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myocsfanfictions · 1 month

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THE WRATH OF FIRE

House of the Dragon Fanfiction

MASTERLIST

Princess Ysilla Targaryen is the only daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce. The affection that she felt for her mother was strong, while her father had never been there, acting as if Ysilla was not even his. But she was. The dragon egg that had been put in her cradle hatched. An outcast of a dragon was born. A dragon with no legs. An outcast of a dragon for and an outcast of a dragon rider. Ysilla’s hair was dark but streaked with white. She was a Targaryen, and her wrath was not different from the one that burned inside the members of the House of the Dragon.

《 Previous - Next 》

CHAPTER 4

“Dracarys.” When Ysilla said those words, her dragon breathed fire. She had the serving girl bring her a piece of raw meat.

Dragons didn't eat raw meat.

"Sƴz, riña," the Maester told her. He had been with her for six months now. A gift from her uncle after she visited King's Landing. (Good, child)

"Kirimvose," she answered. Her eyes fixed on her dragon. (Thank you)

Ysilla had been studying High Valyrian as soon as the Maester started to serve her, but her mother did not appreciate the King's gift. She said that there was no reason for him to be in Runestone.

"Mother, please!" she complained one night when her mother expressed the wish for the man to return to King's Landing.

"We don't need him here." She had answered.

"You may don't, but I do," Ysilla said. The shock on her mother's face was visible. Ysilla usually listened to whatever her mother said. It had been a strange feeling to be stubborn with her. But Ysilla could not let her lady mother send her teacher back to the Capital.

"I'm the only Targaryen who does not know High Valyrian," Ysilla explained. Her small hands clenched in fists. She wanted to be strong in front of her mother. She had to be.

"I've always told you to be proud of your blood. First Men's blood," her mother's words made Ysilla's eyes stung with tears.

"I remember," she said. But she wouldn't have backed down. "But I need to learn High Valyrian."

"You need to learn how to hawk," her mother answered firmly.

Ysilla felt so much rage in her.

"I'm not a goat; I'm a dragon!" Her mother's dark eyes widened. Shocked, she shared a look with her cousin, Ser Gerold Royce. At that moment, Ysilla understood that the words she had heard from Otto Hightower were true. It had been painful. But she knew what she had to do.

If Father sees I'm a good Targaryen, he will love me. Ysilla was sure of that. She did not act as a Targaryen at all. Her mother wanted her to be more similar to a Royce. But Ysilla was much more of that. She was a Targaryen princess. In a few years, he would have been a dragon rider. And when she would have grown up, she would have been like Visenya. She was more than a noble lady from the Vale. She was a Targaryen.

Father would be proud of me, she swore.

Ysilla would study all day. History, philosophy, calculus, politics, and High Valyrian. With the Master of the Dragonpit, she would speak only High Valyrian. She wanted to learn fast, especially when she found out that the war on the Stepstones was over.

"Father won!" Ysilla said happily to her uncle Gerold one day in the Godswood of Runestone. "He must have flown with Caraxes and burned them all."

Her uncle observed her in silence. His beard may have hidden half of his face. But she could see his lips tight in a thin line.

"You've changed, Ysilla, since you visited King's Landing," he said, making her smile.

"The Maester says that dragons feel other dragons," she answered, looking at the red leaves of the Heart Tree, "Maybe it had been the same with humans as well."

Her uncle took a deep breath. "Why are you so obsessed with these matters? You hardly speak of other topics, if not dragons."

Ysilla lowered her eyes. No one wanted to talk about those matters with her, as no one liked her dragon, her only friend.

"I'm a Targaryen," she said, "My father is Prince Daemon Targaryen."

"And your mother is Rhea Royce," he reproved her. Does she not share equal importance?"

"Of course she does," Ysilla muttered with a flush of shame. Since her dragon had been born, Ysilla and her mother had started to argue frequently. Her mother did not like Ysill's interests.

Ysilla wished not to argue with her mother. She had been very important to the little princess. She had been a role model, and Ysilla had so much respect for her. And she had raised Ysilla as a Royce. Proud as a Royce. But she wanted for Ysilla to forget that she was a Targaryen. And she could not. Ysilla had to show her father and everyone else that her mother was no goat. And that she was a dragon.

"You know I love you?" One evening, Ysilla asked her mother about it as they were dining.

"So sudden?" Her mother answered with raised eyebrows. Rhea Royce was not an openly loving woman, but Ysilla knew her mother cared for her.

"Do you?" Ysilla insisted stubbornly.

Her mother took a breath, "I do."

Ysilla seemed happy by her words, "And I'm sorry if in the last months I've been wilful."

"I'm glad you've realized it," her mother said, but Ysilla kept talking. " Why do you don't like that I'm a Targaryen?" Her mother took a breath. She put the knife in her hand and put it back on the table, but she did not answer. "Everyone in the realm wishes to say that their children have the blood of old Valyria."

Her mother observed her in silence for a moment, "The marriage between me and your father is a rich arrangement for the realm," Ysilla's eyes grew larger, leaning forward on the table. Her mother had never spoken of those matters with her. "But your father grew insufferable here. Insufferable of me," Ysilla listened quietly, "When I gave birth to you, your hair was as dark as your eyes. And he was there. He suggested that you were a bastard."

Ysilla lowered her eyes. It could not be possible. But why would her mother lie to her? There was no reason. So it must be true. But it could not be.

"He never wanted to see you," her mother said.

"I'm not a bastard," Ysilla whispered.

"No, you're not," her mother answered. Growing up, your hair and eyes proved it to everyone. But your father never accepted that."

"Why?" Ysilla asked, confused.

"He loathes me as I do him," she answered. And he would have broken the marriage off if he could make people think you were a bastard. That's why he never wants to see us." Ysilla lowered her gaze. "He loves his ambition, Ysilla. And you are more than him."

Ysilla felt confused. It all seemed absurd to her. Why would her father hate her mother? And why did he hate his daughter because of that? He had never talked to her. One could not just decide to hate someone, could they?

"All the Kings of the Seven Kingdoms, Ysilla," asked the Septa one morning.

Ysilla took a breath. "Aegon I the Conquerer. After him, there was his son, Aenys I. His mother was Queen Rhaenys. Then Maegor the Cruel. Then Jeaherys I. He was called The Old King, or the Wise, or the Conciliator. He ruled peacefully for half a century. But he had no heir."

"So what happened?" The Septa asked.

"He had to choose between his two nephews," Ysilla remembered, "Princess Rhaenys or Prince Viserys. And he chose Prince Viserys. Now King Viserys I."

"And who is to follow?"

"The King chose Princess Rhaenyra," Ysilla said. Then she frowned. No woman had been queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And when her Uncle chose Rhaenyra, Aegon was not yet born. So, the rightful heir should have been her father, Daemon Targaryen.

He loves his ambition. Ysilla remembered her mother's words. How did her father react to the King's decision?

And the Dragonstone folly. She remembered.

"What is it with Father and Dragonstone?" Ysilla asked before she could stop herself.

The Septa's eyes widened, "That is off-topic, princess."

"But I want to know," Ysilla said stubbornly. "Why was Father in Dragonstone? Rhaenyra is the Princess of Dragonstone, not Father."

"Ysilla," her mother's voice came from behind her, making her turn. The Septa was quick to stand up and bow to the Lady of Runestone. "Stop with those questions," Ysilla observed her mother; she was wearing her riding attire. She was surely going out to hawk. Then she came next to her daughter, caressing her hair, "I'm riding out," she said, "Do you remember your duties for today?"

Ysilla nodded, "History, then sawing lesson."

The High Valyrian, she thought.

"I'll be back to dine together," her mother said, putting on her glove, "Behave."

"And be proud," Ysilla muttered. That made her mother chuckle.

"I don't need to remind you that," she said, "You never fail to be proud." Ysilla smiled, observing her mother walking toward the door.

"Be careful," Ysilla said to her mother like she always did. The little princess didn't go out to hawk that much—her pony was too little. But her mother had told her that in six months, they would have gone hawking together. Her mother loved to hunt, but Ysilla could not wait to be on the dragon's back more.

"Skori jāhor nyke sagon naejot sōvegon issa zaldrīzes?" Asked Ysilla, stammering some of the words. Not sure she remembered them correctly. (When will I be able to fly my dragon?)

"Hāre jēdri, riña," the Maester answered, observing how Ysilla's dragon liked to be next to his rider. (Three years, girl)

Three years, and she would have been able to fly. Her dragon was growing every day more, surprising everyone. But the Maester told her that he was growing fast for his conditions.

"I really need to find a name soon," she said, observing the violet eyes of her dragon. "A fighter name." Then he looked at the sky, making a little sound. Then he looked back at Ysilla, making the same sound. He seemed a little agitated, but he calmed down when the girl touched his head.

The Maester had told her that she and the creature had a strong connection. "Hae dārilaros Daemon se Caraxes." (Like Prince Daemon and Caraxes)

Ysilla looked up at the man. He had been in King's Landing all his life, tending the Targaryens' Dragons. He had seen all of them: King Viserys and Balerion, The Black Dread, Princess Rhaenys and Meleys, Rhaenyra, and Syrax, and, of course, Ysilla's father and Caraxes.

"Gōntan kepa gūrotan Caraxes lēda zirȳla, skori istas naejot Zaldrīzesdōron?" Ysilla spoke slowly, thinking about every word. (Did Father take Caraxes with him when he went to Dragonstone?)

"Hen rhinka, riña." the man answered. His tone was strange. Trying to hide anger. But it was there. Why anger? She wanted to know. (Of course, child)

He would have never answered if she had asked inquisitively, she knew. But maybe that anger could be used in some way.

"Such a vile act," Ysilla said, using the same tone Otto Hightower had used. "Dragonstone belongs to Princess Rhaenyra."

"The stolen egg was much more vile," when she turned to the man, his eyes were wide. Regretting those words. "Forgive me, princess," he was quick to add, bowing his head.

Her father had stolen a dragon egg. Why would he do such a thing?

Her dragon looked at the sky again, flipping his small black wings.

"There's no need," she answered, trying to do her best to hide the shock in her tone, "I already knew," she lied, "My mother always tells me about my father's deeds. And they are not always positive words." She thought fast. Her egg had been chosen for her as soon as she was born; that was the Targaryen's tradition. If her father had taken an egg, there was only a reason. She felt rage thinking about that possibility.

"A dragon to a bastard," she said, noticing how the stolen egg was a sensitive topic for the man. "That's an insult."

Would he really steal an egg to give it to a bastard when he had insulted his mother by saying that Ysilla was one?

"Fortunately, no bastard was born, as far as it's known," he answered, "It was just an act to challenge the King's authority."

He loves his ambition, Ysilla.

Didn't he support his brother as King? Or he didn't support Rhaenyra as the future Queen? Why did he take that egg?

"Skoros drōmon iksin bona?" Ysilla asked not turning to the man. (What egg was that?)

"Se drōmon hen Dreamfyre. Dārilaros Rhaenyra ēdas chosen ziry syt zirȳla morghe lēkia, Baelon," Ysilla felt the blood in her veins run cold. (The egg of Dreamfyre. Princess Rhaenyra had chosen it for her dead brother, Baelon)

It was such a vile act to steal his dead nephew's egg. To give it to who? If he hated his wife, who was he planning to give it to? She would have liked to ask more, but her dragon started to growl, agitated. He flapped his wings again and kept looking at the sky.

That was strange. He had never done that. He was a calm dragon, never making many sounds, but he was upset and not able to stay still.

"Skoros iksis jāre va?" Ysilla asked, glancing at the man before walking to her dragon, kneeling at his side, "Lykiri," she said, trying to gain her dragon's attention, but he wasn't listening. (What is going on?) (Calm down)

"Maester?" She asked, seeing the man looking at the sky as well. His face was dark with worry.

"Dohaeris," she said, focusing back on her dragon. He seemed somewhat drawn to those words and glanced at her with his purple eyes.

A strange feeling went down through Ysilla's back. A shiver full of dread.

I want Mother, she thought instinctively. Feeling her eyes stung with tears.

"Ysilla," The voice of her uncle Gerold made her turn with a gasp. The man was behind her. His face was pale, his hands were trembling, and on his clothes, there was blood.

She stood up, trembling. Her eyes never lived the red of the blood.

"The Lady Rhea…"

Ysilla felt cold as her dragon roared with wrath.

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Tag list: @watercolorskyy @darylandbethfanforever9 @roxannequeen @shadowzena43

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon Fanfiction #house of the dragon imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen fanfiction #aegon targaryen x OC #aegon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #viserys targaryen

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swordsandarms · 29 days

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"Why did Rhaegar leave a whole THREE Kingsguards with Lyanna? Why did he leave Jaime, A CHILD, to PROTECT his family? Why wasn't Arthur, a DORNISH man, with Elia?"

These or other individual questions about the Kingsguards during the Rebellion era keep coming up every now and then. Usually, it concerns questioning Rhaegar's motivations, sometimes even Jaime's morality or culpability, as well as the morality of said Kingsguards.

But I was having a conversation with some fans and it comes down to the same issue: no one considers the Targaryen politics at the time, and fragment these circumstances in shallow bits and pieces, naturally, coming down to "there's no good explanation for this!"

Everyone hates that these two Targaryen men have genuine character complexity, especially in rapport with eachother: Rhaegar and Aerys.

Let's go over the Kingsguard at the end of Aerys' reign, and actually consider allegiance and what the mean, and how those would actually easily explain a lot-

Jon Darry, Darry cousin: unclear loyalty, when it comes down to the Aerys-Rhaegar conflict. Darrys are without a doubt Targaryen men, but we don't know if and who they would choose. Darrys are most of all connected with Viserys and Rhaella, who are very sheltered from the rest of the world all the same. Darrys might have been sideline in the Aerys-Rhaegar conflict by such default then, and eventually Jon would be sent to the Trident anyway. But then again, unquestionable loyalty to House Targaryen sounds like a traditionalist approach.

Arthur Dayne: Rhaegar's man without a doubt. His oldest and closest friend.

Oswell Whent: Rhaegar's man. He's with him at the Tower and rumours are his family conspired alongside him to get the Lords at Harrenhal to stage Aerys' usurpation.

Gerold Hightower, Comander: King's (Aerys') man. The scene at the King's doors is often brought up in discussions about the ethics of the KG. But it actually also unveils a key political information within the Aerys-Rhaegar factions. Whether it's a matter of adhering to the status quo only, or personal allegiance to Aerys as well, the message is clear: even when it's between two royals, it's the King he will stand by, no matter what, even when he's not in the right (and if his son tries to usurp him, then technically he is).

Barristan Selmy: Barristan undergoes a character development during the main series in which he finally questions unquestionable allegiance to a King no matter their morality. A past Barristan, however, would then resemble a Ser Gerold, and be in the King's (Aerys) service before anything by virtue of duty. Notably, he would later reflect that Rhaegar did not find him fit to be in his confidence, and these expectations are probably why.

Lewyn Martell: Easily Elia's and Rhaegar's man, and Dornish. Noted as being in his confidence.

Jaime Lannister: One that causes a lot of controversy. A lot of back and forth discussion as to what expectations Rhaegar had of Jaime (and whether Jaime himself fulfilled them). The answer can actually be seen easily by:

1. Looking at it with the awareness that there was a faction divide existed in the KG in between Aerys and Rhaegar, as it was building up to a conflict and hence-

2. Reading their last conversation with that in mind

The day had been windy when he said farewell to Rhaegar, in the yard of the Red Keep. The prince had donned his night-black armor, with the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his breastplate. “Your Grace,” Jaime had pleaded, “let Darry stay to guard the king this once, or Ser Barristan. Their cloaks are as white as mine."

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.”

For one, Jaime is the last KG left in King's Landing, and one to be kept close to Aerys himself. And Rhaegar is taking him into his confidence before he leaves - he is pretty much talking treason, hinting at usurpation upon his return.

Why did he leave Jaime, A CHILD, to PROTECT his family?

First of all, he doesn't leave Jaime himself in that post. As seen above, Aerys calls the shots. We know from the Ice and Fire "history book" that he sent Lewyn away from Elia as well for being Dornish (while before he was stationed with her and the kids on Dragonstone in Rhaegar's absence) and he commands Jaime to stay. As it appears, he also sends Darry and Selmy with him (with Selmy being a traditionalist at the time, it may even be to keep an eye on Rhaegar).

Rhaegar doesn't have a choice of whom to ask to look out for Elia and the children, no matter which KG would've been in town. He makes that clear. And as to expectations he has of the only one left and whom he can have a word with, while Jaime is, yes, by all means considered a grown man in their society AND a capable soldier who's well trained and already been in combat, he's not asking for Jaime to stand between his family and an army or anything.

There's not meant to be an army. That's meant to be Rhaegar's job to prevent. He's going out to battle. He's meant to give Robert a honorable single combat, prove himself as strong and fair - unlike the mockery of a "trial by combat" Aerys gave Rickard. Hence prove himself unlike his father first of all, probably give his explanations about Lyanna, and also make it clear he's against Aerys' actions and wanting to give the justice by deposing him.

No, Rhaegar isn't irresponsible, dumping that burden on younger Jaime. He does the responsible thing of taking all that upon himself. What does he expect of Jaime? As read above, he does not put Jaime in the mindset of a fighting machine that's supposed to save his family from anything unrealistic. He puts him in the mindset of someone who would be his man and oppose Aerys when the time comes - he's meant to be the one threat to his family when the chips fall down and he is taking the throne.

Whatever reading Rhaegar did of Jaime, he thought he could say those words to him (that would've been dangerous if he were wrong), that Jaime would have it in him to turn against Aerys (again not some ridiculous expectation - a frail man). And Rhaegar is clearly not dumb. He was right in his perception, wasn't he? (Is this where Jon Snow gets his amazing perceptive skills - "little his eyes do not see").

Why wasn't Arthur, a DORNISH man, with Elia?

Why would he be allowed to? We've already established Aerys calls the shots. And among them there's one KG specifically being sent away because he's Dornish and hence loyal to Elia (and Rhaegar). If Lewyn couldn't be there, why would Arthur?

Why did Rhaegar leave a whole THREE Kingsguards with Lyanna?

That is something I couldn't understand for a long time, too. Not only the specific number, but the fact that clearly Rhaegar can't just do whatever he wants with the Kingsguard. Why was this allowed?

It doesn't make sense until you go back to the Aerys-Rhaegar allegiance divide above. The three are Gerold (most loyal Aerys appears to have) and Arthur and Oswell (most loyal Rhaegar appears to have).

Gerold came from King's Landing to take Rhaegar. Oswell and Arthur would have already been with him. Either-

1. Gerold was sent with the order to stay behind with Lyanna. Aerys already took hold of Elia and the kids to control Dorne (and Rhaegar) and would have her in the hands of his most obedient man, too. Rhaegar cannot let that happen, as he plans to turn against Aerys while he's away. If he can't send Gerold away, he makes the compromise of leaving two of his own. One only would have been uncertain odds, but if Gerold eventually acts up when things unravel, he's outnumbered. Arthur and Oswell can do what they have to do and they are in an isolated location and can lie about it later to protect their honor.

2. Gerold wasn't meant to stay behind. But since Rhaegar is decided to depose Aerys, removing him from Aerys is an opportunity. Aerys/Gerold can be lured with the illusion of having a hold on Lyanna. Rhaegar had to leave someone (trustworthy) with her regardless but compromises his own numbers for the same reasoning above, if it means removing a barrier from between him and Aerys. Aerys would be blindsided in allowing in from that same perspective: Rhaegar is made to leave crucial allies behind.

#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #rhaegar targaryen #aerys targaryen #elia martell #lyanna stark #jon snow

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bronzefuryfic · 9 months

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Bronze Fury

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Chapter One: Runestone Remembers / Directory

The shepherds of the Vale report the dragon Sheepstealer has been sighted to the south of Runestone. Determined to please her family, 15-year-old Rhae Targaryen is ready to finally claim her birthright, or die trying.

Since she was a child, Rhae Targaryen bore the weight of vengeance for a house wronged. The words of her mother's house were "We Remember", and for what happened to her, House Royce would never forget. The ghost of their fallen matriarch haunted the face of her daughter. Despite her silver hair, the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce otherwise preserved the features of her mother.

Rhae would sometimes wonder if she looked any less like her mother, that the lords and ladies of Runestone might move on. Her uncles and cousins would promise her they'd have justice for Daemon's crimes, but these promises always seemed for someone else. While all of House Royce could remember Rhea Royce- her fury and her passion, her skill with a bow, her sharp wit- Rhae could not.

For all her frustration for her lack of remembrance, Rhae's heart still soared with each comparison.

"Your mother also favored a heavier bow when she was your age," her uncle would tell her. "Best to build the muscle. You'll have a far greater range than others will expect from a female archer."

For all her frustration for her lack of remembrance, Rhae's heart still soared with each comparison."Your mother also favored a heavier bow when she was your age," her uncle would tell her. "Best to build the muscle. You'll have a far greater range than others will expect from a female archer."

"Lady Royce never had much patience for needlework either," lamented the Septa. "We'll have to have you start this piece again. That simply won't do..."

"A favorite of Rhea's, if I recall correctly," a cousin shared as Rhae pored over the historical accounts of Nymeria's travels. "Nymeria was a hero of hers."

Though she'd never know her mother, Rhae thought she would've liked her.

The subject of her father was an equally difficult one, but for a different reason. House Royce was sure to remind Rhae of her father's crimes near-daily. Her mother was said to have been thrown from her horse, her spine broken and skull caved. A senseless tragedy, as noted in the letters that came in the following weeks—most of which offered some line of inquiry about the new heir of Runestone's two-year-old hand. But nearly all neglected to comment on the true treachery that transpired.

Prince Daemon had returned to Runestone the day of his wife's death, and had scarcely stayed an hour before departing for the Red Keep. The Street of Silk was alive with whispers that night, rife with reports of Daemon's celebration. He was finally rid of his bronze bitch.

Rhae was raised on the story of her Uncle Gerold confronting Daemon at King's Landing and accusing him of murder. She was told how her father merely laughed, and said that as Rhea Royce's husband, Runestone should pass to him now. Daemon never made good on the threat, but nothing came of Ser Gerold's accusations either. During this time, only the Hightowers extended a hand. Ser Otto alone dared to acknowledge Rhea's murder in his communications with Ser Gerold. It was a small solace.

Rhae resented and feared the rogue prince accordingly. There was little incentive for any other conclusion—she could not remember Daemon either. Images of his face were only her imagination.

But resenting him did nothing to change her heritage. Rhae was the only person bearing the Targaryen name in all the Vale. She was easily spotted everywhere she went for her silver hair. Just as the vestiges of her mother haunted her, so did her father.

Her position was thus a precarious one. She was the heir to Runestone, but shared the name of the butcher who'd killed her predecessor. To some, to have a Targaryen sit the ancestral seat of House Royce was a great insult. As she was a woman, an engagement could easily remedy this slight, but there were those in Runestone that recognized the power in her name. If a Targaryen were to champion House Royce, their house may know glory like it hadn't seen in years. While the Bronze Kings were a proud lot, they would be foolish to deny the potential of the dragon before them.

That was, of course, if the young Targaryen had a dragon. Forgotten in the Vale, Rhae suffered from a lack of resources. She knew little of Old Valayria and its teachings. Daemon had never disowned his eldest daughter, but he'd never extended a hand to her either. It was as though she didn't exist, even as obvious as it may be she was a trueborn Targaryen. What House Royce remembers, the House of the Dragon forgets.

Questions of her place plagued Rhae through her youth. For all her love of House Royce, she carried a hollowness in her heart. She'd never known love without grief.

"They have denied us justice for your mother's murder for many years, Rhae," Gerold told her as they walked the courtyard. "And perhaps we'll be denied forever, if not for you. If Daemon were to return for Runestone, as he's promised, we will be at the mercy of his dragon."

"I cannot control his dragon," Rhae replied. An involuntary tug of her lip turns her mouth into a frown. Few things could stop a dragon, and Caraxes and his rider were as vicious as they came.

"Not his," Ser Gerold mused, offering a rare smile. He did not seem to hold his usual temperament. Rather than grave and serious, Ser Gerold's voice carried a hint of eagerness. For what, Rhae couldn't be certain. They'd had this conversation a thousand times in the 13 years since Rhea's murder. "We know little of dragons here, but even this we are certain. Dragons are loyal creatures, even if their riders are not."

Rhae pursed her lips and looked away. Last she'd heard, Daemon had travelled to the Free Cities some months ago with his new wife and children after a years-long stay in Driftmark. Rhae had spent many nights wondering if he might do something horrid to them as well, but all the news seemed to point to the contrary. Having won his battle in the Stepstones, and ridding himself of his first wife, Prince Daemon seemed to have retired to a life of a lavish lord. More than that, he seemed more than willing to share this life with Laena Velaryon and their children together. Rhae's father seemed no stranger to loyalty, even if it wasn't to her.

"There have been reports of a dragon migrating north from Dragonstone," Gerold continued, stopping Rhae in her tracks. "Myself and the maesters believe it might be a sign."

"I'm up for the task."

Gerold chuckled and turned, having gone a few paces past her.

"I suspected you might say that," He said, surveying her with pride. "I've had scouts tracking the beast's movements for some time now. We believe it's settled in a cavern on our Southern coast."

"And you've waited until now to tell me?"

"We wanted to be certain," Ser Gerold said, raising a hand defensively. "Furthermore, we'd hoped you might learn more from King Viserys before taking on such a task. Has the King responded to your letters?"

Rhae flushed. At her uncle's behest, she'd been attempting to appeal to the King's supposed love of family and Valaryian history. Ser Gerold even instructed her to express contempt for House Royce and show a longing to reconnect with her Targaryen roots. Rhae thought this piece was her most convincing. She hadn't expected an invitation to King's Landing by any means, but she'd hoped at least for a book or two. So far, even that was too much to ask.

"No."

Ser Gerold's brow furrowed, and Rhae knew this meant disappointment.

"I don't need a letter or a book or a blessing from the king to claim what is mine!" She insisted, clenching her fists. She'd do anything to ease the constant shame that hung so heavily over her. "Just because they refuse to see me as part of their house, doesn't mean I don't share their blood! It is my birthright to claim a dragon. You too must not deny me this!"

Ser Gerold held her gaze a long while, before finally relinquishing with a curt nod.

"Very well, Lady Rhae."

And without waiting for dismissal, Rhae took off to prepare her things.

Rhae, Ser Gerold, and thirty of their best men set out the next morning for Gull Town. The journey took three days of riding, but Rhae did not mind. Away from the castle, on her way to claim a dragon... The change was welcome.

Rhae was accustomed to whispers as she passed, but on this journey, the guards were sure to give her plenty space. She suspected this might be on her uncle's order—He had been oddly distant with her since they last spoke. He communicated to her only in scout updates and affirming nods from across the campsite. Rhae wondered what he was thinking.

Scouts reported they were tracking Sheepstealer, a wild dragon of about forty years of age. According to Ser Gerold, Sheepstealer did not harm shepherds. While it was not clear what compelled him to come so far north, the dragon seemed to behave in all manners expected from its name. Farmers have reported over two dozen sheep stolen in the last few days alone.

They planned for Rhae to deliver a sheep to the dragon before attempting to ride it. While Sheepstealer did not hunt humans, there was no way to determine his reaction to being approached. If things turned deadly, Rhae was to fall back to the treeline immediately. Archers would cover her retreat, and with any luck, Sheepstealer would leave after losing sight of them.

"Not that I have any doubts you will claim this dragon," Ser Gerold added after their meeting. "You are Targaryen; the dragon will obey your command."

Rhae willed herself to believe the same.

On the second night of their journey, a scout reported he had seen Sheepstealer just a mile westward. The camp grounds held an uneasy silence that night, every knight and guard nervous to fall asleep with a dragon so close by. In the morning, they would deliver Rhae to the sight on foot, to avoid detection and possibly frightening the beast.

Rhae too stayed up late, feeding on the anxieties of the rest of the campsite. She tossed and turned in her make-shift bed.

Perhaps she wasn't ready to tame a dragon. She'd never so much as seen one before! If she failed to tame Sheepstealer, what would come of her house's hope for justice? Would she become exiled from them too? Rhae thought she might prefer Sheepstealer eat her before facing that future.

In the morning, Ser Gerold maintained his stiff silence towards his niece. The whole walk, Rhae hoped he might say something. When they first heard Sheepstealer's roar, he did not look her way. As the archers got into position, Ser Gerold busied himself with a loose strap on his armor. It wasn't until her uncle pressed the sheep's lead into Rhae's hand, still dodging her gaze, that she found the courage to break the silence herself.

"I don't mean to alarm you, uncle, but I think you have grown twice as gray as when we started this trip."

Ser Gerold looked as though Rhae had smacked him across the face, then let out a wild bark of laughter. The guards behind him flinched at the sudden noise, eyes still trained on Sheepstealer, and Ser Gerold instantly bit his knuckle.

"Apologies," he whispered, leaning in as tears stung his eyes. He was still chuckling softly. "You are so extraordinarily like your mother."

"So I've heard," Rhae mustered.

"I'm sorry, Rhae," Ser Gerold clasped her shoulders, gaining his composure. Sheepstealer trilled from the field, but Ser Gerold did not take his eyes off her. "I have acted cowardly. House Royce has little business with dragons. I must admit, this pending task frightens me more than any I've had before."

"Fear not, Uncle," Rhae managed half a smile. "I'm the one carrying his favorite snack."

"That is the part that frightens me most." Before Rhae could reply, Ser Gerold pulled her into a tight embrace. A lump formed in her throat as her arms wrapped around his torso.

Lead in hand, Rhae steps out of the brush into the field. The ocean breeze blowing in from over the cliff edge whips her silver hair, and she quickly spots Sheepstealer lounging by the cliff face. She turns to see her Uncle Gerold one last time, and he gives her a final, grim nod.

You've got this.

Heart thumping in her chest, Rhae marched the sheep across the field. It was much farther away from the treeline than she would've preferred. As she drew near, Sheepstealer lifted his scaly head to watch her. To Rhae's surprise, he was actually smaller than she had imagined. Rhae wondered for a moment whether she'd merely imagined dragons to be too big. She straightened her spine—he wasn't so scary.

Sheepsteeler scales were a dark muddy brown, making it difficult to distinguish his features. He was a dark, lean mass save for orange eyes that seemed to glow like embers. The sheep Rhae escorted tugged at the rope, resisting her lead. The dragon trilled once more, eyes narrowing on its squirming meal.

Rhae held her ground as Sheepstealer pushed himself up further, baring his teeth. After a moment, when nothing else happened, Rhae gave a tug of the leash and dragged the struggling sheep closer.

"Serve me, Sheepstealer." Rhae said, locking eyes with the beast before her. His snout flared slightly. "By the power of Old Valyria, heed my words."

Rhae was uncertain that the dragon could understand her—his attention seemed torn between her and the offering she brought along.

It won't work, Rhae thought fearfully. But she couldn't return without a dragon. Sheepstealer would listen to her—He had to.

Now within biting distance of the dragon, Rhae slackened her grip of the sheep's lead. It at least seemed a good sign Sheepstealer had not struck yet.

The moment of truth was approaching. The sheep would run, and the dragon would feast. Then, if she still had her wits, Rhae would mount his back. She tried not to dwell on the fact that she wasn't sure what to do then, either.

Rhae let the rope fall to the ground with a soft thump, and the sheep set off at a brisk trot, its lead trailing behind it. Sheepstealer was now raised on all fours, watching its prey flee with alarming excitement.

"My gift to you, Sheepstealer."

With a roar of delight, the dragon did not waste a second longer to open his maw and expel a shot of flames. Even though the blast was not aimed at her, Rhae gasped at the intensity of the dragon's breath from where she stood. Startled, she leapt backwards to distance herself from the wave of heat. In doing so, her foot snagged on a rock.

Rhae cursed loudly, swinging her arms wildly for balance. She knew her mistake instantly—she should've allowed herself to fall. Sheepstealer may have tolerated Rhae's presence so far, but tolerance was not the same as trust. The sudden noise and large movements surprised the dragon, which defensively spun on her in an instant. His neck coiled back, eyes turning to slits. Another blast seemed to building in his throat...

"Serve me, Sheepstealer!" Rhae cried forcefully. "I wish you no harm! Stand down! Obey!"

Rhae could've sworn she saw the glow within his gullet dim, but control was already lost. At the edge of the wood, Ser Gerold had charged the open field the moment the dragon turned on Rhae. Dutifully, a small band of knights followed quickly behind. They let out a cry, drawing Sheepstealer's attention.

With a roar and a powerful flap of his wings, Sheepstealer was airborne.

"RHAE! RETREAT!"

Shit shit shit shit shit shit!

Rhae made her way hurriedly across the field, sprinting past the smouldering, forgotten sheep she'd brought as an offering. Within moments, Sheepstealer had crossed the field and was descending upon the guards. A volley of arrows loosed as the knights threw their shields up.

Sheepstealer roared in outrage, lashing his spiked tail dangerously. One body went soaring through the air, landing with a sickening crack in the ground thirty feet away. Rhae's heart seized as she sprinted harder for the wood.

"Fire!"

Another volley of arrows loosed, with several lodging in the dragon's throat. They didn't seem deep enough for any substantial damage, but Sheepstealer still cried defiantly, shaking them free.

Rhae was closer now, and could see Ser Gerold slashing with his sword. She sucked what air she could into her lungs and cried out once more.

"Stop this attack! Stop!"

Now caught up, Rhae dodged as Sheepstealer gave another deadly whip with his tail. It came down hard beside her uncle, who fell to the ground with a painful grunt. Before she could make her way to him, another knight had grabbed her firmly around the waist and was dragging her to cover.

"NO! Sheepstealer, stop! Unhand me!"

Rhae wrestled herself from his grip and ran to her uncle, ignoring the danger. A roar filled the air as another volley loosed—the men were panicking. Sheepstealer incinerated the arrows as they flew closer, thrashing his head. Rhae heard muffled shouts over the ringing that now filled her ears.

A blinding pain consumed her left side, the same wave of heat from before colliding even closer to where she stood. Rhae fought to keep her eyes open, struggling to focus on her own smouldering arm. Her skin bubbled and boiled, looking red and angry. Through the haze and smoke, she saw Sheepstealer rise once more.

"Ser... Gerold" she gasped. She had fallen to her knees, trying to hold herself up with her uninjured right arm. Her Uncle was badly hurt. With one knee bent at an odd angle, and an arrow protruding from his gut, Ser Gerold Royce lay gasping for breath in the dirt. He too suffered from sickly burns. Rhae watched in horror as his armor seemed to mold to his skin.

Ser Gerold writhed on the ground, crying in anguish from his injuries. As Sheepstealer soared off over the ocean, the remaining guard came out from their cover.

"We need a healer!" someone called. Rhae was loosing conscious rapidly, but she was vaguely aware of someone attempting to move her.

"Uncle..."

Rhae did not remember her travels back to Runestone, having been heavily sedated on the milk of the poppy. It was later, while she recovered in the castle, that the Maesters finally filled her in.

During her third bandaging, she'd finally become lucid enough to understand their story. She was told that they'd only lost seven men of the thirty they brought—a "miracle". In addition, only she and two others received any long-lasting injury.

"And Ser Gerold? Which of these is he?" she demanded of the Maesters once she had found her voice. They bowed their heads, confirming her fears.

"I apologize, Lady Rhae," the eldest of them, Maester Willem, stepped forward. "They said Ser Gerold did not survive the return to camp."

Rhae let loose a throaty sob, wishing they'd leave. She could not shout at them in this state, and so allowed them to proceed with applying burn creams to her charred arm.

"Your injury will take time to heal, but it thankfully has not become infected," Willem continued, once her labored sobs gave way to sniffles. "It is likely the scar tissue will affect mobility at your shoulder and elbow joint, but we hope it'll be mostly functional within a few months."

Rhae would give both arms to have Ser Gerold returned to her—none at Runestone advocated for the heir as devoutly as her Uncle.

"Any other news?" She asked meekly as they re-bandaged her arm. She prayed for none.

The Maesters exchanged nervous glances before Willem brought forth a letter from a pocket deep in his robes.

"One last thing, if you're up for it..." She wasn't. "It arrived shortly after you left."

Grunting, Rhae leaned forward in her bed, reaching for the scroll. She broke the seal and flattened it one-handed on her bedsheets. As soon as she read it, she read it over again. Then a third time, just to be sure.

"Is this truly from the Queen?"

"It came with all the royal seals, my lady."

"She says..." Rhae's voice faltered once more. "She says that the Crown regrets our estrangement."

"This is good news, is it not?"

Rhae couldn't say. Ser Gerold had ruled Runestone in her stead all these years. Rhae had originally ascended at 2, but now at 15 it would be appropriate for her to sit the seat herself. That was, if anyone else from House Royce still trusted her after this latest tragedy. She could already hear the whispers in the hall. Rhae had been tasked with bringing justice, but all she brought was more death and more destruction.

Rhae reread the letter a fourth time, ignoring the Maester's question.

"The King grows ill." She continued. "And has expressed a desire to reconnect with family after so many years apart." Did it count as reconnecting if they'd never met? "The Queen says she would like to host me in King's Landing, to learn the ancient traditions of my House." A bit late for that, it seemed. "She mentions her daughter Haelena is my age, and her sons are close to it. It's her sincerest hope that we might still be friends..."

Rhae trailed off, reading the letter a fifth time. Rage brewed in her stomach. What good was such an offer now that Ser Gerold was dead? The Maesters watched her closely.

"If I may offer some advice," Maester Willem said at last. "I know you bear no love for your Targaryen family members, but you're scarcely the only one to feel that way... if you're to believe the gossip of lords and ladies, that is."

"Which lords and ladies?"

Maester Willem eyed her closely. "The Hightowers have long held contempt for your father, just as the Royces have. I think it notable that your response came from the Queen, and not the King."

Rhae allowed his words to sink in, trying to ignore how itchy and sore her arm felt beneath its wrappings. Ser Gerold's cries of anguish still rang in her ear.

What had it been for?

"Fetch me some parchment, Maester," Rhae groaned as she sat straightened in her bed. She may be without her own dragon, but she could still align herself with their firepower. Best yet, she could do so while granting House Royce a reprieve from her presence. "And put away the poppy. I've had plenty."

The Maesters bustled at her orders. There was still a matter of finding someone to warm her seat in her absence, and she would need time to recover before she traveled. A necessary delay, though plenty frustrating...

"Prepare our fastest raven," Rhae continued, dipping her quill. "I'll have my response sent as soon as I'm done with it."

She may not remember Rhea, as the rest of House Royce did, but the sight of Ser Gerold's mangled corpse was not something she'd soon forget.

Next Chapter: Ch. 2 - To King's Landing

After suffering a great loss, Rhae is summoned to King’s Landing to meet her estranged Targaryen family members. Far from home and alone in the dragon’s den, it is up to her to determine friend from foe.

AO3 | Chapter Discussion

Thanks for reading!

#House of the Dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond x oc #aegon ii x oc #team green #Royce!oc #Targaryen!oc #OC can also be used as a semi-reader-insert #She has a name and silver hair and she’s right handed #For plot reasons #Everything else is up to your imagination and won’t be contradicted in the text

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ewanmitchelll · 4 months

Text

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (V): Blank Space.

Imagine Aegon Targaryen wants to court Lady H/N of House Tyrell, right before his ascension to the throne. But in order to conquer this house’s support, he sends Aemond Targaryen to court you. As people used to say, to play cooing is to play coy…

Warnings 1: based on the movie “10 Things I Hate About You”.

Warnings 2: for the alternative universe purposes, Helaena eloped with a Hightower cousin.

Warnings 3: light smut, light reading, rom-com vibes, fluff.

***

• Pawns in Stranger’s Game.

Aemond has just landed when he’s summoned by Ser Criston Cole to head to the throne’s chambers. The prince grumbles under his breath, already missing the liberty of flying high, where his dragon lady and himself are nobody’s business.

“The king expects to marry Lord Aegon soon”, Ser Criston breaks the silence by updating the prince of the situation. “But there’s been some issues about it.”

“Ha”, Aemond mutters sarcastically. “I wonder why.”

“First, your sister Helaena eloped with Ser Gerold Hightower. A scandal, if you remember well”, the knight is more than pleased in numbering the events, remembering with what Aemond judged to be an amused voice the unexpected day sweet Helaena took the reins of her own life.

“I do”, the prince speaks nonchalantly.

“Second, His Grace is concerned about bringing the Tyrells closer to the crown. They have been neglected in the last decades of your great-grandsire’s government. Now has come an opportunity to embrace it properly in ancient fashion.”

“Marriage.”

“Indeed… But this is an old, proud house.” Again, another hint of amusement in the knight’s voice gets the other male’s attention.

Aemond, annoyed by how this is getting his interest, stops walking and throws Cole a glance. But by now they both stand before a heavy iron made door that is now opening.

Every question is answered when Aemond hears the same old shouting. Like always, the king is scowling at Aegon for some improper behavior.

“…and how dare you to suggest yourself a good dame as Lady H/N?”

“What incident has brought our father into the old throwing tantrums again?”, he inquires Daeron, who’s too busy eating some grapes and serving himself some wine.

“It appears that our sweet brother has seduced Lady H/N of House Tyrell. Oh, no, not in that manner you might think, Aemond. Indeed it has surprised me that Aegon has the capacity to write poems and be a good bard where his carnal needs are concerned.”

“Hum”, is all the other male says, feigning some uninterest in the matter.

“He proposed the said lady, but her father refused. The aforementioned damsel is only marrying after her eldest sister, who attends by the name of Lady Y/N, does. She has quite a reputation.”

“What kind of reputation?”, Aemond asks, struggling to keep his own amusement in check.

Daeron looks at his brother with eyebrows raised.

“Not that kind of reputation, Aemond. She is known as the queen of thorns due to her sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She has quite an odd saying that she’s marrying only for love.”

“And her family has agreed to this foolish idea?”

Daeron chuckles.

“Like I said, the Tyrells can be proud.”

And just like that Aegon turns suddenly at his younger brothers as if he is reminded of their presence.

“Aemond and Daeron! My most beloved comrades!”

Ignoring the puzzle look exchanged between them, Aegon carries in his semblance some odd glow of hope. It so appears this second eldest Targaryen—after his half-sister Rhaenyra, by now married to their uncle Daemon Targaryen, residing at Dragonstone—is expecting to find solution in either brothers.

“I was speaking to our gracious father the king about my utmost desire in marrying for the purpose of serving our family…”

“Go straight to your point, Aegon”, Aemond cuts his brother, in between annoyed and amused.

“I need your assistance in marrying Lady H/N Tyrell”, Aegon does as asked, unwilling to play the dutiful son’s role any longer, specially when seeing how little his father cares about his efforts in doing so.

Aemond rolls his eyes.

“But her sister ought to marry first.”

“Indeed”, and here Aegon smirks. “I may only court Lady H/N if you marry her sister first.”

“I am not…” Aemond is about to snort.

“I will pay you triple in gold”, his brother speaks in seriously tone. “The double in advance to cover the expenses in presenting yourself on behalf of our House.”

Aemond clenches his jaw, but when Aegon takes from nowhere a velvet sac with heavy coins, sense of duty promptly prevails over personal sentiments. He steps in then and before the king and queen, the silver haired prince smirks and says:

“Your Graces, allow me to be sent to High Garden. I shall represent the interests of the crown carefully.”

For the gold, Aemond could be ambitious. But in the end, when has he ever refused Aegon anything?

***

• Roses With Thorns.

Nice to meet you, where you been? I could show you incredible things. Magic, madness, heaven, sin. Saw you there and I thought: "Oh, my God, look at that face. You look like my next mistake. Love's a game, wanna play?

You are at the library, finishing one more reading in this rainy day. Whilst the court of your father and mother has been occupied with musicians, siblings acting like the typical Tyrells, you opt to be distant from the crowd.

Today’s book is a novel about a wanderer and his damsel. Despite the reputation your siblings help creating of you, romance is often the object of your secretive poems. But seeing how rude is the courtship these days, little wonder why you prefer the company of books.

And here you’d gladly stay had your mother not sent her favourite lady-in-waiting to go after you.

“Lady Y/N”, you hear the woman’s voice breaking through the gentle silence that has been your company for the last two hours. “We have an important visitor and it’s crucial that you are there to receive him. I thought that was why you chose to dress your favourite gown, but I cannot understand why hiding away from public is something you’d promptly do.”

You close the heavy book patiently before casting the woman a look.

“I do appreciate fashion, but even more books. I did dress for the occasion as my lady mother warned me about the arrival of Lord Aemond Targaryen. However, I honestly don’t feel inclined to greet him.”

“You are the eldest child, your presence is expected, my dear.”

“The second eldest, Gertrude”, you remind her. “Arrham is the eldest. He is the heir, after all.”

“Come now, no excuses. I’ve brought the headdress.”

Today you are wearing a red silk gown with details in velvet white, designed with the symbol of your house. Your y/c hair is tied in a simple braid but now it’s carefully placed under a local hood. Like most damsels of your position, you exhibit a pair of golden earrings in your ears matching golden rings in your fingers and one necklace bathed in gold.

Small vanities that you quite appreciate. You are still a rose, regardless of the whispers. And so promptly you move to the grand salon, followed by Mistress Gertrude. Your head is raised and your demeanor, very composed.

And when doors open, your heart races and you panic internally. The grand hall, where court is located, is fuller than usually is. Minor houses that answer to the authority of your family sent their representatives. Musicians are found in the corners of the white salon playing a sweet melody and courtiers walk arm-in-arm, engaging themselves in coquettishly talks all the whilst the table is fixed for the banquet.

You feel instantly most gazes turn at you.

“Be brave, sweet girl. You can do it.”

And it’s when you see him, of course. No one else has silver locks nor eyes colored purple.

No man in this salon is devilish handsome. A thought that weakens your knees. But you dismiss it as your mother proudly brings the royal guest to you.

“My daughter, meet Lord Aemond, prince of the House Targaryen. He’d been sent here to represent the interests of the king in amending relations with our House”, so says Lady Roxanna Tyrell.

You curtsy elegantly and the prince bows just as regally. Curious pairs of eyes follow your moves.

“‘Tis my pleasure to make your acquaintance, prince.” You speak gently. “Welcome to High Garden. We pray that you find us a very amicable people, loyal to the crown.”

Aemond smirks. You certainly don’t strike the arrogant type who sweeps away every suitor and prevents your sister to marry. Or so judges him at first.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Y/N Tyrell. On behalf of the king, I thank you for the warming welcome. Hopefully we can meet in another moment.”

For now, you two part. Aemond feels your eyes glued on his back as he steps away. It doesn’t take any longer before the banquet is ready to begin. And as you take your seat, you capture the gaze he casts at you.

Regrettably you know why. But you behave in a nonchalant manner… for your own sake.

New money, suit and tie. I can read you like a magazine. Ain't it funny? Rumors fly. And I know you heard about me. So hey, let's be friends. I'm dying to see how this one ends.

As the prince is your family’s visitor for some good time, you feel it’s your obligation to lead him to a stroll in the gardens. And here’s when sparks are beginning to fly.

“I suspect my lordship appreciates wilderness in its crude state”, away from preying eyes your tongue rolls loose just fine. “But unfortunately there is little to show within these walls.”

Aemond chuckles.

“Does my lady take me as an imprudent, wild man?”

“Rumors fly like your dragons, lord.”

He certainly is surprised by your tongue.

“Judging by others’ speech is not a wise move, so I understand.”

You turn your head at him, with a side smirk on your lips.

“Is my lord telling me he’s a prudent prince then? Unlike his royal older brother?”

“Ah”, Aemond looks down at his feet for a moment but you spot a shadowy smile curling upon his lips. “So is this what’s it about?”

You give him an amused smirk, not giving away your thoughts so easily. As you walk into the depths of the gardens, passing through some ladies by, you don’t appreciate their long gazes at him… and you swear you could hear something very similar to “he should be in better company”.

“You look offended with something”, Aemond muses after studying you in silence. “Locking your thoughts in the highest tower does not mean you are a careful prisoner.”

You look at him in bewilderment.

“I am no prisoner, lord.”

“No? But you are hardly seen out of these pillars of stones”, says he in reference to a grand castle that’s been built in the days of the Gardners.

“What else a woman such as me should do? Bear heirs and live endlessly at the mercy of her lord husband?”

Aemond is not entirely certain whether he’s entertained by your total disregard to mundane rules or annoyed by it.

“Duty cements relations, lady. This is all I can let myself say.”

You have a bitter answer in the tip of your tongue, but because he’s been so pleasant to you, you hold it back.

Aemond, on his turn, scans his surroundings, in fact enjoying the change of his background for a moment. Different roses and other flowers embellish greens walls that turn this garden in a real labyrinth, leaving the Red Keep’s in a completely failure by comparison.

Heleana would’ve liked here.

“I should better go”, you say, breaking the silence as you do not know how to proceed further. Never the one to flirt or be socially sympathetic, you feel suddenly drawn back. Especially because it’s clear now that this prince is not like others.

Aemond turns his head.

“So soon?”

“I am required”, you lie bluntly. “Furthermore it appears to me we are both here by social obligations”.

The prince turns his head abruptly. Ah. Here comes the thorns.

“Allow me to disagree”, he offers a warm smile, much to your disconcert. “I find your company most pleasant, lady Y/N. This has been an interest garden to stroll around. I could have not asked for a better guide than my lady.”

His manners so gallant bring a small shade of blush to your y/c face. But even then you do not bend your distrustful heart to what this prince may offer you.

Perhaps bearing in mind his brother’s behavior, you say:

“As good as this afternoon may be, lord, a lady as me should not remain unaccompanied for so long.”

“Of course”, Aemond nods his head. “What would people think, right?”

Whether his remark is sincere or masking a sarcasm, you’d not dare to try to know. What really imports is to make your way out of his league before it’s too late.

• Dangerous Liaisons

So it's gonna be forever or it's gonna go down in flames. You can tell me when it's over, if the high was worth the pain…

You are once again in your quarters, reading a prayer book when your sister storms in. Dressed in a ball gown, she looks feverish for this event that holds no importance to you. Hence why you are dressed simply by contrast.

“Y/N!” She squeaks. “Father demands your presence. All Tyrells are at the grand hall for the feast in honor of Lord Aemond. Must I remind you how important this event is?”

Without removing your eyes out of the line that, curiously, admonishes the sin of the flesh, you respond:

“Really? How come?”

H/N does pay an effort in not stomping her foot like a child. She knows she’s passed the age, even if you provoke such childish reactions.

“Mostly due to the interest of our father in joining our houses together. Our mother is inclined in convincing him that I would be a proper wife to my beloved Aegon.”

She sighs romantically, not noticing the side eye look you give her.

“H/N, may I remind you this rascal prince is reputed for pursuing women in the least romantic way?”

“He is different now, writing me every day poems that he’d not done before.”

“Because you are a saintly muse who inspired him a swift change in his nature”, you remark sarcastically.

“Why are you skeptical that people can change?”, she asks you, sounding hurt.

You carefully raise your eyes, finally giving your sister some attention.

“Men hardly change, my dear H/Nickname. You should know that better than anyone else.”

H/N blushes furiously. She detests that you mention the one time she flirted with a good Lannister man in a courtship that nearly ended in a blood feud between these families because Lord Tytus apparently preferred to take as wife his own cousin.

“For a romantic you can be pretty pessimistic!”, and here she comes at you like a knight taking a plea to the king. “My sister, the only reason why father refuses to marry me off to such a powerful nobleman lies in your nonsense belief in marrying for love. You contradict yourself in so many ways… Come and join us at the ball. Convince Lord Aemond and father that I am more sensible now.”

You sigh. When have you ever refused H/N anything? Putting aside your prayer book, you take your sister’s hands and squeeze them in yours.

“Very well. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You smile as H/N pulls you at a tender embrace.

“I’ve always known you were just as Tyrell as the rest of us.”

You roll your eyes at the remark, but chuckle eventually at it. Indeed, the fruit never falls too far off the tree, does it?

Aemond detests formalities, more so in playing the diplomat on behalf of his dysfunctional family. For a while, however, this provides a good excuse of staying away from them. Seeing how united the Tyrells are, though, he cannot help but feeling somewhat jealous, wishing his was too.

Now here he is, waiting to act the seducer he is not in order to help Aegon marrying H/N Tyrell.

Frankly, who’d refuse to marry into the Targaryen family? This is such a proud manner…

His thoughts are soon interrupted by your arrival. Many are the eyes drawn to you, dressed impeccably in red and white, a summer silk gown that shows some cleavage and shoulders. The way your hair is tied in two braids each side of your head, showing the jewelry that decorates your skin, only reinforces your beauty.

The prince, who doesn’t like any rivals to dispute what he judges to be his by right, opts to wait for the right moment to approach you. Setting aside from the crowd, he seems pleased to find in your semblance furrowing brows and confused eyes as if you’ve been looking for someone.

Music starts to play and Aemond remains concealed from others view all the whilst he watches you dancing with other men. As much as he dislikes the view, he is patient. You may think you disguise well your social discomfort, but Aemond can tell this is not your environment.

And before some courtier could send you away—for you are evidently feeling out of place and wishing to go somewhere else—, Aemond takes your hand and quickly takes you out of prying eyes and ears.

“Thank you”, you say after a while. “What a tiresome game this is.”

“It is indeed”, he agrees, leaning against the wall, watching you feeling comfortable again. “Shall we head to the gardens or we ought to call Lady Gertrude to follow us in most appropriate manner?”

You laugh quietly at his subtle reference to your flee the other day.

“No. I believe no one will notice me if we stroll around. You, on the other hand…”

“Why’d you think so of yourself? You are no lesser than me due to the lack of royal blood. You are a noblewoman nevertheless.”

“It’s more complicated than it may sound”, you shrug your shoulders. “What is my family but the descendants of a random supporter of Aegon the Conqueror?”

Aemond chuckles.

“Is this how you see the House Tyrell? Your family holds great responsibility to the deliver and production of food, my lady. Not to mention the great number of men to fight wars that are provided by the Reach. This is no little doing.”

You give him an impressed look.

“And here I thought we were regarded as vain folk who live for chivalry.”

“Is it bad to live for this ancient code?”

“We throw feasts and live for mundane matters, forgetting what is relevant. We welcome bards and musicians, we dance beautifully and flirt courteously. But marriages remain politically tactics to enrich our coffers.” You sigh. “How wrong is to actually live for love?”

“And yet you forget you forbid your sister for experiencing it”, he reminds you.

You chuckle lightly in turn.

“My lord, with all due respect, but love doesn’t change any man’s nature.”

Aemond stops the pace, making you turn and look at him, wondering why he stands there under some cork tree.

“Green suits you well”, he muses, pleased to see a color painting your cheeks.

“I know my duties”, you tell him rather shyly. “I would not dishonor my guest, regardless of my perspectives about certain matters.”

“Or men in general”, he teases you.

“Or men in general”, you agree between chuckles.

Aemond doesn’t realize he’s been drawn to you until he gently laces his hand with yours. You are taken aback by such a gesture, feeling some heat spreading over your generally cold skin. When your eyes find his, you say:

“What do you think you are doing? Prince or not, you…”

“I am what I am. You know it too. And you are who you are, that I know as well”, he pulls you closer. “Who left in you a nasty scar, Y/N? A rose as yourself has too many thorns to let beauty blossom so spontaneously.”

You stare into his eyes, drowned in his purple irises. As he rests a hand in your waist, the heat begins to spread over the rest of your body, making you experiment new sensations that so far you’ve only heard from other ladies.

“This isn’t about me. I am merely protecting my sister as I know you protect yours.”

Aemond side smirks down at you, diving into yours, reading too much of your soul.

“I did. I helped her elope with her beloved, haven’t you heard?”

“And have you not been told I am a nightmare dressed like a daydream?”

Aemond releases one hand to rest over your shoulder and then to grab your chin, making you look into his good eye.

“I am told I am insane by countless former lovers”, he chuckles. “I have a bad reputation and yet here we are.”

Aemond and you are so closer now. The heat is like a flame now, burning your skin and he can tell how he effects you by seeing your heavy chest going up and down. His forehead now rests against yours, desire already burning him too, in a slow ache down to his manhood.

But before this flame sparks into something far deadlier, you both hear giggles not too far from there. It is like a dreadful wake up call and you realize you are not dreaming, therefore you should not remain where you are now standing.

“Y/N”, he calls your name when seeing you are about to escape.

“I must leave…”

“Not until you carry a remembrance of this evening.”

Before you could come up with some excuse, Aemond is faster and holds your arm, turning you at him so he cups your face with his hands and there finally kisses you.

And you run, leaving him there… but taking with you the sweetest poison you’ve ever had.

***

• Growing Fire…

Boys only want love if it's torture. Don't say I didn't, say I didn't warn ya

It’s not easy when you are surrounded by ladies who speak about their intimate affairs in such an open manner. Your sister is there, drinking in their experience as she too wonders what would be like to be somebody’s wife.

This somebody, you know, is not anybody. It’s the king’s eldest son, whose reputation of womanizing left you so protective towards H/N. But nothing comes to mind when you think of Aemond Targaryen and his fervent kiss.

“My husband likes to hear me singing his name out before we consume our, eh, flame”, lady Jeyne is telling this late evening.

You wish they’d be quiet, but unfortunately your sister encourages the woman to give details of it.

“It is when he begins to tease me. He likes to undress me himself, forbidding me to do anything at all”, says the said lady.

And here your imagination begins to work, whilst you pretend to occupy yourself with sewing. Your mind takes you back to the core of the gardens when his lips promptly dominated yours. And the taste he left in your mouth remains there.

You wonder if he’d do what lady Jeyne’s husband does to her. Would he exercise any authority over you? Would his callous hands remove every bit of your gown and touch you in unspeakable manners?

You feel your womanhood aching at the idea of his fingers working wonderfulness there, a sensation that also fuels your frustration. For a reason side of yours begins to wonder if he’s like Aegon. If so, why would you picture indecent scenarios with another womanizing man?

When paranoias are about to threat your peace is the moment your castle is close to tumble down. The ladies gathering is interrupted when your mother in person step inside you and your sister’s privy chambers.

“H/N!”, she exclaims. “You must come with me at once. Pride is no more our best shield.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”, you join your sister’s voice before your mother’s restlessness state.

“The prince is here.”

You’d think she is talking about Aemond, but H/N is faster in joining the puzzles.

“Aegon?!”

“Yes!”

Quickly all the ladies leave the chambers, and you above all remain confused. Right at the great hall you spot Aegon Targaryen in person, talking impatiently with his brother.

“Finally! I trusted my brother to resolve this matter, but he’s too slow”, says the eldest male son of King Viserys.

You give Aemond a quizzical glance. Seeing a silent question posed in your eyes, the rascal prince comes after you, but he is forced to step back as Aegon is in his moment.

“I must marry you, H/N, at once. Bewitched I may be for this new sentiment that poets compare to redemption, even if I as a man am unworthy it, has taken possess of my soul. Let me profess how ardently I love you, sweet H/N!”

So suddenly you begin to pick the pieces. Aegon had sent his brother to conquer you, for even you were familiar that your father would not marry his youngest daughter first than his eldest, especially after the Lannister scandal.

This means, you begin to think, that I am nothing especial.

And as this thought occurs you, Aemond pales at your reasoning. He then comes after you, tortured by the idea you’ve may come to him.

“Y/N”, he calls your name right there in the midst of corridors. “Please, wait! My lady, hear me out…”

“Please tell me he didn’t pay you to do what you did”, you turn at him, eyes already puddled with tears.

Aemond quietens before the accusation, and for the moment fury seems to take the best of you.

“You rascal!”, it’s all you can say. “Stay away from me, Aemond Targaryen. Go back to your whores. They will certainly make better use of this gold.”

Aemond watches you go, never before left behind like he is now by you. He realizes the wrongs done and opts for waiting a better time to amend his mistake.

The worst susceptibility is to be crudely exposed, openly hurt not by others but by his pride.

He came to love you, but now this love tortures the best and the worst of him, eclipsing him at last…

***

• 10 things I resent in you.

‘Tis the day your sister is leaving behind the Tyrell surname, eagerly adopting the fancy Targaryen one. You attempted to refuse to attend it, feigning sickness, but your mother discovered it and here you are.

Dressed in the colors of your house, you are in no mood to feast or to be in the presence of those dragons again.

“You should be happy for me”, your sister is speaking in an accusing tone. “Because your heart has been broken does not give you the right to part mine.”

Her words knock you out of your self exile. It’s when you realize you haven’t been this good of a sister.

“I’m sorry. I’ll behave. I want you to be happy, I just… fell in my own trap, I suppose.” You admit in a rare moment of sisterly confessions. “I didn’t mean to ruin your day, sweet H/Nickname. I just thought all is better in books.”

“What good is there in living too much in words and forgetting to live life as it is? It’s not pretty to get hurt, but we get better and find other paths. People can change if you permit it, dear sister. Don’t be overly pessimistic.”

That being said, each follows now a different path. You must go back to your place in the crowd all the whilst two ladies help her dress. And as you head towards the grand salon where the festivity is expected to happen, you are met by Aemond Targaryen.

“Lady Y/N”, he greets you rather contained.

You curtsy elegantly.

“My prince.”

“Please, rise. There is no need to us behave like strangers”, he moves now to where you are and help you rise, never letting go of your hand for once.

“I should tell you something.”

“So do I.”

“You first”, you both say at once, before chuckling nervously at the impasse.

Eventually, though, Aemond says:

“No apologies are enough for what had been done. You had every right in behaving the way you did.”

“I despised your acts, true. But I resented how free you made me feel. How foolish you made every night after spending all day with you”, you lower your eyes to your locked hands. “I resented how roguish you behaved, how serious you were, how reluctantly you danced as if I was forcing you into it. I resented how you…”

And here you choke with words. Aemond smiles at himself, gently lifting your chin so he can read your eyes.

“You look adorable when you blush, Y/Nickname.”

You giggle softly.

“I resent the way you read into me easily, how you fight away my fears and how good heart you can be when I was told how bad you are.” And then you cup his face with your fingers. “The one thing I resent more is how I came to love you deeply and sacredly, Aemon Targaryen.”

In this empty corridor, no soul witnesses the precise instant he holds you against him and kisses you most ardently, breaking your castle for once and all, cutting away most of your thorns.

***

• Epilogue

In this large bed of Harrenhal, you welcome your husband properly, not minding how poorly dressed you are.

“How our nuptials are to you, my lady wife?”, he leans his nude body over yours, hands quickly to remove your nightgown, devouring you with his hunger eyes. “Just accordingly to what you’ve been told by your ladies?”

Your face goes scarlet red before being laid down.

“So much better”, you chuckle softly before wrapping your legs around his waist, hands running over his shoulders and chest. “Hmmm. Is it a dream, or you are indeed my husband?”

When his lips move to your neck, taking a while in your chest, you groan softly in response. Sweeter than your dreams ever were, you let him take the reins, having given under his touch so willingly.

“I love you”, he mumbles against your lips, just as he slides inside you.

“I love you more”, and just like that you turn positions.

For he may be the boss outside, but every subject knows that Lady Y/N Tyrell rules her lord husband behind the scenes.

And these are days of summer, where peace is warming and content. That is until autumn comes, but this is for another day…

Regardless of future events, you and Aemond are destined to have a long and happy life with at least a dozen children of your own—he’d gladly come to find out how you came to really enjoy domestic activities a little too much.

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #house targaryen #taylor swift #1989 taylor's version #blank space #10 things i hate about you

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pessimisticpigeonsworld · 4 months

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TG stans and this fantasy that they themselves created that the house hightower has relevance in the asoiaf universe, let's be honest, the dance was the only moment they had their 10 minutes of fame lol yes! they are a good house (loyal to house targaryen currently) but they are not relevant afterwards... they are not on the level of targaryens, tyrells, baratheon, starks etc hightowers have no impact on the books currently, even the Greyjoys are more relevant lol

TG stans must hate the ASOIAF timeline so much lmao. House Hightower's only actions have been through Ser Gerold, who was the lord commander of Aerys' Kingsguard. The head of the house, Lord Leyton has locked himself in a tower and is suspected of experimenting with magic, in direct conflict with the Faith and the Citadel.

After the Dance, the Hightowers are only ever seen either keeping to themselves or supporting the Targaryens. In the Blackfyre rebellion, they officially supported neither camp, that's the only somewhat exception.

I've seen some of them wave around Rhaena's marriage to Gormund Hightower as if that's some kind of victory, when really it just cements House Hightower's renewed allegiance to the Targaryens.

The Hightowers have very little significance after the Dance. Their power in terms of the realm is equal to houses like the Freys and the Boltons, but they do so much less than both of them. Their ties to the Fatih and the Citadel are their claims to power, and Leyton is possibly damaging those.

Honestly I think they will come into play in TWOW, what with the ironborn invasion and Leyton's interest in magic. However, they will not take center stage nor be as significant as they were in the Dance. That was their moment of greatest political power, and they won't return to that.

#anti team green #anti team green stans #team black #asoiaf #leyton hightower #house hightower #this isn't #anti house hightower #but i'll tag it that way #bc the stans are crazy lmao #house of the dragon

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jackoshadows · 9 months

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Thinking of the parallels between Jaime/Brienne and Jon/Arya and the contrasts between Jaime/Cersei and Jon/Arya.

We start with the swords. I spy similarities in the writing where Jon gifts Arya a sword and Jaime does the same for Brienne.

First, it’s a gift.

“I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.” Her face lit up. “A present?”

“You could call it that. Close the door.” - Jon, AGoT

“I have a gift for you.” He reached down under the Lord Commander’s chair and brought it out, wrapped in folds of crimson velvet. - Jaime, ASoS

Then there’s the unveiling.

By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her. Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath. The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. - Jon, AGoT

Brienne approached as if the bundle was like to bite her, reached out a huge freckled hand, and flipped back a fold of cloth. Rubies glimmered in the light. She picked the treasure up gingerly, curled her fingers around the leather grip, and slowly slid the sword free of its scabbard. Blood and black the ripples shone. A finger of reflected light ran red along the edge. “Is this Valyrian steel? I have never seen such colors.” - Jaime, ASoS

And then there’s the naming, where both Jon and Jaime name the sword, for Arya’s ‘love’ of sewing and Brienne finding Catelyn’s girls for the oaths promised.

“I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.” “Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.” “Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.” Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: “Needle!” - Jon, AGoT

Before she could think to refuse, he went on. “A sword so fine must bear a name. It would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper. ” - Jaime, ASoS

This then leads to the first instance of Jon/Arya (and Jaime/Brienne) being written as foils to Jaime/Cersei with Cersei’s anger at the difference between how she and Jaime were treated growing up as children.

"Yet even so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. 'What do I get?' I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime's lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood." - Cersei, AFfC

And while Arya’s parents did treat her differently to her brothers, she did end up getting a sword because Jon Snow gifted her with one. Jon Snow who recognizes what it is that Arya is actually interested in, what it is that Arya wants, who understands the unfairness of the patriarchy where Arya is concerned and proceeds to try and fix in some small manner.

And yet for as much as Jaime claims to love Cersei, giving up Casterly Rock and becoming a Kingsguard to be with her, he does not seem to either understand this side of her or acknowledge it any way. Given the constant reminders that Jaime and Cersei are very close to each other from birth, does Jaime even know of Cersei’s resentment and try to address it? Have conversations with her about it? Given what we know of pre - one hand Jaime and his initial interactions with Brienne, I doubt it. In fact Jaime is surprised at Brienne’s prowess and strength given that she’s a woman.

She is stronger than I am.The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him, to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so … by rights, she should be the one wearing down. - Jaime, ASoS

And while Cersei resented that Jaime got Casterly Rock and the swords, there is understanding and empathy on both sides where Jon Snow and Arya Stark are concerned.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him. He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.” “Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair. - Arya, AGoT

Jaime only gets to this place of seeing Brienne as an equal in ASoS, after interacting with her, starting to respect her skill and accepting her as a fellow warrior and trusting in her to keep his oaths to Catelyn.

He swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me. We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with us. - Jaime, ASoS

With Jaime’s gradual change in feelings towards Cersei and Brienne, we get that final contrast between Jaime/Cersei and Jon/Arya - possibly also where Jaime/Cersei ends once and for all and where romantic Jon/Arya may start with a resurrected Jon reuniting with an older Arya. Yes, this is about the letters.

“Does my lord wish to answer?”

I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.” - Jaime, AFfC

“What do you mean to do, crow?”

I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

“I think we had best change the plan,” Jon Snow said. - Jon, ADwD

Keep in mind that by laws and oaths sworn, as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, Jaime can and most probably should defend the queen in a trial by combat and still Jaime refuses to help. Meanwhile, Jon Snow is prohibited by laws and sworn oaths to step in and help Arya and yet he decides to endanger the neutrality of the NW by going to war with Ramsay Bolton.

Jaime is as done with Cersei as Cersei was done with Jaime when he returned without a hand. Meanwhile Jon Snow is just getting started, breaking his sacrosanct NW oaths and rallying an army of Wildlings to go attack the Warden of the North for Arya.

And following through on here, I think there will be a very different reaction from Arya to a scarred Jon Snow - and yes, depending on how Jon is resurrected he may have a lot of scars or never healing injuries like Ladystoneheart and Beric Dondarrion - compared to Cersei’s revulsion at Jaime’s stump. Their bond and love for each other goes deeper than the lust and infatuation based on beauty and looks between Jaime and Cersei.

So yes, I think Braime makes for some nice parallels with Jonrya, while Jaime/Cersei work as foils to Jon/Arya.

#Jon Snow #Arya Stark #Jonrya #Jaime/Brienne #Jaime/Cersei

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chasingthedragons · 6 months

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Armors of House Royce

1 - LADY RHEA ROYCE in her bronze armor 2 - SER GEROLD ROYCE in his bronze armor

> HIGHTOWER > VELARYON > TARGARYEN > STRONG > BARATHEON

#house of the dragon #hotd #asoiaf #game of thrones #got #house royce #rhea royce #gerold royce #hotd fashion

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wpmorse · 5 months

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When he was done, more than three-quarters of his page still remained to be filled between the gold lion on the crimson shield on top and the blank white shield at the bottom. Ser Gerold Hightower had begun his history, and Ser Barristan Selmy had continued it, but the rest Jaime Lannister would need to write for himself. He could write whatever he chose, henceforth. Jaimie page 1010

Jaimie writes the rest of his story on his page in the white book and ponders his duty and honor as a knight of the King's Guard.

The principle of this picture was sound. Unfortunately, I don't think I executed it successfully. Perhaps it would have worked out if I had zoomed out a little bit more, showing the weight of the room. But then it would have been too similar to the previous scene in this room.

It also would have helped if I'd looked at a picture of a book stand before I drew this.

#asoiaf #a storm of swords #pen and ink #illustration #jaime lannister #the white book

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ilynpilled · 1 year

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The golden armor, not the white, but no one ever remembers that. Would that I had taken off that damned cloak as well.

When I reach King's Landing I'll have a new hand forged, a golden hand.

Cersei might like that. A golden hand to stroke her golden hair.

I am not myself. He eased himself down until the water reached his chin. “Soiled my white cloak . . . I wore my gold armor that day, but . . ."

“Gold armor?” Her voice sounded far off, faint.

Jaime slid into the offered seat quickly, so Bolton could not see how weak he was. "White is for Starks. I'll drink red like a good Lannister."

She did as he bid her. "The white cloak . . ."

". . . is new, but I'm sure I'll soil it soon enough."

“That wasn't . . . I was about to say that it becomes you.”

"Robert's beard was black. Mine is gold."

"Gold? Or silver?" Cersei plucked a hair from beneath his chin and held it up. It was grey. "All the color is draining out of you, brother. You've become a ghost of what you were, a pale crippled thing. And so bloodless, always in white." She flicked the hair away. "I prefer you garbed in crimson and gold."

At its head Jaime stood at vigil, his one good hand curled about the hilt of a tall golden greatsword whose point rested on the floor. The hooded cloak he wore was as white as freshly fallen snow, and the scales of his long hauberk were mother-of-pearl chased with gold. Lord Tywin would have wanted him in Lannister gold and crimson, she thought. It always angered him to see Jaime all in white.

Ser Jaime Lannister, all in white, stood beside his father's bier, five fingers curled about the hilt of a golden greatsword.

Fissures had opened in his cheeks, and a foul white fluid was seeping through the joints of his splendid gold-and-crimson armor to pool beneath his body.

Glory wore trappings of Lannister crimson; Honor was barded in Kingsguard white.

His cloak was Lannister crimson, but his surcoat showed the ten purple mullets of his own House arrayed upon a yellow field.

"My lord," the lad asked, "will you be wanting your new hand?"

"Wear it, Jaime," urged Ser Kennos of Kayce. "Wave at the smallfolk and give them a tale to tell their children.”

“I think not." Jaime would not show the crowds a golden lie. Let them see the stump. Let them see the cripple.

Behind the lords came a hundred crossbowmen and three hundred men-at-arms, and crimson flowed from their shoulders as well. In his white cloak and white scale armor, Jaime felt out of place amongst that river of red.

Jaime Lannister wore a doublet of red velvet slashed with cloth-of-gold, and a golden chain studded with black diamonds. He had strapped on his golden hand as well, polished to a fine bright sheen. This was no fit place to wear his whites. His duty awaited him at Riverrun; a darker need had brought him here.

Jaime had thought long and hard about whether to wear his gold armor or his white to this meeting; in the end, he'd chosen a leather jack and a crimson cloak.

For an instant, the deep red clouds that crowned the western hills reminded him of Rhaegar's children, all wrapped up in crimson cloaks.

Seven bloody hells," he started, "who dares—" Then he saw Jaime's white cloak and golden breastplate. His swordpoint dropped. "Lannister?"

quotes specifically focusing on his hand:

“The boy is dead." Jaime had drunk three cups of wine, and his golden hand seemed to be growing heavier and clumsier by the moment.

His golden fingers were curved enough to hook, but could not grasp, so his hold upon the shield was loose. "You were a knight once, ser," Jaime said. "So was I. Let us see what we are now."

“Radiant." Fickle. "Golden." False as fool's gold. Last night he dreamed he'd found her fucking Moon Boy. He'd killed the fool and smashed his sister's teeth to splinters with his golden hand, just as Gregor Clegane had done to poor Pia. In his dreams Jaime always had two hands; one was made of gold, but it worked just like the other.

"Men shall name you Goldenhand from this day forth, my lord," the armorer had assured him the first time he'd fitted it onto Jaime's wrist. He was wrong. I shall be the Kingslayer till I die.

One of them wore the ruins of a crimson cloak, but Jaime hanged him with the rest. It felt good. This was justice. Make a habit of it, Lannister, and one day men might call you Goldenhand after all. Goldenhand the Just. The world grew ever greyer as they drew near to Harrenhal.

The weight of his golden hand had grown irksome. He fumbled at the straps that secured it to his wrist.

Well, what's one more broken vow to the Kingslayer? Just more shit in the bucket. Jaime resolved to be the first man on the battlements. And with this golden hand of mine, most like the first to fall.

Around him he glimpsed the faces of men he'd done his best to kill in the Whispering Wood, where the Freys had fought beneath the direwolf banners of Robb Stark. His golden hand hung heavy at his side.

then the subconscious conclusion:

"Is it?" She smiled sadly. "Count your hands, child."

One. One hand, clasped tight around the sword hilt. Only one. "In my dreams I always have two hands." He raised his right arm and stared uncomprehending at the ugliness of his stump.

I think the narrative that is being told in the color symbolism present in Jaime’s story is the realization that glory has no presence in the man he wants to become. He gradually realizes again the truth of the golden hand covering his stump being a golden lie. It is more an embodiment of his sins, a heavy burden he carries. True honor and change will not be wrapped in gold, and obviously not crimson. But this should not lead to the return of his cynicism, which is how he approaches this early on, and why he wants to delude himself about it. He greys, and he sheds the red and gold color. The white becomes him. The crimson & gold comes back when he does his duty for the horrid Lannister regime, when he sustains loyalty to his family, and emulates his father. Nonetheless, he keeps drawing nearer to the blank white shield at the bottom of his page and distancing himself from the crimson at the top. But maybe the lesson is that he cannot start over like that. Maybe his only choices are not the evil Kingslayer and the glittering Goldenhand the Just. Maybe he should just be Jaime. That white shield is tainted. Our good actions do not wash out the bad. They will exist simultaneously. You will never be the golden heir, the perfect pure white Just Knight. You are a crippled broken man. But that does not mean you cannot choose to continue living and keep pushing to change for the better:

“What else can I do, but die?”

“Live,” she said

Maybe the blank white shield is an impossible ideal not made for him. But what remains if he cannot be crimson, gold, or the pure white?

yet she knew it was him. “Even at a distance, Ser Jaime Lannister was unmistakable. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black.”

He was always meant to be a grey character. Why don’t we mix that black & white?

#something about the gold of his armor and hair being silvered turning closer to white and his crimson cloak turning black #and it is the moon #the graceful crescent during the night he decided to live #and its as early as agot?:?):#i love being delusional guys #asoiaf #jaime lannister #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf meta #also the ‘Jaime resolved to be the first man on the battlements. And with this golden hand of mine most like the first to fall’#he is at it again oml #frank reynolds ‘sulclde is badass’ on loop #anyway the build up works very well with the vows of taking the black

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lemonhemlock · 7 months

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A true unpopular opinion, but some Green fans need to acknowledge that House Hightower has always been unabashedly pro Targaryen in canon. They married three times into the Targs (Maegor with Ceryse, Alicent with Viserys 1, and Garmund with Rhaena). They sided with them against the Faith Militant, took the side of one branch of Targs in the Dance, and sided with Aerys II in Robert's Rebellion (Daenerys literally describes them as loyal to her family in the books).

I get that it's funny to poke fun at cringe Targ stans for hating the Hightowers *blood purity and bullshit 🙄* but it becomes much less of a dunk because House Hightower has always been canonically loyal to the Targaryens. Feel free to disagree with me, but that's just my opinion.

Oh, absolutely, this automatic rendering of the Hightowers as secret Targaryen-haters is faintly ridiculous. It was fine as a joke, but some people take it so seriously, when not even the Targaryens are completely demonised by the narrative. The text reads to me like they're supposed to be considered a mixed bag, with good and bad, culminating, of course, with the unspeakable cruelty of Aerys II and the justification for Robert's Rebellion. But, by some fans' reactions, you'd think GRRM intended every Targaryen ever created to be considered the devil incarnate - I really don't think that's the case.

IMO it's not that the Hightowers hate the Targaryens, it's just that they want to access some of their political power or even ingratiate themselves into the innermost circles. At the same they just generally seem to want to not die and live out their comfortable lives in their beautiful city, so sometimes you'll encounter some pretty ruthless pragmatism in their history in order to preserve that. I've written meta in the past on how I see their role in the narrative - it's clear that they will at least have some pretty important part to play in the upcoming battle for Oldtown.

Similarly, their association with the Faith of the Seven is very practical in nature - making friends within religious high circles is very often going to benefit you in some way, be it politically or even financially. I'm sure they're not faking their beliefs, but it's one thing to have normal religious beliefs for the era and instrumentalize them politically and it's one thing altogether to be a religious nutcase. Some Hightowers are said to have historically studied magic and necromancy, too, so they're periodically not bothered about being religious purists. In the books, Viserys was the one who decided to marry Aegon and Helaena, but the Hightowers were obviously not too bothered about the targcest, because they didn't put up a fight or express their reservations. Alicent herself was the one who proposed her own son be married to his half-sister. In the show, they made her wear this huge seven-pointed-star to telegraph more religious compliance than I think arose originally from the text.

I do have to add an explicatory note, though: the Hightowers didn't exactly side with Maegor during the Faith Militant's Rebellion. Their interest in this matter would have been for Ceryse to be considered his sole wife, which is why Ceryse's father, Manfred, protested to King Aenys about this issue. During this uprising, at some point Maegor, Visenya and their army (with their dragons) approached Oldtown. Initially, Martyn, Ceryse's brother, called his banners but it's likely that the might of the Targaryen host convinced him that the path of least resistance was to simply acquiesce, instead of getting burnt alive by Vhagar and Balerion. So it would be more a case of being strongarmed into supporting Maegor in this situation.

The period of Aerys II's reign in Hightower history has the potential to be very interesting, since, yes, they sided with Aerys, but the question is how much that decision was influenced by the fact that Gerold Hightower was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. How much sway did Ser Gerold hold over his nephew Lord Leyton? Did he essentially consider his uncle to be a hostage or just aligned himself out of solidarity with his political decisions? Did what happened during Robert's Rebellion have any bearing on his decision to later become a hermit? Personally, I would like to find out more about Ser Gerold's headspace and decision-making process during this time, because it could be an insightful exploration into the honour vs duty question, if GRRM is ever so inclined to give us more details - this goes for pretty much all members of Aerys II's Kingsguard, especially Arthur Dayne and Lewyn Martell.

#ask #anon #house hightower

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nightswatchdisbandmentera · 9 months

Text

JON SNOW FORTNIGHT EVENT 2023

Day 12 - House Targaryen

Robb looked relieved. “Good.” He smiled. “The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.”

Jon forced himself to smile back. “It was always my color."

- Jon II, AGOT

It’s interesting to see how the color black acts as a link between Jon and House Targaryen, especially when it comes to marking who has legitimacy and/or the right to rule.

The most obvious tether to this link is Jon’s father, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, who has often been associated with the color black.

They had come together at the ford of the Trident… Robert with his warhammer… the Targaryen prince armored all in black.

- Eddard I, AGOT

The prince had donned his night-black armor, with the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his breastplate.

- Jaime I, AFFC

Seventeen and new to knighthood, Rhaegar had worn black plate over golden ringmail when he cantered onto the lists.

- Cersei V, AFFC

And Rhaegar has also been recognized as a true scion of House Targaryen.

"Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, and he died on the Trident. Viserys is less than the shadow of a snake."

- Daenerys III, AGOT

Five had been his brothers. Oswell Whent and Jon Darry. Lewyn Martell, a prince of Dorne. The White Bull, Gerold Hightower. Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning. And beside them, crowned in mist and grief with his long hair streaming behind him, rode Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

- Jaime VI, ASOS

But Rhaegar isn't the only Targaryen who is associated with the color black. Of course, Black is the house’s color. But there are a few remarkable Targaryens whose association with this particular color is notable.

We have Aegon the Conqueror whose steed was called Balerion “the black dread”. Of the three dragons used to bring Westeros to its heels, Balerion was the most fearsome one and was ridden by the man who would eventually become king of the entire continent. Balerion the “black dread” was a king’s dragon.

Aegon's dragons were named for the gods of Old Valyria. Visenya's dragon was Vhagar, Rhaenys had Meraxes, and Aegon rode Balerion, the Black Dread. It was said that Vhagar's breath was so hot that it could melt a knight's armor and cook the man inside, that Meraxes swallowed horses whole, and Balerion ... his fire was as black as his scales, his wings so vast that whole towns were swallowed up in their shadow when he passed overhead.

- Daenerys I, ACOK

Then we have Rhaenyra, the dragon queen who commanded the faction known as the “Blacks” during the Dance of the Dragons. Per King Viserys’ decree, Rhaenyra was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Like Rhaegar, she has a special narrative link to the color black. And like Rhaegar, she also served as Princess of Dragonstone and was crowned there (Dragonstone being House Targaryen's seat, thus marking Rhaenyra as one continuing House Targaryen's legacy).

Once his mourning for his wife and son had run its course, the king moved swiftly to resolve the long-simmering issue of the succession. Disregarding the precedents set by King Jaehaerys in 92 and the Great Council in 101, Viserys declared his daughter, Rhaenyra, to be his rightful heir, and named her Princess of Dragonstone. In a lavish ceremony at King’s Landing, hundreds of lords did obeisance to the Realm’s Delight as she sat at her father’s feet at the base of the Iron Throne, swearing to honor and defend her right of succession.

- Heirs of the Dragon - A Question of Succession, Fire & Blood

And so the Dance began, as the princess called a council of her own. “The black council,” the True Telling names that gathering on Dragonstone, setting it against the “green council” of King’s Landing. Rhaenyra herself presided, seated between her uncle and husband, Prince Daemon, and her trusted counselor, Maester Gerardys.

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

From Aegon I, to Rhaenyra, to Rhaegar, GRRM uses black as a marker of a true Targaryen heir. This is continued by Daenerys, the last of the dragons, and her steed Drogon.

The Dothraki looked at her hatchlings uneasily. The largest of her three was shiny black, his scales slashed with streaks of vivid scarlet to match his wings and horns. “Khaleesi,” Aggo murmured, “there sits Balerion, come again.”

- Daenerys I, ACOK

Dany’s connection to Aegon is one of the signifiers of her status as a true Targaryen heir (and the true bearer of House Targaryen’s legacy).

The black dread, the black queen, and the black bastard…

Some nights she heard talk of him, in the taverns and brothels of the Ragman’s Harbor. The Black Bastard of the Wall, one man had called him.

- The Blind Girl, ADWD

And Jon being called the "black bastard" is quite ironic, because as we know,

One by one Arya had chased them down and snatched them up and brought them proudly to Syrio Forel … all but this one, this one-eared black devil of a tomcat. “That’s the real king of this castle right there,” one of the gold cloaks had told her. “Older than sin and twice as mean. One time, the king was feasting the queen’s father, and that black bastard hopped up on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of Lord Tywin’s fingers. Robert laughed so-hard he like to burst. You stay away from that one, child.”

- Arya III, AGOT

#jon snow #house targaryen #aegon the conqueror #balerion the black dread #rhaenyra targaryen #drogon #daenerys targaryen #rhaegar targaryen #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #jonsnowfortnightevent2023

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unusual-raccoon · 9 months

Text

cut me to ribbons | by Unusual_Raccoon (Lucerys II x Aerys II)

for @halibalism - hope you enjoy 🤍

Warnings: Canon Compliant, Minor Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen (Wife of Aerys II), Cousin Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Painful Sex, Anal Sex, No Lube, Blood as Lube, Pining, Be Careful What You Wish For, Possibly Unrequited Love, Biting, Scratching, Vaginal Fingering, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Intersex Velaryons, Velaryon Traditions, Targaryen Madness, Sexual Dysfunction, Sadism, Valyrian Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Marital Rape, Abuse

Summary: Lucerys II Velaryon, Master of Ships and Lord of Driftmark, makes a deal with his beloved cousin, the Mad King, after making a discovery about the queen.

WC: 4K+ Ao3 Link

Lucerys is not sure if he had seen them before, turned a blind eye as many no doubt had. But it is unavoidable now, standing in the doorway of his cousin’s chambers.

A purpling bruise upon her cheek, poorly hidden beneath a fine film of heavily applied powder.

There is another upon the delicate curve of her neck. They are bite marks, he realizes belatedly with a shiver; a mere stamp of ownership left by another.

Nausea roils in his gut. His grip tightening around the carved wooden dragon young Viserys had abandoned in the hall. A delicately whittled wing whines like it may snap.

“Cousin?” He calls gently, mindful of the way the queen, Rhaella, jumps - the mournful violet of her downturned eyes blink shamefully at him.

“Are you well?” He asks, it is a stupid question, to which she offers a timid, watery smile.

“Yes, yes, of course-“ her veneer of calm is but a gossamer thing. He sees through it without trying. He notes the tiny pearls of unshed tears that gather in her mournful violet eyes - dark as a bruise.

The culprit is not difficult to discern, as he knows, there is only one man able to inflict such horrors on the queen of seven kingdoms without reproach…

He presses the child’s toy into her small, trembling hands, steadies her with a few fingers curved about her elbow. Her chin shakes and he mourns. He mourns for the stranger he sees before him. His cousin is eight years his senior, he and Rhaella had never been alarmingly close in their youth, no, Lucerys had always been enamored with Aerys, her elder brother - he grits his teeth to stem the tide of fondness that threatens to sweep away the horror of the present.

“I will speak with him.”

Rhaella’s head jumps up. A tear splits down her powered cheek. She shakes her head. A white-gold curl bounces against her temple.

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself, Lucerys-“

“Rhaella,” he said firmly, unperturbed. His thumb worried in circles along the intricate brocade of her sleeve upon her elbow.

She feels fragile beneath his touch, though they are of a similar, unassuming stature.

“I will speak with him.”

“Your Grace- forgive me,” a nursemaid gawps in the doorway; a touch scandalized with a man in the queen’s chambers, in such an…intimate position. Little Viserys stands by his nursemaid’s side.

“My lord,” she greets Lucerys with a deferential bow of her covered head. A faint hue lingers upon the girl’s cheeks.

“Your Grace, would you like us to return at a later time?”

“I was just leaving,” Lucerys replies brusquely. He pauses in the doorway to ruffle Viserys’ hair, as he used to with Monford. The boy emits a sound between a laugh and shriek, bolting to hide behind his mother’s skirts with a grin.

And despite himself, it brings a short lived smile to Lucerys’ lips.

He straightens himself in the walk through the keep’s long corridors, back held straight and shoulders squared, sword swinging at his side, arms clasped behind his back.

He finds the Lord Commander of the kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, posted before the king’s chambers.

“Lord Admiral,” the knight greets with a bow of his head.

“Lord Commander,” Lucerys replies in turn, catching the leer of dark eyes that study him intently.

“I require an audience with the king,” he adds.

The tall knight nods.

“Your Master of Ships, your Grace.” Ser Hightower calls in a deep voice.

There is muffled conversation that drips through the scant gap in the doorway. His king is not alone.

A ragged voice bids him entry.

Where Aerys is typically fussed over by young maesters under Pycelle that endlessly apply salves to wounds left by his throne, he is instead locked in grumbling conversation with his Hand: Tywin Lannister.

“Lord Tywin.” Lucerys begins, his curls pale and buoyant as seafoam bob into his vision with a bow for the king, “Your Grace.”

“Lucerys,” the king says, sounding for all ears, utterly exasperated with his foremost advisor.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you, your Grace.”

The king waves a beckoning hand, with long, sharp nails. Tywin’s perceptive green-gold eyes watch him too keenly.

Lucerys’ gaze flits pointedly between the king and his Hand.

“…privately, your Grace.”

His cousin’s violet eyes narrow in a predatory fashion, before he shoos Lord Tywin from his chambers with a dismissive wave.

“The man vies for my throne.” The king snits with a curl of his nose when they are alone. He blows a sigh and turns his attention to Lucerys. Pointed nails clicking against the wooden arm of his chair in a quickening tempo.

“Cousin,” he drawls, “what is it you wish to speak of?”

Lucerys does not falter when he answers.

“Rhaella.”

His cousin barks out a laugh, yet his vexation shines clearly through his eyes and the trembling turn of his dry lips.

“What about her?”

“Is my wife, my queen, of some concern to you, cousin?”

“Aerys,” Lucerys says with a wince.

“Have you fallen for her, Lucerys? Has she tried to seduce you, my poor wife? Hm, shall I have the faith chastise her for her adulterous behavior, the slattern! Speak now, so we might rectify the issue-“

“Aerys, enough! You know as well as I that Rhaella would never act against you.”

Nor would I, he thinks, but bites his tongue in that regard.

Most men have enough sense to tread lightly around their king, their mad king. At twenty and six, a lord for thirteen of those years, and a Master of Ships and Lord Admiral for 10 - Lucerys is not most. For as much as he loves his cousin - too much at times - he refuses to fear him even as fire flashes in Aerys’ crazed eyes. For if Aerys is fire, he is the sea.

“She is my cousin, just as you are - my blood, and it pains me to see her suffering so.”

Aerys’ lip lifts in a shaking sneer. His rage boils to the surface. He rises from his seat, robes hanging shapeless around his body, gaunt in ways he had not been in his youth; gallant and beautiful. He bears long ragged nails and lank white-gold hair and an unkempt beard. His teeth are chipped and nose crooked, lasting memories of the treason at Duskendale. He hardly resembles the man Lucerys had admired as a boy; the man he loved…the man he still loves.

“If you are so concerned for the treatment of my dear wife, perhaps you should like to take her place…to spare her my affections.”

Lucerys recoils instantly. His face flushes warm at the mere mention. The mockery stings, but he refuses to be shaken by it, nor the traitorous heat that builds in his belly - it is a silly, burgeoning thing.

“You…flatter me, your grace.” He says with painstaking poise.

“It is not my intention to flatter you, boy.”

Boy, Lucerys thinks, jaw tense. Aerys would always be 10 years his senior, older, wiser - to him, Lucerys would always be a boy, a frivolous little creature only fit for entertaining him…and warming his bed, so it seemed. If it meant sparing Rhaella his indecency…

“And if I were to agree, your grace? To be there to…cool your fire in the queen’s place…you would leave her be?”

Heat flashes in the king’s violet eyes.

His blood crawls through him with a chill. Lucerys wets his lips with his tongue.

“If you were to agree, I would have you here and now, to ensure you are an…adequate replacement.”

Lucerys lets out a soft laugh, “I am a Velaryon, cousin, we possess far too much pride to be simply adequate,” he lowers his voice, “and it is well known that I’ve always been your favorite cousin.”

The call of their blood was too potent to ignore.

Aerys flashes an irate smile, “Steffon’s my favorite cousin,” he says pointedly in a way that is meant to wound, Lucerys only offers a coy crinkle of his nose, “Strip.”

He obeys.

He removes his sword belt slowly, before placing it aside. He plucks rings from his fingers, the largest a gift from his wife, beset with a smooth chunk of glassy green Serpentine.

His Manderly woman. He kisses the stone once before moving onto his waistcoat. He feels the king’s eyes upon him. Wrathful.

“Faster.” Aerys demands, seated once more in his chair. His pointed nails click against the arm of his chair in a gathering tempo. Faster. Faster. He pictures whorls of ballroom dancers as he unfastens the diagonal line of buttons upon his heavily embroidered waistcoat, with countless beads of aquamarine and silver.

He shrugs the garment away to be abandoned with the likes of his sword and jewels.

His linen tunic is a lightweight article, barely there, with fanciful ruffs at the wrists. It is cast aside easily.

He pauses at his trousers. He toes off the supple leather of his boots. Colorful silk knee socks adorned with spirals of teal thread are removed and folded carefully. His breeches are rather utilitarian and he does away with them unapologetically.

He is bare, save for his smallclothes. And a single teardrop pearl earring that hangs from his right ear. His symbol of office as Lord of the Tides… The Sea Snake’s Boon. Passed from lord to heir.

He rolls the small bit of bequeathed jewelry carefully between two fingers; more invaluable to House Velaryon than its amassed wealth. To remove it now…

He forces his smalls down his willowy legs instead.

Aerys’ expression darkens, the violet of his eyes lurid. He stands from his seat swiftly.

Since Duskendale Aerys had never quite seemed as tall as Lucerys had recalled from childhood, yet in that moment, garbed in heavy bespoke robes, he is all Lucerys remembers and more.

Aerys shrugs away his robes, revealing pale, damaged skin. He is but a litany of half-healed wounds, cuts and sores from his throne. He is thin, too thin.

His arms shake as his crown is set aside, as though the weight of it is too much to bear.

“Get on the bed.” His cousin commands. The enormity of what he is subjecting himself dawns upon him, stripped bare. He feels the urge to weep, whether out of anguish nor joy, he cannot tell. Guilt is upon him instantly, and the burn of sickness lingers in his throat at the prospect of feeling joy for the very act that caused Rhaella such harm.

He loves his cousin, too much, at times.

He does as his king commands.

Lucerys lowers himself upon the duvet.

The large featherbed dips subtly beneath the addition of Aerys’ weight.

Lucerys steels himself for whatever may come. He shivers as long, pointed nails trace up his flank. Skin tightening with a wave of gooseflesh. How long had he dreamt of being in his cousin’s bed…of being at his mercy.

Fingers idle over his nape, a fist wrenches a handful of white curls back, and his head with it. He chokes on a sound of shock. Battling the urge to fight back.

Heat trickles down his spine - blood, he realizes. Nicked by one of many long nails.

First blood, he thinks, head pressed unceremoniously into a mound of pillows.

His own breath sticks warm to his cheeks, soaking into the linens.

He huffs a soft sound into the goosedown. Insignificant. A hand gropes at the curve of his rear, mortification stings hot on his cheeks. The touch moves, unabashed.

His thighs are urged apart. Long hair tickles his back.

A hand presses tentatively, each caress drawing forth a sharp inhale at the prickle of pointed talons across bare flesh.

A knuckle brushes along his taint, pausing at the delicate folds of flesh, nestled away beneath his stones. There it was, the magic of House Velaryon. They were not born to ride dragons, no, they were born to mate…to breed…like their sigil. Every man of their lineage bore the same curiosity the king toyed with now. A quim.

In the eyes of the Westerosi, it made them more alien than their dragon-riding kin. Men capable of fathering sons and birthing them.

A nail grazes the tender flesh and Lucerys gasps. Hands clutching fistfuls of fine linens.

He hears his cousin laugh, it is a cruel thing.

A hand wrenches his head back once more, his spine aches, cool air stings the damp sweat upon his cheeks. A talon bearing a pearl of his own nectar, translucent and damning, is held for him to see through hazy eyes.

Lucerys is returned into the burrow of pillows once more; shamed.

Two hands knead at his rear.

Appraising.

A single palm retreats and he hears the friction of skin on skin.

He licks his teeth, mouth dry. He awaits the sting of a rough entry, but finds none. His toes tingle, vaguely numb.

He only hears the slap of skin on skin, the harsh pumps of a curled fist growing more and more frantic. He tilts his head slightly, white-gold fringe curling against the sweat on his forehead.

“Aer-”

His face is pressed into the pillows with a snarl. Air struggles to filter through the fabric.

Hands grope at him, angry in their ardor, pointed nails drawing welts upon his flesh.

He bites his tongue to smother a hiss.

His spine stiffens at the blunt press of a soft member between his legs.

The moments float by, both ephemeral and eternal in the smothered darkness of the pillows.

There is a drowsy almost pleasant sensation to be found with the weight of a warm body atop his.

Whatever veil of complacency formed, is torn away with a violent shock of pain that bursts over his bare shoulder. Chipped teeth dig into his skin. Blood bubbles up beneath unbroken flesh, throbbing.

A grunt is exhaled into the linens. Sweat erupts over his skin like he’s taken ill.

A warm mouth bites him again and again. Long white-gold hair tickles his shoulders.

He is trembling, back littered with bites, by the time Aerys is hard. The thick head of his cousin’s cock presses between his thighs, excited in the face of his pain; the size of it gives him pause.

A strangled sound wells in his throat as Aerys’ cock rubs against the damp seam of Lucerys’ quim. His toes curl.

The muscles in his back ache, pockmarked with blossoming bruises.

Aerys’ hands knead at his rear, spreading the flesh apart. Lucerys inhales, awaiting the first press of his manhood with a drooling slit.

The crimson tip of the king’s cock lingers against the soft flesh of his quim, indolent.

Long fingers and pointed nails scratch raised welts across his buttocks. The skin burns hot.

He feels Aerys’ weight shift slightly, the mattress sinking in new places where he moves. It sways beneath him like the sea.

A hand squeezes his plush rear. The tip of Aerys’ cock twitches.

Lucerys breathes in once more.

The mattress shifts and he is certain it will come. The fattened head slips forward and higher - abruptly the wrong hole is breached. He muffles his agony over a mouthful of pillows. His legs tremble violently.

The tip of Aerys’ cock is forced into his rear, the tight rim screams with red-hot pain. Lucerys claws at the bedding, feral.

The wet smell of iron coats the air, nausea burns in his throat.

Aerys’ hisses above him, clawed hands cling to his hips as he is made to accept more.

He is dizzy. Sweating. Bleeding.

He struggles to breathe, fists clutching weakly at the duvet.

The first thrust, the first true thrust, tears him open like a fisherman’s spear.

He hears his cousin growl, grip tightening upon Lucerys’ hips as he eases back, the broken flesh stinging.

He is fucked open, torn open, pointed nails slash wounds upon his hips and lower back.

His cousin’s thrusts are violent and his breathing harsh. He glides inside, eased by blood, like any king, destined to leave a mark where no man had been before.

The slick clap of their bodies builds into a quickening tempo. Faster. Faster.

Lucerys hiccups, desensitized to the pain, wriggling against the bedding as something worse sweeps over him.

Prickling, needle-like pleasure. Unbearable pleasure that builds in his ruined hole, down to his neglected one. Nectar and blood moisten his thighs.

His cock pulses, pinned stiff and uncomfortable against the bedding.

Aerys’ hips meet the curve of his buttocks loudly, wet skin on skin. He moans and tears prickle in his eyes.

When pain lances through him, it is a relief. A brief bubble of oxygen for a drowning man. He is violating me, Lucerys thinks, the salt of unshed tears remind him of the sea, oh, but it is him.

Aerys’ teeth sink into his shoulder, nails dyed crimson dig into his hip. His cock is large, too large as it plunges in deep. His puffy, abused rim clinging to it.

Warm, rapid breath rattles the small bit of jewelry that remains upon his person. A single teardrop pearl earring.

His cousin’s breath grows labored, monstrous.

Every harsh rock of his hips buries him further; Lucerys feels some shape of Aerys behind his ribs, battering away.

Aerys’ cock stabs in jarringly hard, bloody and pulsing and thick. His cousin shudders suddenly, stones tensing hot and full against Lucerys’ dripping, empty quim.

He reaches his peak with a ragged sound, roaring like long dead dragons while he empties his sac. Lucerys stills, motionless, hole fluttering as seed oozes from him. Dripping molten, tinged with blood, it scalds the backs of pale thighs.

He drinks in sips of air that squeeze in through the fabric of the duvet, lightheaded and terribly aroused.

His cock twitches once against his abdomen. And shame stings in his eyes.

He mewls a pathetic sound as the absence of his cousin’s cock brings with it a raw wave of sensation. Dewy, sex-scented air abrades his gaping hole, clenching around nothingness.

Aerys does nothing for a time, simply lingering wet skin to wet skin. He wipes his cock against the back of Lucerys’ thigh.

The featherbed shifts beneath him like the sea and he sways with the waves. He lifts his head slowly, cautious. Aerys sits amidst blood-stained bedding, rust-red manhood spent against his thigh.

When Lucerys looks upon him, eyes watering from the light, he doesn’t see an aged king, haunted and gaunt, with lank strands of white-gold hair adhering to the sweat upon his face and neck in a lattice, like a spider’s web. Instead, he sees his cousin as he once was. Beautiful and noble, a lover of masked balls and music; the man that had made small council meetings an agony for Lucerys at six and ten, at any age in truth, the man he had chased about the tiltyard with a wooden sword as a child.

Lucerys swallows, throat aching.

“Will that be all, your grace?” He asks, beneath himself, like a servant might.

His cousin’s violet eyes blink, once, twice - Lucerys is certain one of said blinks was vertical. He licks his lips, finds frayed skin and dried blood.

“Yes.”

He struggles to climb from the bed, weak-kneed and dizzy.

Lucerys nods. Teardrop pearl bouncing.

He staggers to his feets, anticipating mockery, yet Aerys says nothing. Does nothing.

Lucerys redresses, his socks and smalls, trousers and tunic, waistcoat and jewelry. He struggles briefly with his boots, but takes some measure of pride in being able to see the task through himself; fucked open like a gored animal.

His sword he saves for last. He runs a reverent finger over the ivory sculpted horse head pommel, with slivers of aquamarine for the eyes.

He binds the leather of his sword belt around his narrow waist with practiced hands. He straightens the heavy Serpentine ring upon his finger.

Though it had never been removed, he pinches briefly at the Sea Snake’s Boon that dangles from his right ear. It gives him resolve.

His cousin’s eyes linger upon him, unwavering.

He lowers his head in a brief show of deference and a softly muttered, ‘your grace’.

Lucerys steps into the halls of the Red Keep once more, as though nothing had happened.

“Lord Admiral,” A deep voice intones, and Lucerys nearly flinches. Ser Gerold Hightower stands guard beside the king’s chambers just as he had earlier. Dark eyes studying him intently.

“Lord Commander,” Lucerys replies as he walks through the hall with a stuttering gait.

He arrives to his own chambers, body aching and sore; mangled beneath the finery of his clothes.

He calls for a servant to have a bath drawn.

When the clawfoot tub is prepared, a handmaid dithers about in his shadow.

“My lord, did you require any assistance?”

“No- no, thank you. That will be all.”

He strips out of his clothing effortlessly, he feels rather practiced in doing so now, he thinks with a small snort.

He sinks into the water with a hiss, feeling lye sting countless open wounds. He winces, body recoiling as water and soap aggravate his abused rear.

Eventually, the pain becomes distant enough. He sinks into the bath, head hanging back against the lip of the clawfoot tub. The warmth of the water leaches the ache from his bones. He breathes out a sigh through his nose. He breathes in and smells lye soap and iron and semen.

He shifts in the narrow tub, thighs pressed together with a wince.

Heat stirs in him. His abused rim flutters and he shivers at the sensation of seed oozing from him. He sucks in a gasp, torn lower lip pulled between his teeth. He tells himself it’s only natural to seek pleasure where pain had been given.

His fingers brush the ruined flesh and flee instantly, the pain too bright.

He exhales, limbs loose. Desperate to replace Aerys’ pain with pleasure. A finger toys at his slit. His own hands feel foreign with blunt, well-kept nails.

Lucerys sighs in the warm waters, eyes closed, throat tight as he eases a finger into his quim.

He curls the digit gently, obligingly. Pleasure throbs warm to his toes. His back arches with a breathy sound.

A second finger joins the first, the angle making his shoulder ache. He arches in the tub, cold air on wet skin. His nipples stiffen as he thrashes, exposing more bits of flesh to icy scrutiny.

The rhythm of his fingers is insistent, hips bouncing, water frothing over the tub’s edge.

He worries a stiff nipple between his fingers, cunt clenching.

“Oh, fuck-” Lucerys sighs, brow furrowed, he slings a leg over the edge of the tub, wanton, unabashed.

He tugs on his nipple, the flesh tingles hot and cold from the abuse. Diligent fingers work in his core, curling and stroking silken insides.

His peak builds quickly, approaching like the tide. He gasps, willowy body pulling taut as a bowstring as his release ripples through him. He comes hard, soaking his own fingers.

“-Aerys!” He cries in time with his climax.

He slumps into the water, cheeks damp, spent and shuddering.

His head aches.

The remainder of his bath is carried out with a shamed sort of efficiency.

He adds a touch of sweet sleep to a goblet of strongwine and finishes the lot before climbing beneath his duvet.

___

Within the week there is yet another charred corpse in the throne room. Aerys had charged another, fire was his executioner. Innocent or guilty mattered not to their king.

The stench of smoke remains in his lungs, blackened upon his tongue, as he pores over a shipping manifest in his chambers.

Rhaella has paid visits of late, teary-eyed and fretting over him; so very grateful. Her bruises are beginning to fade, no longer caked beneath powder.

He rubs at his eyes, blinking at poorly drawn up inventory catalogs.

He starts at a brisk knock at the door.

“Enter,” he calls, parchment set aside. He neatens the wild fringe of white-gold curls with a pass of his fingers.

“Lord Admiral,” the familiar voice of Ser Gerold Hightower greets, a touch regretful if the slight turn of his mouth is any evidence.

“Lord Commander,” Lucerys replies, hesitant.

“The king has requested your presence.”

The king who had violated him. The king who had humiliated him. The king whom he loved, and would always love until he was laid to rest in the sea.

Lucerys ducks his head to hide his smile.

More than adequate, so it seems.

#my writing #lucerys ii velaryon #aerys ii targaryen #aerys ii x lucerys ii #lucaerys ii #asoiaf

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