#|| threads — highgarden ||

[wnterreign]

open starter / @reignrbs where: the briar maze. status: accepting replies.

        coming  to  the  maze  had  been a mistake. she'd realized it mere minutes after entering but that'd been too late for when she'd hurriedly retraced her steps to the exit a guard had stopped her. their order had remained firm regardless of her pleadings. tears had even threatened to fall but before they could, kat retreated to a part of the maze that didn't feel as claustrophobic. still were it not for the kitten who'd approached and was now purring as katerina petted it, she would've been even more overcome with panic. every sound made her flinch. hearing footsteps made her gaze dart in the direction, searching for whoever it was.

[casimirtully]

|| casimir & cedric ||

when: prior to the wedding of Cedric Tyrell and Illya Oakheart.

where: highgarden, the reach. cedric’s private quarters, sometime before nightfall.

@visxionaries​​

“I never though’t you’d say the Words twice before I even said them once.” Casimir’s voice held a tone of endearing sarcasm -- it had slipped into him the moment he’d stepped foot in Highgarden. Surprising, like when a drop of water hit you on the nose. Even with the betrayal of his elder sister only happening a few days or so before, Highgarden was... well, the truth of it? The Reach seemed, at times, just as much his home as The Riverlands. Grover Tully shoving him off to any lord who would take him in the warmer months -- desperate to not have to deal with his delinquent son -- had somehow ended up being the very best thing that had ever happened to him. 

Though the blood Qorban and his mother had shared was but a trace, Casimir had spent time in his cousin’s home the few times his Master of Whispers was not in fact at Riverrun. He had felt his heart beat in rhythm with Mooton drums. He had sailed with Mallister men, learned the ways of their ships and quietly learned some of that ancient and Old Tongue. He had witnesses the Braken’s dances, had kneeled before the dead Weirwood that had once grown at Raventree Hall beside his cousin, Lord Blackwood. He’d eaten with the small folk. He’d fought beside their sons. He’d even seen the Moon Door himself, and stood atop the Lion’s Rock. 

Grover Tully had forced him away, and instead of dooming him to a wandering existence, he’d given Casimir the greatest gift; a chance to soak in everything he could. To know his people’s passion, to respect their ways. 

But The Reach?

He had drank himself stupid with Omer Florent, sailed with Garland Hightower. Hunted with Mathis Rowan, and somehow managed to befriend The Lady of the Arbor. Endless summer days that stretched into night, where everything for a time had been simple. Safe. Fun. 

And then, there was Cedric -- his brother in every way but blood. Who’s mother had welcomed him with open arms when his own couldn’t -- who had introduced him so the gaggle of flowered lords and ladies who was the inner circle. Who understood the horrible longing to be something else, but weighed down by their deep rooted honor. Casimir had been loved, he had been cared for. He had been allowed to grow, and play music -- to be himself and forge true  friendships with those who’s respect he had to earn. Friendships, it seemed, that went deeper than the loyalty from his own blood. Than the loyalty of his own sister. 

Emilee had nearly wiped out the Tully line, and... Casimir should have been there. He should have been in Riverrun, should have seen her face before she’d been locked up. To ask why. Why she had deceived him, lied to his face. He should’ve been there to watch her burning pyre sail down The Trident. Yet, Casimir couldn’t help but be grateful he had been in Highgarden instead. Because here, he had the only people he trusted outside his council. Here, in the place that owned part of his very childhood. 

But Casimir didn’t mention her out loud. He didn’t want to -- because though he was still stinging from the loss, there wasn’t time to waste on her treason. Rather, time was better suited trying to predict the consequences rather than the reason. Things were beginning to stir anew -- abroad, and in Westeros. Casimir was unsettled, even if he seemed as relaxed as one could be in such a situation. 

“Something is changing, Cedric.” He said, stepping into the room. He held up a bottle, the light catching on amber liquid. “A wedding present.” A Riverlands Whiskey, aged in Riverrun’s own cellar. The door shutting behind him and his own guard setting up post beside Cedric’s outside, he set it down on the nearest table. “Lys has gotten bold. The fall out with the Summer Isles. And Dorne is making moves -- not to mention what The Westerlands are dealing with. The list has gotten longer.” He raised an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth quirked for a flash of a moment. “Didn’t think Old Way wedding celebrations included regicide and slave traders, mate.”

[illyaoakheart]

|| illya & lucrezia ||

when: during the tme skip, the morning after Illya and Cedric’s bethothal was solidified. before Lucrezia departs for The Arbor.

where: highgarden, the reach.

@lucreziasredwyne​​

The day that stretched after her meeting with Cedric and her father had left a heavy burden on Illya’s heart. Life had completely changed with nothing more than a conversation. One moment, she’d simply been Illya Oakhear —  lady of a wealthy house who did her duty, who respected her parents as she was meant to. Now, and though Joseph Oakheart had been forced into submission and his plotting put to an end, she was the daughter of a traitor. She would soon be Queen of The Reach.

And Lucrezia had told her none of it.

It was a strange feeling, learning that someone so close had kept something from her — that there had been long conversations shared between the Small Council about the volume of her father’s wrongs. That Lucrezia had sat there, listened, even more than likely spoken on it. The letters, his work, how he had schemed against Cedric and his crown. Had she sought to punish him, perhaps? Had she and the other lords called for his death?

Whatever the words spoken in the privacy of that room was lost on her — but she knew that words had been said, and that neither Lucrezia — nor Cedric — had thought it best to tell her. It made Illya feel… alone. On the outside, like she did with her mother and brother and father. Like a barrier had gone up, and she was screaming on the other side of it despite that no sounds came from her lips. Yet, Lucrezia was the person she craved to see more than anything in that moment, when night yawned into morning and the sense of the world seemed to be slipping.

She had not slept, and had not touched her breakfast — her hair was lose around her shoulders. Illya paced back and forth in her apartments, waiting for her sister to arrive. A temporary place to sleep. She’d be moved, soon, after they spoke their vows before Gods and men. The door finally opened — and she’d found herself twisting a lock of her hair between her fingers, staring out of the grand window as morning light began to seep in. The beginnings of dark circles under eyes that looked twinged with red. She’d been crying — when she was finally alone. Not because she was sad, but because…

“Lucrezia. As salamu alaykum.” Because she felt betrayed — kept in a pretty little box with a tied ribbon. The sister she’d chosen had left her in the dark, and so she did not look upon her as the door opened and closed behind. Not yet.

“A traitor, with letters to prove it.” She said, her voice far away yet eerily present. “Between Tarly, Hightower, and Oakheart.” Illya said her own house with more venom than she ever had before. Daughter of a traitor. Queen to be. The Rose of Old Oak turned to her friend — her sister — and felt tears well in her eyes as she finally looked upon her. It had only been a matter of weeks since their last meeting within the walls of her own home. Lucrezia had known then, too. She’d known. And she hadn’t said a word.

“Florence, Alaric, all of it.” Illya twisted her hair between her fingers, looping it over and over. Her other hand? She clenched it so tightly into a fist that if one looked close enough, her nails had left impressions of crescent moons upon her palms. “You knew. You knew, and you said nothing.” Illya had to close her eyes as a tear finally spilled past her lashes. Blinking hard, she looked upon Lucrezia, face twisting with a sort of pain she never thought she’d feel. My sister, who kept me blind. “You said nothing, Lucrezia.” Her voice cracked -- Illya had to pause to compose herself, but despite the anger she felt, she knew she could not hide herself from the other woman. “Why?” Had she known Cedric would ask for her hand? Was it but another secret to add to a list she wished did not exist? Then, in their shared tongue, she whispered. “When did I lose your confidence?”

[bumblesimagines]

Grateful You're Mine

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Princess Helaena finally weds the man she's been engaged to since they were children. She finds married life to be more than she expected.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, arranged marriage trope, fluff, they match each other's freaks and social levels, canon divergent/au since the twins aren't Aegons, literally nothing else just short and sweet

Crazy we hardly got to see the pleasant and happy girl she was described as 😔 WFMF coming soon!! just thought i'd give some other characters attention for once

~~~

As consciousness seeped into her body, the sweet smell of flowers filled her nose, powerful yet not overwhelming enough to irritate her. It took her brain a few moments to catch up and remind her that she no longer resided within the dreary walls of the Red Keep, but instead in her new home in Highgarden. She rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles gently and pushed herself into a sitting position, her eyes sweeping around the room before settling on the empty spot in the bed beside her. 

"Good morrow, Princess Helaena," Her handmaiden, Maecy, greeted with a friendly smile as she set down a tray with food to break her fast and herbal tea to warm her body. 

"Good morrow," She responded sleepily, slipping her legs free from underneath the blankets and wriggling her feet into the slippers beside the bed. "Has Lord (Y/N) gone somewhere?" 

Her handmaiden smiled knowingly, her slender fingers picking up one of the brushes set on the vanity. "I cannot say, My Princess. I am afraid I have been sworn to secrecy for the time being." 

Helaena's head cocked to the side but she nonetheless nodded silently and stood up, shuffling across the room to retrieve a slice of honeyed bread. She sat down on the comfortable chair and began eating, savoring each bite and licking her fingers clean as Maecy began delicately brushing her hair, untangling knots and smoothing the frizz out with oils. Once finished with her breakfast, Helaena stood up and blinked owlishly at Maecy when the brunette remained rooted in her spot instead of gathering the clothes she'd be wearing for the day.

Before she could question her, the doors parted and Helaena turned around, a smile immediately gracing her features upon seeing her new husband enter. (Y/N) returned it and walked forward, a servant following with a box in her hands as the doors shut firmly behind them. Helaena eyed the box curiously, her brows furrowing questioningly at him. 

"Do you recall that drawing you really liked of the beetle?" He asked her, leaning down to pluck a leftover grape from her plate and plop it into his mouth. Helaena gave a slow nod and he brightened, peering over his shoulder to nod to the servant. "I had a gift made for you."

Helaena watched as Maecy and the servant worked together to take the lid off before she gaped at the sight of a pretty soft blue dress with white accents. They lifted it from the box to showcase its full beauty, and her heart leaped in her chest at the lovely white design of a stag beetle threaded into the bosom area of the dress with small white flowers around it. She pressed her fingers to her lips, her pale lilac eyes widening as she fully absorbed the beauty of the dress. 

(Y/N) watched her, fingers fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. "Do you like it?" He questioned somewhat nervously only for the nerves to fade at the sound of Helaena's giddy giggle. She nodded and leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips that made his skin warm. 

Eagerly, Helaena allowed Maecy and the servant to help her dress, the two women giggling softly under their breaths at the way Lord (Y/N) turned around despite the two having wed the week prior. When they finished, Helaena studied her reflection in the mirror, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip at the wave of excitement and giddy rushing through her veins. The compliments and coos from the women were swiftly overshadowed by the way her husband's eyes lit up at the sight of her. 

"It is truly lovely," Helaena spoke softly, clutching the skirt to walk better as she strode forward before releasing it to take his hands into hers. He smiled again, rubbing his thumbs over the back of her hands soothingly, just as he had done under the table during their wedding celebrations when the music and loud chatter had become overwhelming for her. "Thank you." 

"Mother thought the fabrics would have been better in green but I've always thought you looked lovelier in blue." (Y/N) told her and she felt her own skin warm, a breathy and shy laugh escaping past her lips. He released one of her hands to brush back one of her silver strands, his eyes softened and filled with genuine warmth. 

After witnessing the loveless marriage between her parents and the chaotic marriage between Aegon and his Lannister wife, Helaena grew to fear her own wedding would be a miserable one. Her marriage to (Y/N) had been arranged by her grandsire after her mother dismissed the idea of her marrying her own brother and rejected her older half-sister's proposal to wed her to one of her sons, although he remained a stranger for many years until the Tyrells expressed their desires to see their heir with children of his own. 

She'd been nervous that day, and her mother's own anxiety hardly helped her own, but when (Y/N) stood before her with a pink hydrangea in hand and his eyes averted to focus on the floor beneath them, she realized she had little to fear. When they'd been left to wander the garden with a handmaiden trailing behind them, the awkward air faded with ease once she began speaking of her beloved crickets and the small creatures she found most interesting and he told her of the flowers that attracted certain creatures. A spark had seemingly ignited, one fueled the night of their wedding day when he offered to lie to their parents when she'd grown too nervous to consummate the marriage. 

"Oh," (Y/N) brightened once more. "You must see the garden at this time of year, Helaena. There's butterflies in every corner." 

And so they took a stroll through the garden, taking in the floral scents in the air and the vibrant rows of flowers with butterflies, other winged insects, and even a few hummingbirds bouncing from flower to flower.

Her mother had been right when she told her a girl of her disposition would do well within the peaceful walls of Highgarden; everything about Highgarden felt calming. The Red Keep had a tense air to it with its gloomy weather and near-suffocating residents but those who resided in Highgarden appeared more carefree and happy. Helaena enjoyed it, enjoyed being in a place where she received smiles instead of judgemental glances. 

Unlike in the Keep where time passed agonizingly slowly with little to nothing new happening, Highgarden always seemed to be bursting with life and music. Helaena found herself passing time with her husband in the garden, her hands focused on beginning an embroidery of a pretty butterfly she spotted whilst (Y/N) drew a flower with his chalk on paper. Things were silent between them yet merely spending time beside him satisfied her, allowing her to work with a small smile on her face. 

When they finished with their respective pieces, they returned inside and ate lunch in the quiet of their bedchambers. Helaena watched the servants scoop up the plates and take them away, cleaning the table and curtsying before swiftly leaving the room and leaving her to turn to look at (Y/N). His head remained tilted toward the balcony overlooking the large maze, his eyes distant but expression content. 

"Husband," Helaena roused him, bringing him back to the present. She licked a crumb off the owner of her lips and straightened up in her seat, casting Maecy a glance. "What do you think of having children?" 

"Babes are loud and messy." (Y/N) responded, leaning back into his chair and swirling around the last of his tea before bringing it to his lips. "It would be... nice to have some, though. I think it would please Mother to have grandchildren and Father would surely dote on them." 

"I'd like to have some soon," Helaena revealed. She'd always been told she'd make a lovely mother. "A boy and two girls, I think, would be nice. Mother claims Hightowers oft' have many boys, though." 

"We can have as many as you desire."

Children, Helaena came to learn, were rather interesting little creatures that brought forth such wonder and intense feelings out of her. Helaena simply couldn't get enough of watching her newest little one sleep cradled in her arms, her rosy cheeks more apparent from the complexion she'd inherited from her mother. Daenys gave a small yawn and squeezed her eyes before parting them to reveal the violet beneath. 

"Someone has finally awoken," Helaena murmured, tilting her head to look at her husband. He held a book in his hands, one about different flowers documented across Westeros, with their sleepy twins nestled between his arms. She reached out to run her fingers through Jaehaerys (H/C) hair, unable to bite back the smile when he nuzzled further into his father's chest. 

Carefully, (Y/N) set the book aside and scooped Jaehaerys up to settle him at his mother's side before he took Daenys into his arms, eyes crinkling with joy when she cooed at the sight of him. "I hear your nieces and nephews may give Queen Alicent some gray hairs." He chuckled. "It is no wonder why she visits as often as she does." 

"Maelor and his siblings have inherited much from their parents, I suppose. A lioness in gold forced to live in the cold will always have her claws out... and Aegon's never been... easy." Helaena spoke, her arm sliding around her only boy and the future heir to Highgarden. The look (Y/N) sent her way made her chuckle, lightly shrugging her shoulders. "I am certain he is a good father even if he may not be.. an adequate husband."

"If you say so." (Y/N) murmured, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against Daenys just to hear her burst with giggles. Her dozing sister parted her eyes at the sound and eagerly moved closer, eyes wide with adoration as she took in her new sibling again. Her father sweetly stroked the back of her head, tilting his arm so she'd have a better look at Daenys. "Though, he is as good of an uncle as Prince Aemond. He has already sent the finest jewels for Daenys."

"It's not so bad being married to a Targaryen, then?" Helaena asked teasingly, leaning toward him to rest her chin upon his shoulder. 

(Y/N) huffed a small laugh and kissed the side of her head. "Yes, it's not so bad. It's lovely, if anything, dearest." 

[duxbelisarius]

The Velaryon Blockade or, How Not to Fight a War at Sea

Greetings and Salutations! After many months since completing the Military Analysis series, and having watched Season 2 of House of the Dragon (surely one of the shows of all time), I've returned to do some further analysis of the war of the Dance. I may end up including this entry in a subsequent re-write of the original analysis series, but I'm currently in the middle of working on a Daeron fanfic and wanted to write this to get my juices flowing. Without further ado, onto the main event: The Blockade of the Gullet (WARNING: Spoilers for HOTD and F&B; this is gonna be a long one!)

Analyzing the blockade of the Gullet or the Velaryon Blockade, as portrayed in Fire and Blood and House of the Dragon, requires tackling the subjects of how King's Landing is fed and whether such a blockade is feasible given the technology available to the setting. I'll start with the provisioning of King's Landing since the show made a big deal out of it, and it has implications for Fire and Blood's portrayal of the Dance.

The idea of a blockade of the Gullet leading to food shortages and near-starvation in King's Landing is a non-starter, since it is supported neither by the ASOIAF books or the show Game of Thrones. In the former case, we know that House Tyrells support for Renly leads to the Roseroad being closed and near famine conditions in KL, as noted by Tyrion in A Storm of Swords:

The mob loved Margaery so much they were even willing to love Joffrey again. She had belonged to Renly, the handsome young prince who had loved them so well he had come back from beyond the grave to save them. And the bounty of Highgarden had come with her, flowing up the roseroad from the south. The fools didn't seem to remember that it had been Mace Tyrell who closed the roseroad to begin with, and made the bloody famine. (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)

GoT retained this thread in Season 2 and returned to the subject of the Reach supplying KL with the 'Loot Train Battle' in Season 7.

Looked at more broadly, there are three sources of food that KL can access which render the Gullet completely redundant: Firstly, there is the Crownlands themselves, which should be accessible to KL by road or by boat via Blackwater Bay; there's the Reach, which is the most agriculturally abundant of all the Seven Kingdoms, although the main artery of this supply really should be the Mander river and not the Roseroad; and finally we have the Riverlands, which ought to be more important of a source for food since goods could reach KL from there entirely by boat or barge thanks to the Blackwater Rush and the God's Eye lake. Regardless, access to these areas means that little if any food provisions should be required to pass through the Gullet to support the capital, and this creates problems for the show and the books.

Leaving aside how the Blockade in the show is rendered useless, there is a massive plot hole for the Dance created by acknowledging this information. Prior to Criston Cole's Crownlands Campaign, most of that region, most of the Reach and all of the Riverlands have sworn fealty to Rhaenyra. Even if rationing was introduced and every source of food in the city were exploited, KL is still cut off from it's main food providers and this fact should have been addressed by the councils of either faction. Rhaenyra's allies were capable of cutting off the city's food supply and their armies could have come together to lay siege to the city. The only real obstacles they would face are Vhagar and Sunfyre, since Borros Baratheon and the Stormlands vanish from the narrative following Luke's death.

On the other hand, Aegon should have seized upon this threat to push for immediate action given his impatience with Otto's letter writing, the only payoff for which is the Triarchy's attack on the Gullet at the start of the next year. Aemond already secured the Baratheons, Tyland guarantees the Westerlands' support, and Ormund is effectively alone in supporting Aegon's cause in the Reach. As it turns out, neither faction is cognizant of this specific vulnerability of the capital at this time or later on in the Dance. When living conditions deteriorate under Rhaenyra, her tax policy is blamed rather than the fact that Cole's campaign should have negatively affected Crownlands agriculture; the Reach is rapidly switching sides thanks to Daeron; Daemon left the Riverlands in the hands of his army and those of the Lannisters, Aemond and Cole, with devastating consequences for the land and people; and finally, that the onset of winter should be having a negative effect on the food supply of the the Kingdoms.

It also needs to be stressed that for KL to rely on overseas shipments for the majority if not entirety of it's food supply, it would require the Targaryen monarchy to possess far greater governmental and military resources than they are given by George. Looking at Rome from the Middle Republic onwards and the Eastern Roman Empire prior to the Arab invasions, we can see that grain shipments helped to sustain far greater cities than King's Landing in Rome and Constantinople. In both cases though, they could rely on a hinterland for local food markets (Italy for Rome, Thrace/modern day Bulgaria for Constantinople) and possessed almost overwhelming naval supremacy which ensured the security of the seas. Rome could reliably access Sicily, North Africa, and Egypt for its grain needs, and Constantinople could do likewise with Anatolia, Egypt, the Black Sea basin and later Sicily and North Africa as well.

Ships bound for KL from the Reach would have to sail the treacherous waters and barren coast of southern Dorne, brave storms and pirates in the Stepstones, and risk further storms off the coast of the Stormlands, and this is without considering how dangerous the transit would be during years long autumns and winters. Essosi shipments have the same problem but with the added wrinkle that the crown would have to pay for them, whereas Roman grain shipments were often provided by collecting taxes in kind rather than cash from farmers in Egypt and North Africa. This alone would automatically elevate House Lannister above the Targaryens as the foremost house in the Seven Kingdoms, given their access to nigh-infinite gold deposits. This is all to say that the premise of the Gullet Blockade starving out KL is utterly preposterous, which makes it completely unsurprising that Ryan Condal and Sara Hess chose to run with it!

By contrast, the blockade attempted in F&B was meant to put pressure on the Greens by cutting off all trade to the capital, preventing merchants from reaching the city or leaving it. The foreign and domestic merchants trapped in Blackwater Bay are among the loudest voices criticizing Aegon and his leadership, which was seemingly the aim of Corlys Velaryon. Unfortunately for George's plot, close examination of the development of naval warfare in the Medieval and Early Modern Periods (c.500-1500 and c.1500-1800 respectively), the very periods George has derived his naval technology and ship designs from, indicate that the blockade of the Gullet makes no sense militarily. I arrived at my conclusion about the Blockade after consulting John H. Pryor and Elizabeth M. Jeffries excellent book The Age of the Dromon: The Byzantine Navy c.500-1204, with further insight provided by X users SzablaObr2023 and the "Orc Logistics Guy" himself, Professor Bret Devereaux.

The most fundamental problem with the Gullet Blockade is that it's the wrong kind of blockade to attempt within the setting; historically, there have been two types of blockade attempted in war: Close and Distant. Close blockades were the most common in pre-modern times, and involved cutting off naval traffic from a region or area (typically a port) with ships posted within sight of the coastline. Distant blockades aim to cut off traffic to a much larger area by posting ships at sea far from the coastline of the intended target. The Velaryons are attempting the latter kind by controlling the waters between Dragonstone and Massey's Hook, to prevent any ships from entering or leaving Blackwater Bay and thereby isolating King's Landing.

The forces available to Corlys Velaryon are not insignificant: we know that Alyn Velaryon sailed against the Stepstones in 133 AC with 60 war galleys, 30 longships, and over 100 cogs and great cogs, to which we can add the 7 warships that escorted the Gay Abandon in 129-130 AC. Increasing this fleet by a third and rounding up to account for the losses suffered in the Battle of the Gullet gives the Velaryon Fleet at least 270 ships at the outset of the Dance, potentially as high as 300. By comparison, the Redwyne Fleet in 300 AC possesses 200 warships, about equal to the Carthaginian fleet at the outset of the First Punic War and larger than any fleet used by Athens against Sparta during the Peloponnesian War (see this video from 15:27 onward).

Based on Alyn's order of battle, it appears that the Velaryon Fleet was evenly split between oared warships and pure sailing vessels, which presents a problem for the Gullet Blockade. While oared and sailing vessels could maintain a close blockade, the former are completely unsuited for a distant blockade due to their logistical requirements and seaworthiness. Close blockades were often used to cut off a port or narrow stretch of water in support of a siege by land forces; an excellent historical example is the Battle of Actium in 31 BC, when the army and fleet of Gaius Octavian trapped Mark Antony's forces in the Ambracian Gulf. Closeness to the coast and the friendly armies stationed there ensured that oared ships had access to food supplies and more importantly, fresh water. Pryor and Jeffries estimate that each member of a Byzantine rowing crew required a minimum of 8 liters of fresh water per day; a Dromon with 108 rowers would thus need 864 liters per day and 1000 liters or one tonne if the marines and officers are included (adding a second crew of rowers would almost double that amount). Mediterranean war galleys of the Medieval and Early Modern Periods had storage for only 4-8 tonnes of fresh water on board, making accessible fresh water sources a sine qua non for operations of any length.

The other factor rendering oared warships unsuitable for distant blockade duties is their seaworthiness, which Pryor and Jeffries discuss at length:

if the wind rose to Beaufort Scale Four-Five (16-17 knots) ... That would raise waves of around 4.75 feet, 1.45 metres. All galleys at all times were designed to cut through the water rather than to ride the waves and such a wind, which is just a “moderate” to “fresh” breeze on the Beaufort Scale, nothing out of the ordinary, would send waves washing over the deck of any dromon. Even if the wind were astern, she would still be forced to run for the coast. If the wind were ahead, it would be worse because that would mean that the ship was attempting to beat to windward and therefore would be heeling over with one gunwale continuously under water." ... Scale Seven winds would raise seas up to 13.5 feet (4.115 metres) and no dromon would stand a chance of continuing its voyage in such conditions. The authors of the Olympias project have concluded that a trieres [Trireme] would be swamped in waves above 0.85 metres, and we believe that in all probability a dromon would have been also. ... However, galleys were simply not designed to be sailed and throughout history they were always notoriously poor sailers. Because their lack of deep keels meant that they made excessive leeway when beating into the wind, because their shallow draft and low freeboard meant that they could not heel under sail very much, because their narrow beam and low depth in hold meant that their hulls did not have the structural strength to carry a large press of sail, and because their extreme length:beam ratio and lateen sails meant that they carried pronounced weather helm, constantly griping, the bows coming up into the wind, galleys were always notorious for poor upwind performance under sail. That is nothing to be wondered at for they were not designed to do that ... Moreover, a heel under sail of a mere ten degrees or so would put the lower rims of the lower oar ports at the flat water line and at that point it is highly questionable whether the oar sleeves would have prevented water from entering the hull, even if they were tied off. (Age of the Dromon, pg. 336-338)

Velaryon war galleys and longships would need to stay close to Cracklaw Point, Massey's Hook, Driftmark and Dragonstone to be of any assistance to the Blockade, although with the rough seas and weather of autumn and winter even this would be a doubtful prospect. Corlys would have to rely upon the cogs and great cogs of the Velaryon Fleet to conduct the blockade; Devereaux and Szabla noted that sailing vessels are capable of conducting distant blockades, as demonstrated by Britain's Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. They also note that conducting such a blockade entailed problems all its own:

A distant blockade with sailing vessels still required significant logistical support, a well developed naval command structure and bureaucracy, and only began to be attempted centuries after the High and Late Middle Ages when the Cog was widely used.

Even if we leave these issues aside, the Gullet Blockade still has another serious problem: Communications. Based on a distance map of Westeros, the distance between Crackclaw Point and Sharp Point appears to be c.125 miles while the length of the Gullet proper from Dragonstone to Sharp Point may be 100 miles or less. Meleys is the only dragon known to have supported the Blockade and seems not to have been replaced after her death at Rook's Rest. Over 100 cogs and 1 dragon at best would be the only forces capable of patrolling the Gullet to any effect, while the need for ships to resupply the blockade and to act as reserves to relieve ships from the Blockade line drastically reduces the amount of ships that could patrol the Gullet. Pryor and Jeffries' assessment of Byzantine visual signaling suggests that communications within the Blockade would be almost impossible:

The masthead height of the foremast of a standard dromon as we have reconstructed it was only around 10.65 metres above sea level. There were, admittedly, larger dromons; however, for what follows a couple of metres more of masthead height would make no difference to the conclusions reached. With a foremast height of 10.65 metres above sea level, the theoretical horizon of a lookout at the masthead would have been only around 11.8 kilometres. Theoretically, the peak of a lateen sail 21 metres above sea level could be seen a further 51.7 kilometres away but, of course, no man could see 63.5 kilometres with unaided sight. In all probability, around 15-20 kilometres would have been the limit of visibility from the masthead of a dromon. Scout ships could not, therefore, patrol a space more than 30-40 kilometres in advance of a fleet and probably no more than 30, since they were always said to have been smaller than standard dromons and would have had lower mastheads. In fact, in order to be able to actually read signals with unaided eyesight and communicate them back to the fleet, distances must have been even less than this. Syrianos Magistros advised that a fleet should always proceed with scout ships out ahead, up to six milia or so. Two scout ships should be 6 milia ahead and another two should be between them and the fleet to relay any messages. Six milia was only around 8 kilometres. If the forward scout ships then had a range of visibility of another 8-16 kilometres, then the real maritime space that could be observed was only around 25 kilometres at best. (Age of the Dromon, pg. 388-389).

Compared to the Gullet, the Strait of Otranto is 100 km wide (c.69 miles) while the distance between Crete and Rhodes is 180 km (c.112 miles) with the island of Karpathos in the middle; neither the Byzantines nor contemporary Mediterranean powers could control entry and exit through such space.

It might be argued that spyglasses, known in ASOIAF as Myrish Lenses or a Myrish Eye, could offer a solution to such long distances; unfortunately these devices are only produced in Myr, and of the three mentioned in the main books only one is used onboard a ship. The lenses used by Maesters Luwin and Aemon are large enough to require a tripod; the only one mentioned aboard a ship is a collapsible Eye carried by a Myrish captain whose ship is taken by Victarion en route to Slavers Bay. Even if Myrish lenses were available to some degree, it's unlikely they could overcome the problems of distance and the conditions at sea.

Writing about the War of 1812, Frederick Leiner states that a lookout "perched on the masthead, 80 or 100 feet above the main deck, and equipped with a spyglass, with the horizon perhaps 20 miles off ... might be able to discern a larger warship-like frigate perhaps as far as 15 miles distant, if the weather were clear and sea conditions allowed." 15 miles or 24 km is impressive compared to the 8-16 km of the Byzantine scout ships mentioned by Pryor and Jeffries, but the heights of Leiner's masts are more than double that of a Dromon and taller still than a cogs. Even a spyglass from two centuries after they were first introduced would not greatly enhance the vision of a Velaryon lookout, and the notoriously poor weather and seas of the Westerosi autumn and winter would certainly counteract it. With ships being kept off station to ferry supplies and act as reserves, the area needing to be patrolled would make visual signaling highly impractical.

To quote Pryor and Jeffries once more, "Expeditionary objectives could frequently be achieved best by preserving one’s forces intact and actually avoiding battle since naval warfare was essentially amphibious warfare whose purpose was to secure control of terrestrial objectives rather than to attempt to control maritime space (Age of the Dromon, 388)." Using the Velaryon Fleet to support the Black armies rather than attempting an exercise in futility by blockading the Gullet, would have applied pressure to Aegon and the Greens more effectively while being consistent with the setting that George created and its inspirations.

The most obvious way for the Velaryon Fleet to support the Blacks would be through transporting Northern and Vale troops south of the Neck and the Mountains of the Moon, to take the fight to Aegon rather sitting back passively once Daemon rallied the Riverlords and the Blacks in the Reach marched on Oldtown. Considering how swiftly both of those armies were raised, it makes no sense why the Vale could not at least send troops to assist Rhaenyra in the Crownlands. Another option and one which I proposed in part 12 and the conclusion of my military analysis series, would be to send the Velaryon Fleet south against the Stormlords.

Otto Hightower believed that Tarth would support Rhaenyra's cause, and Lord Buckler and Lady Fel were both executed by Aegon for refusing to swear fealty to him instead of Rhaenyra. The bulk of the Crownlands supports Rhaenyra prior to Criston Cole's campaign, and Felwood and Bronzegate are located south of the Crownlands astride the Kingsroad to Storm's End. The Wendwater flows through the Stormlands and Crownlands before emptying into Blackwater Bay; assuming the river is even partially navigable, this could allow shallow drafted boats to move troops and supplies into the lower Kingswood and prevent Aegon and Borros from aiding one another. Naval operations along the coast would be risky given the arrival of autumn, but the weather rarely affects the plot of the Dance if the author doesn't want it to. Tarth would serve as a base for the Velaryon ships to resupply and further raid the coast or land troops and the Blacks in the Reach could threaten the border, with the Cockleswhent and Blueburn rivers potentially serving as supply arteries for an invasion from the west.

There are also compelling political reasons for the Blacks and particularly the Velaryons to attack the Stormlands: It would punish Borros Baratheon for breaking his father's oath to Rhaenyra, esp. since his father supported Rhaenys and Laenor in 101 and Rhaenys is currently part of the Black council; it could be portrayed as vengeance for the death of Lucerys Velaryon over Shipbreaker Bay; and it could potentially force the Greens out of King's Landing. Aemond's betrothal to Floris Baratheon would give him some obligation to support his ally and future good-father against their common foe, and failure to give aid would endanger the Baratheon alliance. Aegon's only other allies are in the Westerlands and the Honeywine valley of the southern Reach, and without the Baratheons he is completely surrounded by his enemies. Whether Aegon, Aemond or both set out with an army to aid Borros, King's Landing's garrison and perhaps one dragonrider are all that would be left to defend against an attack by Daemon and the Riverlords and/or the Black houses of the Reach.

These scenarios offer a more effective employment for the Velaryon Fleet, but there is a way to retain the blockade while ensuring that the ending of the Dance remains relatively the same (Rhaenyra and Aegon are dead, Aegon III and Jaehaera marry, most of the dragons are dead, etc.) by acknowledging that the blockade is a poor strategy. It could start by allowing Mysaria's spies to discover the fate of the Royal Treasury, with ships carrying 75% of the treasury out of Blackwater Bay without the awareness of the Velaryon Fleet. It can even be implied that Larys Strong leaked this information to play both sides and drive a wedge between Rhaenyra and her Hand; this pays off as Rhaenyra blames Corlys and the Velaryons for this embarassment and imposes the Blockade against Corlys' judgement. The blockade serves as a way for her to get back at Aegon while asserting her royal authority after her claim was usurped.

The Velaryon Fleet is thus forced to commit the entirety of its forces to a task that Corlys, his vassals, and his captains and crews know is beyond their means to carry out successfully. Many galleys could be lost to the stormy seas and their crews drowned, while the cogs must endure the same weather and miserable conditions in pursuit of a pointless task. Morale declines steadily as many ships desert completely, turning to piracy or becoming merchantmen and sellsails in Essos, which further undermines the blockade. Tensions between Rhaenyra and Corlys would already be high before Rhaenys' death and could reach a crisis point after the Battle of the Gullet. The way the battle plays out in F&B could likewise be retained if the mistakes made by the Blacks are acknowledged, being the failure of naval or dragon patrols to detect the approach of the Triarchy Fleet. Gyldan could point out that both Prince Jacaerys and Lord Corlys are at fault for the disaster, but that Rhaenyra solely blames the Velaryons. I would even go a step further: Medieval and Early Modern naval combat relied heavily on boarding actions, excluding cannons since they're not present in George's setting. With many galleys and ships being entangled in these close-quarters bouts, it would not be surprising if the dragonriders set fire to Velaryon ships by mistake and further contributed to the deterioration of Velaryon support.

With many officers and crews having lost their families and homes in the Triarchy attack, this would present a perfect opportunity for Vaemond Velaryon's sons, Daeron and Daemion, and his nephews the 'Silent Five' to take action if they were not already involved in the events of the Dance. With Larys possibly assisting them, they could begin organizing a fleet-wide mutiny against Rhaenyra and the Black Council, which would take place after Corlys is arrested. Addam and Alyn would flee to Dragonstone and Driftmark, the former to seek Baela and Moondancer's help and the latter to rally ships and crews to help his father. The mutineers capture Alyn while Addam finds Moondancer dead, Baela imprisoned, and Dragonstone in the hands of Aegon II, with a battle ensuing between Sunfyre and Seasmoke which leads to Aegon's injuries and Addam fleeing the bay worse for wear. Heading to Maidenpool and finding that Nettles has fled and Daemon and Aemond are fallen in battle, Addam could then rally what forces he can for a suicide mission against Tumbleton with the aim of killing Daeron and the Betrayers and mauling their army before it can join Aegon at King's Landing.

This sets up how I would fix Second Tumbleton, by Addam showing up to find Daeron already battling with the Betrayers and the army divided. Knowing that neither Aegon and Alicent nor Alyn, Baela and Corlys will survive if the Betrayers take the capital, Addam and Daeron join forces and rout the Betrayers army, with all four dragonriders being killed in the battle. This change is important if Jaehaera's death is retained, since there needs to be strong foundations for reconciling the Greens and Blacks. Addam and Daeron the Daring's sacrifice gives both factions heroes that they can memorialize and honour together; Daenaera's marriage to Aegon III is also helped by her father and uncle having been actively involved in Rhaenyra's downfall in support of Aegon II. A final touch I would add would be for Alyn to lead a counter-mutiny following Aegon II's death which leads to deaths of Daeron Velaryon and three of the 'Silent Five'; Alyn could swear an oath to the dying Daeron to look after his daughter Daenaera now that both her parents will be dead. This magnanimous act by Alyn and the respect the Velaryon Fleet has for him could inform Daemion's decision to break with the remaining 'Silent Five' and support Alyn's claim as Corlys' heir.

If you've made it to the end of this wall of text, I commend you! For those that want a TL;DR: The Show's blockade is nonsense; the Book blockade is unworkable as a strategy; nonetheless, the blockade and the Velaryon Fleet can still play an important role in the story if the aforementioned flaws are acknowledged. Thanks for reading, and I'll catch you on the flip side!

[writingwenches]

boys will be boys

٭ ✵ ⁕ ✶ ✰ ﹡ HOTD fanfic universe maesterlist

familial relationship – Aemond and Aegon, Daeron, Gwayne, Criston.

summary – The young Targaryen Princes have grown restless during their youth in the luxgery of the Red Keep. Grandsire Otto and Uncle Gwayne devise a plan to give the three young princes a taste of knighthood, Ser Criston is there to chaperone on their venture to Highgarden for a tourney. *note: this universe Helaena and Aegon were never engaged because its just too tragic for me.

cw 18+ – 5k words, no targcest, power imbalance in relationship, ambiguous age, implied under aged, exploration of sexuality, non-explicit sexual situations. The sexual situations is not the entire plot, lol, they have consequences which is…family vacation.

Aegon enjoyed watching Lady Oletta Redwyne bounce on his knee. She would clap excitedly, and wrap her arms around his neck with the dainty grace of a proper lady. She hadn’t let him kiss her yet, but that didn’t mean his lips had never touched her luscious skin. 

The wine that flowed from the Arbor made her sway and throw her head back in laughter since their shared childhood. Aegon had many times over taken the opportunity to join in, while he stifled the sound of his laugher against her bare neck. 

He had traced the vines of grapes sowed along her neckline with his finger, complimenting her friend’s handiwork. Oletta was always so pleased to show him her new gowns, and she seemed to have a new one every other day. She was older by some moons, and Aegon enjoyed watching as her chest began to heave out of her gowns. 

Some ladies his age had not yet grown out of their running around the halls, and Aegon prayed they never did, as he watched their chests bounce under their tight dresses. 

Oletta said they were getting too old for games of touching every time Aegon tried to pull down her neckline to expose the reddened skin around her nipples, or when he threw jams during their tea and licking it off her plush chest. 

Aegon could barely think of anything other than his hands on his own cock. Every day he caught a new glimpse of something that sent his mind straight to his own breeches.

“No one will know!” he pouted, the tips of his fingers buried into her bodice readied to tear the fabric down to allow her breasts to be free to his hungry view. “I just wish to see,” he whined, applying pressure to the threads. 

“I would know,” Oletta matched the prince's pout with her own. “Could you not find some servant to sully with your brutishness? A wet-nurse, perhaps?” 

“Ugh!” Aegon whined, removing his hands. “I do not want to look at some old cow! I could go to the farm stalls for that!” His eyes did not leave her neckline, which had been lowered more than Lord and Lady Redwyne would approve us, for the prince’s viewing pleasures during boring lessons and feasts. “Do you suppose if I suck on yours, they’ll produce milk?” he laughed, as he reached to capture her hips in his hands. 

“That is not how it works,” she outmaneuvered him, slipping past and back towards the main halls. “My prince,” she bowed. As she turned, Oletta raised her skirts to give Aegon a perfect view of her bare backside, before disappearing into the Red Keep. 

With a smirk, the young prince knew exactly how he would spend the rest of his evening, and if he got the life he planned on, he would be doing much of the same for the rest of his life. 

His mother, the queen, seemed to believe the realm would fall into the seven hells if his half-sister would to sit on the Iron Throne. Personally, Aegon believed that the Realm had existed long before the throne was fired, and it would survive at least one cunt seated upon it. Sure, more people would die, but Aegon wouldn’t. 

The young prince planned on living out his days lounging about the beaches of The Arbor, the island of Southern Westeros, the beginning and end of the Realm’s wine trade. Lady Oletta Redwyne was the only child of Lord and Lady Redwyne, and what was more honorable than having a Prince of the Realm father their future Lords. 

Nothing, which was why Lord Redwyne had already agreed to Aegon’s offer. Granted, it was over and overindulgence of Arbor Gold, but Aegon had agreed after Lord Redwyne suggested the construction of their very own dragon pit. Aegon knew Sunfyre would love a pit on the beach, a place to dig himself into the sands beneath the grape vines. 

Aegon just needed to find away for the King or (more importantly) the Queen to agree. Even with The Arbor boasting the second greatest fleet in Westeros, his family always wanted more. 

He could relate to the feeling, Aegon too often longed for more. More from the monotony of life, more from his brother who would not laugh at his jokes, more from his mother who would berate him and bemoan distant futures, more from his father who had rather pass his time with models of a city buried in ash, more from the ladies of the court who wouldn’t let him look upon them even though he was the prince. 

Aegon stopped in the open doorway, cursing the idiot servant who let in the draft. He found her relatively quickly, as she was lounging against his bed.

The young prince watched for a moment, not wanting to give away his position, seemingly unseen. 

The maid stretched out her leg, and rubbed at her thigh. She groaned as her hands found a precious spot where her pain was housed. Her groan turned to a moan as the pain melted into respite from her cramping belly. 

The doors slammed shut, as Aegon made himself known. “What are you doing?” he asked, slyly. 

The maid presented herself to the prince, laying her dress flat and her head slightly lowered. “Your grace,” she whispered, with a sound eady to throw herself to the ground and beg for his mercy. 

“Were you pleasuring yourself on my bed?” the prince asked, stepping ever closer to the lone maid. 

“No! No, your grace! Of course–“

“Well, that is what it looked like you were doing,” he smiled. “And you…are bleeding?” 

The young maid’s white servant dress was stained with a blotches of red blood. “Seven hells,” she cursed, trying to cover her shame amongst the folds of her skirts. “I’m sorry your grace, I will–“ 

“Is that…the blood?” he asked, the words edged with curiosity. “Women’s blood?” 

The maid only nodded. 

“That means you are fit to bear children,” he noted.

She nodded again. 

“Well,” he said, finally close enough to reach out and touch her. “I wish to see.” 

“You–what?” she asked, able to back a single step until her knees hit the prince’s bed. 

“I wish to see what it looks like,” he notated every word, to make sure she understood. “Measter’s anatomy books are…” Aegon’s words trailed off, as he wrapped his fingers around the cheap fabric of the servant’s gown. “unthorough.”

Aegon batted his silver eyelashes, and pouted his lips, but the maid would not be convinced to allow him such a boisterous indulgence, if anyone were to see them…she had ever excuse he could ever imagine and dozens more. 

Her words finally ceased when the prince pulled form his pocket, a single golden coin. 

A solid gold dragon could buy an entire adult hog, it could feed her family for weeks. She had never seen such riches in one place before. And it was being offered to her for…what really? 

“To look, only,” she finally agreed, snatching the golden coin from the prince’s hand. He agreed too quickly, not caring to hear her words any longer.

The maid found a table to perch herself upon, not daring to lounge on the prince’s bed. She might have been new to the ways of men, but she wasn’t an idiot. 

She tried to think of something to say to stall him, but the prince was impatient and whining. After what felt like an age, the maid lifted her skirts to reveal her warm, red and bloodied center. 

The prince fell to his knees. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” the maid called, closing herself when he reached out a hand. “To look, only,” she reminded him, showing off her single golden coin and how lonely it looked in her palm. 

She earned three gold coins before she let him touch her, only allowing his hands for a price so low. 

— 

Aemond sat alone in his bedchamber, books scattered around his bed, candles the main light, as the last remnants of the setting sun dipped behind the Narrow Sea. Dictionaries of Old Valyria, that his ancestors had graciously documented, filled his eye and mind trying to keep the words straight in his mind. A newly backed book regarding the life and Kingship of Maegor Targaryen, First of His Name, had just come into the collection of the Maesters, after his father had finished pouring over it first. 

The Maesters had assured the young prince that the King had taken great care in the accuracy of the work, but Aemond assured them that he could be of use to them. Before he had claimed Vhagar, Aemond would sometime dream of a life locked away in the Citadel, filling his mind with all the knowledge the world had to offer. That was a distant dream now. He was a warrior, a dragon lord, and a prince. Closer to the gods than any Maester or Septa cold ever imagine. 

There were voices in the walls. 

Aemond sat up from his lounged position, listening for something he thought he heard. No, he had been wrong. 

The voices were in the walls. 

Aemond closed his only eye, trying to focus his hearing on the sounds reverberating from Maegor’s Holdfast. He could hear his own name. He could hear nothing. 

The young prince was startled out of his bed when the wall beside it slid open. 

“I told you this was the right one,” Aegon said, stepping into Aemond’s room from somewhere behind a wall.

“You said that about the last two doors,” a maid followed behind him. “Your Grace,” she bowed, halfly. 

“Aegon what are you–“ Aemond watched the two file into his room. The maid bowed to him properly, and she was covered in blood. “Aegon! What did you do?” his eye went wide, his hushed voice worried they would attract the guards. 

“Don’t worry, brother, I didn’t do anything…yet,” Aegon said, as he started overturning Aemond’s desk and dresser. “Do you have any coin? I seem to have run out,” Aegon dumped trinkets onto the floor, waggling a Velaryon treasure, gifted from the Sea Snake, that their mother forbad them to cherish. 

“She is…bleeding,” Aemond yelled in a hush, looking on in horror at the poor maid, stained of red across her skirts. 

“Yes brother, it just means that she is a woman and not a girl,” Aegon did not often get the chance to correct his brother, especially after claiming a dragon like Vhagar, and growing taller than him by the day, so Aegon reveled in it whenever possible. “The circle of life, and all that.” 

“But, did you…” Aemond whispered, not wanting to frighten the poor maid any more than she already obviously was, “bed her? She is bleeding from her…” Aemond could not bring himself to say it, nor would he even know how, properly. He never had to speak about such body parts aloud before. 

“That is the plan,” Aegon called from his path of destruction, “do you have any coins?!” 

The maid smiled at the care shown by the young prince, perhaps there was hope left for the cloud haired conquerors somewhere in their veins. Always being a fan of a jest, the maid considered allowing him to believe that this was the aftermath of a simple bedding, something that he could fear until, she guessed, his wedding night. 

But, then her thought went to the young woman that would be sharing his bed, and the expectations she would be setting the poor girl up for, especially if she did not perform to his grace’s expectations. 

“That does not really happen– or rarely, it is a myth,” she finally relented, wishing she could play along with the elder prince, but they had business to attend to and the young lad was preventing it. “It is just my monthly time, I am still getting used to the time of it all–“ 

“Seven Heavens!” Aegon exclaimed, accompanied by the clattering of coins. “Now, get out!” Aegon said, pushing past his younger brother with a first filled with the shining metals.

“But, this is my bedchamber!” Aemond held the large book to his chest, as if it were a shield in battle, or a cloak of protection from his elder brother’s schemes. 

“Unless you’d like to watch,” Aegon shrugged, honestly not caring either way as he shoved the small treasure trove into the maid’s waiting palms. 

Aemond opened his mouth to protest, but everything from his mouth to his sky went dry as the maid dropped the dress into the floor, standing completely nude in the center of his bedchamber. The two boys watched in awe as their minds processed the stunning goddess before them, neither had seen a girl completely save for babes running naked from their bathwater. 

Aegon had found his new favorite subject of learning, if only the Maesters offered lectures on the succulent form before him.

Aemond scurried back towards the door as Aegon’s hands wrapped around the maid’s waist and shoved her onto the bed, spreading her legs wide to display something Aemond was not yet ready to behold. 

The door did not close all the way, Aemond did not want to draw any extra attention as he moved the massive doors to his bedchamber. Why did they make them so loud and heavy? 

Hiding behind the story of Maegor, the book always as tall as the boy, Aemond peaked back into his chamber, only to find an image his brain could not wrap itself around as Aegon plunged his face between the thighs of the beautiful maid woman. He had so many questions, almost enough to watch back in and ask. 

But, he was not granted the opportunity of that choice. 

“Good evening, young prince,” a similar voice reverberated through the stone walls and into Aemond’s bone. 

“NOTHING!” he shouted, closing the door tightly behind him.

Hand of the King and his own grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, was stopped by the shouting boy, hands tucked behind his back. He knew he did not have to ask much, to understand the nature of the situation. Soon enough, Aegon’s moans of pleasure creeped under the closed door and stone walls. 

Aemond’s stealth has crept him down the hall and away from his grandsire, but not far enough for the old man to look upon him with disappointment and annoyance and shame. Aemond wanted to explain himself, to say that it was all Aegon, to curse his brother’s name, but he would much rather say nothing and he scurried away down the curved staircase towards the courtyard. He could read his book about Maegor in the godswood by candlelight if he had to. 

Though, his mind soon found itself swimming at the notion that King Maegor had taken to wife six woman at once. He had enough questions regarding Aegon and the single maid, let alone six noble ladies…

—

The countryside of the Reach was some of the most beautiful in all the Seven Kingdoms. The Rosewood traveled the length between King’s Landing and Oldtown, passing through Highgarden, a number of prestigious smaller keeps, and a luscious swell of the Kingswood.  

“I have never been so bored,” Aegon whined from atop his horse, like he had every few minutes for the past weeks of their travels. Initially the young prince was quite excited about the prospect of traveling to Highgarden for a week’s long tourney, but then he found out there were to be rules.

“Why can’t we ride in a wheelhouse?” Aegon complained. “Or at least a fucking cart?”

Gwayne laughed, prepared to do his duty has uncle to educate the gaggle of nephews as they traveled together. Men needed things such as this, time under the stars and amongst the dirt and mud of their travels. The boys had never started a fire, or slept outside on an inn before their journey. Gwayne knew they had much farther to go. 

The Roseroad was shaded by wondrous trees, growing beautiful white flowers from their heavy branches.

“You are no longer babes, you are men now!” Gwayne said proudly, “And men do not travel by wheelhouses, or carriages, or carts.”

Daeron rode past them, circling his older brothers. “The only proper way for a true born gentleman to travel, is by horse, brother!”  The youngest boy plucked a blooming flower from a tree and pinned it behind Aemond’s ear on his blind side. “You boys would know that, if mother ever let you out of her sight!” Daeron rode off before Aemond could grapple him for the slight.

The Queen’s youngest child and his dragon had been shuffled off to Oldtown years ago, two years before Aemond had ever claimed his own dragon and lost an eye. Alicent had been afraid the boys would be sad to hear their brother would become a ward of Oldtown, but instead all her children were angry and jealous that he was allowed to go.

“Ugh!” the eldest brother continued his annoyance, “and why are we not traveling by dragon?” Aegon drew a dagger as Daeron neared him, with mischief in his eyes. 

“Separate,” Gwayne warned, drawing his own sword to come between the two brothers.

“Dragons conquered this Realm! We should be reminding these people of our might!” Aegon argued, “Vhagar is the most powerful beast in the realm, why not make the small folk bow before their gods? Remind them how feeds them.” 

“The Reach feeds themselves, imbecile,” Aemond commented, beating Daeron to the correction by a few moments.

“And the Crown!” Daeron added, his horse galloping widely past the stalks of corn growing along the road, the youngest brother did not like being excluded.

“Because!” Gwayne called their attention, his voice loud and booming amongst the rolling hills of grains. “Daeron and myself do not have dragons to ride, so why not enjoy the lovely countryside!” He could hear Aegon groaning loudly. 

“Or a boat?!” Aegon called, having complained since Brittlebridge that they could have sailed up the Mandor to Highgarden. 

“No,” Gwayne answered the same as he always had, stretching his arms above his head. “I think we should sleep beneath the stars tonight.”

All the boys groaned, even Daeron. 

"You said we were going to make it to Westbrook tonight!” 

“There's ants here!” 

“You promised!” 

“UGH!” 

The boys groaned and griped and Ser Gwayne could barely believe he was traveling with a group of young men and not prattling girls. 

“Well, perhaps if you all stop complaining and get on with it, we will make it by nightfall.” The King’s hand had written to Oldtown and Gwayne regarding the young princes lack of manly pursuits in the capitol city, and the landed knight knew exactly the outing they needed.

Every three years, providing there is no winter, The Reach holds their Tourney of Squires, a place where young men, too young to be knighted, from all over the Realm can show off their strength and training in battle. It brought together boys from all social backgrounds, granting them chances beyond their names. If a boy could impress a great Knight or Noble Lord, they could find themself hired as a page or squire, preparing their way to future glory.

Obviously, Gwayne knew his elder nephews were not in want of such a life, but it was good practice, if only socially. Daeron needed no such training. The knight smiled down at his youngest nephew as the boy rode beside him, unaware of the mischief the two other boys were up to behind him. 

“Ser Criston!” Gwayne called down the path, as the bend in the road came into view. “Good of you to join us again, I thought you escaped for sure.” 

Cole rode towards them, after his insistence on scouting ahead for the past hour. The Knight of the Kingsgaurd had enjoyed the peace and solitude, dressed down in plain clothes, the group traveled as if they were not a band of young royals, but instead as average young men traveling to the wide spoken of tourney. Over the past ten years, Ser Criston Cole had not left the Red Keep or King’s Landing save to escort the royals to galavant the Kingswood. 

“It seems we will not make it to Westbrook tonight,” Cole barely managed to finish before the young boys shouted and moaned at him. “What are they smoking?” Cole after Gwayne. 

Aegon and Aemond froze in place, a small bundle of herbs wrapped in papers rolled up, against their lips, a small fire in Aegon’s hands to light his brother’s bundle, his own already glowing red with foul smelling herbs. 

“Aegon, your mother will kill me–“ Gwayne was not lucky enough to grapple the eldest prince before he rode off, eager to finish the lit herbs, shielding it from the wind with his hands.

Aemond rode off in the different direction, not wanting his own lit herbs to be taken away by the chasing Ser Cole, especially after it took so long to convince Aegon to share his stash. Helaena had always had an interest in strange plants, and Aegon had an interest in dulling his mind. 

Daeron pouted from the center of the road, having been left out of his brothers’ exploits once again. 

— 

The tourneys at Highgarden were always the grandest of affairs, and The Tourey of Squires was no different, perhaps even more luxurious. Highborn Lords and Ladies from all Seven Kingdoms gathered under amongst the luscious, flower filled gardens of the seat of the Reach to watch their young men complete against one another in the low-stakes competition designed for boys. Gwayne had attempted to explain to Cole the extent of the relaxation they were sure to encounter. 

This was not a tourney of champions, that both of the men had excelled at, this was a tourney for children. The Lords of the Kingdoms did not want to send their sons to the sword before they had their chance at glory, the Ladies of the Kingdoms would never allow such a thing. The swords were dulled, and the jousting was against a dummy target. Boys as young as eight to nearly sixteen were allowed to enter for a chance to have their skills seen by the richest and highest born of nobles, who ventured out of their tall towers to consider bestowing their charity on some extra large, extra wide lowborn who was fit to bear their cups. 

All the blooming blossoms made Aemond’s eye itch. 

Cole had remembered a similar tourney in his youth, when he was paraded in front of nobles at his first notable tourney. He had managed to knock Dark Sister from Prince Daemon’s hands with his own morningstar. Granted, Cole was older by nearly ten years on the young boys in his charge.

Ser Cole grasped Aemond’s shoulder in an attempt to console the seemingly crying boy. 

Aemond had no interest in tourneys or serving old, fat lords, but the young prince supposed getting out of the castle was better than remaining locked away inside. 

Aegon had never felt so lucky, as he watched, mouth agape, at the tent of dozens and dozens of ladies of his similar age. The Lords and Ladies of the Realm did not only bring their young boys to this tourney, it seemed. Their eligible daughters were well in tow, dressed to impress their potential future families. The tent was decorated with features and ribbons and strings, all things the young future ladies needed to make their favors for the competing lads. 

“And why must I wear these disgusting peasant clothes?” Aegon complained, as yet another group of ladies regarded him, and found him unworthy of their glances. 

“We did not want to alert the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms the Prince’s of the Realm were all in one place for the taking,” Ser Gwayne explained, seemingly meaning he wanted to protect them from reavers and kidnappers, hoping to hold the boys captive for a ransom. “Your clothes are newly made and fine enough for a tourney,” Gwayne added, more interested in keeping away all the realm’s Ladies and their marriageable daughters. What little remained of Aegon’s honor would not survive that many woman throwing themselves at his feet. Gwayne found it much more fitting to watch the young girls stare straight past him as he tried to wave, just as all young men should experience a few times in their years.

“Ahh, Lord and Lady Frey,” Ser Gwayne waved as they neared a familiar tent. Ser Criston held his head low, attempting to hide his face. Years ago, Forrest Frey had body asked for the hand of Rhaenyra Targaryen while Cole was stationed at her side. He remembered her laugh, and the look of disgust she shared with him when she met his eyes to mock the man who dared pledge her his loyalty. She had been a viper then, he only had to see it for himself to believe. 

“Lady Sabitha, you look dashing as ever. You look as if you are ready to fight for a Squireship yourself,” Gwayne laughed, as he kissed the top of the lady’s hand. 

“My future squire," she replied, allowing her hand to be kissed, “will need to learn to best me, if he ever hopes for a knighthood, Ser Gwayne, as you well know.” The woman sighed, as she took in the sight of the beautiful, blond, knight. In her youth she had wished for someone so beautiful to steal her away, but alas, that was long ago. “And you?” she asked, as her eyes regarded the equally handsome man in Ser Gwayne’s company, perhaps she was wrong for dreaming of a blond haired man when this type of man was also an option. 

“Ser Kale,” Gwayne replied, before Cole had a chance to blow his cover. “Sworn to the Lannisters, we are here with some of their house’s lads.” 

‘Ser Kale’ bowed politely to the Lady Sabitha and her Lord husband, who did not seem to recognize Cole at all from their former meeting. Nor did they seem to mind that the Lannisters ranks were lush with daughters this generation, lacking greatly for young sons to continue their knightly traditions.

The adults minded the young boys, their silver hair shorn short, and hidden under caps, looking no different than any other noble blond boy in the realm. Aemond and Daeron were using a sword to drop a frog onto their older brother’s shoulder, which caused him to squeal and squirm. 

“Ahh,” Lord Frey said, “Splendid!” He finished his cup of wine and gestured to a servant for another. 

“And who have you brought to compete?” Cole asked, leaning into his new persona by playing with a Lannister accent, one of his eyes blinking more than the other. 

Lady Sabitha motioned towards the two young men in her charge. “My youngest, Walrick, and his childhood companion, Ryver,” she said. One of the boys was standing upright, while the other searching their legs with great interest, flicking something crawling on the boy’s breaches. “Mum, I think there’s ants over here!” the taller boy called when he noticed he caught his mother’s eye. 

The adults waved. 

“Ryver what?” Gwayne asked.

“Just Ryver,” Lady Sabitha said, plainly. 

“Were we ever that young and stupid?” Ser Gwayne joked, as the Frey boys began to wildly itch inside their pants. 

“My wife assures me that I still am,” Lord Frey hiccuped into another glass. 

Lady Sabitha took Ser Gwayne’s arm and led him towards her tent. Cole was reluctant to join them, not wanting to let the young princes out of his sight. More afraid the princes would hurt themselves rather than meet with illish brutes. 

“Do you know who that is?” Aemond asked, prodding at Aegon. He motioned towards the eyes that had followed them since they arrived at the tourney camp. A young boy, their own age, dressed in browns and leathers, arms folded over his chest, teeth gritted. The boy was never close enough to see any symbol or sigil on his person. 

“Who cares?” Aegon replied. 

“Do you think he knows who we are?” Daeron chimed in, openly gawking towards the staring boy at the edge of the crowd. 

“Does it really matter?” Aegon asked. 

Petyr Royce had recognized the sorry excuse for princes before they entered the Highgarden camp. Their caps and plain clothes could fool the rest of the fools in the realm, but not Petyr. He knew the face of the Targaryens, he had seen the face of Daemon Targaryen briefly, but it was one to remember. There was no proof that the prince killed Petyr’s Aunt, that was what his uncle had claimed after returning from the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra. After Daemon inadvertently made Petyr the new Lord of Runestone, a title he cursed every day.

And here were the cause of his torment, in the flesh, flesh that could be cut and maimed. Petyr smiled at the thought of giving them all matching eye sockets

—

The family affair did not lend well towards Aegon’s siliceous new appetites. During the past weeks journey, Aegon had managed to steal himself away from his uncle and guard to proposition any woman he found himself alone with. Serving girls, scullery scrubbers, milkmaids, and even a stableboy once, as long as it had a cunt or a mouth, Aegon did not care. 

Whores and servants were not wondering about the Highgarden camps, the center for all things honorable and knightly in the realm. Children paraded around screaming, Ladies and Lords went on and on about how proud they are of their young children. Young families played games of cups and balls in the open fields. 

It all made Aegon sick. 

“King Maegor Targaryen, First of His Name, took to wife six women at once, to better his chances of birthing an heir,” Aemond read by candlelight from a great tome at the end of his cot. 

Ser Gwayne and Ser Criston were knights proper, and were able to find sleep in any setting. Their calm and steady breathing, mixed with the fluttering of candlelight was the only thing to drown out the distance screaming of babes. 

“If I were to become King, perhaps I will take six wives,” Aegon commented, his heads behind his head, finally clear after tugging himself behind a nearby tree. 

“Why not seven?” Daeron asked, snuggly wrapped beneath his blanket of gold and red. “One for reach of the seven kingdoms.”

“Perfect idea, brother,” Aegon mused. “Who shall I pick? Oletta Redwyne, of course, and then one of the Stormland girls, I can never tell them apart. It shall be easy to find some Dornish bitch, and for the Lannisters…” Aegon trailed off, imaging his perfect harem of girls with mixed hair and skin, all for his choosing. 

“Cinda Lannister?” Daeron asked, and Aemond sat up, minding his brother.

“No, no. She has a supple enough niece, what’s her name….Cornelius?”

“Cordelia,” Aemond corrected, closing his book, not wanting to hear more of the story of his cruel ancestor. 

a/n: the price of a “virgin whore” in a fancy brothel would cost about 1 Gold Dragon coin. So…get it maid girly, eat the rich! or rather…let the rich eat you?? 👀

Hope you liked it! I don't know if I plan on keeping this going as a series, I just wanted to explore their brotherly bond a bit more if I wanted to have Aemond be loyal to Aegon in my overall fic series. LOL. Always up for comments, questions, and ideas!

if you loved the story, want to comment, but can't think of anything to say, shout out your favorite fruit flavor in the comments lol

[witchthewriter]

𝐄𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝟺𝑡𝘩 𝑜𝑓 𝑀𝑎𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑟'𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠

ISFJ

Ravenclaw

Lawful Good

Cancer Sun, Virgo Moon, Leo Rising

"But his third wife couldn't give him a child either. Desperate to cement his stolen throne with an heir, Maegor took three wives at once, known as the Black Brides because each were women he'd widowed in his wars. All three women grew full with child in time, but each gave birth to the same twisted monstrosities as his second wife. One need not be a maester, much less a Grand Maester, to deduce the common thread here."―Varys

A noblewoman from House Costayne, Elinor was one of the three 'Black Brides,' along with Lady Jeyne Westerling and Princess Rhaena Targaryen.

Elinor had three children with her first husband, Ser Theo Bolling. He was arrested by Maegor's Kingsguard and executed as he was accused of conspiring with Queen Alyssa to put Jaehaerys on the throne.

After seven days of mourning, Elinor was summoned to wed Maegor. The king forced Elinor's sons' at the wedding so she would play her part in the ceremony. According to one tale, Elinor scratched Maegor's back to bloody ribbons as they coupled.

Elinor's sons were sent away after she wed Maegor. Her eldest was fostered at the Eyrie, her second son to Highgarden, and her youngest was given to a wet nurse.

When Tyanna admitted to poisoning Alys Harroway during her pregnancy, Tyanna promised the same would happen to Elinor.

Tyanna had been telling the truth. Elinor had given birth to an eyeless stillborn with small wings.

Elinor was one of only two wives who survived the king. The other was Rhaena Targaryen.

After the death of Maegor, Lord Daemon Velaryon proposed that King Jaehaerys marry Queen Elinor to reconcile with Maegor's supporters, but nothing came of that proposal.

After Jaehaery's ascent, Elinor left King's Landing dressed in the robes of a penitent. She visited her two elder sons at the Eyrie and Highgarden before retiring to her father's seat at the Three Towers with her youngest son.

Later, King Jaehaerys commanded Elinor to go forth and spread his Doctrine of Exceptionalism to the peoples of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as the goodness of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, becoming one of the Seven Speakers.

Her queenly clothes became shabbier and more threadbare each day, and she eventually gave up all claims to nobility, becoming Mother Elinor at the great motherhouse in Lannisport

[tpotr]

Can you make a short fanfic we’re aerea is jealous because rhaegal dances with some lady and she tells rhaegal that

Now, anon, I have no idea how you found this blog before I made it public, but well — I guess we're opening this blog with this! Thank you for this opportunity. So yes, I can and I did. If I had to place this little oneshot on the timeline, it would take place at 126AC (two years forward from where we are as of chapter 19). Genderbent!Helaegon | Humor/Fluff | A part of a series | wc: 761

Aerea’s nameday has been quite the success.

It has been planned down to the very finest of details. Gold thread tablecloths graced the tables, as well as the roasted chickens cooked gold themselves — his wife’s favourite to wash down with Highgarden’s sweetwine. Rhaegal has even convinced Mother to employ some street performers from down the city as the main entertainment; on the off-chance he and Aerea leave the keep, their routines made her laugh loudest.

Countless lords and ladies came to celebrate his wife’s twentieth anniversary on this earth, dancing and singing and gifting all there is to gift. New jewels and dresses and books and whatnot were given, and his wife smiled gladly for them; she was bright most evening, chatting with all the ladies by her side, and yet…

Now that they’re in their room once more, a sour pout comes about.

He finds it endearing, for the most part. She is mildly tipsy, he can tell; her cheeks are rouged a natural pink and her sullen stare is not nearly as intentful. His mind wanders. I can make her lips cherry to match. She flushes so prettily everywhere… his train of thought strays to bring about a warmth at his loins. His own thoughts setting loose on him, he supposes she’s not the only one who feels the sweetwine’s effects… although he admittedly drank much less.

Rhaegal notes her glance at him, pout turning more pronounced. Like a child waiting for attention. She’s better about speaking of what bothers her these days, but sometimes she wants to be noticed first. That’s alright; he’d coddle her if she’d like. He likes how her ears turn red when he does.

“Is something wrong?” he reaches over to her, placing one hand on her waist. The other goes to play with a strand of her loose hair. “I thought you enjoyed the celebrations?”

Aerea hums at the touch, but is quick to force a huff to maintain herself. “That girl,” she says with an upturned nose. “That girl was.. Uh– is, all sorts of wrong!” she slurs, squeezing on his arm.

“Which girl?” he asks. There were plenty of ladies in attendance.

“That Lannister girl, with the mane for her hair,” she says irritably and goes on to spill all her grievances. “You are not allowed to dance widh’ her anymore,” she proclaims. “Or her sisters. Or her cousins! They see golden decor and they think they all shat it themselves.”

Oh. She must be talking about Lord Jason’s daughter. He has too many daughters to keep count, but Rhaegal did end up dancing with his eldest Cerelle for one of the songs that were played. She did have a mop of golden hair, and her mother’s brown eyes. A pretty girl, undoubtedly, and rather talkative as well. He was pleased at that, for that made it so he didn’t have to do much more than nod for the entirety of their conversation.

“Don’t think of her, eith’er!” Aerea slaps his arm. Rhaegal holds himself from smiling; it’s barely a pat, and her exaltation is all too sweet, big eyes demanding his attention back. His arms come around her and his hands meet just below the small of her back. If he teases her, she just might ask him for more. 

“I’m trying to recall,” he says innocently. “What was her name…? Cer…” he trails off, letting her frown at him. “Cersei, was it?” he asks with a head tilt. Her expression shifts back to her full pout. Playing dumb can be fun, but kissing her stupid would be…

“Forget her,” she says, bringing her chest against his in an embrace. “T’was my nameday. You’re mine,” she declares and he feels warmth pool down his belly. Every time she says as much butterflies flutter. And you’re mine. He held much of that yearning within for so long, he can’t help his joy. “I should’ve ripped out that gold hair of her when she touched yo—”

Rhaegal brings an arm under her bottom and lifts her up. She squeaks in surprise. “I like your silver,” he says, and his eyes fall to her lips. “And your reds.”

He closes the gap between them, and kisses her all the way to their bed. Laying her down on it, he sees cherry coloured lips in an overjoyed, content grin. Her hand comes to his jaw, and drags his face back down. “I like you,” she says, and takes over lips that will forever be hers.

Yes, Aerea’s twentieth nameday was quite the success.

[thephantomcasebook]

Dif anon I just want to add about the stupid behavior of Alicent in 2x04. Literally your brother and lover in the war, your father some where in old town/highgarden is trying to help the greens, your sons and one of them is a king actually, both are uncontrollable and constantly swear among themselves, your daughter is simply ignoring by the whole yard and what is Alicent doing at this difficult moment for her family? She's in full serious mode thinking about stupid prophecy which her ex-childhood friend told her about yesterday 🤦‍♀️

Make it Make Sense, Nonny!

That's all we're asking.

There is absolutely no writing purpose or conceivable idea to why Alicent is acting the way she is right now. There is no thread or lead in from last season that explains this characterization of Alicent.

This - right here - is why you never, EVER, let your actors free reign to make decisions on characterization. Cause what they want to play and what they should be playing is two different things.

[alavestineneas]

King’s will

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OFC

summary: In the game of chess, the queen has more freedom on the chessboard. In that sense, the queen is the most powerful piece. On the other hand, the king has more value. Because if you lose the king, you lose the game. 

warnings: arranged marriage, medieval violence, slow burn

chapter 1 -> chapter 2 -> chapter 3 -> chapter 4 -> chapter 5

Spring of the year 111 AC, 

Highgarden

Otto took a sip out of the goblet, feeling a pleasant taste of Abor gold travel to his throat. It is how Gods intended the drink to be taken—slowly, under the warm rays of the morning sun. It was easy to forget oneself in those beautiful Highgarden gardens, surrounded by the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of bees. It was broadly different to King's Landing. The Westeros' cloak was nothing but dirt compared to those glorious hills. Even now, two years after his time as a King's Hand has ended, Otto felt the foul smell on his palms. 

''Enjoying our wine, Otto?'' 

 A brawny, strong figure appeared from the cool shadows of the trees. The small, prominent wrinkles covered the man's tan face, and his dark beard bore a few strands of grey. Although age and grief seemed to make a mark in his gaze, his brown, almost black eyes shone with a somewhat youthful, mischievous glimpse. 

 ''Fillis Tyrell in his full glory!'' Hightower smiled, standing up from the comfort of his chair to embrace the man in a hug. ''Beware, I may empty your cellar by the end of my stay.''

 ''You are more than welcome to, and you know it. I apologize for not greeting you earlier.'' 

 ''Don't, don't.'' Otto waved around, dismissing Tyrell like an annoying fly. ''I know how hard it is to manage without a wife.''

The man chuckled, ''Well, I'm doing my best. But I must say, it's not easy with two daughters.''

They stood in silence for a moment before Tyrell spoke up again. ''So, what do we owe the pleasure?''

"I decided to visit my friend in his magnificent castle and look at his mountains of gold myself.'' Otto raised his eyebrows, gesturing at the man's attire—black mourning cloth embroidered with golden threads. Heavy, shining jewels covered the large, noble hands and wrapped around the neck, hidden under the velvet collar. 

 ''Don't try to fool me, old fox.'' The man sat, taking a piece of fruit from the golden plate. ''The trading goes well; it always did. You are not here because of that.''

Otto raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. ''You know me too well.'' He took a sip of wine before continuing. ''I am to ask for your support.'' 

Tyrell leaned in, his eyes narrowing with interest. ''Go on.'' 

''The Realm stands at peace, but we are preparing for war, my friend.''

The man sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ''You are asking a lot of me, Otto. Going against the King's will is the highest treason.'' 

 ''The King's will doesn't take away the birthright of the firstborn son.'' Otto followed the man's gaze. Two young children played near the fountain, with a maid struggling to keep them away from the water. 

 ''I have two daughters growing. Gods know how long I am yet to live and rule here before they are alone. They can't even hold a sword, and you want me to put them at war without any protection?''

It was not just his father's love that spoke; it was the lack of gain for his house that Tyrell voiced. Not even a life-long friendship could change the man's prudent nature; although sometimes wearying, it served him well.

''What do you want in return, Fillis?'' 

 Tyrell looked at him, a playful glimpse long gone. ''Wed them. Take my daughter to Oldtown, raise her in your traditions, and make her Aegon's wife.'' 

 Otto shook his head ''I can't do that. The prince is only four; your daughter is seven.'' 

 ''I have two. Elize is an heir. She will be the Lady Paramount of the Mander, first to support your grandson's claim when the time comes. Marcella is five.'' 

 Otto looked at his friend, entertaining the proposal. The price for Tyrell's support is immense; marrying his grandson to a pig in a poke was treacherous. However, the army and gold of the Reach could hold a deadly advantage if used by an enemy. Aegon had to marry sooner or later; no other noble house would agree to send their daughter to Oldtown to be raised as his wife. Tyrells were always trusted allies of Hightowers, sharing similar goals and values. A marriage alliance with them would not only secure Hightower's position in court but also strengthen Aegon's claim to the Iron Throne. ''It is a decision we can't rush.'' He finally answered. 

 ''I am not rushing you, Otto. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.'' Tyrell raised his hand, waving. ''Marcella, come!''

A shorter girl in a blue dress turned around. She was plump, with healthy fat on her cheeks and legs. Her hair, plaited in two heavy braids, jumped when she ran over to her father, a wide smile on her face. ''Father, who is this guest?'' she asked, looking up at him with curious eyes.

 ''Ser Otto Hightower, darling.'' 

The child curtsied rather clumsily, trying her best not to fall. Fillis chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately.

''Tell me, Marcella, do you want to be a princess?" Hightower asked, his careful eyes studying the girl as if she were some rare bird. The child looked at her father, who also watched her, and thought for a moment. 

 ''No.'' She shook her head. ''I want to be the Queen.'' 

 Of course, the girl assumed it was a new game her father came up with; she was too young to understand the weight those words held. The men were silent for a moment until Tyrell spoke. 

 ''I'll be your brave knight then.'' He scooped Marcella up in his arms and spun her around, causing her to giggle with delight.

Otto watched them for a while, his thoughts far from the happy laughter. He will think about the offer later, careful not to make a mistake. For now, he can put it aside and finally speak to Fillis as a trusted friend, not as a strategic recourse. 

-

Otto stayed at the Highgarden for two more weeks, wandering through the gardens and walls of the city. He spent a lot of restless nights in the guest room, thinking about the proposal. It was not the girl that concerned him; the child was clever and vibrant, running around the castle, much to the dismay of the hoard of maids that followed her around. What kept him up at night was the possibility of a better deal that could come later. 

Tyrell was a patient man, although every patience has its limit, so as soon as the decision was made, Otto knocked at the door of his friend's chambers. Fillis was not alone, as usual; his daughters sat near the window, writing as he worked.

''Ser Otto!'' The older girl, Elize, stood up from her seat and nudged the younger one to move. Marcella waved a piece of paper with smudged ink all over it at him. 

 ''We are writing, Ser Otto," she chirped, an accusing intonation evident, as if Otto had disrupted them from a very important task. 

''I see.'' He tried to catch a glimpse of the words on the page, but the ink was too smudged to make out anything coherent.

 ''Girls, we will dine together later. Now run along, my dear. We have important matters to discuss with Ser Otto.'' 

 The older girl nodded obediently and scampered off, grabbing her sister and leaving the two men alone in the quiet room. Otto cleared his throat. 

 ''We accept your offer. Aegon will marry your younger daughter once they are of age.'' 

 ''Good.'' Fillis nodded, a wrinkle on his forehead disappearing. ''What about the King?'' 

 ''Alicent has her ways.'' Otto paused. ''The girl will study in Oldtown from the age of eleven. She will eat and live as my house's guest and receive the best education the Citadel can offer. I already sent a letter home.'' 

 Fillis nodded again. ''It seems like a definite plan,'' he said. ''When will we make an announcement?'' 

 ''No need to hurry with that; the children are still young. We have time.'' 

 The two men delved into a deep discussion about politics and economics, their voices hushed as they strategized for the future of the Realm. Hours passed before they finally emerged from the room, tired but satisfied with their progress. By the time they parted ways, Otto felt confident that he had made the right decision. He couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him as he made his way back to his chambers. 

 -

Summer of the year 118 AC, 

Highgarden

The castle's residents all stood in the courtyard, ready to say their goodbyes to the second daughter of Lord Fillis. Horses huffed under the burning sun, stablemen manoeuvring around them with buckles of water. What seemed like dozens of chests filled a few carriages. Everything seemed familiar, except for one man. With his finer armour and the confidence of a skilled fighter, he stood out the most. 

 Ser Ywain was one of the Fillis's most trusted knights, serving House Tyrell for more than ten years. He had swarthy, rough skin and thick black braids with golden rings braided in them. A massive scar was evident on his neck, and he wore it like a glorious prize. House Ambrose was small but was famous for its deadly fighters; their motto ''Never Resting'' was not an exaggeration; Ywain trained more than anyone here did, despite not needing to. For now, the man resorted to giving occasional orders to soldiers around him, his voice calm but laced with authority.

The man of the house found himself once again growing impatient. Was it from worry or the hot sun above his head? The whole thing started to get on his nerves. Fillis didn't want to lose sight of his children even for a minute since his wife's death, let alone send one to a city he held no control over. But Tyrells weren't the one to break their agreements. ''For the love of Gods, where's your sister?'' he asked his older daughter, who was waiting beside him. 

Elize shrugged her shoulders, unsure of where her younger sister had gone. ''She said she was almost ready to leave.'' She, too, was getting tired of waiting. 

 Fillis sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Just as he wanted to fetch someone to find his child, she came running.

 ''I'm here, I'm here!'' Marcella shouted, her voice breathy. ''I'm ready now.'' 

 ''You better be," her sister scoffed. 

''Darling, it's time we say our goodbyes.'' Fillis started, the irritation in his voice long gone. His daughter's eyes reminded him so much of his childhood. The same curiosity and spirit sparkled in them. While her sister, Elize, took a lot after him, Marcella looked like her mother. Tyrell could only hope they shared only good qualities. ''Be good. You will bring great honour to our house. And remember - I and Elize will wait for your letters here. Okay?''

Marcella nodded, tears streaming down her face. Fillis wiped them away gently, his heart heavy with the weight of their impending departure. 

''Come here,'' Elize mumbled, tears staining her face as well. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she did love her younger sister.

''I read your letters to that Tully. Gross.'' Marcella whispered to her sister before running to the carriage with a speed only an eleven-year-old could possess. 

 ''Marcella!'' Elize shouted, her sentiments long forgotten. The younger girl only laughed. 

As Elize watched her sister disappear into the carriage, she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. Marcella was always so carefree and full of life. It was as if nothing could ever bring her down. Elize, on the other hand, felt weighed down by the responsibilities that came with being the eldest. Despite being the one to inherit the Highgarden, she always lost the race for her father's love. 

 As the procession started to move, she felt her father's heavy arm on her shoulder. 

 ''I guess it's just two of us from now on, darling. So, tell me about that Tully.''

 Elize felt her cheeks redden. It's going to be a long day. 

-

To the Lord of Highgarden and his daughter, Lady Elize Tyrell, greetings and deepest love.

The oldest city greeted me well. Lord Ormund Hightower and his family are the kindest of people. Their hospitality has been unmatched, and I am grateful for their warm welcome. The grand feast was held in honour of our house upon my arrival. 

Politics and economics fascinate me, but I also enjoy more lighthearted pursuits, such as dancing and horse riding. There is something so freeing about moving your body to music or feeling the wind in your hair as you ride through the countryside. And yet, despite all of these activities, I always make time for writing. So when I write to you, know that it comes from a place of deep sincerity and affection.

To my pity, I haven't been able to see much of the city yet, but one building caught my eye. If I am not mistaken, it is a new Sept. I hope to visit it one day, for I am sure it is even more stunning from the inside. 

These things, about which I write to you, are only a few of the many that I have done here. May the Seven watch over you, and may your lands prosper and your people thrive under your wise leadership.

Written in the summer of the year 118 AC

Your loving sister and daughter, 

Lady Marcella of Noble House Tyrell 

[westeroslive]

twirling  chiffon  skirts  on  the  dance  floor  -  the  vibrant  hues  a  reflection  of  the  blooming  jardins  of  highgarden,  the  world  does  not  stop  spinning  until  the  last  notes  of  the  night  start  playing.  the  final  dance,  willingly  guiding  that  special  someone  to  the  center  of  the  great  ball  -  in  the  midst  of  court,  intimate  steps  with  chosen  other  ⸻  what  melody  is  more  befitting  of  such  moment  than  a  sweet  love  song.  dance  partners  caught  in  their  own  world  as  they  move  gracefully  together,  a  practiced  dance  with  stolen  stares  that  they  have  performed  a  million  little  times  before.  it  fails  to  escape  the  notice  of  delighted  mama's  who  see  many  prospects  for  grand  festivities  in  the  seasons  to  come  -  many  seasons  of  love  tied  to  wedding  ceremonies,  and  perhaps  even  grandchildren  sitting  on  their  lap  anytime  soon.

outside  the  nightsky  could  not  get  any  darker,  stars  shining  brightly  as  cold  wind  enters  the  room  just  as  the  tune  ends.  the  ruling  lady  tyrell  rises  as  everyone  quietens  to  hear  her  final  words  with  her  majesty  the  queen  standing  right  beside  her.  a  serpentine  glint  shimmers  in  the  dragon's  byzantium  hues  -  a  shift  in  the  air  as  softly  -  playing  melody  of  dancing  reels  turn  into  foreboding  rains  of  castamere.  the  official  component  of  the  lavish  maiden's  ball  has  ended  as  the  two  high  -  ranking  noblewomen  bid  court  adieu  with  well  wishes  of  peaceful  slumber.  though  is  this  the  end  of  this  tale,  or  do  weary  bones  recognize  the  signs  as  old  as  time. slowly  the  room  empties  as  nobles  leave  for  night  rest  while  others  move  the  chemistry  of  bedroom  eyes  to  their  personal  chambers  ⸻  nothing  goes  undetected  between  the  four  walls  of  stone,  it  even  goes  beyond  the  narrow  sea.  and  in  the  morning,  with  freshly  -  baked  pastries  and  fruits  plucked  from  the  orchards,  normality  begins  again.

OUT OF CHARACTER: THE MAIDEN'S BALL

and  with  this  final  puzzle  piece,  we  conclude  these  festivities  hosted  by  the  tyrells.  and  life  will  be  back  to  normal  at  court  in  highgarden  as  the  queen  silently  demands  all  to  stay  within  the  grounds.  normal  interactions  may  proceed  and  event  threads  can  be  finalized. this  means  that  muses  are  free  to  wander  the  grounds  of  the  castle  as  they  wait  for  the  next  word  from  the  ruling  pair  or  the  queen.  in  other  words,  enjoy  the  peace  and  quiet  before  we  show  our  cards.

a  glorious  ball  brought  to  you  by  the  ruling  lady  tyrell  has  consequences  especially  when  gossiping  mama's  spotted  wandering  hands  during  dances  -  not  enough  space  in  between  the  bodies.  keep  your  eyes  open  as  the  main  will  announce  some  more  news  the  upcoming  days.  

be  sure  to  fill  in  the  google  forms  if  you  haven't  already  !  it  is  very  important  for  us  in  order  to  move  on  to  the  next  fun  part.

[wnterreign]

open starter / @reignrbs where: a hidden section of the briar maze. status: closed for replies.

        the  corners  of  his  lips  twitched  upwards as the sound of footsteps finally didn't pass by the hidden entrance to the courtyard cemal occupied but rather drew closer. seeing how observant or truly curious the people residing in his home were had sounded like an interesting game. but one he'd grown almost bored of until now.   ❝ congratulations. you're the first of the guests to find this part of the maze, ❞   he greeted when the other came into sight, raising his wine goblet in a small toast.

[nynaeve-mashiara]

Snippet of an ASoIaF fic I am writing. The pertinent details are that Rickard survived the Rebellion, Lyanna bore a daughter, Ashara agreed to claim the girl as the twin to her and Brandon's stillborn Lyarra Sand, Robert legitimized Alysanne unprovoked, and the great and good of the realm are currently in King's Landing celebrating first the marriage of Prince Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell, and then Princess Myrcella's marriage to Lord Stark's fourth son, Edwyle.

-

“I have wanted to hear your take on the Dance of the Dragons, Lady Alysanne. Several Maesters have claimed it was the start of the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty.” Lord Tyrion said.

Lord Willas smiled slightly; they had bonded over his library, when they guested Highgarden for his wedding to dear Sansa. It smarted still, to be so removed from the woman who was more a sister than a cousin. Willas and she had continued their philosophical debates by letter since.

“As I see it, there are several points in history where, had people made different choices, the Targaryen dynasty might not have flittered out. The Dance was not the start, but it was if not the point of no return, at least the most apparent.” She said without looking up from her embroidery.

“Do tell, Alysanne.” Willas said, refilling her goblet with Arbor Gold.

“The last was my father’s murder. Had he not been burned alive by the Mad King, the Rebellion might have been avoided. Rhaegar would needs must be punished and Aerys deposed, but Aegon could have ruled. Have at least Prince Doran and Lord Lannister on his regent’s council, with perhaps also the late Lord Arryn. Lord Baratheon as well, perhaps, and then also a Northerner. An odd number, to forestall a tie.” She said, pausing to take a sip of the wine. It was sweeter than she preferred her wines to be, yet it wet the throat all the same.

“Not Rhaegar’s kidnapping of your aunt?” Stannis asked, brow furrowed.

“It would of course have been for the best if it had never occurred, but I do believe it could have been salvaged. The murder of the heir to a Lord Paramount was the final nail in the coffin. Then he demanded the heads of his father and both his brothers.” She said, tying off her red thread and reaching for the black. “The one preceding it was the tragedy at Summerhall, eradicating all but one branch of the family. Duncan denouncing his rights as heir to wed Jenny of Oldstones before that again. Maester Aemon being sent to the Citadel, by oath removing him from the succession, meaning the throne went to his younger brother, Aegon the Unlikely. Aegon the Unworthy legitimizing his bastards on his deathbed might have forestalled the Blackfyre Rebellions. If not, it would certainly have made Daemon Blackfyre’s cause more difficult.”

“You have given this a lot of thought.” Tyrion said, raising his brows.

“My lord grandfather finds it a useful tool of instruction, to study the conflicts of the past and theorize as to how it could have been avoided. He usually uses conflicts from the North, but it is a way of seeing history I cannot easily lay aside.” She said, popping a small pie in her mouth, dropping one down Ghost’s maw while she chewed, and flushing it down with a large gulp of wine. “Baelor the Blessed refusing to sire children, he could have remarried after he dissolved his marriage to Daena the Defiant. Had he a son, Aegon the Unworthy would not have inherited. Preceding that is of course the Dance.”

“That is quite the list, Lady Alysanne.” Stannis said, folding his hands. “I would not have expected such well reasoned an analysis from even the most studious lord.”

“I have two left, Lord Baratheon.” She said, her light voice masking her reprimand.

“And what preceded Rhaenyra’s attempted usurpation of her brother the king?” he asked, raising one brow.

“Aegon was the usurper, Lord Baratheon. Rhaenyra was Princess of Dragonstone in her own right, and the Lords of the Realm had sworn to uphold her claim. As House Stark and the North did.”

“A son inherits before a daughter, even if they are born from different wives.” Tyrion said. “That is the law.”

“A law his predecessor codified and promptly broke. Viserys himself was heir by king’s choice; why should it be different simply because he chose a woman? Had he wished for Aegon to be his successor, he would have granted him Dragonstone. Or decreed that Rhaenyra would keep Dragonstone, either for life to then revert to the heir to the throne, or to hand down to her heir. He should then have absolved the lords of their oaths to Rhaenyra and proclaimed Aegon as his heir.” She said, starting on the black wolf that were to curl around the Martell sun, biting the spear. “All who had sworn for Rhaenyra, yet supported Aegon, were oathbreakers. If Aegon was intended to be his heir, it was terrible statecraft, and doomed to lead to conflict.”

“A son inherits; always. The succession is set.” Stannis said.

“Certainly, the king’s wishes have nothing to do with the line of succession or the holdings of his family. His Grace marked you his heir until he had a child of his own, when he made you Lord of Dragonstone. It is the only way granting Storm’s End to Lord Renly makes sense as anything but a grave insult.” She said, blinking at him through her lashes in a way she hoped seemed guileless.

Tyrion considered her while trying to hide a smirk by taking a drink of his goblet. Willas sent her an incredulous look. Stannis clenched his jaw so hard she worried he might crack a tooth.

“I assume the first action that set the course for House Targaryen was Maegor’s usurpation of his nephew?” Willas asked, reaching out to scratch Ghost between the ears.

“Aye, Maegor the Cruel. A moniker well deserved. I wonder at anyone reusing the name.”

“A well reasoned list, my lady.” Stannis said, having loosened his jaw enough to talk. “I might not agree with all of your reasoning…”

“What is the last point?” Tyrion asked.

Stannis sent him a venomous look.

“What do you mean, the last point?” he demanded.

“The Lady Alysanne said there were two points in history before the Dance of the Dragons, that lead to the downfall of House Targaryen as Kings of Westeros. Maegor was a right horror, but I imagine she does not count the usurpation and the kinslaying as separate actions. The second must logically follow from the first if he wished to keep the throne.”

“The second major point, as I see it, in the downfall of House Targaryen, was an action taken by the Targaryen king thought by many to be the greatest of the dynasty. Jaehaerys the Conciliator struck a blow to his legacy the day he chose Baelon as his heir, after Aemon took a crossbow bolt to the neck.” Alysanne said, nodding down at her embroidery. The first paw was finished, balancing on the butt of the spear. She would finish all the black, before adding several hues of grey. Else it would resemble one of the shadow beasts the priest of R’Hllor preached of, the one in Braavos who had been so drawn to Ghost’s snow-white form.

“Baelon was the natural choice.” Stannis said.

She looked up from her embroidery, meeting his gaze through her lashes.

“Is that so, Lord Baratheon?” she asked. “Certainly, Prince Doran will be delighted, that his son and three grandchildren will no longer need to freeze their toes of in Winterfell. Quentyn might be miffed, after spending the four years we have been wed acclimatizing to the chill of a Northern summer. But if it is only right for a brother to inherit before a daughter, I am more useful as my husband’s wife in Sunspear, or my mother’s daughter in Starfall. Aunt Alyria will be delighted to shuffle off the duties of the lady of the household, as Cousin Edric is yet unwed.”

“I did not mean to imply you were not the rightful heir to Winterfell, Lady Alysanne.”

“Yet you did.” She said, fastening the tail of her thread. “Furthermore, you implied your own daughter should not be your heir. If only men can inherit, House Baratheon is at an impasse, as your next generation consists of two girls and two boys. Princess Margaery better start popping out boys. I am sure you look forward to being an uncle, Willas.”

“I do, Alysanne, as I am sure you do as well.” Willas said.

“Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane are both yet unwed, and I am unsure whether I would trust any offspring supposedly brought forth from Lyarra.” She said, fastening the tail of her new black thread.

“Being wed has never stopped people from begetting children before.” Tyrion said.

“Being dead does.” She said, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye. “I do consider many of my elder cousins and middle aunts and uncles more siblings than anything. Robb especially is my twin in all but blood, and I do certainly consider Minisa, Jon, and Eddard my niece and nephews.”

A Stark man-at-arms had walked up to them as they bickered, and now lent down to whisper in Stannis’s ear.

“I am curious, Lady Alysanne, about which of your children is currently Princess Arianne’s heir.” Tyrion said, pouring himself a new goblet of wine.

“Little Bran, as the third-born. Torrhen is mine, and Elia is Cousin Edric’s, as she is the younger twin. If Cousin Edric sires legitimate children before Princess Arianne does, Elia becomes her heir.” She said, rotating her embroidery one way and her head the other, to see if that made it any clearer.

“I am afraid I must leave you, my lords, my lady, the Lord Hand requires a meeting with me.” Stannis said as he rose.

“Give Uncle Ned my regards, if you please, Lord Baratheon.” She said, looking up and sending him a small smile.

“I will, Lady Alysanne.” He said, before striding off, trailing the Stark man-at-arms and his own two retainers.

Willas gazed after him.

“Do you think he is aware of just what he implied, when he insisted Prince Baelon was the rightful heir, and not Princess Rhaenys?” he asked.

“That he does not consider Myrcella part of the line of succession?” Tyrion asked. “Or that he gravely insulted the heir to the North by implying it is her uncle and not she who is the rightful heir?”

“Lord Baratheon is neither the first nor the last to imply Uncle Ned should be The Stark after my lord grandfather.” Alysanne said, starting on the tail of the wolf. “I am a legitimized female half-Dornish bastard, I am unsure whether there could be more factors working against me as the future Lady Stark regnant. My concerns align more with Willas’s, about Princess Myrcella and her future children. Overmorrow, she will be my good-aunt, and her children will be my cousins.”

[waitingforsecretsouls]

Encouraging people to check out reddit user Genghis/Kazoo’s asoiaf meta. Even if you end up not agreeing with some stuff, it offers interesting new perspectives (compared to popular/accepted fandom opinion on the issues in question) and certainly revitalized my interest in the asoiaf lore, so you might find it thought-provoking or just plain fun nonetheless! Some of my favourites include:

1. Mance Rayder woke the Others on purpose, to gain personal power and further the interests of an Asshai'i conspiracy . What it says on the tin, an alternate perspective on Mance and the Others both that fits GRRM’s stated goals for the series as well as its themes far more than the popular ‘everyone vs the (maybe not completely evil) Others’.

2. The Stallion's Revenge: How Mirri Maz Durr Ruined Everything. If you have strong Mirri opinions the title might sound a bit inflammatory, but basically the meta deals with the true nature of Azor Ahai and the way Mirris well-intentioned but ultimately utilitarian prevention of his incarnation in Rhaego led to a far worse alternative, because prophecy in asoiaf cannot ever be useful except in hindsight (and no, it does not involve Dany as Azor Ahai or the ‘Great Darkness’).

3. The Grey King = the Pearl Emperor = the first Hightower: Decrypting the mythology of the Grey King, GEOTD, Oldtown, and the Seven . Connecting some dots in the Dawn Age lore between the Great Empire of the Dawn, the Ironborn, and the Hightowers/Oldtown, all highly relevant for the series plot-thread regarding...the Ironborn, Azor Ahai Reborn and Oldtown.

4. Invasion from the Deeps, Part 2: Beyond the Eldritch Apocalypse. Similar in flavour to the above in that it examines the Dawn Age history of the Ironborn and why the connection to some sort of fishy precursor race or a sort of ‘Deep Ones’ is misguided, particularly regarding the series endgame.

5. The Jade Compendium and why Lightbringer is a genuine goddamned superweapon . What exactly is the deal with Lightbringer and why is it so dangerous? Hint: It’s because it’s not three adolescent dragons. You’ll wish it was as tame as that.

6. Brightroar, the Black Bazaars, and a Big Boom: A New Theory on Who Sold the Lannisters Their Sword and Blew Up Valyria. An investigation into one of the most consequential events in asoiaf history, with a side dish of explanation as to the above-mentioned ‘Asshai’i conspiray’.

6.5 Lightbringer "went critical" and caused the Doom of Valyria. With an    addendum of Lightbringers potential involvement.

7. How Sam the Slayer is being forged by the narrative into the ultimate weapon against Euron. Predictions regarding Sam and the Reach and Euron. Or: Why the Reach is doomed to become part of Sams tragic backstory (...2!) and fuel for his at the least significant contribution to Euron’s defeat in the series climax.

8. Ten reasons nobody should trust the Azor Ahai prophecy. Arguably a bit ‘basic’ after all that, but a valuable little summary nonetheless, since it’s far from  the universally agreed upon perspective (despite the fact that GRRM is not subtle about it).

9. The Bloodstone Emperor and Azor Ahai both sound eerily similar to Ineluki the Storm King from Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn. More Azor Ahai ‘lore’. If you’ve read some or all of the previous theories you’ll probably already have seen it come up, but here’s a salient collection of their parallels.

10. Euron is definitely Azor Ahai reborn. I had to put it on the list, despite the fact that it will have appeared in multiple of the theories listed above. I just love the core-concept of it. So. much. ’Euron’ endgame material for real.

11. No, the Five Forts aren't the Wall of Essos. Another deconstruction of a widespread fanon and it’s implication for the series endgame.

12. Qarth is the Gnostic false Eden, and Highgarden an imitation thereof. The First Men originated in Qarth. Moving away from my beloved Ironborn, an interesting theory about the origin of the First Men!

[lucreziasredwyne]

who: @seffora-merryweather

setting: a continuation of this thread, moving from the dining halls to distribution dinner to the smallfolk before the towering gates of highgarden, stood before the large three walled circles around the main castle keep

they had conversed for some time as the lines of people dwindled, going through basket after basket of freshly baked goods, leftover preserved meats as well as wines to be distributed to the poor. but eventually, perhaps due to how long they had been on their feet, there had been a comfortable silence that settled between the two women. "indeed, directly from the king's kitchens." she engaged in conversations, and thought of how time seemed to blur.

she would do this with her own mother. how loss seemed to suddenly creep back over and haunt her, in the memory of all her people stood for. her lineage, her culture, values. charity was a value in itself. "we are almost finished." and as the sky began to darken just slightly, lucrezia raised her hood over dark chestnut curls, framing her face as she watched seffora serving the last of the night, a small, graceful smile crossing her feature. "zakat, or giving alms, is considered pivotal in our worship of the gods; our fasts are not accepted without it. you must have seen it in goldengrove?"

[ofsacredseas]

setting : during the storm that came over highgarden, ayca is searching for her sister, emira, and get's caught up in the rain, forcing her to take shelter in the stables with other lords and ladies ; flashback thread with @garrick-cargyll

silks of blue fluttered down the halls of highgarden, her pace quicker than normal as she tried to locate emira. dark orbs scanned the many faces of those who passed her, honed in on any chesnut haired lady in front of her, but none were her little sister. footsteps led her out to the gardens, and though the sky had darkened, the eldest lady of seagard wasn’t quite prepared for what was to come of the black clouds that began to wash over formerly blue skies.

worry struck her more now, though she was told her sister had taken to the gardens, she hoped she was inside instead. thunder was only distant, and she had made her way to check the stables before trekking back inside when a downpour came. hands immediately came up to shield her hair, a pointless attempt as she scurried some paces away into the shelter, just as the world outside seemed to become a blur of torrential wind and rain.

a few servants; stableboys and maids, as well as a couple of other lords and ladies, seemed to also have be forced to take shelter. the storm had come swiftly, and hard. it seemed to have caught many by surprise. slender frame stood by the window, ringing out her once voluminous curls, that were now dripping wet and flattened. it was quiet, it didn't seem many knew one another, or they were all simply hoping the storm would pass quickly. ayca hoped emira was okay.

above the sound of the downpour was the sound of metal sharpening, piercing to the ears, louder than raindrops pounding upon fertile lands, and ayca looked over at the culprit, unable to hide a face of agitation. "would you be so kind as to shield your sword in the presence of a lady, my lord?" she chose her words carefully, but her tone held the obvious notion that she was irritated, a foul mood partially caused by the inconvenience outside, no doubt.