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gerryrigged · 10 months

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mmkay I've read the first two issues out of G0tham War and

(CUT FOR BIG SALT, lol)

this is so dumbbbbb oh my god 😭 like we knew it was gonna be dumb, artificial conflict, but LORDT.

everyone is OOC, even more than I expected, and the stupid, ridiculous plot hinges on the stupid, ridiculous idea that Selina's dumbass plan would ever, ever work. (Let's train ALL the henchpeople/goons (yes all of them) to be ethical 😌 non-violent catburglars 😌 like Selina 😌 who donate part of their profits to charity 😌 and only target rich people so they're really #hashtagvictimlesscrimes and then they don't have to work for dangerous Rogues and mobsters, yay, they're bettering their lives!!) (this is ~Sophisticated Social Commentary~!)

And it especially depends on her plan working astronomically better than the hundreds of millions of dollars Bruce has poured into similar outreach for the city over literal decades through the Wayne Foundation and other programs, creating and offering people jobs, support networks, etc. that aren't criminal in nature.

but oh, no one is going to bring that up (has the Martha Wayne Foundation ever even existed? haha, none of these Wayne kids know, apparently! they're just going to sit and twiddle their thumbs while Selina yells at Bruce that he's just "...clearly furious because [he's] wasted [his] fortune and [his] brain on bat-cars and punching people, and it took compassion to solve this problem").

Anyway, Bruce's efforts never meaningfully improved Gotham (cough because Batman stories can't be told without a crime-ridden Gotham cough), while Selina's (gasp) actually have! Somehow!

because the Power of Plot demands it, her cartoonish plan apparently works SO well that violent crime is down almost 75%!! wowiee, Catwoman is actually fixing Gotham, which no one has ever been able to do before!! who needs Batman, haha! that's such egg on your face, Batman, how come you never thought of doing something like this before, haha. Just convince the criminals to be non-violent, Batman, haha, what like it's hard. Ha.

So anyway, gosh, the Batkids (minus Damian, who's siding with Bruce, and Jason, who, harkening back to his "control crime" roots, 100% supports Selina) are conflicted. It feels ~weird~ just blithely letting burglars walk right past them into people's homes, but the ~numbers don't lie~, Batman, it's ~working~, maybe we shouldn't interfere and just see where this goes, like Selina asked! Aren't you being a little unreasonable walking out of this both-sides-might-have-a-point debate, Batman?? Also, ohhh nooo, you shouldn't push back so hard against her people because we don't want to start a ~war~, Batman!

I'M GONNA FACEPLANT INTO MY KEYBOARD IT'S SO ABSURD. How can you write anyone in-character when you're stuck twisting them in knots to accommodate such an absurd premise?

And then, when one of Selina's "graduates" is shot and killed during a break-in by a scared woman who'd unexpectedly stayed home when she was supposed to be out of town, the Batkids (minus Damian) act like it's somehow unexpected/out of control for Batman to bring down the hammer on Selina's operation? Like a man didn't just die because of the path Selina set him on? Like a massive surge in crime targeting the rich isn't going to eventually have more such incidents and ramifications down the line, as backlash and escalations hit? Like rich people are not known for vigorously defending their property?? What is your long-term plan here, Selina??

Batman isn't even shown being excessively violent in rounding up Selina's people (for Batman, lol) - just relentless. But Tim shows up and tries to talk him down as if he's putting petty crooks in the hospital again like after Jason's death (he just lasso'd that crook's legs and growled at him?? what is so over the top about that, in vigilante context?? this is completely normal Bat behavior??), making noises about Bruce's health and taking it easy, and oooo, nothing's black and white...

And Dick goes, "He's on a rampage, he's out of control" (WHERE? LITERALLY WHERE? are you perhaps referring to the murderous police-state robot he built and accidentally unleashed on Gotham a few arcs ago (which was ACTUALLY bad and over the top), because there is nothing in this event so far???). And Tim worries about how Batman was so angry, he's worried about what he's going to do, how far he's willing to go, and Babs is like if Selina asks for help, I'd be inclined to give it.

Like if they'd actually showed Bruce escalating and going out of control, losing it on these non-violent thieves, I wouldn't be so enormously peeved about this aspect of it. Granted, I'd still be hella mad about people like Cass and Dick and Tim thinking about supporting Catwoman's (IDIOTIC) plan, especially after a man just died, but they've all seen Bruce go off the rails before, they're very familiar with having to oppose him on those occasions.

But the way this is set up??? No. Just no. Bruce is pissed about the one thief dying, he's not trying to kill the rest of them??

It doesn't make sense, and they all come across as painfully out of character. Standing aside and letting certain crimes happen as a matter of standing policy, because they're Catwoman's people - like you can count on nobody getting hurt because Selina just trained them so well - are you kidding me, what happened to these kids' principles?? Writers and Editorial I am IN YOUR WALLS, STOP CONTORTING CHARACTERS JUST TO FIT THE DUMBASS STORY YOU WANT TO TELL.

Dick: I'm gonna head into Gotham and see if I can talk Bruce off his "moral ledge."

QUOTE UNQUOTE MORAL LEDGE??? DICK GRAYSON of all people referring to Bruce's adherence to his Mission and his Code with sanctimonious, condescending scare quotes???? Like he doesn't also believe in "no life is an acceptable loss" to a reckless, at times self-destructive degree??? Huh????

And this absolutely DUMBASS fight scene where all of the Batkids (minus Damian) fight against Bruce, but the all-powerful Bat-god doesn't need strategy or contingency plans to handle the most dangerous and highly trained vigilantes on the planet, he just goes ahead and one-shots Cass (lmfao????) and Duke and then Steph and Tim at the same time and only Dick and Jason even land blows on him for ~some reason~.

UUUUGH.

Funnily enough, outside that stupid-ass fight scene, Bruce is one of the ones who seems least out of character, considering everything he's been through recently, his paranoia about becoming old and unnecessary and only feeling at home in his Batman suit (we've certainly seen that before 🙄), his Code, and not to mention Zur-En-Arrh (and also a shadowy something else?) lurking in his psyche whispering to him, clearly not actually constrained by the cage Bruce thought he was locked in.

I'm 100% blaming instability and Zur for the bits where Bruce is more obviously wilding (mainly when fighting Jason), but like - at least he has reasons built into the narrative to be slipping like that? Everyone else is just acting that way because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, I guess.

This would all be much more enjoyable if they'd found a way to make Selina's side less ridiculous/more convincing. Like I would actually be interested in seeing Zur-En-Arrh twist Bruce's mind against his family. It was fun for that brief period in the Failsafe arc because we got to see Bruce fight against and eventually overcome it! But I can't even enjoy it here when the whole thing is so frikkin' stupid and being written terribly.

Like clearly Bruce is going to go way, way more off the rails fairly quickly from here, given how Zur is straight up fucking with him at the end (and Vandal Savage??? okay Jan). So siding against him will rapidly become more obviously reasonable, I assume. I just hope the (small) bits where like, Tim expressed worry about Bruce's wellbeing are expanded on, and shared by other characters (Dick??? Cass???), so they can help him with this mental breakdown rather than it being constantly hostile/adversarial.

...Admittedly a bit intrigued by the big Rogue Gathering, teaming up as they don't have minions to do their bidding anymore. Like, fun, evil backlash resulting from Selina's (STUPID) plan? Good! And also a compelling reason for the good guys to eventually band back together and heal this rift? Well, hopefully. :/

#I figured Bruce and Selina and a good number of the Batkids would be OOC in a “civil war” event like this #but oof #OOOOOOOOOOF #gerryrigged #gerry salt #gotham war #dc comics reading

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captainwidowspring · 4 months

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On Nico's Ability to Defend Himself

An often-overlooked aspect of Nico's death scene in TFATWS is that there was literally nothing preventing him from thwarting John's attempt to kill him, and keeping it from being a death scene; he just didn't so that there would be a reason for the Captain America title to be stripped from John and given back to Sam. I feel like a major reason why a lot of people don't pick up on this fact, and instead perceive Nico to be defenseless (aside, of course, from the shamelessly manipulative framing) is that in the Siberia incident, the incident Nico's death scene is frequently compared to, Tony, after he lost the upper hand, didn't really get a chance to do much before Steve disabled his suit. It thus didn't stick out too badly when Nico also didn't do much before John attacked him with the shield, even though there was a lot more he could have done. Therefore, let's examine the two situations to see how they are different.

This is how the shield incident played out in Siberia. Near the end of the battle, Tony had managed to gain the upper hand and inflict serious damage on Steve. After Steve refused to stop defending Bucky, Tony prepared to straight up blow Steve out of the bunker and down the mountain: but right before he got the repulsor shot off, Bucky grabbed his leg. Irritated, Tony turned and kicked Bucky in the head with his metal boot. Then, before Tony had the chance to do anything else, Steve grabbed Tony and hoisted him into the air; Tony tried to use the jet packs on his boots to get out of the situation, but too much damage had been inflicted on them at that point for them to be of use, and Steve threw him to the ground. Steve then immediately rushed on top of Tony and punched his face mask three times out of sheer fury, after which he broke the helmet by hitting it twice more with his shield and then tore it off. He subsequently raised the shield, which caused Tony to frantically raise his arms to cover his face, and this allowed Steve to have a clear shot at the arc reactor, which he brought his shield down on and broke.

Now, considering how thoroughly biased Civil War is against Steve, and how much it sought to act like he was the one in the wrong—even though the entire Siberia fight was literally just Tony having a temper tantrum and Steve and Bucky trying to survive it—the creative team certainly wouldn't have minded if Tony had cried out in fear like Nico did, as it would be quite useful for the propaganda efforts. Therefore, there is clearly some reason why he didn't.

And it appears that there are two main reasons for this. The first reason seems to be that everything simply happened too fast. Indeed, the entire incident, from Tony preparing to shoot Steve to Steve disabling the arc reactor, took place in the span of about fifteen seconds. And Tony totally wasn't expecting Steve to grab him; presumably, he assumed that Steve was injured enough that taking his attention off him for a few seconds in order to kick his friend in the head wasn't a big deal. He underestimated the strength that poured into Steve's limbs when he saw Tony so callously abusing Bucky, as well as the fact that Steve is a supersoldier, so he can move really fast when he wants to.

So there was the element of surprise, and there was also the fact that Tony probably would have been a little stunned, both from the impact of being thrown to the ground, and from being hit in the head multiple times. It must, of course, be remembered that Tony was wearing a full-body metal suit, so no actual harm was inflicted upon him, but Steve is a supersoldier, so even with the layer of protection the impacts would certainly have been felt. These factors combined to produce the effect that, when Steve raised his shield, rather than take the time to yell anything, Tony simply prepared himself to face what was about to happen, which he thought would be Steve attempting to end him. But fortunately for him, he was wrong. Steve wasn't trying to kill Tony; Bucky was still alive, so Steve was able to contain his fury enough to refrain from a killing blow, and he hit the arc reactor instead.

Now, let's look at how Nico's death scene played out. After John pursued Nico for a bit, and managed to fend off a concrete trash can that Nico threw at him, he was able to hit Nico with the shield as Nico ran into a square. This forced Nico to stop to keep his balance, which allowed John to hit him again, and this finally knocked him over. Nico then tried to get back up twice; the first time John hit him with the shield again to keep him down, and the second time he put his foot on Nico's chest to pin him to the ground and stop his escape attempts. Then, since he couldn't try to get away anymore, Nico waved his hands and nervously insisted, "It wasn't me." He said this because, given the role he played in Lemar's death, he was well aware of why John might be mad at him specifically, for more than just being a friend of Karli. John, for his part, had been preparing to interrogate Nico about Karli's whereabouts, but this clear falsehood evidently filled him with rage, and he raised his shield in a fury. Rather than make an effort to block the imminent attack, Nico simply repeated, louder, "It wasn't me!" even though it was clear that John was not about to accept his garbage. And then, of course, since Nico wasn't about to actually do anything, the beating with the shield commenced.

Nico just lay there and was obediently killed, even though there was literally nothing stopping him from simply catching the shield and keeping it off his chest. His arms and hands were not at all restrained—indeed, he was waving them around—and unlike John, who had acquired a gash on his head, Nico was completely uninjured, so there wouldn't have been any pain distracting him either. And as we saw earlier, Nico is just as strong as John—he was able to restrain John so effectively that Karli would have been able to easily stab John if Lemar hadn't stopped her—and his evident fear would likely have given him enough strength to cancel out John's rage. So he would certainly have been able to keep the shield off his chest until Sam and Bucky, who appeared shortly afterwards, could save him if they wanted to.

Indeed, Nico didn't save himself even though, as evidenced by the fact that he did actually have a chance to cry out, he was dealing with a much less challenging situation than Tony was. For one thing, John bringing down the shield on Nico's chest was not at all a surprise. After John had pinned Nico to the ground, Nico had time to say, "It wasn't me" before John made any sort of move: and after John registered what Nico had said, he shifted his shield, which had been on his arm, into a two-handed grip, and then raised it. Nico clearly saw this coming; indeed, this is what caused him to shout "It wasn't me" a second time. And John's intentions at that point were obvious, so it's not like what happened with Tony where Tony thought that Steve was going to do one thing but he did another; it was pretty clear where John's shield was going, and this would have been plenty apparent to Nico since terror tends to make time slow down. So he had ample time to catch it.

Additionally, Nico would not have been stunned in the way that Tony was. Tony was slammed to the ground and then received five forceful rapid-fire close-range blows to the head, which is several hard impacts in a short span of time. Nico, by contrast, was hit once with the shield, then was knocked by John to the ground. This was a much shorter distance to fall than the overhead bench-press position that Tony was thrown from, and there were even stairs to break Nico's fall. Thereafter, Nico was hit with the shield again—and he hadn't gotten very far up, so he didn't fall very far back down—and then John thwarted Nico's final attempt to get up by pushing him down with his foot. In addition to the fact that the push was much gentler than getting hit with the shield again would have been, as before Nico hadn't gotten very far up, so he wouldn't have hit the ground that hard.

Therefore, in contrast to Tony, who received six sharp blows pretty much back to back, Nico received three fairly spread out blows—after the first hit with the shield, John had to close the distance between them and wind up again before hitting him a second time to knock him over, and then Nico fell to the ground and started to get back up before he was hit a third time—as well as a kind of shove. Nico thus did not receive nearly as harsh a pummeling as Tony did. And on top of that, he is a supersoldier: so even if his treatment had been rougher, Nico would have a much higher tolerance for pummeling than normal human Tony would.

Hence, Nico would not only have had plenty of time to see what John was doing, but he also would not have had to contend with the disorientation that Tony experienced. There is no excuse for why his only reaction to John's attack was yelling.

And here's what makes the fact that Nico didn't try to defend himself even more ridiculous. Even though Steve's attack was much more rapid, forceful, and unpredictable than John's was, Tony STILL did the logical thing and was ready to try to catch Steve's shield. Indeed, you can actually see a bit of strategy in his response to Steve raising the shield. Tony knew he wasn't strong enough to entirely keep the shield off his face since his suit was failing, so rather than try to stop it from hitting him, he was instead planning to try to grab the shield during its descent in order to slow it down and cushion the blow. As Steve brings the shield down, you can even see Tony open his fingers as he expects to encounter the shield. Nico did not do anything of the sort, he just aimlessly shouted as he passively lay there and waited for John to kill him. But come on! If Tony, who was just a normal human encased in a suit of rapidly failing metal, and who had been completely taken by surprise with a harsh walloping, could make an attempt to stop Steve from killing him (even though, as it turned out, he didn't need to), then Nico, who was a supersoldier, and who had received far less of a thrashing, could definitely have tried (and succeeded) to stop John from killing him. Especially since, unlike Tony, he actually would have been able to completely stop the shield from hitting him.

There is another difference between the two situations that is very interesting, however. Tony, for his part, was well aware that he was acting dishonorably. For instance, a little after Tony began his assault, when Bucky was trying to run away and Tony was intent on pursuit, Steve stood in front of him and said, "It wasn't him, Tony. Hydra had control of his mind." But Tony already knew this, so he simply responded "Move," in a way that clearly indicated that he didn't care and didn't want to hear it. And a short time later, when Tony prevented Bucky from escaping, Steve tried again to get through to him and said, "This isn't gonna change what happened," but Tony replied, "I don't care, he killed my mom." Tony knew that Bucky wasn't to blame for his parents' deaths, and that killing him would not help anything: but since he was angry with Steve for refusing to accept the Accords and all their rights-violations, he saw the revelation as an excuse to attack both Bucky because he knew it would hurt Steve, and Steve himself because Tony knew that Steve would not just stand by while Bucky was being assaulted. He ignored Steve's attempts to reason with him because he figured that he had enough power to be able to do whatever he wanted, and he also correctly guessed that Steve and Bucky would continuously hold back against him, even though they shouldn't have. And because of these things, before Bucky's intervention, Tony had been about to do something that could have quite possibly ended Steve's life. So when Steve regained the upper hand and Tony was at his mercy, Tony was aware that he had no right to ask Steve to spare him, because when he had been in Steve's position, he had been ready to potentially end Steve's life without a second thought. Therefore, he said nothing; his only response was to see if he had enough strength left to hold off Steve.

So Tony, in the face of Steve's attack, didn't yell anything because he knew that what he had done was indefensible: and it is due in part to this modicum of contrition that Steve was able to contain his rage enough to spare him. Nico, meanwhile, had been doing something similarly heinous. He had been actively engaged in trying to kill John because John was Captain America, and when Lemar frustrated the attempt on John's life, Nico was also the reason why John was unable to protect Lemar from Karli's subsequent death-blow. And just like Tony, Nico had been relying on his strength to protect him from repercussions. So what he had done was just as indefensible as what Tony did: but instead of taking the smallest bit of ownership of this, he tried to completely absolve himself of responsibility for what had happened, and this resulted in his downfall. For while John had clearly been intending to just interrogate Nico, the fact that the person who had held him helpless while his best friend was murdered was trying to act like he was not at all responsible for what had happened caused him to lose it, and this resulted in the shield incident. Now, Nico definitely should have made it clear that he was surrendering if he intended to, and even apologized if he genuinely regretted what had happened to Lemar: and again, when the attack did happen he could have easily fended it off. But if he had simply recognized the fact that he was not worthy of John's mercy since he had not been prepared to show mercy to John, and remained silent like Tony did, the shield-attack would never have happened in the first place.

But in any case, as mentioned above, Nico didn't try to defend himself because John needed to kill him, so that the show would have an excuse to take the Captain America mantle from John and give it back to Sam without it seeming too dubious. (Though considering that the incident ended up resulting in Sam and Bucky attacking John for the shield a very short time after he literally lost his best friend, the show completely failed at that.) Not to mention, if Nico had put up a fight, this would have highlighted how much he was still capable of threatening John, and put lie to the show's attempt to act like he was helpless. Particularly since, again, if he had tried to save himself there is no reason why he would not have been successful.

Now, it is important to also remember that Nico was definitely not surrendering, the other widespread misconception about his death scene. He kept trying to fight John until he literally couldn't—he threw a concrete trash can at John while he was running away, and tried to get back up twice after John initially knocked him over, which is not something someone who wanted to surrender would do—and then after John had him pinned, all he did was try to disingenuously absolve himself of responsibility for Lemar's death, rather than trying to apologize or making it clear that he was surrendering. But on top of the fact that Nico wasn't trying to surrender, and refused to own up to what he had done, he was perfectly capable of surviving John's attack when it happened. These things make his death scene, as well as the subsequent reaction to it, completely ridiculous and utterly nonsensical.

#john walker #pro john walker #john walker defense squad #john walker meta #john walker did nothing wrong #tfatws critical #anti captain america civil war #anti ca:cw #anti tony stark #team cap #fandom wank #marvel meta #mcu critical #mcu salt #long post

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ficsilike-reblogged · 3 days

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As High As Honour

Summary: You never expected to leave Lys. You never expected to learn your mother had a family in Westeros. You definitely weren’t expecting dragons, politics, and heartache. You weren’t expecting Aemond Targaryen. Pairing(s): Eventual Soft Dark!Aemond Targaryen/F!Reader & Ser Harwin Strong/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, death of loved ones, childbirth, death of a child (not detailed), canon typical misogyny Word Count: 8.1k A/N: No Civil War AU!! I know I said no more ASOIAF/HOtD…but this wouldn’t leave me alone. This is going to be a slow, slow, slow burn. Aemond isn’t in this chapter and Harwin only shows up for a few sentences but please come along on this adventure with me. It will set up the dynamics for the rest of the story. Reader has no physical attributes aside from silver hair and purple/mauve eyes. She is technically Aemond’s second cousin so…(Targcest?). Anyway. I’m having fun with this story, and I hope you do, too.

Book One: The Shrike

You scarcely remembered your last day in Lys. If you wracked your memories, you could recall washes of green, the smell of salt water and spicy perfumes, and the tinkling of your mother’s laugh as your father threw you into the air with a smile on his face.

But you also remembered your mother bundling you up into her arms, ripping you from sleep, and fleeing to one of the many docks around the city. Your father was nowhere to be seen. You would never see him again.

She taught you about the Seven Pointed Star and the Faith of the Seven on the weeks’ long journey, trying to brace you for the differences that awaited you when you docked in King’s Landing. The only houses you remembered, from her careful drawings on sheets of discarded papyrus in the belly of the ship, were the three headed dragon and the falcon.

“Those are the only two you need anyway,” your mother said with a low, soft laugh.

You just liked that you made her laugh. You hadn’t heard her laugh for almost the entirety of the voyage. But that was quickly wiped away when you moved through the foul-smelling city and into the red fortress that stretched into the sky.

The strange, sharp throne had you frowning as someone in a golden suit of armor announced your mother’s name into the cavernous room. He barely managed to get your name out before a woman who looked so eerily like your mother was sprinting toward you. “Maegelle!” She shouted.

Your mother stretched out her arms and caught the other woman with a strange mix of a cry and a laugh. “Oh, Aemma. It has been far too long.”

The woman—Aemma—pulled back and grasped at your mother’s face with shaking hands. “You haven’t changed at all.” But then her periwinkle eyes moved to you. “Oh!” Tears started to slip down her cheeks.

Your mother reached for you and you readily set your small fingers against her palm. “My little shrike, this is your aunt, Queen Aemma Targaryen.”

You truly did not understand what you and your mother had run from in Lys and the family dynamic you had been thrust into in King’s Landing. But you tried, piecing it together where you could.

Your mother was the twin of Aemma Arryn-Targaryen. The rebellious twin to Aemma’s dutiful and pious counterpart, which was ironic considering your mother was named after your great-aunt Maegelle Targaryen who had become a septa. Your mother had absconded to Lys while their father, Lord Rodrik Arryn, had been distracted by Aemma’s betrothal to Prince Viserys. The Lord of the Eyrie eventually accepted his youngest daughter’s foreign marriage—apparently your birth had softened him to it all.

You were six years younger than your cousin, Princess Rhaenyra, and followed her around the Red Keep endlessly. While you were your mother’s ’little shrike,’ you were Rhaenyra’s ‘little shadow.’ And where Rhaenyra was, Lady Alicent was sure to be.

Your lessons were spent at their sides and you often could be found in one of their chambers, asleep on a small mountain of pillows and blankets at their bedside. They encouraged you to participate in court, visit the city with them, and took you with them whenever they needed adventure away from the shadows of the Red Keep. Alicent took pains to teach you the prayers of the Seven and Rhaenyra, more than once, was half-heartedly scolded by her father for allowing you onto Syrax’s saddle with her as she flew around the city’s limits.

“She is Rhaenyra’s cousin in blood, but her sister by choice,” Aunt Aemma murmured to your mother one day as you broke your fast. You doubted she cared if you heard her, she and your mother were often together, too.

“And little Lady Alicent has gained a sister, too, it seems!” Your mother laughed.

But still, you were not entirely accepted at court. Some of the courtiers called you and your mother the Lysene Dragons. Then came the whispers. You knew your mother was different. Special. You knew it before your lives were upended in Lys. It was something Maegelle wore like armor with her head held high. Her ability to know things, to see things others could not, gave her a power you knew she was trying to pass onto you when you were alone together in her chambers in the quiet of the night. And then there was the fact that you looked more like your father than your mother—still clearly of Valyrian descent (the blood of Old Valyria was thick in Lys) with your silver hair and mauve eyes (a shade you shared with your mother), but just different enough. You were strange in their eyes, too. A little too ready to climb a tree or take your supper plate and eat by yourself in some dark room or to turn around in your horse’s saddle “just to see what it was like.” You preferred silence to idle chatter and had become a terror with a mace in the training grounds as your mother cheered from her perch. Rhaenyra doted on you and delighted in the way you still needed to learn how to hold your tongue with other highborn ladies–calling Lady Reyne a “kitten who assumes she’s a lion” to her face had the princess in stitches for a week. Giggling at inappropriate things had become something else associated with you as your time at court continued (an example of this would be when the King’s Counter was found guilty of stealing from the crown and blubbered for his life in the quiet of the Great Hall—your mother had to drag you out of the hall when your laughter could not cease). Your Lysene background made you an outsider at court, despite being able to prove your Targaryen heritage and the wealth your mother had smuggled out of Lys, but you didn’t particularly care to change anyone’s preconceived beliefs about you.

You delighted in the attentions of your mother, Aemma, Alicent, and Rhaenyra.

The men of court were another matter entirely.

King Viserys and his Hand, Otto Hightower, only served to make you uncomfortable or angry. Or both. You did not particularly care for how Viserys had apparently made Aemma suffer through torturous pregnancies over and over again in his want of a son. Your mother had held Aemma’s hand through her latest miscarriage and explained to you what had happened. Then Lord Otto had sneered at you and your mother when you first arrived but had changed his outward opinion when servants brought trunk after trunk after trunk, filled with gold and jewels, from your ship. He would whisper to the King whenever your mother spoke at dinner, suggesting something or other about the state of the kingdom, and you knew he was undermining her opinions. Prince Daemon was the only one who you marginally liked but he had a horrendous habit of touching your hair even after you and your mother slapped his hands away.

You tried, and you know your mother did as well, to make the Red Keep home. But by the time your first year in its shadows ended, your life was upended again. A blue and white carriage slowed to a stop in front of the fortress as you watched from your chambers a few floors above. You heard whispers whispers whispers of something you didn’t grasp. Something about your mother. Something about you. Something about that other house—House Arryn. But the pieces didn’t fit; you could not solve the puzzle yet.

Then you were alone. Your mother was frequently away behind closed doors and you were shooed away from listening against them whenever you tried.

But soon, both Alicent and Rhaenyra grasped your hands and led you forward as you were called into the Great Hall and you were presented to a frail old man. You curtseyed as Alicent taught you but could not stop the confused frown from pulling at the edges of your mouth as you glanced at your Aunt Aemma and your mother as they stood beside him. What was happening?

His weathered, age-marked hand reached out and the backs of his shaking fingers brushed against your cheek. It could have repulsed you or confused you further. Instead, traitorous tears welled in your eyes.

Your father used to do the same before tucking you into bed at night. Before you left Lys. Before he died. Before you learned your uncle seized control of his late brother’s trade agreements and drove you and your mother from the island. Before.

“My shrike, this is your grandsire, Lord Rodrick Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie.”

You learned that the children Lord Rodrik Arryn had with his first wife all perished, either from sickness, the sea, or the clashes with the Mountain Clans of the Vale. The number of possible heirs dwindled until…there was only you and your mother. As the only known child and grandchild of Rodrik Arryn and Princess Daella Targaryen, Rodrik’s second wife, not in line for the Iron Throne, you were named heir to the Vale of Arryn. You, at the behest of your mother, agreed to be known as an Arryn, instead of your father’s name, to keep the Arryn name alive and settle some of the fears the Valemen had brought before Viserys and Rodrik. Those had been the meetings your mother had weathered behind closed doors, fighting for your place in the line of succession. Instead of the red and black of House Targaryen you had almost become accustomed to wearing, you adopted shades of silver, blue, and white lace. Your obsidian necklaces were locked away and you wore sapphires, pearls, and opals in their place.

And then, with your little heart breaking, you were loaded into that white and blue carriage alongside Lord Arryn and your mother while Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Alicent wiped at their tear stained cheeks from the Keep’s steps.

Your life was out of your control; that was a strange realization for a child to make.

But your grandsire—Rodrik insisted you call him that with a kind smile you could not refuse—was good to you and told you stories of the Vale and the storied history of House Arryn as the road took you further and further from King’s Landing. Your mother also tried to assuage your fears and told you that your chosen sisters and aunt were not leaving your life permanently. “You shall see them again, my shrike. I swear it to you. Your wings have not been clipped.”

When you and your mother were presented to the assembled noble houses of the Vale in the Eyrie’s Crescent Chamber, you could feel their judging eyes moving all over you both. Even after Rodrik gave his personal approval of you and your mother, welcoming his “last daughter, back from her own adventures,” and reading the royal decree King Viserys had drafted, stating you and your mother were the trueborn Arryns you claimed to be, the stares persisted. But their judgment soon turned to awe when your mother presented your grandsire with a Valyrian steel sword, a falchion with ripples of sky blue shining across the blade and a large sapphire embedded in the intricate crossguard. Your mother had taken it from your home in Lys before fleeing to Westeros. It had been your father’s prized possession and Maegelle knew that it would strike at her good-brother’s pride to find it missing. And you surmised that this gift would gain her (and you) the approval of at least some of the lords waiting to discredit your claims to the weirwood throne of the Eyrie. (Several more trunks of gold and jewels adding to the Eyrie’s treasury probably helped, too.)

“A gift for my father,” she announced to the crowd with a knowing smile. “He has long served the Vale faithfully, and has been its greatest defender. He deserves a weapon as unyielding, strong, and just as he is.”

Rodrick took the sword and stood, holding the weapon up for just a moment before setting it aside and hugging your mother with all his strength. The crowd cheered and your mother was quick to tug you into the familial embrace as well. As they broke apart, Rodrick—your grandsire—smiled down at you, his dark eyes clouded with age but kind.

It was only then, as the assembled lords and ladies raised a toast to “Lady Maegelle” and called you “the little Lady Arryn,” did you truly take a breath.

Perhaps this could be home.

The Vale had its charms. The Eyrie had a harsh beauty and your mother was full of smiles as she showed you the fortress’ hidden passages and once helped you retrace the steps she had taken when she had absconded to Lys. While you could still see the sorrow in her eyes whenever she spoke of your father, you could tell that being here, in her childhood home, was some form of comfort for her. And she still took time to teach you all she had learned during her ‘adventures.’ How to cut to prevent death. How to see what the future held with just a drop of blood. How to mix potions to heal, to hurt, to subdue. You knew that most would not understand her. She called herself a healer. She was your hero.

“I’ll not have you defenseless in this world, my shrike.” She said it every night after your private lessons. But after your third year since settling into the chill of the Eyrie, you started to hear a touch of sadness in her voice.

“What ails you, mama?”

Her smile would be sad, too, but she would, without fail, lean down to press a kiss to your forehead as you rested atop your featherbed. “The future is ever shifting. I simply must keep trying.”

However, her smiles grew dimmer when the raven arrived, announcing the tourney King Viserys was hosting to celebrate Aunt Aemma’s pregnancy. “He believes she will give him a son.”

A feeling you were learning to embrace rolled your stomach. “She will,” the words tumbled out of your mouth. You knew them to be true but something else lingered, leaving an unpleasant taste on the back of your tongue, but you could not voice why. You were still learning.

Your mother nodded and set the missive aside before drawing you into her arms. A sigh rattled through her and you felt it shake your hair. “She will.”

Your grandsire could no longer make the journey to King’s Landing but smiled at you and made sure your cloak was tied tightly around your shoulders with a familiar, kind smile. He brushed his fingers against your cheek. “Sweet and safe travels to you, little bird.”

He and your mother spoke in soft tones, too, ending in a tight but gentle hug and your mother pressing a kiss to his cheek. And after the trek down to the carriages, you and the Valemen traveling party departed to the south. The feeling that had rolled your stomach weeks ago only grew stronger as the distance between you and the capital grew smaller. Something was going to happen. Something was in motion. But you did not know what.

Your feeling of ill-ease only subsided marginally when Rhaenyra and Alicent wrapped you in their arms as soon as you stepped out of the carriage. “How you’ve grown!” Alicent said with a smile. “I cannot believe it!”

“The Vale has made a lady of you!” Rhaenyra teased, pulling at the fine lace of your sleeve. “Not a speck of dust on your gown.”

Your mother snorted beside you before stealing a hug from Alicent and Rhaenyra, too. “Give it time; she will find the largest bit of mud and sully it soon enough.”

Your Aunt Aemma was glowing when you saw her in her solar but the feeling came back with a vengeance as she winced, lowering herself onto her settee.

Something was wrong.

You had to be all but shoved out of your chambers by your mother in the coming days, introducing you to Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon and their beautiful children, and then telling you to enjoy your time with Alicent and Rhaenyra at the tourney. And you tried your best, you did, and cheered beside them, even if they were cheering for Daemon as he rose through the ranks. Rhaenyra also seemed interested in the common born Dornishman. Cole, you think his name was.

Your eye was drawn to a different figure. Tall, broad, with curling brown hair peeking beneath his helm.

“And who has you looking like a doe?” Rhaenyra mused beside you.

“No one.”

“Has someone caught her attention?” Alicent asked from Rhaenyra’s side.

“No!” You groused, wanting your seat to open up and swallow you whole. This was not attention you liked. Now, you were not new to thinking a person attractive. There was a knight at the Eyrie who often had heat inching its way up your throat whenever he looked at you. But acting on it or your attentions being noticed were beyond your experience. Your companions might have plied you with stories of love and courtship, and your mother used to tell you the long, beautiful story of how your father earned her love and devotion, but this was frightening to you.

Undeterred, Rhaenyra turned and tried to follow your line of sight and you knew she found her mark when her smirk widened. “Ah, I believe I know who has captured our little shadow’s heart.”

“Who? Point him out to me!” Alicent leaned closer to Rhaenyra and you pondered getting up and leaving as Rhaenyra did actually point out the burly man who just removed his helm and your poor heart shot up into your throat as you got a clear look at his handsome face. “Oh, that’s Ser Harwin Strong.” Alicent looked around Rhaenyra to smile at you. “A fine choice.” “Enough,” you said, pouting.

The pair eventually relented and watched the rest of the tourney. You noticed Alicent had not ceased her habit of picking at the edges of her nail bed but the moment Rhaenyra placed her hand over hers, she stopped. The simple moment had you smiling. Their bond was special. Sometimes you felt like you were intruding on them, interrupting something you should not be privy to, gentle and warm. But it was not your place to question it. You simply wanted them to be happy.

“Ah! My nieces!”

You scowled at the sound of Daemon’s voice as he approached your box and the fact that he called you a niece—you were not his niece. His presence was still irksome and annoying. Listening to him was a chore so you found a spot across the tourney grounds—and no it was not Ser Harwin—to focus on so you could not listen to him wax poetic about his own prowess. It was only when both Rhaenyra and Alicent stood and you watched Alicent grant him his favor did you start to pay attention again. You could not stop the roll of your eyes—he was not subtle in his distaste for Otto and you knew that his mostly-harmless flirting with Alicent was a ploy. You also found his strange obsession with Rhaenyra uncomfortable. You hoped her attentions toward him would wane eventually.

“He’s going to lose,” you said as they retook their seats.

Rhaenyra nudged you with her elbow. “You are incorrigible. What has Uncle Daemon done to gain your ire?”

“He exists. But to be true, he is the least vexing of the men here.”

“I am sure you would not find Ser Harwin vexing.”

“Alicent!”

The pair giggled at your embarrassment but it soon ended when, indeed, Prince Daemon lost to Cole. But the smile you let press at your mouth withered as that creeping feeling once again started to bite at the back of your mind.

It would not be until you three arrived back at the Red Keep did you understand why that feeling had come so swiftly.

Your mother sat on her knees in the hall outside Aemma’s chambers. Her hands had been beaten raw, like she’d been beating at the door for hours. “She’s gone,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”

You learned that the Kingsguard had kept your mother from being at Aemma’s side during the birth, no matter how hard she fought. You would never forget how your mother raged at Viserys when you saw him next. In perfect High Valyrian, she cursed him as tears rolled down her cheeks. “You killed her! You did this! You kept me from her and her blood is on your hands—on your soul! You will feel it on you with every breath you take until you breathe your last! I could have saved her and you cut her open like a brute! Did you think I could not hear her calling for me? Did you think I did not hear her begging for you to not cut her? I will never forgive you!”

The funeral for both Aemma and little Baelon was a blurred memory for you. You remembered the warmth of the dragon’s flame as Syrax’s fire lit the pyre. You remembered how Rhaenyra shuddered with sobs in your hold. You remembered how your mother offered her a place at the Eyrie if she ever would want it. And you remembered the cold, calculating look in Otto’s eyes.

The moment the carriage door closed behind you, you wanted to open it again and run to Rhaenyra’s side, to comfort her, to hold her. But the most you could do was hope she would take your mother up on her offer of visiting the Eyrie. Every night on the way back to the Vale, you dreamt of your Aunt Aemma. She was always quiet and she would always press her hand to your face with a sad smile. When you woke, you would you feel the warmth of her touch against your skin. And every morning, your mother would hold your face the exact same way. It almost felt like Aemma was comforting you both.

And by the time you reached the Vale, you understood why.

Your grandsire was dead. He had taken his final breaths the night before you arrived. Your tears from the loss of your aunt turned to rage at the loss of your grandsire. Then the tears came again while the anger waited in the shadows of your heart. The only outlet you had was your mace and you took your rage out on the dark, spindly trees of the Eyrie’s garden, leaving them broken and shattered. Large chunks were missing from the bigger trunks, a testament to your wrath and ruin. But even as your energy waned, you sobbed in the shadows. Most left you alone, only your mother braved your presence while in the garden. She sat in silence upon a stone bench, listening to your destruction as she tilted her head up to feel the sunlight on her skin. It was like she was breathing through your wrath with you. She often cried at night, when she probably thought you could not hear her—or perhaps that was when she could no longer bear to hold her tears back. Either way, you often crept into her chambers and snuggled against her side beneath her warm blankets as you held each other until sleep took you both.

The grip your mother had on you as your grandsire was interred in the Arryn crypts was only mirrored by your grip on her. Tight and unwavering. You had each other. That would have to be enough.

Your mother became the Lady of the Eyrie and you were at her side when the assorted lords and ladies of the Vale swore their allegiance and she took her place atop the weirwood throne, Thorn drawn over her lap. Things had changed. Your rage simmered but never truly dissipated. Your tears still stung but slowly ebbed. Your mother settled into her duties and something settled behind your bones as you watched her hold court—she made sure you were at her side whenever possible, learning everything you could and listening to your admittedly unlearned ideas and slowly turning them toward something more suitable or palatable.

Your mother and her court were once again called to King’s Landing to swear fealty to Rhaenyra when she was named heir to the Iron Throne, and you found a bit of respite in your continued companionship with Alicent and the new Crown Princess. Watching Alicent ready Rhaenyra for her investiture had something stirring in your chest, the gentle touches, the unspoken looks between them. You did not know the words for it, but you knew they found comfort within each other. But soon you were called back to the Vale, your time cut short by your and your mother’s duties.

The moons came and went and your ravens to and from King’s Landing persisted, too. It was a balm to you to have Rhaenyra and Alicent’s friendship in your pocket, but even through their writings, you knew something had become…undone between them. Terrible understanding dawned on you when the raven from the capital arrived, inviting you and your mother to the wedding of Alicent and Viserys.

“This is an outrage!” Yorbert Royce exclaimed, his anger pooling in red splotches across his nose. “Queen Aemma has not yet been in her grave a year!”

Your mother raised a hand from her perch on her weirwood throne to quiet his outburst before tossing the missive away. It flittered down lazily before being scooped up by one of her handmaidens and quickly set alight. “It warms my heart to know that you feel the loss of my sister Aemma as I do, Lord Royce.” She kept her voice even but you could feel the hurt in each syllable. “I, too, view this as a grave strike against House Arryn and the Vale itself. While I will not begrudge any houses that wish to attend the festivities, my daughter and I will not be in attendance.”

And that was that. You would not speak out against your mother. In truth, you did not understand why Alicent, of all people, had been taken to wife by the king.

Your mother came into your chambers that night and explained it to you as your handmaidens readied you for bed. They had come with you from Lys, and you knew you and your mother could speak freely (in the Lysene dialect of Valyrian) in their presence.

“Did she not have care for Rhaenyra’s feelings?” You asked as lavender oil was rubbed into your skin. “Or of ours?”

Your mother hummed and leaned forward in her chair, steepling her fingers in her lap. “Do not blame Alicent, my little shrike. I have no doubt she had little choice in this matter. You know her father, that snake Otto, has high aspirations for himself and his bloodline. I would not be surprised if this was all his doing. Lady Alicent has always been nothing more than a pawn in his game. It is a cruel thing, a fate many girls are relegated to because they were not born boys.” She reached out and traced a finger down your nose. “I would, in my heart of hearts, not believe that Alicent wanted this. But I am sure Rhaenyra feels differently.” When you were finally ready for bed, she lifted the blankets of your featherbed around your shoulders, trying to press into your mind the politics of marriages between the highborn families of Westeros. She finished with, “We mustn’t judge them, either of them. It is better to be allied with them both.” She spoke a little longer of how both Alicent and Rhaenyra were in fragile positions of power but were more than likely more isolated than they ever had been before. She wished you good night, suggesting you write to both of them at first light, and strode toward the door.

“Will I be made to marry someone for advantage?” You asked, half dreading the answer.

Your mother paused, the light behind her making her look like a goddess cloaked in shadow. “We are the ladies of the Vale, my shrike. Our place in this kingdom is powerful but precarious. And I…” Her words trailed off. “Your future is clouded from me.” That simple, strange sentence struck at your marrow. How could she not know? Your mother knew everything, did she not? “But I promise you, I will do all I can to protect you and your heart. I’ll not have you moved about the board without your consent.”

The years slipped by. You kept your correspondence with both Rhaenyra and Alicent, still finding friendship with both of them, despite seeing their own relationship grow more and more strained from leagues away, piecing together its crumbling from anecdotes they slipped into their missives. You wished you could mend it, have them come back together. There was love there. You knew it now. And there could be again.

Your time was filled with learning at your mother’s side. While she had history within the Vale and had shadowed your grandfather when he still ruled, she had also played the great game while in Lys. She knew how to play the part of conciliator and of peacemaker while also not allowing certain concessions of her own power or boundaries. She did send men to aid in Lord Corlys’ war against the triarchy, but only those who volunteered; most came from the islands of the Three Sisters, eager and willing for a naval battle. This allowed her to retain a mostly neutral stance with the Crown while also encouraging close ties with House Velaryon (and Daemon, but that was beside the point).

Your mother’s personal sigil, of a falcon with dragon wings was probably her one acknowledgement of your nicknames: the Dragons of the Vale. At least they were not referring to your Lysene heritage as an insult anymore. You learnt much and more. How to be hard but forgiving. Soft yet unforgetting. “Never forget a slight, my shrike, but forgive those who genuinely ask for it.” But she also knew when to strike when she knew her perceived enemy felt safe and at a point she knew it would hurt the most. On the second anniversary of your aunt’s death, your mother told Viserys that she had set aside Daemon’s marriage to Lady Rhea Royce. My sister would not have her childhood home and allies left wanting with unfulfilled marriages. I’m sure she would help you understand if she were still with us. The raven with the crown’s approval arrived less than a fortnight later. You hoped you would one day be as respected as she was—but would happily wait years for that to come to pass.

Lady Rhea was more than pleased with the arrangement and you knew her and her bannermen were thankful to not have Daemon darken their doorstep again. You attended the wedding between Lady Rhea and a handsome second son from House Redfort as your mother’s envoy as she was preoccupied with dealing with the Mountain Clans attack on the High Road. You did not mind acting as the envoy for House Arryn. It was your duty, after all. But it could be lonely, at times. It was not uncommon for you to hear whispers about your mother’s reputation and ‘what she kept in her shadows’ and the wagers about if you were as so inclined as she. But you smiled prettily, danced with most everyone who asked, and mediated disputes when you thought it appropriate, trying to remember how your mother would speak to her bannermen. These would be your people to lead one day. Your secrets were your own, as were your mother’s.

And you were getting stronger by the day.

“Do you think it is true that they bathe in blood to retain their beauty?” Someone asked, the question only slightly muted to your ears over the wedding festivities. You did not deign it of high enough import to turn and see who was speaking—you’d heard all this before. “Do not be ridiculous!” Another hissed their reply.

“No, tis an honest question. They are more dragon than falcon anyway–at least the little one is.”

There was an answering grumble. “I have seen the little one go to the sept every morning to pray.” Of course someone spotted you going into the sept to pray; you made sure to go when the more pious amongst your group would also be in attendance. It was an easy ploy your mother suggested. “It would be best if you left your tall tales to the fool, no? Our ladies have been kind and fair to those who deserve it. They have been fine successors to Old Lord Rodrick.”

There was a pause before, “House Upcliff is eager for an audience with them.”

“Everyone is eager for an audience!”

Ridiculous.

It was also not surprising that several houses used opportunities like this to present their sons as possible matches to you. It felt more than a little underhanded when it happened without your mother around, but your handmaidens and sworn shield, Ser Oswin Melcolm, did help to make you feel secure enough to politely refuse to make a decision on your own. You would not overstep your mother’s authority.

It was a reprieve when you finally stepped back into the cold shadows of the Eyrie a moon later, home at last. You needed a scalding bath and a hug from your mother. It felt like you could breathe again when you smelt her spiced perfume and she giggled with you as the moon rose high in the sky, both of you recounting your assorted adventures.

The next morn, a raven was waiting for you, stamped with the seal of House Targaryen, just as your mother had one waiting for her, stamped with the seal of House Velaryon–it was probably from Princess Rhaenys, they had kept a correspondence since the tourney. You read yours as you broke your fast.

“Who has written to you, my shrike?” Your mother asked, plucking a plum from the assortment of fruit in front of you.

“Rhaenyra is going on a tour to find a husband, by order of the king,” you said, handing the missive to her with a sigh.

Your mother’s mauve eyes quickly skimmed the princess’ words and she hummed as she handed it back to you. “You should accompany her.”

You choked on the next bite of porridge. “I-what?”

She patted your back with a knowing smile. “Your cousin feels alone, and despite your best efforts at hiding it, I know you miss her. She needs you just as you need her. Perhaps you can help her through this new trial.”

So far, the entire tour had been a farce. A near-permanent scowl was slapped across Rhaenyra’s face since you and your miniscule traveling party met her and her entourage on the King’s Road on the way to the Reach. By the time you had finished (and failed) through the Riverlands, you finally found the courage to speak to Rhaenyra about what your mother had said.

It did not go well and you spent the morning trying to get her to speak to you at all with little success. But you needed to help her see Alicent’s impossible choice and the whole of the situation in how it related to her; both the lucky and the unfortunate. So, you tried again.

The carriage rocked and you slid on the seat with a huff. “I am only trying to say that you are in a unique situation, Rhaenyra. So few women have the opportunity you have been given. To pick your husband—to make your own decision—it is a victory for you. Your father could have chosen the old Lord Fossoway or, Seven forbid, Dalton Greyjoy and marched you into the sept kicking and screaming and said it was for the good of the Realm.”

“Am I still supposed to be happy about this?” She bit out, crossing her arms over her chest and turning away from you. “No one is demanding you marry.”

“But they will. My mother and I know our grasp on the Vale is tenuous. If there was a way for us to solidify it, I would have to accept. I do not have a dragon. I cannot hold my position by myself. I am not a Targaryen-”

“You are!”

“-so I am resigned to whatever Valeman has the best suit.” You sighed and eyed your cousin carefully. “In this world, in this kingdom, women have so few freedoms. My mother gained the ire of King Jaehaerys by marrying for love. I am to be her only child, the maesters confirmed it and that is a solace to me because I know the love and loss of my father cracked at something deep inside her that cannot be healed. If she were able to bear more children, she would undoubtedly be forced to marry and have more children and that would harm her in a way that I…” the words trailed off for a moment and you tried to collect yourself. “I do not wish to think of it. But now you have the freedom of choice, of finding your own love, with your king and father’s blessing. Do not squander it, Rhaenyra. Do you think Alicent truly wanted to marry your father?”

Rhaenyra’s head snapped to the side quickly, eyes narrowed and angry. “She is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! I should have seen her ploy-”

You tried to resist the roll of your eyes as you should have seen this argument waiting. “Her ploy? Or her father’s? You know Alicent. Despite the anger you feel now, you know in your heart of hearts that your friend would not betray you like this without some outside machinations forcing her hand. Was it not you both who would read me tales of dashing knights and maidens? Stories about love?”

“We were children.”

“She was barely a woman grown when she married your father. Is that who you would have given her? A man with power, true. But a man old enough to be her father? Who does only wish for more heirs?”

The princess was quiet for a moment before turning to stare out the window again. “That matters little now,” she grumbled. “She has her crown and my father has a son.”

The conversation fizzled out after that and you knew not to press it again today. You were thankful she seemed content to speak with you about anything else and she was happy to hear about your adventures in the Vale.

It was not until you were ripped from sleep later that night did you realize that Rhaenyra was not finished with the conversation as you had thought.

“What if you did have a dragon?” Rhaenyra asked, standing in the doorway of your room at the inn. Ser Oswin caught your eye over her shoulder and winced, apologetic.

Your face scrunched in confusion, still half-asleep. “What?”

“What if you did have a dragon? Would you still think you had to marry someone your Valemen picked for you?” Rhaenyra strode over to your bed and held both of your hands between hers as you sat up atop the featherbed. “I…I don’t want that for you. I want you happy, not trapped. If you feel a dragon will give you that freedom, I will give it to you.”

You searched her face, eyes still blurry with your interrupted sleep. Determination, bordering on desperation, was pinching at the corners of her beautiful face. You had not seen her like this before and it was more than enough to wake you up completely. You sat straighter and moved your hands just enough to lace your fingers with hers, holding her hands as she used to do when you were a child. This felt different. Not like when she comforted you as you longed for Lys and your father years ago. This was something fracturing beneath the surface. Or starting to roar with life. You needed to tread carefully. “Your offer is more than generous, Rhaenyra, and I’ll never be able to thank you for extending it to me. But, I am not a Targaryen.”

The Crown Princess shook her head. “You are. You are the Blood of the Old Valyria and you could forge your own path; be the dragon of the Vale! Do not let the whims of men dictate the rest of your life.”

Her grip tightened until it was near painful but you did not pull away, could not. Her violet eyes said more, pleading and searching. It took you only a moment to realize that she was speaking about herself as much as she was to you. She needed freedom and comfort and power and security. A dichotomy atop dichotomy. This was a turning point for her. For you. Something settled around your shoulders then as you looked into her eyes again. “This will brand me as overly ambitious and you as-”

“I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I shall do as I please. I am to make allies, am I not? You are of my mother’s kin, my blood.” She tilted her chin up, just so, and she was every inch a Valyrian Princess in that moment. You almost giggled. Her mind was made up.

And so was yours. “Then allies you should make. Find eggs for your half-siblings. They are your kin as well.” Rhaenyra nearly pulled away from you but you held her firmly in your grasp. “They will be used against you if you do not welcome them; you and I both know this. The House of the Dragon must remain as one. Be smart, Rhaenyra. Give them reasons to love you. They are children.”

“They-”

“Did not ask to be born. But you have the power now. Be open handed with it. Otto will surely try to have Aegon be named heir but Alicent, despite what you think of her, has advocated for you. Not her son. You.”

“How do you know this?”

“She has told me herself and Ser Harrold has confirmed it,” you said, mentioning the knight of the Kingsguard whom Rhaenyra trusted. You had spoken with him just that morning. “He has heard them speaking of it frequently.”

Her hands shook in yours. The purple of her eyes was clouded with something—almost like relief, almost like heartache. “Oh.”

When she took her seat upon the throne of Storm's End, you held your breath as the first suitor came forward, half expecting Rhaenyra to be as disinterested as she had been before. But something changed when Willem Blackwood stepped forward. Of course, one could make the argument that the princess’ mind changed when Willem drew his sword after being insulted by the Bracken suitor.

“He’s bold,” Rhaenyra said, looking over her shoulder as Ser Criston pulled her away from the clash.

While he was decidedly the smaller of the two, Willem bested the Bracken, leaving him bloody and clutching his nearly severed arm within a few moments. That boldness led to Rhaenyra walking with him through the fortress’ godswood on an unusually sunny day as you and Ser Criston chaperoned them from a few paces back. Rhaenyra was happy. And Willem was smitten.

“What do you think love feels like?” Rhaenyra asked as she slithered under the blankets of your bed that night.

You hummed, fiddling with the end of her braid. “Mother said that her love with Father was quiet. Calm.” She had told you countless times about her long courtship with him, scandalous as it might have been seen by Westerosi highborn or not. She was always happy when she spoke of him. Her smile might have been tinged with bittersweetness, but the love remained. “He felt like a long night’s rest, is what she used to tell me.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a moment. “I used to think that love had to be loud or fiery.” She paused again. If you were as willfully ignorant as Viserys, you would have no inkling that she was thinking of Daemon at that moment, but her face shuttered and she inched closer to you. “I want to be happy.”

Turning to fully face her, you linked your fingers with hers beneath the blankets. The thrumming you felt beneath your skin had your next breath stalling in your throat. You had not yet learned how to discern people’s future’s clearly, as your mother had. But you still knew that Rhaenyra was at a crossroads. “You deserve to be happy,” you whispered the words to her, hoping she knew what you meant.

This was an incredibly stupid idea. It was probably some of the most fun you had ever had. But that did not mean it was not stupid.

Rhaenyra’s grip on your hand was tight as she led you down into the caverns around the Dragonmont. How you’d convinced Ser Criston and Ser Oswin to accompany you to Dragonstone you’d never know but the princess was convincing despite the continuing conflict with the Crabfeeder in the Stepstones just a few leagues away. Her tentative betrothed, Lord Willem, had been sent back to Raventree Hall to ready for his and his family’s travels to the capital to meet with Viserys. “If you do not feel compelled by any of the eggs here, we shall try again at the pit when we return to the capital.” She said it so breezily that you had to laugh. Claiming a dragon like this felt like treason. It probably was treason but you were not going to tell Rhaenyra no. At least not outwardly.

And what if you did claim a dragon? Could you really be seen as strong enough to evade an unwanted betrothal? Would you become strong enough to truly solidify your and your mother’s place as the Ladies of the Eyrie? A warm rush filled your chest and continued to grow with each step you took. You could not refuse her. Or yourself. But you knew this was an impossibility. You could not have a dragon. You were a falcon, an Arryn.

And, anyway, with each small clutch you looked over, warm and glittering, you did not feel a pull as Rhaenyra said you should. However, you helped Rhaenyra pick four eggs out for her siblings.

“You only have two right now.”

She shrugged and held up a blue egg, flecked with bronze, toward one of the torches bolted to the mountain’s cavernous wall. She turned it one way and then another before handing it to the keeper who had accompanied you down with a pleased nod. “I have come to realize that my father believes he must be as fruitful as Jaehaerys. My mother paid the price for it.”

The casual way she said it felt almost like a slap. But you could not stop the smile from pushing at your mouth anyway. The topic of her father had been carefully avoided by you and your mother, knowing Rhaenyra loved him, but her realizing his faults on her own was an entirely different matter. But still, you said nothing, and held up a yellow and crimson colored egg which she scowled at. You held onto it anyway.

Three more eggs later, you were still without one of your own and that was almost a relief. There was an attempt on your part to go and indulge Rhaenyra’s attempt at helping you. That was all you could do. Your small party turned to leave the cavern and you made it all but three steps before the Keeper thrust out his arm, keeping you and Rhaenyra behind him.

“Princess, my lady, do not move.”

Of course, both you and Rhaenyra did anyway and your heart leapt into your throat the moment you set your gaze on what had frightened the Keeper so. The dragon was massive and the color of a starless sky, aside from the mottled grey of the deep scars stretching across his snout and down its wiry neck. Two large horns curled back from above his brow and a mess of smaller spikes and spines littered their way down his back. Eyes the color of emeralds set above a roaring fire were anchored firmly on your group.

“The Cannibal,” Rhaenyra whispered, awestruck or terrified.

You could not truly hear her anyway. Your blood had turned molten in your veins as your heart thudded a heavy beat against your ribs.

This was your dragon.

A/N: Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

#Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond Targaryen fic #harwin strong x reader #aemond targaryen #harwin strong #house of the dragon fic #hotd #house of the dragon #female reader

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