doing … well, he will need a scapegoat. Who better than a rival from a distant land who has no friends at this court? Who better than a suitor the queen spurned?”

Quentyn Martell went pale. “Me? I would never … you cannot think I had any part in any …”

That was the truth, or he is a master mummer. “Others might,” said Ser Barristan. “The Red Viper was your uncle. And you have good reason to want King Hizdahr dead.”

“So do others,” suggested Gerris Drinkwater. “Naharis, for one. The queen’s …”

“… paramour,” Ser Barristan finished, before the Dornish knight could say anything that might besmirch the queen’s honor.

ADWD Tyrion XI

“The silver queen—”

“—is dead,” insisted Sweets. “Forget her! The dragon took her across the river. She’s drowned in that Dothraki sea.”

“You can’t drown in grass,” the goat boy said. “If we were free,” said Penny, “we could find the queen. Or go search for her, at least.”

You on your dog and me on my sow, chasing a dragon across the Dothraki sea. Tyrion scratched his scar to keep from laughing. “This particular dragon has already evinced a fondness for roast pork. And roast dwarf is twice as tasty.”

~

The fact that there were any good wells at all within a day’s march of the city only went to prove that Daenerys Targaryen was still an innocent where siegecraft was concerned. She should have poisoned every well. Then all the Yunkishmen would be drinking from the river. See how long their siege lasts then. That was what his lord father would have done, Tyrion did not doubt.

~

There was no better place to hear the latest news and rumors than around the well. “I know what I saw,” an old slave in a rusted iron collar was saying, as Tyrion and Penny shuffled along in the queue, “and I saw that dragon ripping off arms and legs, tearing men in half, burning them down to ash and bones. People started running, trying to get out of that pit, but I come to see a show, and by all the gods of Ghis, I saw one. I was up in the purple, so I didn’t think the dragon was like to trouble me.”

“The queen climbed onto the dragon’s back and flew away,” insisted a tall brown woman.

“She tried,” said the old man, “but she couldn’t hold on. The cross-bows wounded the dragon, and the queen was struck right between her sweet pink teats, I hear. That was when she fell. She died in the gutter, crushed beneath a wagon’s wheels. I know a girl who knows a man who saw her die.”

In this company, silence was the better part of wisdom, but Tyrion could not help himself. “No corpse was found,” he said.

The old man frowned. “What would you know about it?”

“They were there,” said the brown woman. “It’s them, the jousting dwarfs, the ones who tilted for the queen.”

The old man squinted down as if seeing him and Penny for the first time. “You’re the ones who rode the pigs.”

Our notoriety precedes us. Tyrion sketched a courtly bow, and refrained from pointing out that one of the pigs was really a dog. “The sow I ride is actually my sister. We have the same nose, could you tell? A wizard cast a spell on her, but if you give her a big wet kiss, she will turn into a beautiful woman. The pity is, once you get to know her, you’ll want to kiss her again to turn her back.”

Laughter erupted all around them. Even the old man joined in. “You saw her, then,” said the redheaded boy behind them. “You saw the queen. Is she as beautiful as they say?”

I saw a slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar, he might have told them. Her face was veiled, and I never got close enough for a good look. I was riding on a pig. Daenerys Targaryen had been seated in the owner’s box beside her Ghiscari king, but Tyrion’s eyes had been drawn to the knight in the white-and-gold armor behind her. Though his features were concealed, the dwarf would have known Barristan Selmy anywhere. Illyrio was right about that much, at least, he remembered thinking. Will Selmy know me, though? And what will he do if he does?

~

“The queen watched us tilt,” Penny was telling the other slaves in line, “but that was the only time we saw her.”

“You must have seen the dragon,” said the old man.

Would that we had. The gods had not even vouchsafed him that much. As Daenerys Targaryen was taking wing, Nurse had been clapping irons round their ankles to make certain they would not attempt escape on their way back to their master. If the overseer had only taken his leave after delivering them to the abbatoir, or fled with the rest of the slavers when the dragon descended from the sky, the two dwarfs might have strolled away free. Or run away, more like, our little bells a-jingle.

“Was there a dragon?” Tyrion said with a shrug. “All I know is that no dead queens were found.”

~

“...Might be they did but decided to say elsewise, to keep you slaves quiet.”

“Us slaves?” said the brown woman. “You wear a collar too.”

“Ghazdor’s collar,” the old man boasted. “Known him since we was born. I’m almost like a brother to him. Slaves like you, sweepings out of Astapor and Yunkai, you whine about being free, but I wouldn’t give the dragon queen my collar if she offered to suck my cock for it. Man has the right master, that’s better.”

 ADWD The Iron Suitor

And I must needs reach the dragon queen before the Volantenes.

In Volantis he had seen the galleys taking on provisions. The whole city had seemed drunk. Sailors and soldiers and tinkers had been observed dancing in the streets with nobles and fat merchants, and in every inn and winesink cups were being raised to the new triarchs. All the talk had been of the gold and gems and slaves that would flood into Volantis once the dragon queen was dead.

~

“Is it still to be Meereen?”

“Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen.” The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

Was it too much to hope that for once Euron had told it true? Perhaps. Like as not, the girl would prove to be some pock-faced slattern with teats slapping against her knees, her “dragons” no more than tattooed lizards from the swamps of Sothoryos. If she is all that Euron claims, though … They had heard talk of the beauty of Daenerys Targaryen from the lips of pirates in the Stepstones and fat merchants in Old Volantis. It might be true. And Euron had not made Victarion a gift of her; the Crow’s Eye meant to take her for himself. He sends me like a serving man to fetch her. How he will howl when I claim her for myself. Let the men mutter. They had sailed too far and lost too much for Victarion to turn west without his prize.

 ADWD The Queensguard

You were the queen’s man,” said Reznak mo Reznak. “The king desires his own men about him when he holds court.”

I am the queen’s man still. Today, tomorrow, always, until my last breath, or hers. Barristan Selmy refused to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

Perhaps that was why he was being put aside. One by one, Hizdahr removes us all.

~

Despite all the queen had done, the sickness had spread, both within the city walls and without. Meereen’s markets were closed, its streets empty. King Hizdahr had allowed the fighting pits to remain open, but the crowds were sparse. The Meereenese had even begun to shun the Temple of the Graces, reportedly.

The slavers will find some way to blame Daenerys for that as well, Ser Barristan thought bitterly. He could almost hear them whispering—Great Masters, Sons of the Harpy, Yunkai’i, all telling one another that his queen was dead. Half of the city believed it, though as yet they did not have the courage to say such words aloud. But soon, I think.

~

Not for the first time, Selmy wondered at the strange fates that had brought him here. He was a knight of Westeros, a man of the stormlands and the Dornish marches; his place was in the Seven Kingdoms, not here upon the sweltering shores of Slaver’s Bay. I came to bring Daenerys home. Yet he had lost her, just as he had lost her father and her brother. Even Robert. I failed him too.

Perhaps Hizdahr was wiser than he knew. Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. I am become old and slow. Small wonder Naharis mocked him as Ser Grandfather. Would Daario have moved more quickly if he had been beside the queen that day? Selmy thought he knew the answer to that, though it was not one he liked.

He had dreamed of it again last night: Belwas on his knees retching up bile and blood, Hizdahr urging on the dragonslayers, men and women fleeing in terror, fighting on the steps, climbing over one another, screaming and shouting. And Daenerys …

Her hair was aflame. She had the whip in her hand and she was shouting, then she was on the dragon’s back, flying. The sand that Drogon stirred as he took wing had stung Ser Barristan’s eyes, but through a veil of tears he had watched the beast fly from the pit, his great black wings slapping at the shoulders of the bronze warriors at the gates.

The rest he learned later. Beyond the gates had been a solid press of people. Maddened by the smell of dragon, horses below reared in terror, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. Food stalls and palanquins alike were overturned, men knocked down and trampled. Spears were thrown, cross-bows were fired. Some struck home. The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. Of Daenerys Targaryen, no trace had been found. Some swore they saw her fall. Others insisted that the dragon had carried her off to devour her. They are wrong.

Ser Barristan knew no more of dragons than the tales every child hears, but he knew Targaryens. Daenerys had been riding that dragon, as Aegon had once ridden Balerion of old.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud. “No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.”

~

It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it.

Afternoon brought Ser Barristan a brief respite from his doubts. He spent it in the training hall on the pyramid’s third level, working with his boys, teaching them the art of sword and shield, horse and lance … and chivalry, the code that made a knight more than any pit fighter. Daenerys would need protectors her own age about her after he was gone, and Ser Barristan was determined to give her such.

The lads he was instructing ranged in age from eight to twenty. He had started with more than sixty of them, but the training had proved too rigorous for many. Less than half that number now remained, but some showed great promise. With no king to guard, I will have more time to train them now, he realized as he walked from pair to pair, watching them go at one another with blunted swords and spears with rounded heads. Brave boys. Baseborn, aye, but some will make good knights, and they love the queen. If not for her, all of them would have ended in the pits. King Hizdahr has his pit fighters, but Daenerys will have knights.

~

If the queen had commanded me to protect Hizdahr, I would have had no choice but to obey. But Daenerys Targaryen had never established a proper Queensguard even for herself nor issued any commands in respect to her consort. The world was simpler when I had a lord commander to decide such matters, Selmy reflected. Now I am the lord commander, and it is hard to know which path is right.

~

“I have the poisoner.”

“Who?”

“Hizdahr’s confectioner. His name would mean nothing to you. The man was just a cats paw. The Sons of the Harpy took his daughter and swore she would be returned unharmed once the queen was dead. Belwas and the dragon saved Daenerys. No one saved the girl. She was returned to her father in the black of night, in nine pieces. One for every year she lived.”

“Why?” Doubts gnawed at him. “The Sons had stopped their killing. Hizdahr’s peace—”

“—is a sham. Not at first, no. The Yunkai’i were afraid of our queen, of her Unsullied, of her dragons. This land has known dragons before. Yurkhaz zo Yunzak had read his histories, he knew. Hizdahr as well. Why not a peace? Daenerys wanted it, they could see that. Wanted it too much. She should have marched to Astapor.” Skahaz moved closer. “That was before. The pit changed all. Daenerys gone, Yurkhaz dead. In place of one old lion, a pack of jackals. Bloodbeard … that one has no taste for peace. And there is more. Worse. Volantis has launched its fleet against us.”

“Volantis.” Selmy’s sword hand tingled. We made a peace with Yunkai. Not with Volantis. “You are certain?”

“Certain. The Wise Masters know. So do their friends. The Harpy, Reznak, Hizdahr. This king will open the city gates to the Volantenes when they arrive. All those Daenerys freed will be enslaved again. Even some who were never slaves will be fitted for chains. You may end your days in a fighting pit, old man. Khrazz will eat your heart.”

His head was pounding. “Daenerys must be told.”

“Find her first.” Skahaz grasped his forearm. His fingers felt like iron. “We cannot wait for her.

~

“Daenerys signed that peace,” Ser Barristan said. “It is not for us to break it without her leave.”

“And if she is dead?” demanded Skahaz. “What then, ser? I say she would want us to protect her city. Her children.”

Her children were the freedmen. Mhysa, they called her, all those whose chains she broke. “Mother.” The Shavepate was not wrong. Daenerys would want her children protected. “What of Hizdahr? He is still her consort. Her king. Her husband.”

“Her poisoner.”

Is he? “Where is your proof?”

“The crown he wears is proof enough. The throne he sits. Open your eyes, old man. That is all he needed from Daenerys, all he ever wanted. Once he had it, why share the rule?”

Why indeed? It had been so hot down in the pit. He could still see the air shimmering above the scarlet sands, smell the blood spilling from the men who’d died for their amusement. And he could still hear Hizdahr, urging his queen to try the honeyed locusts.

ADWD Tyrion X

The next piece of chattel was already being led up to take their place. A girl, fifteen or sixteen, not off the Selaesori Qhoran this time. Tyrion did not know her. The same age as Daenerys Targaryen, or near enough. The slaver soon had her naked. At least we were spared that humiliation.

~

Mormont paid no mind to the mongrel crowd; his eyes were fixed beyond the siege lines, on the distant city with its ancient walls of many-colored brick. Tyrion could read that look as easy as a book: so near and yet so distant. The poor wretch had returned too late. Daenerys Targaryen was wed, the guards on the pens had told them, laughing. She had taken a Meereenese slaver as her king, as wealthy as he was noble, and when the peace was signed and sealed the fighting pits of Meereen would open once again. Other slaves insisted that the guards were lying, that Daenerys Targaryen would never make peace with slavers. Mhysa, they called her. Someone told him that meant Mother. Soon the silver queen would come forth from her city, smash the Yunkai’i, and break their chains, they whispered to one another.

And then she’ll bake us all a lemon pie and kiss our widdle wounds and make them better, the dwarf thought. He had no faith in royal rescues. If need be, he would see to their deliverance himself.

ADWD Jon IX

“Let us hope so. The narrow sea is perilous this time of year, and of late there have been troubling reports of strange ships seen amongst the Step-stones.”

“Salladhor Saan?”

“The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne’s war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well.

On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons.”

“Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit.”

“My lord jests. You will forgive me if I do not laugh. We Braavosi are descended from those who fled Valyria and the wroth of its dragonlords. We do not jape of dragons.”

ADWD Tyrion IX

“We failed at that as well. No one threw coins.” Not a penny, not a groat.

“They will when we get better.” Penny pulled off her helm. Mouse-brown hair spilled down to her ears. Her eyes were brown too, beneath a heavy shelf of brow, her cheeks smooth and flushed. She pulled some acorns from a leather bag for Pretty Pig. The sow ate them from her hand, squealing happily. “When we perform for Queen Daenerys the silver will rain down, you’ll see.”

~

At Joffrey’s wedding feast, he recalled, one rider had displayed the direwolf of Robb Stark, the other the arms and colors of Stannis Baratheon. “We will need both animals if we’re to tilt for Queen Daenerys,” he said. If the sailors took it in their heads to butcher Pretty Pig, neither he nor Penny could hope to stop them … but Ser Jorah’s longsword might give them pause, at least.

“Is that how you hope to keep your head, Imp?”

“Ser Imp, if you please. And yes. Once Her Grace knows my true worth, she’ll cherish me. I am a lovable little fellow, after all, and I know many useful things about my kin. But until such time I had best keep her amused.”

“Caper as you like, it won’t wash out your crimes. Daenerys Targaryen is no silly child to be diverted by japes and tumbles. She will deal with you justly.”

Oh, I hope not. Tyrion studied Mormont with his mismatched eyes. “And how will she welcome you, this just queen? A warm embrace, a girlish titter, a headsman’s axe?” He grinned at the knight’s obvious discomfit. “Did you truly expect me to believe you were about the queen’s business in that whorehouse? Defending her from half a world away? Or could it be that you were running, that your dragon queen sent you from her side? But why would she … oh, wait, you were spying on her.” Tyrion made a clucking sound. “You hope to buy your way back into her favor by presenting her with me. An ill-considered scheme, I’d say. One might even say an act of drunken desperation. Perhaps if I were Jaime … but Jaime killed her father, I only killed my own. You think Daenerys will execute me and pardon you, but the reverse is just as likely. Maybe you should hop up on that pig, Ser Jorah. Put on a suit of iron motley, like Florian the—”

The blow the big knight gave him cracked his head around and knocked him sideways, so hard that his head bounced off the deck.

~

“The widow said this ship would never reach her destination. I took that to mean that once we were out to sea beyond the reach of triarchs, the captain would change course for Meereen. Or perhaps that you would seize the ship with your Fiery Hand and take us to Daenerys. But that isn’t what your high priest saw at all, is it?”

“No.” Moqorro’s deep voice tolled as solemnly as a funeral bell. “This is what he saw.”

ADWD Tyrion VIII

“Have you come to pray with me?”

“Someone told me that the night is dark and full of terrors. What do you see in those flames?”

“Dragons,” Moqorro said in the Common Tongue of Westeros. He spoke it very well, with hardly a trace of accent. No doubt that was one reason the high priest Benerro had chosen him to bring the faith of R’hllor to Daenerys Targaryen. “Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. And you. A small man with a big shadow, snarling in the midst of all.”

~

Twice exiled, and small wonder, Tyrion thought. I’d exile him too if I could. The man is cold, brooding, sullen, deaf to humor. And those are his good points. Ser Jorah spent most of his waking hours pacing the forecastle or leaning on the rail, gazing out to sea. Looking for his silver queen. Looking for Daenerys, willing the ship to sail faster. Well, I might do the same if Tysha waited in Meereen.

~

“Daenerys has a kind heart and a generous nature.” It was what she needed to hear. “She will find a place for you at her court, I don’t doubt. A safe place, beyond my sister’s reach.”

Penny turned back to him. “And you will be there too.”

Unless Daenerys decides she needs some Lannister blood, to pay for the Targaryen blood my brother shed. “I will.”

~

“Does our captain mean to test the curse?”

“Our captain would prefer to be fifty leagues farther out to sea, well away from that accursed shore, but I have commanded him to steer the shortest course. Others seek Daenerys too.”

Griff, with his young prince. Could all that talk of the Golden Company sailing west have been a feint? Tyrion considered saying something, then thought better. It seemed to him that the prophecy that drove the red priests had room for just one hero. A second Targaryen would only serve to confuse them. “Have you seen these others in your fires?” he asked, warily.

“Only their shadows,” Moqorro said. “One most of all. A tall and twisted thing with one black eye and ten long arms, sailing on a sea of blood.”

  ADWD Tyrion VII

“What is he saying?” Tyrion asked the knight.

“That Daenerys stands in peril. The dark eye has fallen upon her, and the minions of night are plotting her destruction, praying to their false gods in temples of deceit … conspiring at betrayal with godless outlanders …”

The hairs on the back of Tyrion’s neck began to prickle. Prince Aegon will find no friend here. The red priest spoke of ancient prophecy, a prophecy that foretold the coming of a hero to deliver the world from darkness. One hero. Not two. Daenerys has dragons, Aegon does not. The dwarf did not need to be a prophet himself to foresee how Benerro and his followers might react to a second Targaryen. Griff will see that too, surely, he thought, surprised to find how much he cared.

~

Tyrion had just swallowed another locust. He almost choked on it. Is he mocking me? How much could he know of Griff and Aegon? “Bugger,” he said. “I meant to hire the Golden Company myself, to win me Casterly Rock.” Could this be some ploy of Griff’s, false reports deliberately spread? Unless … Could the pretty princeling have swallowed the bait? Turned them west instead of east, abandoning his hopes of wedding Queen Daenerys? Abandoning the dragons … would Griff allow that?

~

“We need swift passage to Meereen.”

One word. Tyrion Lannister’s world turned upside down.

One word. Meereen. Or had he misheard?

One word. Meereen, he said Meereen, he’s taking me to Meereen. Meereen meant life. Or hope for life, at least.

“Why come to me?” the widow said. “I own no ships.”

“You have many captains in your debt.”

Deliver me to the queen, he says. Aye, but which queen? He isn’t selling me to Cersei. He’s giving me to Daenerys Targaryen. That’s why he hasn’t hacked my head off. We’re going east, and Griff and his prince are going west, the bloody fools.

Oh, it was all too much. Plots within plots, but all roads lead down the dragon’s gullet. A guffaw burst from his lips, and suddenly Tyrion could not stop laughing.

“Your dwarf is having a fit,” the widow observed. “My dwarf will be quiet, or I’ll see him gagged.”

Tyrion covered his mouth with his hands. Meereen!

~

“...Have you heard Benerro preach?”

“Last night.”

“Benerro can see the morrow in his flames,” the widow said. “Triarch Malaquo tried to hire the Golden Company, did you know? He meant to clean out the red temple and put Benerro to the sword. He dare not use tiger cloaks. Half of them worship the Lord of Light as well. Oh, these are dire days in Old Volantis, even for wrinkled old widows. But not half so dire as in Meereen, I think. So tell me, ser … why do you seek the silver queen?”

~

“Keep your silver. I have gold. And spare me your black looks, ser. I am too old to be frightened of a scowl. You are a hard man, I see, and no doubt skilled with that long sword at your side, but this is my realm. Let me crook a finger and you may find yourself traveling to Meereen chained to an oar in the belly of a galley.” She lifted her jade fan and opened it. There was a rustle of leaves, and a man slid from the overgrown archway to her left. His face was a mass of scars, and in one hand he held a sword, short and heavy as a cleaver. “Seek the widow of the waterfront, someone told you, but they should have also warned you, beware the widow’s sons. It is such a sweet morning, though, I shall ask again. Why would you seek Daenerys Targaryen, whom half the world wants dead?”

Jorah Mormont’s face was dark with anger, but he answered. “To serve her. Defend her. Die for her, if need be.”

That made the widow laugh. “You want to rescue her, is that the way of it? From more enemies than I can name, with swords beyond count … this is what you’d have the poor widow believe? That you are a true and chivalrous Westerosi knight crossing half the world to come to the aid of this … well, she is no maiden, though she may still be fair.” She laughed again. “Do you think your dwarf will please her? Will she bathe in his blood, do you think, or content herself with striking off his head?”

Ser Jorah hesitated. “The dwarf is—”

“—I know who the dwarf is, and what he is.” Her black eyes turned to Tyrion, hard as stone. “Kinslayer, kingslayer, murderer, turncloak. Lannister.” She made the last a curse. “What do you plan to offer the dragon queen, little man?”

My hate, Tyrion wanted to say. Instead he spread his hands as far as the fetters would allow. “Whatever she would have of me. Sage counsel, savage wit, a bit of tumbling. My cock, if she desires it. My tongue, if she does not. I will lead her armies or rub her feet, as she desires. And the only reward I ask is I might be allowed to rape and kill my sister.”

~

“If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you’d have my vote for triarch, my lady.”

“I am no lady,” the widow replied, “just Vogarro’s whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis.” She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. “Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.”

ADWD The Windblown

The word passed through the camp like a hot wind. She is coming. Her host is on the march. She is racing south to Yunkai, to put the city to the torch and its people to the sword, and we are going north to meet her.

~

“We’ll get provisions in Yunkai, maybe fresh horses, then it will be on to Meereen to dance with the dragon queen. So hop quick, Frog, and put a nice edge on your master’s sword. Might be he’ll need it soon.”

~

“Arch is the best fighter of the three of us,” Drinkwater had pointed out, “but only you can hope to wed the dragon queen.”

Wed her or fight her; either way, I will face her soon. The more Quentyn heard of Daenerys Targaryen, the more he feared that meeting. The Yunkai’i claimed that she fed her dragons on human flesh and bathed in the blood of virgins to keep her skin smooth and supple. Beans laughed at that but relished the tales of the silver queen’s promiscuity. “One of her captains comes of a line where the men have foot-long members,” he told them, “but even he’s not big enough for her. She rode with the Dothraki and grew accustomed to being fucked by stallions, so now no man can fill her.” And Books, the clever Volantene swordsman who always seemed to have his nose poked in some crumbly scroll, thought the dragon queen both murderous and mad. “Her khal killed her brother to make her queen. Then she killed her khal to make herself khaleesi. She practices blood sacrifice, lies as easily as she breathes, turns against her own on a whim. She’s broken truces, tortured envoys … her father was mad too. It runs in the blood.”

It runs in the blood. King Aerys II had been mad, all of Westeros knew that. He had exiled two of his Hands and burned a third. If Daenerys is as murdeous as her father, must I still marry her? Prince Doran had never spoken of that possibility.

~

Their mistress could not have been more than sixteen and fancied herself Yunkai’s own Daenerys Targaryen.

~

“Daenerys may be halfway to Yunkai by now, with an army at her back,” Quentyn said as they walked amongst the horses.

“She may be,” Gerris said, “but she’s not. We’ve heard such talk before. The Astapori were convinced Daenerys was coming south with her dragons to break the siege. She didn’t come then, and she’s not coming now.”

“We can’t know that, not for certain. We need to steal away before we end up fighting the woman I was sent to woo.”

“Wait till Yunkai.” Gerris gestured at the hills. “These lands belong to the Yunkai’i. No one is like to want to feed or shelter three deserters. North of Yunkai, that’s no-man’s-land.”

He was not wrong. Even so, Quentyn felt uneasy. “The big man’s made too many friends. He knows the plan was always to steal off and make our way to Daenerys, but he’s not going to feel good about abandoning men he’s fought with. If we wait too long, it’s going to feel as if we’re deserting them on the eve of battle. He will never do that. You know him as well as I do.”

~

“You’d have us turn our cloaks?”

“I would,” said the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn Martell almost laughed aloud. The gods are mad.

The Westerosi shifted uneasily. Some stared into their wine cups, as if they hoped to find some wisdom there. Hugh Hungerford frowned. “You think Queen Daenerys will take us in …”

“I do.”

~

“Meris will command you,” said the Tattered Prince. “She knows my mind in this … and Daenerys Targaryen may be more accepting of another woman.”

~

“The best ruses always have some seed of truth,” said the Tattered Prince. “Every one of you has ample reason for wanting to abandon me. And Daenerys Targaryen knows that sellswords are a fickle lot. Her own Second Sons and Stormcrows took Yunkish gold but did not hesitate to join her when the tide of battle began to flow her way.”

 ADWD The Lost Lord

A ferocious southern sun beat down upon the crowded riverfront of Volon Therys, but heat was the last and least of Griff’s concerns. The Golden Company was encamped three miles south of town, well north of where he had expected them, and Triarch Malaquo had come north with five thousand foot and a thousand horse to cut them off from the delta road. Daenerys Targaryen remained a world away, and Tyrion Lannister … well, he could be most anywhere.

~

“The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Queen Daenerys,” Lemore was saying.

“That was when we believed the girl was coming west. Our dragon queen has burned that plan to ash, and thanks to that fat fool in Pentos, we have grasped the she-dragon by the tail and burned our fingers to the bone.”

“Illyrio could not have been expected to know that the girl would choose to remain at Slaver’s Bay.”

“No more than he knew that the Beggar King would die young, or that Khal Drogo would follow him into the grave. Very little of what the fat man has anticipated has come to pass.”

~

“I assume you know that the Targaryen girl has not started for the west?”

“We heard that tale in Selhorys.”

“No tale. Simple truth. The why of it is harder to grasp. Sack Meereen, aye, why not? I would have done the same in her place. The slaver cities reek of gold, and conquest requires coin. But why linger? Fear? Madness? Sloth?”

“The why of it does not matter.” Harry Strickland unrolled a pair of striped woolen stockings. “She is in Meereen and we are here, where the Volantenes grow daily more unhappy with our presence. We came to raise up a king and queen who would lead us home to Westeros, but this Targaryen girl seems more intent on planting olive trees than in reclaiming her father’s throne. Meanwhile, her foes gather. Yunkai, New Ghis, Tolos. Bloodbeard and the Tattered Prince will both be in the field against her … and soon enough the fleets of Old Volantis will descend on her as well. What does she have? Bedslaves with sticks?”

“Unsullied,” said Griff. “And dragons.”

“Dragons, aye,” the captain-general said, “but young ones, hardly more than hatchlings.” Strickland eased his sock over his blisters and up his ankle. “How much will they avail her when all these armies close about her city like a fist?”

Tristan Rivers drummed his fingers on his knee. “All the more reason that we must reach her quickly, I say. If Daenerys will not come to us, we must go to Daenerys.”

“Can we walk across the waves, ser?” asked Lysono Maar. “I tell you again, we cannot reach the silver queen by sea. I slipped into Volantis myself, posing as a trader, to learn how many ships might be available to us. The harbor teems with galleys, cogs, and carracks of every sort and size, yet even so I soon found myself consorting with smugglers and pirates. We have ten thousand men in the company, as I am sure Lord Connington remembers from his years of service with us. Five hundred knights, each with three horses. Five hundred squires, with one mount apiece. And elephants, we must not forget the elephants. A pirate ship will not suffice. We would need a pirate fleet … and even if we found one, the word has come back from Slaver’s Bay that Meereen has been closed off by blockade.”

~

And then Prince Aegon spoke. “Then put your hopes on me,” he said. “Daenerys is Prince Rhaegar’s sister, but I am Rhaegar’s son. I am the only dragon that you need.”

Griff put a black-gloved hand upon Prince Aegon’s shoulder. “Spoken boldly,” he said, “but think what you are saying.”

“I have,” the lad insisted. “Why should I go running to my aunt as if I were a beggar? My claim is better than her own. Let her come to me … in Westeros.”

Franklyn Flowers laughed. “I like it. Sail west, not east. Leave the little queen to her olives and seat Prince Aegon upon the Iron Throne. The boy has stones, give him that.”

The captain-general looked as if someone had slapped his face. “Has the sun curdled your brains, Flowers? We need the girl. We need the marriage. If Daenerys accepts our princeling and takes him for her consort, the Seven Kingdoms will do the same. Without her, the lords will only mock his claim and brand him a fraud and a pretender. And how do you propose to get to Westeros? You heard Lysono. There are no ships to be had.”

~

“By now the lion surely has the dragon’s scent,” said one of the Coles, “but Cersei’s attentions will be fixed upon Meereen and this other queen. She knows nothing of our prince. Once we land and raise our banners, many and more will flock to join us.”

“Some,” allowed Homeless Harry, “not many. Rhaegar’s sister has dragons. Rhaegar’s son does not. We do not have the strength to take the realm without Daenerys and her army. Her Unsullied.”

“The first Aegon took Westeros without eunuchs,” said Lysono Maar. “Why shouldn’t the sixth Aegon do the same?”

“The plan—”

“Which plan?” said Tristan Rivers. “The fat man’s plan? The one that changes every time the moon turns? First Viserys Targaryen was to join us with fifty thousand Dothraki screamers at his back. Then the Beggar King was dead, and it was to be the sister, a pliable young child queen who was on her way to Pentos with three new-hatched dragons. Instead the girl turns up on Slaver’s Bay and leaves a string of burning cities in her wake, and the fat man decides we should meet her by Volantis. Now that plan is in ruins as well.

“I have had enough of Illyrio’s plans. Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne without the benefit of dragons. We can do the same. And if I am wrong and the realm does not rise for us, we can always retreat back across the narrow sea, as Bittersteel once did, and others after him.”

Strickland shook his head stubbornly. “The risk—”

“—is not what it was, now that Tywin Lannister is dead. The Seven Kingdoms will never be more ripe for conquest. Another boy king sits the Iron Throne, this one even younger than the last, and rebels are thick upon the ground as autumn leaves.”

ADWD Tyrion VI

“And when the pisswater prince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrow sea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat and found an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make for a splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape once you take the Iron Throne … assuming that our fair Daenerys takes you for her consort.”

“She will. She must.”

“Must?” Tyrion made a tsking sound. “That is not a word queens like to hear. You are her perfect prince, agreed, bright and bold and comely as any maid could wish. Daenerys Targaryen is no maid, however. She is the widow of a Dothraki khal, a mother of dragons and sacker of cities, Aegon the Conqueror with teats. She may not prove as willing as you wish.”

“She’ll be willing.” Prince Aegon sounded shocked. It was plain that he had never before considered the possibility that his bride-to-be might refuse him. “You don’t know her.” He picked up his heavy horse and put it down with a thump.

The dwarf shrugged. “I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I know she is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet. Now, how do you suppose this queen will react when you turn up with your begging bowl in hand and say, ‘Good morrow to you, Auntie. I am your nephew, Aegon, returned from the dead. I’ve been hiding on a poleboat all my life, but now I’ve washed the blue dye from my hair and I’d like a dragon, please … and oh, did I mention, my claim to the Iron Throne is stronger than your own?’ ”

Aegon’s mouth twisted in fury. “I will not come to my aunt a beggar. I will come to her a kinsman, with an army.”

“A small army.” There, that’s made him good and angry. The dwarf could not help but think of Joffrey. I have a gift for angering princes. “Queen Daenerys has a large one, and no thanks to you.” Tyrion moved his crossbows.

“Say what you want. She will be my bride, Lord Connington will see to it. I trust him as much as if he were my own blood.”

~

“But,” Prince Aegon said, “without Daenerys and her dragons, how could we hope to win?”

“You do not need to win,” Tyrion told him. “All you need to do is raise your banners, rally your supporters, and hold, until Daenerys arrives to join her strength to yours.”

“You said she might not have me.”

“Perhaps I overstated. She may take pity on you when you come begging for her hand.” The dwarf shrugged. “Do you want to wager your throne upon a woman’s whim? Go to Westeros, though … ah, then you are a rebel, not a beggar. Bold, reckless, a true scion of House Targaryen, walking in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror. A dragon.

“I told you, I know our little queen. Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar’s murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side … and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her. You are the last of her line, and this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer. The girl who drowned the slaver cities in blood rather than leave strangers to their chains can scarcely abandon her own brother’s son in his hour of peril. And when she reaches Westeros, and meets you for the first time, you will meet as equals, man and woman, not queen and supplicant. How can she help but love you then, I ask you?”

~

“Then rouse him. We have tidings he’d best hear. The queen’s name is on every tongue in Selhorys. They say she still sits in Meereen, sore beset. If the talk in the markets can be believed, Old Volantis will soon join the war against her.”

Haldon pursed his lips. “The gossip of fishmongers is not to be relied on. Still, I suppose Griff will want to hear. You know how he is.” The Halfmaester went below.

The girl never started for the west. No doubt she had good reasons. Between Meereen and Volantis lay five hundred leagues of deserts, mountains, swamps, and ruins, plus Mantarys with its sinister repute. A city of monsters, they say, but if she marches overland, where else is she to turn for food and water? The sea would be swifter, but if she does not have the ships …

~

“That was another age. Come, we’d best hear what that priest is going on about. I swear I heard the name Daenerys.”

Across the square they joined the growing throng outside the red temple. With the locals towering above him on every hand, the little man found it hard to see much beyond their arses. He could hear most every word the priest was saying, but that was not to say he understood them. “Do you understand what he is saying?” he asked Haldon in the Common Tongue.

“I would if I did not have a dwarf piping in my ear.”

“I do not pipe.” Tyrion crossed his arms and looked behind him, studying the faces of the men and women who had stopped to listen. Everywhere he turned, he saw tattoos. Slaves. Four of every five of them are slaves.

“The priest is calling on the Volantenes to go to war,” the Halfmaester told him, “but on the side of right, as soldiers of the Lord of Light, R’hllor who made the sun and stars and fights eternally against the darkness. Nyessos and Malaquo have turned away from the light, he says, their hearts darkened by the yellow harpies from the east. He says …”

“Dragons. I understood that word. He said dragons.”

“Aye. The dragons have come to carry her to glory.”

“Her. Daenerys?”

Haldon nodded. “Benerro has sent forth the word from Volantis. Her coming is the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. From smoke and salt was she born to make the world anew. She is Azor Ahai returned … and her triumph over darkness will bring a summer that will never end … death itself will bend its knee, and all those who die fighting in her cause shall be reborn …”

“Do I have to be reborn in this same body?” asked Tyrion. The crowd was growing thicker. He could feel them pressing in around them. “Who is Benerro?”

Haldon raised an eyebrow. “High Priest of the red temple in Volantis. Flame of Truth, Light of Wisdom, First Servant of the Lord of Light, Slave of R’hllor.”

The only red priest Tyrion had ever known was Thoros of Myr, the portly, genial, wine-stained roisterer who had loitered about Robert’s court swilling the king’s finest vintages and setting his sword on fire for mêlées. “Give me priests who are fat and corrupt and cynical,” he told Haldon, “the sort who like to sit on soft satin cushions, nibble sweetmeats, and diddle little boys. It’s the ones who believe in gods who make the trouble.”

~

“What news from downriver? Will it be war?”

Qavo shrugged. “The Yunkai’i would have it so. They style themselves the Wise Masters. Of their wisdom I cannot speak, but they do not lack for cunning. Their envoy came to us with chests of gold and gems and two hundred slaves, nubile girls and smooth-skinned boys trained in the way of the seven sighs. I am told his feasts are memorable and his bribes lavish.”

“The Yunkishmen have bought your triarchs?”

“Only Nyessos.” Qavo removed the screen and studied the placement of Tyrion’s army. “Malaquo may be old and toothless, but he is a tiger still, and Doniphos will not be returned as triarch. The city thirsts for war.”

“Why?” wondered Tyrion. “Meereen is long leagues across the sea. How has this sweet child queen offended Old Volantis?”

“Sweet?” Qavo laughed. “If even half the stories coming back from Slaver’s Bay are true, this child is a monster. They say that she is blood-thirsty, that those who speak against her are impaled on spikes to die lingering deaths. They say she is a sorceress who feeds her dragons on the flesh of newborn babes, an oathbreaker who mocks the gods, breaks truces, threatens envoys, and turns on those who have served her loyally. They say her lust cannot be sated, that she mates with men, women, eunuchs, even dogs and children, and woe betide the lover who fails to satisfy her. She gives her body to men to take their souls in thrall.”

Oh, good, thought Tyrion. If she gives her body to me, she is welcome to my soul, small and stunted though it is.

“They say,” said Haldon. “By they, you mean the slavers, the exiles she drove from Astapor and Meereen. Mere calumnies.”

“The best calumnies are spiced with truth,” suggested Qavo, “but the girl’s true sin cannot be denied. This arrogant child has taken it upon herself to smash the slave trade, but that traffic was never confined to Slaver’s Bay. It was part of the sea of trade that spanned the world, and the dragon queen has clouded the water. Behind the Black Wall, lords of ancient blood sleep poorly, listening as their kitchen slaves sharpen their long knives. Slaves grow our food, clean our streets, teach our young. They guard our walls, row our galleys, fight our battles. And now when they look east, they see this young queen shining from afar, this breaker of chains. The Old Blood cannot suffer that. Poor men hate her too. Even the vilest beggar stands higher than a slave. This dragon queen would rob him of that consolation.”

Tyrion advanced his spearmen. Qavo replied with his light horse. Tyrion moved his crossbowmen up a square and said, “The red priest outside seemed to think Volantis should fight for this silver queen, not against her.”

“The red priests would be wise to hold their tongues,” said Qavo Nogarys. “Already there has been fighting between their followers and those who worship other gods. Benerro’s rantings will only serve to bring a savage wrath down upon his head.”

“What rantings?” the dwarf asked, toying with his rabble.

The Volantene waved a hand. “In Volantis, thousands of slaves and freedmen crowd the temple plaza every night to hear Benerro shriek of bleeding stars and a sword of fire that will cleanse the world. He has been preaching that Volantis will surely burn if the triarchs take up arms against the silver queen.”

“That’s a prophecy even I could make. Ah, supper.”

Supper was a plate of roasted goat served on a bed of sliced onions. The meat was spiced and fragrant, charred outside and red and juicy within. Tyrion plucked at a piece. It was so hot it burned his fingers, but so good he could not help but reach for another chunk. He washed it down with the pale green Volantene liquor, the closest thing he’d had to wine for ages. “Very good,” he said, plucking up his dragon. “The most powerful piece in the game,” he announced, as he removed one of Qavo’s elephants. “And Daenerys Targaryen has three, it’s said.”

“Three,” Qavo allowed, “against thrice three thousand enemies. Grazdan mo Eraz was not the only envoy sent out from the Yellow City. When the Wise Masters move against Meereen, the legions of New Ghis will fight beside them. Tolosi. Elyrians. Even the Dothraki.”

~

“You’re mine, Hugor.”

Tyrion could no more outrun him than outfight him. Drunk as he was, he could not even hope to outwit him. He spread his hands. “And what do you mean to do with me?”

“Deliver you,” the knight said, “to the queen.”

ADWD Davos II

The old fellow made a face. “Prince Viserys weren’t the only dragon, were he? Are we sure they killed Prince Rhaegar’s son? A babe, he was.”

“Wasn’t there some princess too?” asked a whore. She was the same one who’d said the meat was grey.

“Two,” said the old fellow. “One was Rhaegar’s daughter, t’other was his sister.”

“Daena,” said the riverman. “That was the sister. Daena of Dragon-stone. Or was it Daera?”

“Daena was old King Baelor’s wife,” said the oarsman. “I rowed on a ship named for her once. The Princess Daena.”

“If she was a king’s wife, she’d be a queen.”

“Baelor never had a queen. He was holy.”

“Don’t mean he never wed his sister,” said the whore. “He just never bedded her, is all. When they made him king, he locked her up in a tower. His other sisters too. There was three.”

“Daenela,” the proprietor said loudly. “That was her name. The Mad King’s daughter, I mean, not Baelor’s bloody wife.”

“Daenerys,” Davos said. “She was named for the Daenerys who wed the Prince of Dorne during the reign of Daeron the Second. I don’t know what became of her.”

"I do," said the man who'd started all the talk of dragons, a Braavosi oarsman in a somber woolen jack. "When we were down to Pentos we moored beside a trader called the Sloe-Eyed Maid, and I got to drinking with her captain's steward. He told me a pretty tale about some slip of a girl who come aboard in Qarth, to try and book passage back to Westeros for her and three dragons. Silver hair she had, and purple eyes. 'I took her to the captain my own self,' this steward swore to me, 'but he wasn't having none of that. There's more profit in cloves and saffron, he tells me, and spices won't set fire to your sails.' "

ADWD Tyrion III

Griff ignored the request. Instead he touched the letter to the candle flame and watched the parchment blacken, curl, and flare up. “There is blood between Targaryen and Lannister. Why would you support the cause of Queen Daenerys?”

“For gold and glory,” the dwarf said cheerfully. “Oh, and hate. If you had ever met my sister, you would understand.”

ADWD The Merchant's Man

That was before Prince Doran had summoned him to the Water Gardens. And now the most beautiful woman in the world was waiting in Meereen, and he meant to do his duty and claim her for his bride. She will not refuse me. She will honor the agreement. Daenerys Targaryen would need Dorne to win the Seven Kingdoms, and that meant that she would need him. It does not mean that she will love me, though. She may not even like me.

~

“Perhaps your silver queen would like a monkey,” said Gerris.

Quentyn had no idea what Daenerys Targaryen might like. He had promised his father that he would bring her back to Dorne, but more and more he wondered if he was equal to the task.

~

“And if Daenerys is dead before we reach her?” Quentyn said. “We must have a ship. Even if it is Adventure.”

Gerris laughed. “You must be more desperate for Daenerys than I knew if you’d endure that stench for months on end. After three days, I’d be begging them to murder me. No, my prince, I pray you, not Adventure.”

ADWD Tyrion II

“How many days until we reach the river?” he asked Illyrio that evening. “At this pace, your queen’s dragons will be larger than Aegon’s three before I can lay eyes upon them.”

“Would it were so. A large dragon is more fearsome than a small one.” The magister shrugged. “Much as it would please me to welcome Queen Daenerys to Volantis, I must rely on you and Griff for that. I can serve her best in Pentos, smoothing the way for her return. So long as I am with you, though … well, an old fat man must have his comforts, yes? Come, drink a cup of wine.”

“Tell me,” Tyrion said as he drank, “why should a magister of Pentos give three figs who wears the crown in Westeros? Where is the gain for you in this venture, my lord?”

The fat man dabbed grease from his lips. “I am an old man, grown weary of this world and its treacheries. Is it so strange that I should wish to do some good before my days are done, to help a sweet young girl regain her birthright?”

Next you will be offering me a suit of magic armor and a palace in Valyria. “If Daenerys is no more than a sweet young girl, the Iron Throne will cut her into sweet young pieces.”

“Fear not, my little friend. The blood of Aegon the Dragon flows in her veins.”

Along with the blood of Aegon the Unworthy, Maegor the Cruel, and Baelor the Befuddled. “Tell me more of her.”

The fat man grew pensive. “Daenerys was half a child when she came to me, yet fairer even than my second wife, so lovely I was tempted to claim her for myself. Such a fearful, furtive thing, however, I knew I should get no joy from coupling with her. Instead I summoned a bed-warmer and fucked her vigorously until the madness passed. If truth be told, I did not think Daenerys would survive for long amongst the horselords.”

“That did not stop you selling her to Khal Drogo …”

“Dothraki neither buy nor sell. Say rather that her brother Viserys gave her to Drogo to win the khal’s friendship. A vain young man, and greedy. Viserys lusted for his father’s throne, but he lusted for Daenerys too, and was loath to give her up. The night before the princess wed he tried to steal into her bed, insisting that if he could not have her hand, he would claim her maidenhead. Had I not taken the precaution of posting guards upon her door, Viserys might have undone years of planning.”

“He sounds an utter fool.”

“Viserys was Mad Aerys’s son, just so. Daenerys … Daenerys is quite different.” He popped a roasted lark into his mouth and crunched it noisily, bones and all. “The frightened child who sheltered in my manse died on the Dothraki sea, and was reborn in blood and fire. This dragon queen who wears her name is a true Targaryen. When I sent ships to bring her home, she turned toward Slaver’s Bay. In a short span of days she conquered Astapor, made Yunkai bend the knee, and sacked Meereen. Mantarys will be next, if she marches west along the old Valyrian roads. If she comes by sea, well … her fleet must take on food and water at Volantis.”

~

“For that matter, why would you? Slavery may be forbidden by the laws of Pentos, yet you have a finger in that trade as well, and maybe a whole hand. And yet you conspire for the dragon queen, and not against her. Why? What do you hope to gain from Queen Daenerys?”

“Are we back to that again? You are a persistent little man.” Illyrio gave a laugh and slapped his belly. “As you will. The Beggar King swore that I should be his master of coin, and a lordly lord as well. Once he wore his golden crown, I should have my choice of castles … even Casterly Rock, if I desired.”

Tyrion snorted wine back up the scarred stump that had been his nose. “My father would have loved to hear that.”

“Your lord father had no cause for concern. Why would I want a rock? My manse is large enough for any man, and more comfortable than your drafty Westerosi castles. Master of coin, though …” The fat man peeled another egg. “I am fond of coins. Is there any sound as sweet as the clink of gold on gold?”

A sister’s screams. “Are you quite certain that Daenerys will make good her brother’s promises?”

“She will, or she will not.” Illyrio bit the egg in half. “I told you, my little friend, not all that a man does is done for gain. Believe as you wish, but even fat old fools like me have friends, and debts of affection to repay.”

Liar, thought Tyrion. There is something in this venture worth more to you than coin or castles.

~

“I dreamed about the queen,” he said. “I was on my knees before her, swearing my allegiance, but she mistook me for my brother, Jaime, and fed me to her dragons.”

“Let us hope this dream was not prophetic. You are a clever imp, just as Varys said, and Daenerys will have need of clever men about her. Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning.”

“Knights know only one way to solve a problem. They couch their lances and charge. A dwarf has a different way of looking at the world. What of you, though? You are a clever man yourself.”

“You flatter me.” Illyrio waggled his hand. “Alas, I am not made for travel, so I will send you to Daenerys in my stead. You did Her Grace a great service when you slew your father, and it is my hope that you will do her many more. Daenerys is not the fool her brother was. She will make good use of you.”

~

“Our last news of Queen Daenerys is old and stale, I fear. By now she will have left Meereen, we must assume. She has her host at last, a ragged host of sellswords, Dothraki horselords, and Unsullied infantry, and she will no doubt lead them west, to take back her father’s throne.” Magister Illyrio twisted open a pot of garlic snails, sniffed at them, and smiled. “At Volantis, you will have fresh tidings of Daenerys, we must hope,” he said, as he sucked one from its shell. “Dragons and young girls are both capricious, and it may be that you will need to adjust your plans. Griff will know what to do. Will you have a snail? The garlic is from my own gardens.”

I could ride a snail and make a better pace than this litter of yours. Tyrion waved the dish away. “You place a deal of trust in this man Griff. Another friend of your childhood?”

“No. A sellsword, you would call him, but Westerosi born. Daenerys needs men worthy of her cause.”

~

“Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon. When Maelys the Monstrous died upon the Stepstones, it was the end of the male line of House Blackfyre.” The cheesemonger smiled through his forked beard. “And Daenerys will give the exiles what Bittersteel and the Blackfyres never could. She will take them home.”

A Feast for Crows

AFFC Samwell V

He held back only the secrets that he was sworn to keep, about Bran Stark and his companions and the babes Jon Snow had swapped. “Daenerys is the only hope,” he concluded. “Aemon said the Citadel must send her a maester at once, to bring her home to Westeros before it is too late.”

~

“Maester Aemon believed that Daenerys Targaryen was the fulfillment of a prophecy ... her, not Stannis, nor Prince Rhaegar, nor the princeling whose head was dashed against the wall.”

“Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy.” Marwyn turned his head and spat a gob of red phlegm onto the floor. “Not that I would trust it. Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is ... and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy, said Gorghan. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time.” He chewed a bit. “Still ...”

Alleras stepped up next to Sam. “Aemon would have gone to her if he had the strength. He wanted us to send a maester to her, to counsel her and protect her and fetch her safely home.”

AFFC The Princess in the Tower

“...He has gone to bring us back our heart’s desire.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What is our heart’s desire?”

“Vengeance.” His voice was soft, as if he were afraid that someone might be listening. “Justice.” Prince Doran pressed the onyx dragon into her palm with his swollen, gouty fingers, and whispered, “Fire and blood.”

AFFC Samwell IV

“No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought ... the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” Just talking of her seemed to make him stronger. “I must go to her. I must. Would that I was even ten years younger.”

~

“I will add my voice to yours, maester. We will both tell them, the two of us together.”

“No,” the old man said. “It must be you. Tell them. The prophecy ... my brother’s dream ... Lady Melisandre has misread the signs. Stannis ... Stannis has some of the dragon blood in him, yes. His brothers did as well. Rhaelle, Egg’s little girl, she was how they came by it ... their father’s mother ... she used to call me Uncle Maester when she was a little girl. I remembered that, so I allowed myself to hope ... perhaps I wanted to ... we all deceive ourselves, when we want to believe. Melisandre most of all, I think. The sword is wrong, she has to know that . . . light without heat ... an empty glamor ... the sword is wrong, and the false light can only lead us deeper into darkness, Sam. Daenerys is our hope. Tell them that, at the Citadel. Make them listen. They must send her a maester. Daenerys must be counseled, taught, protected. For all these years I’ve lingered, waiting, watching, and now that the day has dawned I am too old. I am dying, Sam.”

AFFC Cat of the Canals

Sometimes she brought back sailor’s tales, of strange and wondrous happenings from the wide wet world beyond the isles of Braavos, wars and rains of toads and dragons hatching.

AFFC The Reaver

“It was not the god who spoke. Euron is known to keep wizards and foul sorcerers on that red ship of his. They sent some spell among us, so we could not hear the sea. The captains and the kings were drunk with all this talk of dragons.”

“Drunk, and fearful of that horn. You heard the sound it made. It makes no matter. Euron is our king.”

~

“It is daring to sail out of sight of land, so no word of our coming could reach these islands before us,” he growled, “but crossing half the world to hunt for dragons, that is something else.”

~

“A king must have a wife, to give him heirs. Brother, I have need of you. Will you go to Slaver’s Bay and bring my love to me?”

~

“No, to make an heir that’s worthy of him, I need a different woman. When the kraken weds the dragon, brother, let all the world beware.”

“What dragon?” said Victarion, frowning.

“The last of her line. They say she is the fairest woman in the world. Her hair is silver-gold, and her eyes are amethysts ... but you need not take my word for it, brother. Go to Slaver’s Bay, behold her beauty, and bring her back to me.”

“Why should I?” Victarion demanded.

“For love. For duty. Because your king commands it.” Euron chuckled. “And for the Seastone Chair. It is yours, once I claim the Iron Throne. You shall follow me as I followed Balon ... and your own trueborn sons shall one day follow you.”

My own sons. But to have a trueborn son a man must first have a wife. Victarion had no luck with wives. Euron’s gifts are poisoned, he reminded himself, but still ...

“The choice is yours, brother. Live a thrall or die a king. Do you dare to fly? Unless you take the leap, you’ll never know.”

Euron’s smiling eye was bright with mockery. “Or do I ask too much of you? It is a fearsome thing to sail beyond Valyria.”

“I could sail the Iron Fleet to hell if need be.” When Victarion opened his hand, his palm was red with blood. “I’ll go to Slaver’s Bay, aye. I’ll find this dragon woman, and I’ll bring her back.” But not for you. You stole my wife and despoiled her, so I’ll have yours. The fairest woman in the world, for me.

AFFC The Drowned Man

“Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with dragons.”

“And so shall we,” Euron Greyjoy promised. “That horn you heard I found amongst the smoking ruins that were Valyria, where no man has dared to walk but me. You heard its call, and felt its power. It is a dragon horn, bound with bands of red gold and Valyrian steel graven with enchantments. The dragonlords of old sounded such horns, before the Doom devoured them. With this horn, ironmen, I can bind dragons to my will.”

Asha laughed aloud. “A horn to bind goats to your will would be of more use, Crow’s Eye. There are no more dragons.”

“Again, girl, you are wrong. There are three, and I know where to find them. Surely that is worth a driftwood crown.”

 AFFC Cersei V

“Do you have any news of more import?”

“The slave revolt in Astapor has spread to Meereen, it would seem. Sailors off a dozen ships speak of dragons ...”

“Harpies. It is harpies in Meereen.” She remembered that from somewhere. Meereen was at the far end of the world, out east beyond Valyria. “Let the slaves revolt. Why should I care? We keep no slaves in Westeros. Is that all you have for me?”

AFFC The Queenmaker

If the sailors could be believed, the east was seething with wonders and terrors: a slave revolt in Astapor, dragons in Qarth, grey plague in Yi Ti. A new corsair king had risen in the Basilisk Isles and raided Tall Trees Town, and in Qohor followers of the red priests had rioted and tried to burn down the Black Goat.

AFFC Cersei IV

I hesitate to take up the council’s time with trifles, but there has been some queer talk heard along the docks of late. Sailors from the east. They speak of dragons ...”

“... and manticores, no doubt, and bearded snarks?” Cersei chuckled. “Come back to me when you hear talk of dwarfs, my lord.”

AFFC Prologue

“The dragon has three heads,” he announced in his soft Dornish drawl.

“Is this a riddle?” Roone wanted to know. “Sphinxes always speak in riddles in the tales.”

“No riddle.” [...]

“No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners,” Armen the Acolyte said firmly. “That was a heraldic charge, no more. Furthermore, the Targaryens are all dead.”

“Not all,” said Alleras. “The Beggar King had a sister.”

“I thought her head was smashed against a wall,” said Roone.

“No,” said Alleras. “It was Prince Rhaegar’s young son Aegon whose head was dashed against the wall by the Lion of Lannister’s brave men. We speak of Rhaegar’s sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys.”

“The Stormborn. I recall her now.” Mollander lifted his tankard high, sloshing the cider that remained. “Here’s to her!” He gulped, slammed his empty tankard down, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where’s Rosey? Our rightful queen deserves another round of cider, wouldn’t you say?”

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Tyrion III

The eunuch drew a parchment from his sleeve. “A kraken has been seen off the Fingers.” He giggled. “Not a Greyjoy, mind you, a true kraken. It attacked an Ibbenese whaler and pulled it under. There is fighting on the Stepstones, and a new war between Tyrosh and Lys seems likely. Both hope to win Myr as ally. Sailors back from the Jade Sea report that a three-headed dragon has hatched in Qarth, and is the wonder of that city—”

“Dragons and krakens do not interest me, regardless of the number of their heads,” said Lord Tywin. “Have your whisperers perchance found some trace of my brother’s son?”

“Alas, our beloved Tyrek has quite vanished, the poor brave lad.” Varys sounded close to tears.

“Tywin,” Ser Kevan said, before Lord Tywin could vent his obvious displeasure, “some of the gold cloaks who deserted during the battle have drifted back to barracks, thinking to take up duty once again. Ser Addam wishes to know what to do with them.”

“They might have endangered Joff with their cowardice,” Cersei said at once. “I want them put to death.”

Varys sighed. “They have surely earned death, Your Grace, none can deny it. And yet, perhaps we might be wiser to send them to the Night’s Watch. We have had disturbing messages from the Wall of late. Of wildlings astir ...”

“Wildlings, krakens, and dragons.” Mace Tyrell chuckled. “Why, is there anyone not stirring?”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Bran I

“Wolves often howl at the moon. These are howling at the comet. See how bright it is, Bran? Perchance they think it is the moon.”

 When Bran repeated that to Osha, she laughed aloud. “Your wolves have more wit than your maester,” the wildling woman said. “They know truths the grey man has forgotten.” The way she said it made him shiver, and when he asked what the comet meant, she answered, “Blood and fire, boy, and nothing sweet.”

 Bran asked Septon Chayle about the comet while they were sorting through some scrolls snatched from the library fire. “It is the sword that slays the season,” he replied, and soon after the white raven came from Oldtown bringing word of autumn, so doubtless he was right.

 Though Old Nan did not think so, and she’d lived longer than any of them. “Dragons,” she said, lifting her head and sniffing. She was near blind and could not see the comet, yet she claimed she could smell it. “It be dragons, boy,” she insisted. 

A Game of Thrones

AGOT Eddard XIII

“The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right … that’s why, the girl … the gods sent the boar … sent to punish me …” The king coughed, bringing up blood. “Wrong, it was wrong, I … only a girl … Varys, Littlefinger, even my brother … worthless … no one to tell me no but you, Ned … only you …” He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I tell you.”

~

“The girl,” the king said. “Daenerys. Let her live. If you can, if it … not too late … talk to them … Varys, Littlefinger … don’t let them kill her. And help my son, Ned. Make him be … better than me.”

~

Certainly Varys had once been young. Ned doubted that he had ever been innocent. “You mention children. Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once.”

“Alas,” said Varys. “At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord. With your leave.”

AGOT Eddard X

“The Targaryen girl—”

The king groaned. “Seven hells, don’t start with her again. That’s done, I’ll hear no more of it.”

“Why would you want me as your Hand, if you refuse to listen to my counsel?”

“Why?” Robert laughed. “Why not? Someone has to rule this damnable kingdom.”

AGOT Eddard VIII

“Robert, I beg of you,” Ned pleaded, “hear what you are saying. You are talking of murdering a child.”

“The whore is pregnant!” The king’s fist slammed down on the council table loud as a thunderclap. “I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you’ll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

The other councillors were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else. No doubt they were wiser than he was. Eddard Stark had seldom felt quite so alone. “You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this.”

“Then let it be on my head, so long as it is done. I am not so blind that I cannot see the shadow of the axe when it is hanging over my own neck.”

“There is no axe,” Ned told his king. “Only the shadow of a shadow, twenty years removed … if it exists at all.”

“If?” Varys asked softly, wringing powdered hands together. “My lord, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to king and council?”

Ned looked at the eunuch coldly. “You would bring us the whisperings of a traitor half a world away, my lord. Perhaps Mormont is wrong. Perhaps he is lying.”

“Ser Jorah would not dare deceive me,” Varys said with a sly smile. “Rely on it, my lord. The princess is with child.”

“So you say. If you are wrong, we need not fear. If the girl miscarries, we need not fear. If she births a daughter in place of a son, we need not fear. If the babe dies in infancy, we need not fear.”

“But if it is a boy?” Robert insisted. “If he lives?”

“The narrow sea would still lie between us. I shall fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water.”

The king took a swallow of wine and glowered at Ned across the council table. “So you would counsel me to do nothing until the dragonspawn has landed his army on my shores, is that it?”

“This ‘dragonspawn’ is in his mother’s belly,” Ned said. “Even Aegon did no conquering until after he was weaned.”

“Gods! You are stubborn as an aurochs, Stark.” The king looked around the council table. “Have the rest of you mislaid your tongues? Will no one talk sense to this frozen-faced fool?”

Varys gave the king an unctuous smile and laid a soft hand on Ned’s sleeve. “I understand your qualms, Lord Eddard, truly I do. It gave me no joy to bring this grievous news to council. It is a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do vile things for the good of the realm, howevermuch it pains us.”

Lord Renly shrugged. “The matter seems simple enough to me. We ought to have had Viserys and his sister killed years ago, but His Grace my brother made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn.”

“Mercy is never a mistake, Lord Renly,” Ned replied. “On the Trident, Ser Barristan here cut down a dozen good men, Robert’s friends and mine. When they brought him to us, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton urged us to cut his throat, but your brother said, ‘I will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,’ and sent his own maester to tend Ser Barristan’s wounds.” He gave the king a long cool look. “Would that man were here today.”

Robert had shame enough to blush. “It was not the same,” he complained. “Ser Barristan was a knight of the Kingsguard.”

“Whereas Daenerys is a fourteen-year-old girl.” Ned knew he was pushing this well past the point of wisdom, yet he could not keep silent. “Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?”

“To put an end to Targaryens!” the king growled.

“Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar.” Ned fought to keep the scorn out of his voice, and failed. “Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?”

Robert purpled. “No more, Ned,” he warned, pointing. “Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?”

“No, Your Grace,” Ned replied. “Have you?”

“Enough!” the king bellowed. “I am sick of talk. I’ll be done with this, or be damned. What say you all?”

“She must be killed,” Lord Renly declared.

“We have no choice,” murmured Varys. “Sadly, sadly …”

Ser Barristan Selmy raised his pale blue eyes from the table and said, “Your Grace, there is honor in facing an enemy on the battlefield, but none in killing him in his mother’s womb. Forgive me, but I must stand with Lord Eddard.”

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, a process that seemed to take some minutes. “My order serves the realm, not the ruler. Once I counseled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert now, so I bear this girl child of his no ill will. Yet I ask you this—should war come again, how many soldiers will die? How many towns will burn? How many children will be ripped from their mothers to perish on the end of a spear?” He stroked his luxuriant white beard, infinitely sad, infinitely weary. “Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so that tens of thousands might live?”

“Kinder,” Varys said. “Oh, well and truly spoken, Grand Maester. It is so true. Should the gods in their caprice grant Daenerys Targaryen a son, the realm must bleed.”

Littlefinger was the last. As Ned looked to him, Lord Petyr stifled a yawn. “When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the best thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it,” he declared. “Waiting won’t make the maid any prettier. Kiss her and be done with it.”

“Kiss her?” Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

“A steel kiss,” said Littlefinger.

Robert turned to face his Hand. “Well, there it is, Ned. You and Selmy stand alone on this matter. The only question that remains is, who can we find to kill her?”

“Mormont craves a royal pardon,” Lord Renly reminded them.

“Desperately,” Varys said, “yet he craves life even more. By now, the princess nears Vaes Dothrak, where it is death to draw a blade. If I told you what the Dothraki would do to the poor man who used one on a khaleesi, none of you would sleep tonight.” He stroked a powdered cheek. “Now, poison … the tears of Lys, let us say. Khal Drogo need never know it was not a natural death.”

Grand Maester Pycelle’s sleepy eyes flicked open. He squinted suspiciously at the eunuch.

“Poison is a coward’s weapon,” the king complained.

Ned had heard enough. “You send hired knives to kill a fourteen-year-old girl and still quibble about honor?” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Look her in the eyes before you kill her. See her tears, hear her last words. You owe her that much at least.”

“Gods,” the king swore, the word exploding out of him as if he could barely contain his fury. “You mean it, damn you.” He reached for the flagon of wine at his elbow, found it empty, and flung it away to shatter against the wall. “I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done.”

“I will not be part of murder, Robert. Do as you will, but do not ask me to fix my seal to it.”

~

“After you stormed out, it was left to me to convince them not to hire the Faceless Men,” he continued blithely. “Instead Varys will quietly let it be known that we’ll make a lord of whoever does in the Targaryen girl.”

Ned was disgusted. “So now we grant titles to assassins.”

Littlefinger shrugged. “Titles are cheap. The Faceless Men are expensive. If truth be told, I did the Targaryen girl more good than you with all your talk of honor. Let some sellsword drunk on visions of lordship try to kill her. Likely he’ll make a botch of it, and afterward the Dothraki will be on their guard. If we’d sent a Faceless Man after her, she’d be as good as buried.”

AGOT Eddard IV

“Why should Tyrion Lannister want Bran dead? The boy has never done him harm.”

“Do you Starks have nought but snow between your ears?” Littlefinger asked. “The Imp would never have acted alone.”

Ned rose and paced the length of the room. “If the queen had a role in this or, gods forbid, the king himself … no, I will not believe that.” Yet even as he said the words, he remembered that chill morning on the barrowlands, and Robert’s talk of sending hired knives after the Targaryen princess. He remembered Rhaegar’s infant son, the red ruin of his skull, and the way the king had turned away, as he had turned away in Darry’s audience hall not so long ago. He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once.

AGOT Eddard II

“Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?”

“Would that I might forget him,” Ned said bluntly. The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor. Ser Jorah had tried to swell the family coffers by selling some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver. As the Mormonts were bannermen to the Starks, his crime had dishonored the north. Ned had made the long journey west to Bear Island, only to find when he arrived that Jorah had taken ship beyond the reach of Ice and the king’s justice. Five years had passed since then.

“Ser Jorah is now in Pentos, anxious to earn a royal pardon that would allow him to return from exile,” Robert explained. “Lord Varys makes good use of him.”

“So the slaver has become a spy,” Ned said with distaste. He handed the letter back. “I would rather he become a corpse.”

“Varys tells me that spies are more useful than corpses,” Robert said. “Jorah aside, what do you make of his report?”

“Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?”

The king frowned. “A knife, perhaps. A good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it.”

Ned did not feign surprise; Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens was a madness in him. He remembered the angry words they had exchanged when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the corpses of Rhaegar’s wife and children as a token of fealty. Ned had named that murder; Robert called it war. When he had protested that the young prince and princess were no more than babes, his new-made king had replied, “I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.” Not even Jon Arryn had been able to calm that storm. Eddard Stark had ridden out that very day in a cold rage, to fight the last battles of the war alone in the south. It had taken another death to reconcile them; Lyanna’s death, and the grief they had shared over her passing.

This time, Ned resolved to keep his temper. “Your Grace, the girl is scarcely more than a child. You are no Tywin Lannister, to slaughter innocents.” It was said that Rhaegar’s little girl had cried as they dragged her from beneath her bed to face the swords. The boy had been no more than a babe in arms, yet Lord Tywin’s soldiers had torn him from his mother’s breast and dashed his head against a wall.

“And how long will this one remain an innocent?” Robert’s mouth grew hard. “This child will soon enough spread her legs and start breeding more dragonspawn to plague me.”

“Nonetheless,” Ned said, “the murder of children … it would be vile … unspeakable …”

“Unspeakable?” the king roared. “What Aerys did to your brother Brandon was unspeakable. The way your lord father died, that was unspeakable. And Rhaegar … how many times do you think he raped your sister? How many hundreds of times?” His voice had grown so loud that his horse whinnied nervously beneath him. The king jerked the reins hard, quieting the animal, and pointed an angry finger at Ned. “I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on, until they are as dead as their dragons, and then I will piss on their graves.”

Ned knew better than to defy him when the wrath was on him. If the years had not quenched Robert’s thirst for revenge, no words of his would help. “You can’t get your hands on this one, can you?” he said quietly.

The king’s mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “No, gods be cursed. Some pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger had her brother and her walled up on his estate with pointy-hatted eunuchs all around them, and now he’s handed them over to the Dothraki. I should have had them both killed years ago, when it was easy to get at them, but Jon was as bad as you. More fool I, I listened to him.”

“Jon Arryn was a wise man and a good Hand.”

Robert snorted. The anger was leaving him as suddenly as it had come. “This Khal Drogo is said to have a hundred thousand men in his horde. What would Jon say to that?”

“He would say that even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm, so long as they remain on the other side of the narrow sea,” Ned replied calmly. “The barbarians have no ships. They hate and fear the open sea.”

The king shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Perhaps. There are ships to be had in the Free Cities, though. I tell you, Ned, I do not like this marriage. There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me Usurper. Do you forget how many houses fought for Targaryen in the war? They bide their time for now, but give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed, and my sons with me. If the beggar king crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the traitors will join him.”

“He will not cross,” Ned promised. “And if by some mischance he does, we will throw him back into the sea. Once you choose a new Warden of the East—”

“He will not cross,” Ned promised. “And if by some mischance he does, we will throw him back into the sea. Once you choose a new Warden of the East—”

The king groaned. “For the last time, I will not name the Arryn boy Warden. I know the boy is your nephew, but with Targaryens climbing in bed with Dothraki, I would be mad to rest one quarter of the realm on the shoulders of a sickly child.”

AGOT Bran III

He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.

#daenerys targaryen #mentions of dany #a dance with dragons #a feast for crows #a storm of swords #a clash of kings #a game of thrones #dany passages #tyrion lannister #barristan selmy #quentyn martell #victarion greyjoy #jon connington #samwell tarly #ned stark #davos seaworth #cersei lannister #bran stark #jon snow #arya stark #aeron greyjoy #arianne martell

[dreadwulf]

Love is a Burning Thing

(part 1) (part 2)

He is riding away from her. Farther and farther away.

Jaime is riding at the head of his battalion across the Crownlands. Glory trots along quite amiably, at pace with hundreds of other horses around him. Without his needing to move a muscle, at every moment Brienne is farther away. He can feel the distance stretching between them like she is still holding onto him somehow and pulling with all her might, ever since she had left him this morning.

It hurts. Like a steadily increasing stomachache, only it’s some other organ down there in his gut. If there is a structure in the body that secretes devotion like eyes spill tears, it is surely there, somewhere in his belly, and it is contracting violently, whispering at him to turn around and go back. But his gut is perpetually wrong, and cannot be trusted. This is exactly what he wants, to be getting away from Brienne as fast as he can. If it hurts, well, Jaime is quite accustomed to being hurt by the things he wants.

They ride for King’s Landing, and the ache simmers inside him like a low fire. But there is enough else to occupy his mind, and surely it will fade into the background, unimportant, beside the urgency of a Targaryen invasion.

His squire is watching him worriedly from his palfrey nearby, and Jaime straightens under the young man’s scrutiny. Smiles back at him until his squire grins cautiously back, and spurs his horse to ride over to the flanks. There, that’s more like it. Lord Lannister is no lovesick boy pining after some maiden. He made a foolish mistake, but fortunately it has cost him little. A few days away from his post, some chagrin before his men, and this wretched ache in his gut. That is nothing he can’t recover from.

His squire is riding, he notes, much more smoothly than he did when last they rode the Kingsroad, leaving the capital. He has grown tremendously in these months. Just as he had told Brienne, he will have to knight him sometime soon, Peck. Else some other knight will do it, and deny him the honor. He has been a good squire, and Jaime will regret losing him. 

Does he hope for it? Jaime wonders. At his age I thirsted for battle, and if there are truly Targaryens on the march there will be some promise of glory. If he knights him today, Peck will have to fight for his King. He will probably have to fight either way, but as a squire he will keep to the periphery, and a knight will be expected to charge on horseback, into the thick of the fighting. But Peck has not shown any remarkable talent at swordplay, not as Jaime had when Ser Arthur Dayne had knighted him. Not that, not yet. Let him squire a little bit longer.

His eyes drift to the wagon where the sons of the Riverlands are riding, where until this morning Podrick Peck had sat chattering and playing at dice with the other boys. What will he do with the hostages when they ride to battle? They could squire for his men. But if he loses any of them in battle, he will lose the cooperation of their parents as well.

I think Peck was sorry to see young Podrick go, Jaime thinks. His squire had taken the smaller boy under his wing, and the younger Payne had looked up to him with the kind of hero worship reserved by young boys for older, not-quite-grown boys. Peck enjoyed that attention, clearly. Podrick had a starry-eyed eagerness that his squire would be just outgrowing. An innocence. 

Jaime had spoken with the child as well, the night they had caught him sneaking into the camp. A scared and reticent boy to begin with, with a fearful glaze and a pronounced stammer that made one wonder if he had lost his wits. But with only a little encouragement, he had turned into a fair chatterbox. He had been startled to learn that the boy had squired for his brother Tyrion during the battle of the Blackwater; it had been he that saved his life, though not his nose. Timid he may be, but the young squire does not lack for bravery. It seems he had left King’s Landing looking for Tyrion, and followed the Maid of Tarth in hopes that her quest would lead him there. His brother had been good to him, Podrick said. 

As not many people have been, I’ll wager. Cast-off of a cast-off of House Payne, small for his age, and guileless as a newborn. 

Jaime had offered the boy a berth in his army. He could squire for Jaime’s cousin Addam Marbrand, or at least apprentice to someone in his camp, earn his keep. He would not be a hostage like the Riverlands’ noble sons, but he could still run about and play with them, as he seems to enjoy doing. I suspect the boy has not done much of that either, he notes.

Pod refused his offer, however. He said, with some hesitation, that he hopes Lord Tyrion is well, and thanks Ser Jamie for the kind offer, but he would rather stay with Lady Brienne, wherever she will be. He has a fair cavalcade of praise for the lady, which Jaime endures without comment. All in all, he seems a good lad. Loyal. From what little he saw, they are quite tightly bonded, the boy and his lady knight.

He ought to feel better knowing that. If he was to be sacrificed for another, at least the other was a good-hearted and clearly beloved child. It could have been Lem Lemoncloak. 

It does not make him feel any better.

He had gritted his teeth to look upon the boy, to be honest. Can one be jealous of a child? But Podrick very obviously had his lady’s love, and Jaime does not.

He has only just learned how much the wench meant to him, and how comparatively little he had meant to her in return. For her, at a moment’s notice, he had thrown over his family, his house, his responsibilities, to follow her into the Riverlands on the flimsiest of excuses, all because he thought she needed his help. It had been startlingly easy to do it, and as he walked away from his life he had felt lighter and merrier with every step.

What a fool he had been. As it turns out, she would not do the same for him - no, he was no more than a hostage himself, intended to free the companions she valued more. This boy, and that Hunt fellow, a hedge knight of some sort, who awaited them at the Dread Lady’s Gallows. Brienne had risked a great deal to come and find him, but the risk had not been for his sake. 

But no matter. She is gone now and he will not see her again. He will return to his life and go about forgetting her. That should make these feelings stop. It will have to end sometime, the crawling betrayal, the creeping shame, the sharp sting of rejection, and that time will come much sooner without the constant reminder of her presence. With time he will stop thinking of her, and it will be like he had never met that stubborn, ugly beast of a woman.

This is not making him feel any better either. Cheer up, he tells himself, tomorrow you may die. 

The Targaryen pretender has already taken Storm’s End in a rout. This “Aegon” has a band of supporters and a hired troop of mercenaries, the Golden Company, and at last word was riding out to face Mace Tyrell and the Crown forces. Of course it isn’t Aegon Targaryen - Jaime knows all too well the babe was slaughtered, skull crushed against the wall by his father’s creature The Mountain - but he looks the part, with the Targaryen hair and eyes. Perhaps he is some unknown cousin, some lost branch of the Targaryen family tree using Aegon’s name. Should Westeros be nostalgic for the relative peace of Targaryen rule, they might find the young man very persuasive.

He turns the details over and again in his mind. The Golden Company, a fearful force, and Targaryen banners stirring the populace to rebellion. They could be marching into a battle they cannot hope to win. Impossible to tell from the increasingly vehement missives he has received from the Queen Regent. She commands him to victory, but does she truly expect it? As has been amply demonstrated to him recently, he cannot expect even his closest allies to place much value on his safety. After all, what does anyone care if the Kingslayer should die?

My sweet sister would summon me regardless. She has shown that often enough. As coin she would spend me on a hopeless trial by combat merely to flaunt her purse. No doubt my beheading at the gates of King’s Landing would be just as gloriously pointless. 

Though Cersei, it seems, wants him only to return to her side directly, to serve as her personal bodyguard. She is grown obsessed with some prophecy that the children will all be murdered and her choked to death at Tyrion’s hands. Hearing that Tyrion himself is approaching the city has sent her into a kind of frenzy. Her last letter was nearly incomprehensible, raving. 

Yes, that had been the last bit of news the Spider had passed along, with the rest of his whispers: his own brother Tyrion rides with Aegon, and advises the Targaryen pretender how best to defeat their House in battle. That was the lowest blow, and it had knocked his usual confidence right out of him. Jaime does not fear battle, but he dreads this confrontation.

If one side wins, his sister and son are dethroned and probably executed. If the other side wins, he will have to kill his brother. Jaime loses either way.

He should not worry about defeat. The Crown forces are superior, the Lannister army vast and well-provisioned, and King’s Landing is by design a difficult city to take. But his brother is fearsomely clever, and he was Hand. He defended King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon, and a man who knows how to hold the city will know how to take it. If he does, he will have his revenge for a lifetime of slights. He knows Tyrion holds it against him still, the lie he had told him about Tysha. After all the years they had been beloved brothers, after Jaime had set him free and saved his life, his little brother saw fit not only to murder their father but to conspire with their enemies to contest Cersei directly for the throne. He does not expect Tyrion will pull any punches now for old time’s sake. Not when they will face each other across a battlefield.

If there is anyone left who has not yet stuck a knife in my heart, they are running out of time to do it. 

He mulls over such thoughts feverishly as the dimming winter sun lowers in the sky. For a time he considers pressing the Lannister troops onward into the night to reach King’s Landing. It will be only a few hours march from here, and their summons have been increasingly urgent. Still, he would rather rest his men so that they can arrive fresh to the fighting and not exhausted from the road, and he commands them to set camp.

“Milord,” a lieutenant interrupts him tentatively as he unhorses, “we have Thoros of Myr bound in your tent as you requested, awaiting interrogation.”

Jaime smiles thinly. They have captured Beric Dondarrion’s Red Priest, who had somehow turned Catelyn Stark into the apparition who had lead the Brotherhood without Banners to capture him. Somehow during the conflagration with the Brotherhood he had run away and vanished into the trees. But Jaime’s scouts found him in the night, Thoros, stoking a meagre fire near Maidenpool. There was no time to deal with him in the morning, so they bundled him up and brought him along on the march - though they gave him no horse, and forced him to walk along tied to one of the wagons, thinking it would make him more cooperative. 

The Lord Commander’s tent is first to rise, and resplendent before ever he sets eyes on it, not that he notices. He leaves Peck to unsaddle his horse and enters it in full uniform. He will get through this interrogation before undressing and taking his supper.

He sits in the armchair they have carried across the Riverlands for him, and accepts a glass of sherry. The muddy priest is bound on the floor before his desk, and at his command his bonds are loosened, and he is allowed to sit in a wooden chair before his desk. Jaime observes all of this as he finishes the first glass of sherry, and requests another.

Once a huge man, both tall and fat, Thoros of Myr is now considerably diminished. His red robes are cavernous around him, his skin hanging loosely off his skeleton in great folds. Formerly a fierce swordsman, the fire that he once brandished by burning swords has seemingly gone out. The old Thoros could wear this one like a cloak. 

Even before Jaime can begin to question him, the Red Priest is firing questions back. First among them, “What have you done with the girl?”

“Which girl?” he stalls, disconcerted. 

“The maiden with your blade.” He may be physically smaller but his eyes are bright and sharp, and he holds Jaime’s gaze without flinching. The priest explains patiently, “the tall young woman with the king’s seal, she who brought you to the Brotherhood. I saw you strike her down. Where is she now?”

Jaime ignores this questioning; it is none of the man’s concern. Instead he asks him of his escape from the ambush that night, which quiets him a bit. He could have fought them, could have produced a flaming sword and defended his Lady Stoneheart, but instead he had fled. Thoros does not seem to be interested in explaining why, averting his eyes and answering  him shortly with “yes” and “no”.

He questions the Red Priest about Catelyn Stark, about Berric Dondarrion, about remaining members of the brotherhood and the commonfolk who supported them. Still Thoros turns the conversation back and back again to Brienne.

“But what of the Maid of Tarth? I saw her nowhere in your formation, amongst prisoners or soldiers.” He pokes and prods, Thoros, and his brow furrows with concern. “It has not gone unnoticed that she is gone. Some here have it that you have done away with her.”

His patience at an end, Jaime snaps back, “And what if I have?”

Thoros puts on a perplexed expression, blinking at him curiously. “That cannot be. Surely even you are not so cruel as that.”

“Surely I am, ask anyone in the Seven Kingdoms.” Thoroughly tired of judgement, he decides to go along with the Red Priest’s poor opinion of him, if it will loosen his tongue. “The wench lured me to my barely-averted death. I am well within my rights to punish traitors such as she.”

“Brienne of Tarth never betrayed you for a moment.” The Red Priest is disturbed, shaking his head sadly. “That poor, brave girl. She defended you to a crowd baying for your blood, said that you were a changed man, that you were not responsible for your reported crimes. We called her your whore. But you never touched her, did you? Wouldn’t trouble yourself with someone so pure of heart, when you have your sister the Queen in your bed.”

Ah, so Thoros still has a sense of humor after all. Jaime snorts. “So pure of heart she would lead me to my death, while calling me friend. How is that not a betrayal?”

“She was forced to it. Our dread lady commanded her to kill you and she refused. The entire Brotherhood demanded it and she refused. We offered her a choice, the sword or the noose.”

“And she choose the sword to save her own skin.” Jaime swallows from the glass. “I understand it, of course. It is a hard lesson for one such as her. No one is pure.”

“No!” Thoros smacks the palm of his hand against the commander’s table, and Jaime cannot help flinching. “She chose the noose. Brienne said she would not betray you and they put a rope around her neck and hung her, hung her choking and kicking from a tree. She would have died there without relenting but for Podrick Payne, the boy.”

No. No, it isn’t true, he tells himself. But it tracks with what the boy had told him. She did it for me, my lord, you have to understand… He had assumed the choice had been a simple one. Podrick or Kingslayer. But had there been another choice as well? Hadn’t he seen the angry red marks around her neck, or decided not to see?

“They hung him from the tree next to her, and when she saw him dying, she called for a sword. Not before. Not for herself. She would have died for you.”

“Lies.” Jaime has gone very still. Only the muscles of his hand flex, where he holds tightly onto the drinking glass. “The Brotherhood’s Red Priest. Why should I believe anything you say?”

The priest raises his hands, palms beckoning to the air. “What reason have I to lie about this? What benefit to me? I care no more for factions or grudges. I have seen war render this land a hell beyond anything my lord R’hllor or any the Seven could dream up. So far as I care whoever is left standing at its end is welcome to its rotten fruit. All that matters is that in the ruins of honor and justice I met a maid who embodied both, and now she is dead. That, my lord, is a calamity, and I would have you know just how great of one.”

He hardens his heart. “In this world you are either faithless or dead. She is both, and soon enough we will be too. It’s no calamity.”

“You utter fool.” The Red Priest has the nerve to look sorry for him. “Let me tell you: when we found that girl she was dying of fever, battered and broken by brigands, and all she would do is talk about Jaime Lannister. She said your name in her sleep. She said she had to find your honor. She pleaded for you to come for her when she was next to dead. Not her companions, or her kin. Only you. No sword could have been more loyal to you, and no woman more true to anyone.  

Jaime’s guts are churning now, his heart clenching painfully enough to turn him inside-out. What a stupid organ, the heart. If he could, he would carve it out himself. 

It makes him snap back at Thoros tightly, “Gold will buy loyalty as reliably, and a woman too.”

“Not like her, not to you. You are only too cynical or too stupid to see it. That girl loved you. She loved you.”

The glass in Jaime’s left hand abruptly shatters.

Thoros jerks back, more at the noise of it than anything else, and stares down wide-eyed at the Lord Commander’s desk. His hand had squeezed and squeezed the glass until it finally popped, in a small explosion of shards and blood. Now his hand opens and stretches, and the Lord Commander examines it curiously. A few jagged bits of glass stick out of his palm and fingers. It hardly hurts at all, but it produces an impressive amount of blood.

Lannister guards burst into the tent at the sound of breaking glass, and the sight of blood makes them draw their swords. Jaime waves them back. “My golden hand holds drinking glasses not so well as I’d hoped. Stay at your post.”

“My lord…” Thoros, distinctly alarmed at his lack of reaction, darts his eyes between the bleeding hand and Jaime’s impassive face. “Your hand…”

“It’s nothing.” For a second he moves to pluck the glass bits out of his hand, but his other hand is made of gold. Not much good for that. He can only poke at the bloody shards with a strange fascination. His guards watch warily, not leaving but keeping their distance. 

“You know I am a healer. Allow me.” 

He shouldn’t allow it, and his guards are visibly appalled, but Jaime makes no move to stop him when Thoros kneels at his side. He moves aside the golden hand, taking his flesh hand and extracting shards of glass with careful attention.

“I can’t imagine why,” the priest murmurs, “but Brienne thought very highly of you. I owe her some kindness, for what we did to her. If she is gone, you will have to do.”

Then it comes again; the pain. Worse than ever. Jaime bows his face to the floor at the weight of it.

“I let her go,” he manages to say, hoarsely. “I gave her the sword and I let her go. Her and the boy.”

“Truly?” Thoros looks up at him dumbfounded, uncertain whether this could be another of his jests.

But of course he let her go. What else could he do? He couldn’t keep her prisoner forever.

He sees it now, too late. Brienne in the cell, wasting away. The tears she had shed when he denied her Oathkeeper. How she had hesitated so inexplicably when he allowed her to leave. The way she had looked on him, as though she would accept any punishment he would give her. He had thought it was her simple goodness that made her contrite. But it could have been more. It could be true; somehow, she had loved him. 

When he could not bring himself to harm her, he thought it his own weakness that stayed his hand. Perhaps they share the same weakness.

He jumps up from his chair with that thought, snatching his one working hand back from the damned Red Priest and sweeping out of his commander’s tent. He strides rapidly to the stables and grabs the bridle of the first horse he sees. Honor, not yet unsaddled from their ride. 

Jaime rides hard against the twilight, back down the trail they’d come. Back to the place where he’d left her. It was a day’s ride back as an encampment, but a single man riding as fast as his horse is able made the distance in a few hours.

She won’t be there. She could have gone in any direction with a day’s advance. But if she stopped there. If she stayed to rest, and to think out her next move. If she waited there. If she waited for me. 

He urges Honor to run faster at the thought.

The Riverlands rush by headlong and the pounding hooves drive every thought from his head until he is pure instinct, animal-simple: find her.

The clearing is empty when he arrives, and quiet. 

Jaime slings down from his horse looking around him wildly. It’s dark. There’s no sign of anything. No fire, no trail, no sign she had been there at all except that he knows this is where he had left her. He knows that in his bones. He will never be able to forget this place. 

He walks aimlessly in one direction and then another. Which way would she have gone? East is Maidenpool, closest of anything, where she might find Tully allies. Riverrun in the other direction, a farther walk but where she might potentially find a ship, go back to Tarth. Or would she have headed singlemindedly North, towards the Vale, without even stopping to supply herself?

He takes not much time to decide. He thinks Maidenpool, then North. Climbing back onto Honor he rides East, alert for any campfires or single riders,scouring the forest hour after hour, and shouting out her name until his voice is nearly gone. 

He reaches Maidenpool with the dawn and sees no sign of her there. 

In a haze of desperation he accosts passers-by, one after another. Have you seen a maid pass this way, with a sword and a young boy? Riding a chestnut horse?

They all say no. They step back from him like he has gone mad; but of course it sounds a bit mad, doesn’t it? A lady knight with a Valyrian steel sword, as big as The Hound, with her own squire. While he’s at it, he should ask after Galladon of Morne, and mermaids, and the Crone with her lantern. But perhaps it is the stench of a cursed man they respond to, a man who has held riches and lost them. Such ill fortune is catching. They give him a wide berth, they murmur, they leave him standing in the street lost and alone. Perhaps they do not know a Kingslayer when they see one, but anyone can spot a man laid low by love.

Have you seen a woman, an absurdly large woman? With the bluest eyes you’re ever seen? A woman with a sword - a broadsword, two-handed? Looks like she knows how to swing it? Have you seen her? Big and strong as an ox but pure as a maiden? Straw-blonde, a hand taller than me, shoulders as broad as a barn. Has no one seen her? A knight? A true knight? The truest knight that ever walked this land? Tell me where she’s gone. Please, tell me if you’ve seen her. I saw her and I sent her away. She loved me, and I let her go.

******************************************************

The sun is marking mid-morning by the time he returns, and there are dark clouds looming in the distance, swirling up from the horizon.

He has hardly left the saddle before he is accosted by a barrage of debriefs and dreadful news. 

King’s Landing is burning. Aegon’s forces arrived faster than anyone predicted, are thoroughly breaking Mace Tyrell’s formation, and their secondary forces sneaking up the bay have set Flea Bottom afire. The Goldcloaks have surrendered already, and the Red Keep will soon be under siege. Even if they ride full-tilt for the capital it will be a rescue mission now, not a defense.

“Ready us to ride directly to battle in an hour,” he instructs his captains. “Leave the camp set here, and I set my cousin Addam in command. Peck, you and your lady Pia will stay behind with the hostages and the provisions. If we face defeat see that they are returned to their homes - quickly as you can, the Kingsroad will be dragon territory before long.”

His squire’s face turns quite red and he looks ready to argue with him, and Jaime quickly turns his back to him. He hears the lad sputtering behind him as he throws the tent flap aside and goes into his Commander’s Tent. 

Jaime sits alone in his tent for that hour and he burns. He feels the flames of wildfire in King’s Landing, hears the screeching laughter of Aerys Targaryen getting his fiery baptism at last. His most sacred oath is to guard his King, and his King is in mortal danger and he is not there. He left Tommen unprotected. Left his sister, his son, his duty. His doom awaits him there, is waiting for him still. He must go.

All around him his men are making ready for battle. He knows, with a dreadful foresight, that it is not a battle they can win. It will be glorious, and at the end of it he will be dead and he will never see Brienne again.

Brienne. Brienne. His heart blazes in his chest. 

He should have kept her with him. He should have let her tell her tale. His stupid pride would not allow it and now she is gone.

Where is she now? Sheltering in some rain-soaked forest? Hiding in some Tully supporter’s house in Pennytree? Could she have seen him foolishly asking after her, and held her tongue?

He has been cruel to her. He has let her suffer. He denied her Oathkeeper. He had been badly wounded, his pride wounded, his poor sore heart wounded, and he had wanted to hurt her too. When he saw her tears some sleeping part of him wanted to take it back.  He felt monstrous for doing it, and told himself it was because he was a monster. He had stood there and watched her with her shoulders hunched and fists balled at her sides, tears running down her face. What might she have done if he had tried to soothe her tears? He could have been kinder.

Now she will remember him as bitter and petty and hateful when he is gone, and there will be no one left in the world who thinks on him fondly. 

But at least she will not see this battle; at least he gave her Oathkeeper to keep herself safe. She will have to think on him when she wields the sword, and perhaps she will remember whatever it was that had made her care for him. Perhaps she will know, when she holds the blade, that he had loved her too.

Mother, let her know it for certain. Give her my love.

When the hour is up, he leaves his tent, mounts Glory, and rides to battle. 

#ring of fire #tumblr fic #oh hello there plot #middle chapters are tough - there's two more after this

[samwpmarleau]

If you ever feel like writing it, could we see the follow up conversation with Aegon, Betha, Shaera, and Jaehaerys and on Rhaella's betrothal to Doran?

Part 1

Rhaella knows it is quite improper to listen at keyholes, and that she is far too old for it besides. She is nearly three-and-ten, practically a lady; eavesdropping is for unruly children. Yet, she can’t help herself. Just this morning she had awakened expecting that before long Father would betroth to the brother she can’t stand. Instead, now she is promised to young Prince Doran, no doubt to be sent to Sunspear in short order to acclimate herself with her future land.

She has to know how this transpired, and so here she is with her ear at Grandfather’s door, listening intently to him, Grandmother, Father, and Mother, the four of them in heated conversation.

“What have you done?” It’s Father, angrier than Rhaella has ever heard him before. “Rhaella is our daughter, we have say over who she will wed.”

“Watch your tone,” Grandmother snaps. “You are not yet king, Jaehaerys. And I trust I need not remind you that you spurned your own matches? Your judgment is in question.”

“Rhaella is meant for bigger things than Dorne, Mother. You would have her rule over a pile of sand instead of the whole realm?”

“My mother was of Dorne, and her mother before that,” Grandfather interjects sharply. “Dorne is in your blood, my son, and you will show due respect. Rhaella will become the princess consort, an admirable position and one she would not find with any other house.”

“She’s meant to be queen,” Mother puts in. “A princess consort is nothing compared to a queen. She is meant to be by Aerys’s side. Jae heard it from Jenny’s woods witch, you know.”

Grandmother scoffs. “Magic and ghost tales. Ella is real. Your daughter deserves more than to be a pawn, and Princess Loreza is a smart, sensible woman with a kind son. Your father and I have made this decision, and that’s that. Complaining is beneath the both of you and will get you nowhere.”

“But —”

“That is our final word on the matter,” Grandfather declares. “I’ll not have you bring this up again.”

Rhaella hears footsteps towards the door and sprints down the hall. She peeks her head around the corner, watching as Mother and Father storm out of the room. Her heart thunders; if Grandmother had not been so forceful, Rhaella knows her parents would have gotten their way. The thought is a chilling one.

———

Rhaella holds her breath for weeks, expecting at any moment that somehow, Mother and Father would find a way to nullify her betrothal, to arrange some secret ceremony binding her forevermore to Aerys like they had for their own marriage. The atmosphere between everyone is certainly tense enough.

But such a thing never comes to pass. Grandmother informs her one day to pack her things, for she would the following day be sent to Dorne, and Rhaella does her best not to look too excited. Still, Grandmother sits her down after the announcement, taking her hands.

“Tell me true. Does this match please you? I know we’ve given you no say.”

“Oh, yes,” Rhaella assures. “I know who the alternative would be. And I know you are ever so close with Princess Loreza. I think I could be quite happy in Dorne.”

Grandmother smiles, pulling her into a hug. “Good. Though I will miss you so.”

“I will miss you, too, Grandmother.”

She elects not to say that she won’t miss Mother, Father, or Aerys; while true, it would be discourteous. Part of her is shameful of that fact. She’s wished for as long as she can remember that she felt for her parents the way she does for her aunts, that she doesn’t imagine a life where Aunt Rhaelle and Uncle Ormund were her parents instead, or Aunt Jenny and Uncle Duncan. It feels a sin to not love them. Perhaps being away for a while would remedy that.

It is a long trip from King’s Landing to the Planky Town, and as soon as she leaves she becomes heartsick for her family, the only life she’s ever known. She is eager, to be sure, but her stomach remains in knots. She’s never been further than Dragonstone, after all.

But as the days pass, the heartsickness fades somewhat, helped by the letters she writes to her family that she plans to send once she is in Sunspear. She pores over books of history and ones written by Dornish maesters that often contradict the tales she’d grown up with. She familiarizes herself with the unfamiliar fashion that she knows would be appropriate under the scorching sun but which make her feel practically naked, in comparison to the heavy damask and layers upon layers of fabric that she’s accustomed to.

It is that fashion she wears when she lands, red silk to represent her house and her long hair bound back with black ribbons. She will one day be the Princess Consort of Dorne, but she will also always be a Targaryen, and she doesn’t want to forget that.

She is greeted by the ever-stately Princess Loreza; the boy at her side must be her son, Rhaella’s intended. It is odd to finally be in their company after so long having only a nebulous idea of it all. But the prince is perfectly polite, kissing her hand and welcoming her to his homeland.

Princess Loreza places a hand at her back, guiding her towards the litters that will bring them to the grand, towering buildings of the Dornish capital. Already, she feels a stranger in a strange land, despite all her studying. The very architecture is worlds away from that in King’s Landing, the stares she gets from those who aren’t in the royal household are discomfiting, and the sun instantly makes her perspire, much to her embarrassment.

But she is determined not to show weakness. She is a dragon, and in a few years will add another sigil: a burning sun alongside a sharp spear. Formidable from both sides, and a princess twice over.

This is her home now, and she will prosper.

#rhaella targaryen #doran martell #rhaella x doran #asoiaf #gotfic #aegon v targaryen #betha blackwood #shaera targaryen #jaehaerys ii targaryen #my fic #compliance: canon au #nooneeverlookedforagirl #this ship is so slept on #it's a crime #btw as it says on my blog i'm not taking new prompts #i'm filling old ones

[chillyravenart]

Do you think that Aegon actually loved Visenya? We all know he married her just for duty and loved her as a sister probably. But did he also love her as a lover? Sure there are theories about him being scared of her. He did still bed her after Rhaenys death, but later it was said that he was glad she stayed in Kings Lansing while he remained at Dragonstone.

I was literally talking about this last night with a friend, but I just want to clarify my views on Visenya's relationship with Aegon once and for all lol.

I don't think Visenya was beholden to Aegon for affection and love at all. People always use the argument of Aegon marrying her for duty and them not sharing the same romantic involvement that Aegon and Rhaenys did and to that I say: you have a badass, fierce and highly capable woman like Visenya who is empowered and her own individual in a world like asoiaf, why is her worth reliant on whether Aegon loved her or not?

Judging by who Visenya was; bold, martial and stern, what makes people think she was making googly eyes at Aegon? She probably loved him in her own way, and no one can ever deny her devotion to his cause - even Maegor was meant to cement Aegon's legacy, she literally created an amped up version of Aegon I to ensure their hard work didn't go to waste 😂. And because she was so unlike both Aegon and Rhaenys, you can interpret that in a way that doesn't make her sound like a neglected wife (lmao Visenya would crush anyone who would suggest that). I'm so sick of people heaping on the pity on characters who don't need it, particularly Visenya who certainly did not rely on a man for validity.

Why do people even think Visenya craved Aegon the same way Rhaenys did? Maybe she just loved him as a brother, maybe she loved him as a husband, but I just don't see her being hung up on affections. She was an active participant in the Conquest and after it too and HAD A LIFE??? Aegon married her for duty and maybe Visenya was ok with that, maybe she married him for duty too (& the dragon has three heads prophecy). We have accounts of them training in arms together as children, she wielded Dark Sister just as well and Aegon wielded Blackfyre. There is no mention of them falling apart or being at other's throats, only some vague rumours from a maester's account that Aegon went on progress because he didnt like her lmao. I bet Visenya didn't waste a single night's sleep on that! She had a kingdom to run, and a castle to build (and a hunky son to raise 😌). Maybe they just didn't get along the same way after Rhaenys' death because she was the glue that bound them together. Aegon and Visenya were both very strong personalities and everyone knows that combo doesn't always go well together and its totally reasonable that they would prefer time apart. Regardless, she literally put together a Kingsguard of seven knights to protect her brother.

“Even with Blackfyre in your hand, you are only one man,” she told him, “and I cannot always be with you.” 

When the king pointed out that he had guardsmen around him, Visenya drew Dark Sister and slashed him across the cheek so quickly the guards had no time to react. “Your guards are slow and lazy,” she said. “I could have killed you as easily as I cut you. You require better protection.” King Aegon, bleeding, had no choice but to agree.

This is the same woman who drew a sword on her own brother to illustrate the fact that he needed better guards. Does she seem like she was a fawning, swooning creature besotted with her man? In my opinion, it's very practical and level-headed of her to put measures in place that would continue to protect the king in her absence, and for years to come! Big sister things 😌❤

The history of the Conquest is written through the opinions of maesters and secondary/contemporary accounts, you can already tell how biased they are when it comes to Visenya and Rhaenys' personalities. Visenya was austere yes, but she was also diplomatic when she needed to be, liked to amuse herself with her own fool, and was an astute stateswoman with a say in ruling the Seven Kingdoms as Aegon's equal. But you can interpret that for yourself, I just never saw Visenya as someone who was wholly reliant on anyone for affection. The whole conquest was based on mutual respect and trust. If Aegon didn't love her the same way he loved Rhaenys, he clearly trusted her, and she trusted him. She captured the Vale for him, fought battles with him, handled the building of the Red Keep for him and bore him an heir when it seemed like he needed one. They were each other's ride or die. And if Aegon went off on his progresses and left her behind to manage shit, he clearly trusted her to do so! I'm sure they held value for each other, I'm sure they loved each other in their own way too, but it's very clear that the love of Aegon's life was Rhaenys and Visenya didn't have a problem with that. She was no jealous, man-hungry woman reliant on Aegon's love for validation. She was a complex, fearsome bad bitch in her own right and that's enough for me. Visenya does not need anyone's pity lmao.

Hope that answered your question anon, thank you so much!

#visenya targaryen #she doesn't need your pity folks #she's a boss and a bitch #and sometimes a witch too lmao #AND I LOVE HER SOOO MUCH #anon asks #chillyravenart answers

[megashadowdragon]

Love is the bane of honor

I think Aegon's role narratively is "don't put all your faith in perfect kings", especially not a kid. It's all about the pressure of being a hereditary ruler, the pressure of duty, of others' expectations being placed on a child solely due to his birthright, and of a life sacrificed to duty.

"He is here. Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. He has been trained in arms, as befits a knight to be, but that was not the end of his education. He reads and writes, he speaks several tongues, he has studied history and law and poetry. A septa has instructed him in the mysteries of the Faith since he was old enough to understand them. He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them."

What Varys has said is all about Aegon ruling for others. That implies serious self-sacrifice. But is Aegon truly fit for this? Note how Varys never speaks of love, it's all about Aegon being raised to fulfill his duty, and one that has been placed on him based on his supposed birthright by others, which to us readers is uncertain to begin with and could even become uncertain to Aegon himself at some point.

"Jon, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children?" Maester Aemon asked.

Jon shrugged. "No." He scattered more meat. The fingers of his left hand were slimy with blood, and his right throbbed from the weight of the bucket.

"So they will not love," the old man answered, "for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

We have here the literal kryptonite to Varys' expectations.

Aegon is still young and we have no indication he has any experience with women other than being raised by a septa, which considering the faith's tenants has served the opposite interest.

Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature

Arianne, a very intimidating woman, is coming to push herself onto Aegon, yet Aegon's entourage believed the support of Dorne was expected due to their existing blood ties to Aegon, not thanks to a new union between Aegon and a Dornish princess, a union which would also alter Doran's current plans which did not factor in Aegon at all.

A union to Aegon, from Doran's perspective, might also cast uncertainty into the master-strategist's mind; what will Dorne do when the real dragons come? And what if Dany's entourage sends a letter to Dorne along with Quentyn's body, telling them the prince was burned by the dragons he tried to steal? Would Arianne and the Sand Snakes believe it at all, especially if Arianne is trying to put herself between Aegon and Daenerys?

Daenerys on the other hand is preferred by Connington, who says the prince must hold off on any marriage as she may yet come, and he holds no found memories of Elia Martell, which might tarnish his view of Arianne no matter how "healthy" she might appear:

A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar's wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon's birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward.

"Daenerys Targaryen may yet come home one day," Connington told the Halfmaester. "Aegon must be free to marry her."

"My lord knows best," said Haldon. "In that case, we might consider offering potential friends a lesser prize."

Pushing lesser prizes onto Dorne is unlikely to be well received, chiefly by Arianne herself.

Connington is trying to shield the prince from doubt:

"I like the sound of that. My army." A smile flashed across his face, then vanished. "Are they, though? They're sellswords. Yollo warned me to trust no one."

"There is wisdom in that," Griff admitted. It might have been different if Blackheart still commanded, but Myles Toyne was four years dead, and Homeless Harry Strickland was a different sort of man. He would not say that to the boy, however. That dwarf had already planted enough doubts in his young head. "Not every man is what he seems, and a prince especially has good cause to be wary … but go too far down that road, and the mistrust can poison you, make you sour and fearful."

Yet Connington is joined by Tyrion's proposal, even if unknowingly, to wait for Daenerys:

"You do not need to win," Tyrion told him. "All you need to do is raise your banners, rally your supporters, and hold, until Daenerys arrives to join her strength to yours."

Tyrion sold the idea to Aegon as follows:

"I told you, I know our little queen. Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar's murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side … and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her. You are the last of her line, and this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer. The girl who drowned the slaver cities in blood rather than leave strangers to their chains can scarcely abandon her own brother's son in his hour of peril. And when she reaches Westeros, and meets you for the first time, you will meet as equals, man and woman, not queen and supplicant. How can she help but love you then, I ask you?"

The temptation is that of a mother figure and a rescuer who would fly to him like the wind, her brother's son, a boy becoming a man. Similarly, agreeing to this would place trust in his father-figure's plan. There is reassurance in taking this road, the one of parents he never had.

One way or another, Aegon must chose, at a time when war rages. But there is much room for doubt to keep him undecided, and if word reaches them that Daenerys has hurriedly flown away on her Dragon, could it be that Tyrion and Connington were right? Is the Mother of Dragons flying to the prince as fast as wind can carry her?

Aegon might hear the echo of Tyrion's words:

"Your father knew the dangers of being overbold."

The prince stared at the playing board. "My dragon—"

"—is too far away to save you. You should have moved her to the center of the battle."

Wait, and wait, and wait, but the war does not.

The death of duty

As the pressure mounts on Aegon to either keep on waiting for Daenerys or secure an alliance with Dorne, will Aegon break? And more importantly, if he does, how?

What if this is exactly what happened with Rhaegar? What if Rhaegar buckled under all the pressure that was on him? From prophecies to the duty of kingship.

"Lingering here will never bring it any closer. The sooner we take our leave of this place—"

"I know. I do." Dany did not know how to make him see. She wanted Westeros as much as he did, but first she must heal Meereen. "Ninety days is a long time. Hizdahr may fail. And if he does, the trying buys me time. Time to make alliances, to strengthen my defenses, to—"

"And if he does not fail? What will Your Grace do then?"

"Her duty." The word felt cold upon her tongue. "You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?"

The old knight hesitated. "Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her."

That answer from Jorah is fairly clear; Rhaegar married Elia out of duty, and maybe a hint of prophecy for all we know. He did not do so out of love.

Remember, Rhaegar thought he was expected to become a warrior. So we have another self-sacrifice for duty's sake:

"As a young boy, the Prince of Dragonstone was bookish to a fault. He was reading so early that men said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. Rhaegar took no interest in the play of other children. The maesters were awed by his wits, but his father's knights would jest sourly that Baelor the Blessed had been born again. Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, 'I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.'"

And there is another hint that Rhaegar may have wanted to move away from the pressure of ruling, although a subtle one that remains to be cleared up:

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. "My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour."

Jaime's anger had risen up in his throat. "I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Then guard the king," Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. "When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey."

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but . . . well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

But love is the bane of honor, the death of duty:

"Swords win battles," Ser Jorah said bluntly. "And Prince Rhaegar knew how to use one."

"He did, ser, but . . . I have seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I would wish, and however strong or fast or skilled a knight may be, there are others who can match him. A man will win one tourney, and fall quickly in the next. A slick spot in the grass may mean defeat, or what you ate for supper the night before. A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory." He glanced at Ser Jorah. "Or a lady's favor knotted round an arm."

So I posit that the fear of it all frightened Rhaegar into the arms of Lyanna, who similarly ran from a duty imposed on her in marrying Robert, and as the war began to rage on both escaped away from it all to the Tower of Joy.

Kill the boy and let the man be born

Many wonder what Arys Oakheart's narrative point was. He is a good example of a man who struggled between love and duty.

You know I have no other woman. Only... duty.

Which led him to his death:

Arys, my sweet knight, why did you do it? You should have yielded. I tried to tell you, but the words caught in my mouth. You gallant fool, I never meant for you to die, or for Myrcella...

I believe that as history seems to so often repeat itself in the world of Ice and Fire, Aegon will flee into the arms of love. But whose' love?

Come break of day, they were off again. Elia Sand led the way, her black braid flying behind her as she raced across the dry, cracked plains and up into the hills. The girl was mad for horses, which might be why she often smelled like one, to the despair of her mother. Sometimes Arianne felt sorry for Ellaria. Four girls, and every one of them her father's daughter.

Elia Sand, who bears the name of Aegon's mother, is similar in more ways than one to Lyanna Stark.

"We will see about that." Valena wheeled her big red around and put her heels into him, and the race was on, through the dusty lanes of the village at the bottom of the hill, as chickens and villagers alike scrambled out of their path. Arianne was three horse lengths behind by the time she got her mare up to a gallop, but had closed to one halfway up the slope. The two of them were side-by-side as they thundered towards the gatehouse, but five yards from the gates Elia Sand came flying from the cloud of dust behind them to rush past both of them on her black filly.

"Are you half horse, child?" Valena asked, laughing, in the yard. "Princess, did you bring a stable girl?"

"I'm Elia," the girl announced. "Lady Lance."

Lyanna was also a horse-rider:

Arya was breathing hard herself then. She knew the fight was done. "You ride like a northman, milady," Harwin said when he'd drawn them to a halt. "Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna."

And she was literally said to be "half a horse"

Horses … the boy was mad for horses, Lady Dustin will tell you. Not even Lord Rickard's daughter could outrace him, and that one was half a horse herself.

And similarly to Elia, Lyanna could fight:

"Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it.

And we have this in Bran's vision:

Now two children danced across the godswood, hooting at one another as they dueled with broken branches. The girl was the older and taller of the two. Arya! Bran thought eagerly, as he watched her leap up onto a rock and cut at the boy. But that couldn't be right. If the girl was Arya, the boy was Bran himself, and he had never worn his hair so long. And Arya never beat me playing swords, the way that girl is beating him. She slashed the boy across his thigh, so hard that his leg went out from under him and he fell into the pool and began to splash and shout.

Elia can joust, and we all know that the Knight of the Laughing Tree is believed by many to have been Lyanna:

"I am almost a woman grown, ser," she responded haughtily. "I'll let you spank me, though... but first you'll need to tilt with me, and knock me off my horse."

"We are on a ship, and without horses," Joss replied.

"And ladies do not joust," insisted Ser Garibald Shells, a far more serious and proper young man than his companion.

"I do. I'm Lady Lance."

Arianne had heard enough. "You may be a lance, but you are no lady. Go below and stay there till we reach land."

Note the point earlier where Elia surprises Arianne by racing ahead of her? It is a very tempting hint that Elia will steal Arianne's place and become Aegon's love interest, one no one is pushing on him. Her playful and courageous nature might attract him, comfort him at a time of incredible pressure, just as Lyanna may have with Rhaegar before.

But Rhaegar in the end found his courage, and went into battle. He killed the boy to let the man be born. And died.

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

"That is the only time a man can be brave," his father told him.

But the question, what bravery will Aegon be pushed into?

"Your father knew the dangers of being overbold."

I won't theorize on what Aegon might throw his courage at here, as the above might bring enough down-votes on its own. I'll just say that Elia, the lance-wielder, has a strong connection to Aegon already:

"Vengeance for Oberyn and Elia."

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne"

"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."

TLDR: Aegon's and Elia Sands' story parallels Rhaegar and Lyanna's, and will end tragically. “

#asoiaf #A Song of Ice and Fire

[arielseaworth]

||FIRE & BLOOD SERIES||

When the vanguard of Lord Tully’s host appeared before the walls of King’s Landing two days later, Corlys Velaryon rode out to greet them with Prince Aegon somber at his side. “The king is dead,” the Sea Snake announced gravely, “long live the king.” (Fire & Blood)

“It will have to be done,” Lord Corlys said. “We must ride out together, to greet this host. They must see that the new king is alive and well, and that his supporters are in firm control of King’s Landing. Otherwise, they will sack the city. They marched from the riverlands expecting to do battle against your uncle.”

He is no uncle of yours, Mother used to say.

He is dead, Mother. The monster who fed you to the dragon.

The thought brought Aegon no joy. Nor did it bring him any measure of relief. That death could not bring his mother back to life, could not erase the guilt he felt for failing to save her, just as he had failed to save his little brother.

Lord Corlys placed his hand on Aegon’s shoulder. Aegon raised his head and asked, “Must I come with you? I would not know what to tell them.”

“You need not speak at all, but you must be present in the flesh.”

“Surely your presence would be enough, Lord Corlys.”

Grandfather Corlys can speak long enough for ten men, Baela used to say. She liked to mock him to his face, but she was very fond of him nonetheless.

He did it for you, Baela, not for me. He turned against the pretender to save your life, the life of his granddaughter, not to save me.

But if he had not done it, then you would have lost an ear, and then other body parts, and even your life eventually, Baela would have said, Aegon knew.

Turncloak! That damnable turncloak, that slithery snake! Mother had shouted, about Lord Corlys.

“My presence alone will not be enough,” said the Sea Snake. “They may not believe my words, were I to greet them without Your Grace by my side.”

“But perhaps they would not believe it, even if I do ride out with you to greet them. They may suspect that it is some sort of trickery.”

“What sort of trickery?”

“To induce them into entering the city peacefully, and then slaughtering them once they are inside. As far as they know, I am still a hostage in this city. They may suspect that my presence by your side is not voluntary.”

Lord Corlys looked taken aback. His gaze remained on Aegon’s face for a long while, as if he was seeing the boy for the very first time. “Then what do you suggest we do instead?” he asked.

“Show them my uncle’s body. Surely that will do better to convince them that there is no need for battle?”

“They will wish to see his body, to be sure, and we must show it to them. But that will come later, once they are inside the city. It is the new king, the living one, who matters the most. The king is dead, long live the king. The second part of the pronouncement is the heart of the matter. It signifies continuity. It signifies peace, or at least the path to peace.”  

Long live the king. It should have been Jace. Jace, who was Mother’s oldest son, who had been trained for rule and reign since his earliest years.  

Jace, who was a Velaryon, who bore Lord Corlys’ name.

Aegon studied Lord Corlys’ face. The old man had aged ten years in only two. He had lost many loved ones in this war, like Aegon himself.  

“I am not –”

Not your grandson. Not the one you wanted on the throne. Not the repository of all your dreams and your ambitions.

“You are not prepared? No one is ever truly prepared for the throne, Your Grace. Ruling entails learning, and you are not averse to learning, I know that much about you.”

“I will be by your side,” Lord Corlys added, “every step of the way, as long as there is still breath in my body.” He held out his hand to Aegon, and waited, as the boy hesitated.  

His mother’s voice rang out in Aegon’s ear. Turncloak. Traitor. Betrayer.  

There is no one else, Mother. No one I could trust, with power enough to bring an end to these terrible years.

Forgive me, Mother, Aegon pleaded, as he took the hand Lord Corlys offered him. “I will ride out with you,” he said, rising to his feet.

#Aegon III Targaryen #Corlys Velaryon #Fire and Blood #valyrianscrolls #gotfic #arielfic

[sailorshadzter]

in the darkness i was afraid, until i saw your light.

again, this is entirely because of @amymel86 & @orangeflavoryawp

you guys can expect a chapter two at SOME POINT lol

anyways here is a Jonsa au set where Rhaegar lives and Jon lives as the heir to the Iron Throne. 

i like to think of this jon as brooding & moody, prone to outbursts, but sansa will both calm him & push him in ways no one has ever pushed him before. dont ask me about a future plot because I DONT KNOW except i want them to angrily make out asap lmao 

OK HERE YOU GO. i hope you guys all enjoy! 

"We're going South."

Every face in the room swivels upwards, surprise written on every face that stares back at him. Ned Stark clears his throat, casting a quick glance to his lady wife who has already heard these words but a few days prior. "To King's Landing?" Robb, his oldest boy asks, his dark hair the only sign of his Stark lineage. Like all of his children, save for Arya, he looks more Tully than Stark, but he is as proud of them as only a father could be. "All of us?"

This is when Ned shakes his head, turning his eyes to his first born child, his son that will someday take over his role as Warden in the North. "Nay, not all of us." He turns towards his two daughters then, settled into their respective places across from one another. Sansa, his second born and oldest of his girls, stares back at him with her wide, Tully blue eyes. She is a young woman of seventeen, grown tall like a willow tree, with ivory features far too beautiful for the world in which they live. Arya is every bit different than her older sister, wild, like the wolves in the forest; she wears no gowns, she runs with the boys and swings a sword as well as the best man in Winterfell. He is as fiercely proud of her as he is Sansa, as he is all of his children. "Just Sansa," he says after a moment, turning his gaze to his oldest daughter, who's eyes widen with her surprise.

"Me?" She questions, a perfectly sculpted brow shooting upwards. "Why, father?"

Ned smiles, a smile which his three sons have been bestowed with, and nods. "I have heard word from Rhaegar Targaryen." Though he once fought against the Targaryen rule, Ned offered fealty to the new King of the Seven Kingdoms twenty something years ago when Lyanna begged it of him. His beloved little sister who died giving birth to her only child, a son that lives in King's Landing as the heir to Rhaegar's rule. "He finds it is high time that his son and heir marries." Something like recognition ripples across his daughter's face and she squares her shoulders with this new knowledge that rocks her. "He has proposed a bethrothal between Sansa and Aegon."

From where she sits, Sansa is silent, though her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. Marriage, she thinks, to Aegon Targaryen? She has always known she would marry eventually, but she thought perhaps to Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, or perhaps even a Dornish prince, not the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Though she believes in stories of love, stories of handsome, brave knights, she knows her duty is to her family. She will do as she's bid, of course, even if there was a part of her that has always longed to marry a man for love and little else. "Does the thought of becoming queen not please you, daughter?" Sansa blinks, realizing only then that her father has spoken to her. Rather than speak against him, she puts on a brave face, I am a Stark, so I can be brave, she thinks as she smiles radiantly for her father. And then she speaks:

"It pleases me, father."

[ x x x ]

King's Landing is nothing like the North.

Though, she supposes she should have known that already, she's surprised all the same. In the weeks leading up to their departure, her mother had ensured she was well prepared for both the journey and the meetings she would endure upon arrival. Everything else... Sansa knew. She knows to curtsy, to smile prettily. She knows how to play the high bells and even the harp, her voice soft and sweet enough to make even the roughest of men smile. Sansa knows how to please men in a court, she knows how to be a lady, she's been one since three.

But nothing in the world could truly prepare her for the man she is about to meet in the crown prince, Aegon Targaryen.

"This way," the man leading them speaks, bringing her from her thoughts. The touch of a hand to her elbow is her father's and she sucks in a breath, holding her head high as they face a set of double doors that lead them into the throne room. It is empty, thankfully, aside from the man that sits upon his throne and the younger man that stands just behind him, lurking as if he wishes to be anywhere else. Together, she and her father approach the dais, though he is the one to step all the way forward, bowing low to the King that sits before them.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Lord Stark." Rhaegar Targaryen speaks in a voice that is deeper than she anticipated, his silvery locks tied back with a sapphire ribbon that matches the doublet he wears. "I trust your journey went well." The king smiles but something tells Sansa it is not the most sincere of smiles.

"Aye, your grace, it did. King's Road is easy to travel at this time of the year." Ned replies, offering a smile of his own. Regardless of his feelings inside, this man was his king and if he were to truly leave his daughter in his keep, then he would have to play nice.

"Is this your daughter?" Rhaegar asks, his violet eyes suddenly falling upon the girl that stands behind Ned. "She is a beauty." He compliments, smiling for her. "Come closer, child. Let me look at you properly." He encourages and with the touch of her father's hand, she steps ahead of him and sinks into a low curtsy.

From where he stands, Jon watches the girl come forward; though his face did not betray his inner thoughts, he's mesmerized by the sight of her. Hair like the color of a sunset, crimson yet gold, a fiery twist that leaves him breathless. She's dressed in a gown of the lightest shade of blue, it's sweeping sleeves embroidered with the famed winter roses of Winterfell. It's a modest cut gown, quite unlike those worn in King's Landing, though he finds he likes it more for that reason alone. Her gaze flicks from his father to him and their eyes meet, suspending time around him. "Rise up child. Aegon, stop being so rude. Come greet our lovely guest." Rhaegar speaks and Jon stumbles, having forgotten there was even anyone else in the room besides her. Clearing his throat, Jon does as he's bid, stepping foward so he might bow to the young woman and her father below him. "You must excuse my son, Ned you would think he to be yours, with how brooding and moody he is."

Ned lets out a chuckle, though he knows what Rhaegar says is true. There is not a single trace of Targaryen in the boy, he is Stark through and through. He is Lyanna's son, looking more like Ned's own child than nephew. "He is like his mother in that." Ned says, which brings a small smile to the king's lips; he knows as well as anyone that his only living son is more like his mother than him. He is like Ned, in that fact, for Rhaegar has heard the rumors that all of his children but one favor their mother rather than him. "My youngest daughter, Arya, she is so like Lyanna you might think her to be hers, not mine." The men share a smile, mutual love for the long dead Lyanna Stark perhaps the only thing they truly have in common.

[ x x x ]

When she wakes in the morning, it's from a dream of wolves and laughter.

Though the images fade as she rises up from the bed, she cannot shake the strange sensation of familiarity from her mind. A maid comes in and helps her dress- the woman curtsies and speaks with her as the servants spoke to her own mother in Winterfell. Something felt strange about that, to be spoken to like a true lady, like something more than the daughter of a noble lord.

When she's dressed for the day and her hair plaited into braids, she slips from her rooms, intent on exploring the palace that's to become her home. Or so her father says. A sigh escapes her and she pushes thoughts of marriage and the future from her mind, rather she focuses upon her new surroundings. The Red Keep is noisy even so early in the morning, bustling about with servants and courtiers alike. Rhaegar Targaryen keeps a full court, though there is no queen to keep it orderly or enforce any sort of etiquette, so some say it feels more like a town brothel then a royal palace.

She takes her leave of the corridors and she steps out into the morning sunshine; it's far warmer here than in the North, even in summer. Her gown, though made more in a Southern fashion, still feels far too heavy for the heat. Now she understands why the women in King's Landing dress in silks and lawns and fine lace. Her footsteps lead her down stone steps and into a garden that stops her in her tracks. It's full of fresh, sweet smelling blooms in dozens of colors, dozens of styles. In fact, she's never before seen such a wide array of flowers and for a moment all she can do is swivel her gaze from left to right, taking in the sights all around her.

But then she's on the move, making her way to the first bush that grows flowers in the softest shade of pink. When she leans in, it's so she can inhale their sweet, but subtle scent, a smile spreading across her face as she makes her way to the next bush and then even another one after that. In the distance, she can hear the sound of a fountain running and she decides that once she sees this final shrub she approaches, she might take a walk towards it instead. And so she leans over the bush that's littered with tiny white flowers, their scent surprisingly strong for flowers so small.

From where he stands, Jon can't help but to watch her.

She's dressed in a gown of pale green, one which compliments her in a way that threatens to steal the very breath from his lungs. It is a gown of material unlike what they wear in King's Landing and he imagines her to be quite warm in it, despite the skin she dares expose. Unlike yesterday's blue gown, this one shows off her long, slender arms and when she turns her back to him, he can see it cuts low upon her back. Though he would very much enjoy watching her from afar, Jon finds his feet lead him in her direction, unable to help but wish to speak to her. And so... He does.

"They are nothing like the blue roses of Winterfell, eh?"

Jumping at the sound of the voice, Sansa spins around and finds herself face to face with the prince, who's Stark colored eyes are meeting hers without hesitation. "Prince Aegon," she greets softly, dipping him the appropriate curtsy for a man of his rank.

"I prefer to be called Jon," he snaps, wishing he could push away the thoughts of her beauty. He's thought of little else since meeting her only the evening before. "I mean... My father is the only one who calls me Aegon." He clarifies when she flinches as if struck, so he's softer this time, feeling somewhat remorseful for his sharp tone. "I have heard the roses bloom even in the winter." She's raising up from her curtsy and her blue-eyed stare is intense, so much so that for a moment he must cast his own gaze skyward.

"They do," she speaks softly, in a voice that reminds him of honey, sweet and slow. Her Northern accent is not so pronounced, not like her father's, and he attributes that to her strict, noble upbringing. He returns his eyes to her and finds she's smiling, her head tilting ever so slightly, which sends her red hair cascading across a shoulder. Yet again, he's stricken by the sight of it, wishing for a moment that he might reach out and touch it. He longs to know what it feels like against his fingertips. "My father says that even in the coldest of winters they've bloomed." She's smiling faintly, turning from him to reach out, gingerly brushing her fingers along the white petals of the blooms they stand before.

"They were my mother's favorite flowers." The prince speaks and Sansa turns back to face him, blue eyes sympathetic in their gaze. "Or so I've been told."

Sansa smiles, nodding her head. "They were," she confirms, thinking of the stories and memories her father has shared with her over the years. "My father says my younger sister Arya is quite like her, though only Arya is bold enough to refuse to wear gowns." Jon laughs at her words and she's surprised at how the sound warms her, fills her with a strange sense of happiness she can't really explain. "You look like her," she goes on, pinning him with those eyes of hers as she takes a single step closer. "You look like Arya and so you must look like your mother." It was true, there was not an ounce of Targaryen in him, though Jon could not say because up until these last two days, he's seen very little of his Stark family. Ned Stark made the rarest of trips South and Jon couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen his uncle in King's Landing.

For some reason though, hearing Sansa say such a thing brings a happiness to him that he's never felt before. "Would you like to see the fountain?" He asks, rather than thanking her for her words, trying his best to play his role as well as she. Jon isn't stupid and he knows his father plans to see the two of them wed- though he's always thought to marry a woman for love someday when he was king himself, he knows he must do as his father bids. Just as she does. "It is one of the best spots in all of King's Landing." The truth was... He spent quite a bit of time out there in the gardens, one of the only places he could find a moment to himself.

"That's where I thought to go next," she admits with a nod, falling into step beside him as they make their way down the path towards the center of the garden. "Wow," she murmurs as they approach the great stone fountain, it's height towering over the both of them. Water sparkles in the pool beneath and Jon watches as she leans over the edge to dip her ivory hand into the cool water, a smile curving on her rosy lips. Yet again, he finds himself enthralled by the sight of her, even more so in the bright summer sunlight. The South agrees with her, that is for certain. "It's beautiful," she says, straightening her spine and turning back to face the prince that stands beside her.

"It is..." Jon agrees, softly, unable to stop the words before they slip from his lips. As if she understands, her cheeks turn red as the roses that grow behind them and she turns away, staring up at the fountain as if it truly is the most interesting thing in the world around them. "I hope you enjoy your time here in King's Landing," he speaks finally, the only words he can bring himself to say in the aftermath of the ones from before. She turns to him then, blue eyes widening ever so slightly. But then she smiles a dazzling smile, a radiant sort of smile that sends shivers down his spine. For a single moment, he sees the future, one of gold crowns and howling wolves. One that is happy, despite it all.

"I think I might," she says after a moment and then Jon is smiling, too.

[ x x x ]

When she wakes the following morning, it is to a new handmaiden who is quick to smile at her lady, her brown eyes kind in her face. "Good morning, my lady," the woman says, turning from where she lays out Sansa's gown for that day. "My name is Shae," she continues, coming closer to the bed where Sansa now sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "The prince bid me to attend to you, if it pleases you." Sansa blinks, perhaps surprised, but she can't help but feel the draw to the woman. Shae has a face of someone she can trust, someone who would look out for her. She can't say how she knows, but Sansa knows Shae will be far more than just a handmaiden to her. "Ah, he also sent a gift," Shae says, reaching for what Sansa sees is a bolt of fabric in a beautiful shade of gray, a quality silk that she's never set her hands upon in all of her life.

For a moment, she's speechless.

Running her hands along the soft fabric, she sucks in a breath, already able to imagine the beautiful dress that she could make with such a fabric. She squeezes it against her chest, eyes closing as she reminds herself that this is in fact, real life. "Will you... Will you send him word of my thanks?" She asks her maiden, raising her gaze to meet Shae's as she slips from the bed, the bolt of silk still clutched to her chest. Shae is smiling when she nods, turning from her lady to do as she's been asked, wondering if the young woman knew what sort of face she wore when speaking of the prince. She can't help but to wonder what the brooding prince would say if he knew how soft and sweet his future bride looked when thinking of him.

Left alone in her chamber, Sansa gently sets the fabric aside and moves to the window that overlooks the city of King's Landing. Along the horizon, the sunrise is streaks of pink and red against the blue backdrop, though she notes it is not unlike the sunrise she's used to in the North. Perhaps... Living in the South would not be so bad.

Down in his own chamber, two floors beneath hers, Jon too stands at the window.

He watches the same sunrise as she, though fully dressed and prepared to escape the confines of his rooms. All night long he had dreamed of red hair and pale moonlight, of blood red leaves and bright blue eyes. Now that he's awake, Jon finds himself longing to be near her again, to talk to her, to feel the soft touch of her hand against his. He recalls his thoughts of only a few days prior, determined to hate yet another of the potential brides paraded before him. But there was something... Something far different about Sansa Stark that he couldn't quite understand.

But he wants to, he finds that he wants to know everything there is to know about her. He wants to know what makes her happy and even what makes her mad. Every little piece of her that she was willing to give to him, he wants, and he will accept. For better or for worse, he supposes, after all she was to be his bride in the end. And so he turns from the window and slips from his rooms, hoping his feet might just lead him to his destiny.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #jonsa au #i live for the trope of angry boy falls immediately in love #my writing #i wrote this