#daughter of Lyonel Baratheon

[coldraindropsss]

What if?

Duncan Targaryen, daughter of Lyonel Baratheon

Gowen Baratheon, Tya Lannister, and their son

[ophelias-lamentation]

Rhaelle Baratheon neé Targaryen

The youngest child of Aegon V and Betha Blackwood, she was married to Lord Ormund Baratheon. When all four of her elder siblings broke their betrothals to the great houses, the Baratheons were amongst those spited. After a short rebellion and a trial by combat, she was betrothed to Ormund and sent to Storms end to act as cupbearer to Lord Lyonel. She married Ormund and had her son Steffon a year later. She’s marriage to House Baratheon helped lead to the downfall of House Targaryen as her grandson Robert Baratheon used his relation to her as his claim to the Iron Throne after he rebelled against and nearly decimated House Targaryen. I like to think that she was still alive in the current timeline.

Sneak peek of what’s next: Rhaenys Targaryen daughter of Rhaegar

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Nineteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen

AO3 LINK

Author's Note: It's been a really hard month, ya'll, but here we are! We made it. Agonizing over this chapter positively drove me mad, but so many thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend and @darkwolf76 for their love, support, and eyes on this to help me feel a little less insane. Go give them both some love!

CHAPTER NINETEEN - When It's Pulling Me Under

Alicent breaks and tries to mend. Jace tries to find Helaena. A twist within the thread.

“Cassandra Baratheon has bled.”

The queen’s rooms were quiet. Rich green and black drapes hung open as wide as they could to allow the light in, but the panes were closed to the cool fall breeze. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing along the decorative stone swirls along the mantle. The usual gaggle of women that occupied the room had been absent these past few days - her court having dispersed to deal with multiple assignments for the daily running of the castle and the wedding. Alicent looked up from the parchment before her, releasing her lower lip from the intensity of her gnawing teeth. Her gaze met Lady Lysa’s from where the elder woman looked up from her own sheaf of parchment.

“I will go and speak with Lord Beesbury on these matters, Your Grace,” she said softly, rising in a whisper of apple red silk, her usual caul replaced by a barbette and veil given the cooler weather. The way the woman turned her head, reaching for her papers, reminded Alicent of her own mother in such a swift and sharply unexpected moment, that Alicent’s chest clenched and stole her breath. Lysa Fossoway was her beacon of normalcy over the past years, but she was not her mother.

How desperately she wished her mother was here. How keenly that feeling sharpened as the other woman left and Alicent remained here, alone, with Lord Larys Strong.

His firefly-handled cane thumped softly against the rich rugs scattered about her solar and he took a seat on the chaise, settling himself down like a vulture, waiting to feast. On her secrets, on her thoughts, on wherever his tightly guarded whims struck him. Yet, she had few that she could call confidant, even if she dare not call him friend.

“Good.” The snap of the wooden pen box punctuated the single word as Alicent put away her ink and tucked away the parchments that Larys so curiously watched. “Lord Borros insisted that we have this engagement sealed before the new year and the wedding.”

It felt like when Viserys dragged himself to High Tide to present himself to Lord Corlys to beg his heir’s hand in marriage for a sullied Rhaenyra . It was beneath him, it was unbecoming, and it was exactly why, Alicent felt, Lord Borros felt he could demand the way he did.

‘I am not beholden to my father’s oaths, but I will not be taken for a fool’, the man had said. No sons of his own yet, Alicent knew that it was not his fear of being taken for a fool that had brought him blustering and demanding, but the fact that his sister, his only sibling, had sons. Both, to Alicent’s knowledge, were unwed. There existed a possibility for Helaena, one she would have to revisit later.

For now, her attention focused on the fact that it appeared Borros Baratheon thought that Vhagar would be enough of a deterrent for his sister’s sons to claim the Storm Throne from his own children.

“So that is what is to be then? Aemond to the storm, to match the tempest inside of him.” Larys tilted his head in the thoughtful way he had, his hands folded along the top of his cane. “Better, maybe, than risk quenching his fire in the snows perhaps.”

Alicent furrowed her brow. “Snows?”

“Only a turn of phrase, Your Grace. There are many eligible women in the realm to tie our Prince to. The Stormlands keep him close, rather than the cliffs of Casterly Rock or even the isolated northern houses. Northern houses, such as House Karstark offer little, while Storm’s End grants you a realm. Better than his sister as well, although I have not heard Prince Aemond express those wishes in some time.”

Alicent rolled her eyes and went to pour herself some of the mulled wine from the carafe by her window. “House Karstark, or any of the other Northern Houses, would do little for Aemond.” As for Helaena, she too had noticed her son’s waning insistence over the past few months in regards to such a betrothal. She hoped that he too realized the futility of such an endeavor.

“And it isn’t as if Lord Borros could not take another wife should-”

The clatter of her goblet on the table cut off the direction of Larys’ ponderings, and she turned on him, a sick and ugly feeling in his chest. “It is unseemly to speculate or wish for such things, my Lord Confessor,” she said tightly. “My son will marry Lady Floris. Aemond will have a position and income here at court, regardless of what the future holds,” she whispered. “He will make a fine Hand.” When her father could no longer be Hand to Aegon, Aemond would be an ideal successor.

“And Daeron could serve the crown much like Ser Criston. Now everyone is taken care of.” A soft chuckle filtered into the room and sent a shiver up Alicent’s spine. “You have done well for your children, Your Grace. It is good that they at least have a mother who cares for them so.”

“Someone has to. If my son is not his father’s heir, then he should be taken care of. The realm knows too well the idleness of second sons and unhappy brothers.” She shook her head, unflinchingly meeting Larys’ disquieting gaze and the amused curl of his mouth. “If the king would not even be amenable to the idea of Aegon being his sister’s heir, then something must be done.”

A pulse of a headache thrummed behind her eye. Aemond chafed already beneath his brother, beneath the duty that had spurred him to his lessons, to his training, but she knew Aemond would want more. He hungered for more and she could not give it to him. Would her ambitious boy be content with his child married to Cassandra’s heir? ‘He would have to,’ she thought, though her fear persisted. This was the cost of duty.

“Have you only come to speak of Lady Cassandra’s state of non-pregnancy, or have you come to drop news that Helaena is with child.” The pointed non-question was sharper than she might have normally intended but the onset of having to tell Aemond, her angry, precious son, would give her a fit the way anything difficult aggravated her husband and king.

“All goes accordingly, my Queen,” Larys said, nonplussed, and if anything, the amusement was lingering there. Alicent hated the small feeling it gave her. No, not small, she realized; not small as how her father or even Viserys made her feel.

Larys made her feel trapped.

“Very good then. If there’s nothing else, Lord Larys-” The sharp, heavy knock on the door mercifully broke into the tension and Alicent could barely contain her desperate tone. “Enter!”

Gwayne was the most welcome sight behind the door, his doublet so deep green as to be almost black, the fabric of his gray shirt poking between the ties of his sleeves. The silver buttons were stamped with the High Tower and the flames atop it. The angles of his face reminded her so much of Aemond, but she could see all of her boys in that face. The sharpening of Aegon’s jaw, Daeron’s nose. Warm, brown eyes took her in before looking over her shoulder as Larys scraped his way to standing.

“Ser Gwayne,” the lord greeted and she felt, more than saw, her brother stiffen slightly. Gwayne had not been here long, but his dislike of the Master of Whispers had been a decisive one. Her brother was firm in his manner, much like their father; once lost, no good favor could be regained.

“Lord Larys. I’ve come to pull our Queen from these shady interiors to take a turn in the fresh air. I’m sure you also have much to attend to.” Not that the solar itself wasn’t brightly illuminated, stained glass windows sending streaks of colored light about the room, and Theraxis, Abby’s cat, was sprawled in a patch of warm light that the stained glass windows turned his gray fur purple and orange.

“Who would I be if I kept her Grace from spending time with her much missed brother,” Larys said, inclined slightly to Alicent. “I shall take my leave then. Good day to you both.”

As soon as the door shut, Gwayne’s blue eyes, their mother’s eyes, pinned her.

“I mislike you having private conference with that man. Where is Lady Lysa? Or Cole?”

Alicent raised an eyebrow. “You mislike.”

“I do.” He seized an apple from the basket on the table. Brown hair, once sandy blonde as Daeron’s in youth, fell into his eyes. He kept it short, as Aegon, and the sight of him had her wonder if things would be easier had her eldest looked more like her. “He is a foul man, and I do not like the way he watches you.”

She rolled her eyes at her brother’s protestation. Touched as she was by his protectiveness, it was too many years too late. “Well, Lord Larys is the Master of Whispers for a reason. There is a certain unsettling that comes with the position.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes this time and bit into the apple, the fruit crunching loudly. “I still do not like it.”

“You do not have permission to pass judgment and disapproval as you made the choice to leave.” Resentment rose ugly in her throat, her voice not her own; a fragile thing, a girlish cry. Her nails scraped along her wrist as she turned away from him to her desk, eyes unseeing as she reached for the first paper. “I had to make my own protection.”

“Ali-”

“No,” she snapped, shaking her head. “You left.” Then I lost Rhaenyra. “And do not claim it was your injury. You couldn’t wait to flee back to Uncle Rodrik. How sad it must have been for you to instead be sent back to the Tower.” Instead of staying there, with her, so she would not be alone, so their father would not be so bold as to push and press and bear down upon her. Bitterness dripped from her voice and the sound of tearing filled her ears. Alicent looked down to see how she’d torn the acceptance from Dragonstone for their presence at the wedding.

She felt like she would be sick.

A strange sound escaped her throat. It sounded like a growl or a wounded whine. Alicent could not be certain. What she was certain of was Gwayne’s arms wrapping around her from behind, holding her bones together as she felt like she would shatter. Her brother said nothing and for that she was grateful.

Fear tangled between her ribs, pulling them apart and compressing them just as tightly so she felt like she couldn’t breathe no matter what. Gwayne held her tightly, held her bones together, kept her body from bursting into a thousand shards. She gasped for air, tears hot in her eyes but refusing to fall. At some point, they ended up on the floor, the deep green of her skirts pooled around them as she leaned into her brother and he rocked her much as he did when she was young, when they would play knights and dragonriders in the gardens, when mother was there, and she’d fall and scrape her knee, or he had whacked her too hard with the stick, or Rhaenyra was angry when her moods got the better of her.

“I’m sorry,” Gwayne said softly, so softly she could barely hear it and her nails bit into the thick fabric of his doublet.

“You could have stayed,” she cried, her fist hitting his bicep. “You could have stayed, I needed you!” Her brother had nothing to say to that, he only squeezed her tighter as she finally wept, her fears tumbling out of her. “Why did he do this to me if they do not matter to him? They’re his blood too and he never cared, he never cared. He begged for sons! He begged for them and I gave him sons and it didn’t matter so what was it for?”

Alicent wept bitter tears, pushing and biting her fingers into her brother, who sat there, quiet and unmoving as she tore into him. The months, the years bubbled up in her, all the shattered dreams and the fear and the confusion, the immeasurable pain that had stripped away everything inside of her until she was whatever she was now, a stranger to herself. “They’ll kill them, Daemon or whomever seeks to curry favor with Rhaneyra, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care and they treat me as if I’m mad.”

She wasn’t mad. She knew that she wasn’t, everyone knew that she wasn’t, but much like the king never put Lord Corlys in his place all the times the man stormed out of the Small Council, Daemon perched as a vulture on Dragonstone for months without recourse until he stole an egg, Rhaenyra escaping recourse and being covered for her indiscretions. Had Alicent’s own children be fathered by Ser Criston, to pass off as trueborn children, her own fate would not be so kind.

Why had no one sought to protect her, the way the king, mercurial in his affections towards his eldest child to begin with, still protected Rhaenyra?

Alicent did not know how long they sat there, the gasping and the tears, the undulating pressure around her middle ebbing and increasing until it finally started to fade. Gwayne’s hand slowly stroked her back in soothing motions, his cheek resting upon her head. As the silence grew and her sobbing eased, her brother finally spoke.

“I’m here now,” he said. “And if you wish me to stay with you instead of accompanying the boys to Harrenhal, I will.”

She shook her head. “Aegon will need you. Guide him, help him. He’s doing so well, I’m so afraid that he will slip…”

“You are afraid of everything, aren’t you?”

Alicent scoffed, wet and stuffy nosed. “I am being realistic. I need someone there who will tell me if I need to intervene-”

“Alicent.” Gwayne shifted, his voice sharp enough to draw her attention and she looked up at her brother, meeting his blue eyes with her own brown. Gwayne had their mother’s eyes, the Reyne eyes. Would her grandchildren hold those eyes as well? Or would Aegon’s Valryian gaze overpower them? “Let him grow. Let him have a chance away from here.”

“And if something happens to him?” Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it so hard it hurt. Her brother’s mouth twitched in a smile. Sad, fond.

“He cannot thrive if you are tangled around him like a choke vine.”

“And what of father?” she whispered, harsh and unnerved.

“I’ll handle father,” Gwayne reassured, or attempted to do so, but Alicent felt the fear pulse inside of her, the uncertainty at what felt like a foolish promise. His eyes searched her face for several moments and Alicent, unnerved, reached up to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief and tried to gather her wits. “Alicent? Do… do you want your son to be king?”

Alicent’s heartbeat thundered in her ears and she pulled back from her brother to stare at him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out and she shut it with a click of her teeth that longed to nash and rend those around her. A fresh wave of tears burned in her eyes but did not fall this time. She pressed her handkerchief into her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt in her bones.

“Aegon may not want it, but it is the only way to protect us. Viserys will not. Rhaenyra will not. I tried. I did, and I never thought she would hurt the children but…” Alicent shook her head, the fear still there, still acrid and painful. “Her callous disregard of my son, her brother’s maiming. And what they did to Laenor?” Her voice was a whisper, the fear, the shock of it that still stuck with her. “It was Daemon, to be sure, but Rhaenyra knew. And it’s that which terrifies me. Rhaenyra doesn’t have to give the command, or even raise the blade or-or bring Syrax to exact her justice. Daemon and whatever other lords seek to curry her favor will do what they think needs to be done, and that is to keep my children from being a threat, from being beacons of rebellion regardless of them being part of it or not. And if none do it for her, she will be forced to do it.”

Aegon may not want his sister’s throne, but Aemond? Her precious boy had received a grievous injury, but his sire, his father and king meant to protect him, had not cared. That night on Driftmark showed the court how utterly vulnerable Alicent and her children were, and her father had been right. She had to fight for them in a way she never had before. Aemond had risen to the challenge beside his mother, a protector, but also quiet and feral in ways that frightened her, in ways that sometimes reminded her of the way Daemon Targaryen used to stride about - a siren song of strength compared to his elder brother.

If to truly protect them meant putting her first boy, precious in his own ways, her little Aegon who was finally smiling again, on the throne? To protect them? Then so be it.

Let all they’d been through, let all she had been through, be worth it, let it mean something. Mother and Father above, please just let it have been for something.

“They speak of the great insults done to our House,” Gwayne said softly, leaning against the foot of her bed, one long leg sprawled out before him, the other bent to lean his arm on. “To not name your son heir, then why take his Hightower bride?”

“I wonder, had he married Laena Velaryon, if he would have named her son heir,” Alicent said, frustration edging into her voice. “Corlys Velaryon would not tolerate his grandson not on the Iron Throne-”

“Which is why House Velaryon has not broken with Rhaenyra,” Gwayne finished with a snort, but there was no amusement in it. “The Sea Snake wants to make a name for his house. These Valyrian politics - but what man doesn’t?”

“Viserys doesn’t,” Alicent rolled her eyes and Gwayne met her gaze, the pair of them snickering like children. She felt the tension in her chest ease with the laughter, better than tears, and pushed at her brother’s knee. “It’s guilt over Aemma Arryn’s death and the king is a stubborn man. He is easily run roughshod but when his mind is made…” She shook her head. “Had father not pushed, maybe it would have changed. But father made him feel like a fool, and Viserys cannot abide that.”

“It was not just father, though,” Gwayne pointed out. “Our house pushed for it, yes, but whispers and confusion have run rampant through this realm since Aegon was born. Women do not sit the Iron Throne. Seven Hells, Jaehaerys held a council because he could not decide between a granddaughter or grandson. What power does House Targaryen truly have if they must beg the lords of the realm to decide their succession when it should be clear, the way the rest of the realm does?”

“Dragons,” Alicent pointed out softly. There were so many dragons now, many from Vhagar, a few from eggs that Meraxes had laid - she recalled from Aemond’s excited speeches, a thick tome of dragon lineages clutched in his arms. “They have dragons.”

Gwayne’s hand reached up, fingers warm against her forehead as he pushed away a loose curl. “You are just as fierce,” he told her. “If not more.”

“Stop,” she muttered and pushed at his knee before they rose and she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt.

The children were scattered that morning. Helaena was in the gardens with little Floris and likely Jacaerys skulking after her as he’d taken to doing when council meetings weren’t in session. He had behaved well enough, from what she had seen and what had been reported to her. Bastard born he may truly be, Jacaerys had always treated her daughter kindly. There was frustratingly little she could do with the boy now, for word would trickle back to Viserys, who would feel like he needed to roar to make himself feel in control before retreating back to his lair.

She knew that Aemond kept watch, although her boy as of late had been distracted. When not in his studies or the training yard, he was hardly to be found. Which left Aegon and Abrogail, and at least she knew precisely where they would be then.

The weeks following the festivities had seen a change in her son, and one that Alicent wasn’t sure how to feel. The dalliance with the Lefford girl aside (no bastard had taken root, and the girl had been given a place in her household until such a time a match could be made), as well as whatever foolishness he’d engaged in with Cassandra Baratheon, Aegon had performed admirably. His spectacle making tried her patience, but won admiration through the court. No longer her little boy, her first son, Aegon had come into himself in a way that Alicent had not thought him capable of, and feared that it would not last.

For all the pain that ached and clawed inside her ribs at the sight of them, the displays of affection between her son and Abrogail had also proven fruitful, and she did not sense any facet of artifice between them. When her son smiled down at his betrothed, an easing sensation coursed through her, as if the tightly spooled coil inside of her was able to release gently.

Relief. Relief that this might, in fact, work out better than she hoped.

Perhaps the girl had been right in defending Aegon, yet Alicent still held her breath, did not let her relief grow unbound. Aegon often threw himself into new pursuits, at least once upon a time. He’d let it consume him and just as she thought she found what he needed to truly take responsibility, the novelty wore off and then there they were, back where things began, her son drunk and dunked in a horse trough to sober him up.

They found the children in the small, family dining hall. Abrogail’s ladies were clustered on a set of low chairs and chaises that had been brought in. Lady Desmara Crane and Lady Merei Thorne sat on either side of Lady Wylla, silk and lace across all their laps as they worked on Abrogail’s trousseau. The Riverlands girls that Abby had taken for ladies had returned home in order to get their own things and order, and would meet the wedding party at Harrenhal. Alicent regarded their dresses - all different, and made a mental note to ensure that uniforms denoting their statuses as ladies-in-waiting were taken care of when the seamstress came for the next wedding gown fitting.

The dancing master stood at the edge of the parquet floor where her son and cousin stood, the minstrels in the corner with the Targaryen drum and other instruments. The room was cool in the early afternoon, the torches out, the curtains fluttering gently in the fall breeze. Samwell was sweet voiced, and had been in court since her wedding a score ago. He was not a particularly tall man, still plump, but the years had sharpened the roundness of his face. He still composed, but now served as a dance master, leading the court in new dances. Samwell had taught the children as well, and as Alicent watched him, his feathered cap of red and black striping bobbing in time with the music, it felt as if she were transported to a godswood and a song she never wanted to hear again.

Samwell’s exasperation was palpable, and Alicent could see the pink flushed along Abrogail’s face all the way up to her hairline.

“You go left,” he instructed her sharply, the cane he held to keep the tempo cracking loud enough to cause the children and herself to jump. “The prince turns right, as the flow of air. You are receiving him, my lady.”

“Left,” Abrogail repeated, fingers twitching in the pale blue damask of her gown. Aegon gestured in the direction she was meant to go in and the music resumed. Aegon had the steps down, but Abrogail struggled to follow the beat that was so different to the normal court dances. Alicent wondered if it was some memory of Old Valyria that thumped through her son’s veins, for she recalled that Rhaenyra and Laenor’s rehearsals had gone quickly. Alicent had mercifully been saved from such a dance, for the king had not wanted to perform it again.

A short ‘Ow!’ escaped Aegon and he jumped away as Abby apologized for stepping on his feet. Alicent sucked in her lips to hold in a laugh as Abby glared at him, snipping at him, “You are ridiculous.” Alicent clapped her hands and the music stopped, bows and curtsies from those gathered before her.

“Thank you, Master Samwell. I think that’s enough for today,” she said, watching Abrogail’s shoulders sag in relief. “You may resume on the morrow. No progress can be made when one is so frustrated.” She watched the girl open her mouth and then shut it quickly, eyes downcast. As the minstrels gathered their instruments, Alicent released her brother and approached the pair. Aegon had moved closer to Abrogail, curling a long, red curl around his finger.

Whatever her son was saying to her, Alicent could not hear, but she took the time to appreciate their closeness in a way she had not allowed herself to before. They had behaved themselves admirably in the weeks of festivities. Even as jealousy curled in her gut from the shattered dreams of her girlhood, the worries that had plagued Alicent’s days had eased as she saw how well they had gotten on, how favorably many in the realm looked upon them. Many had come to her, speaking highly of the match, how clear the pair were fond of one another.

How rare that very thing was in so many unions across the realm.

Alicent feared. She feared from the moment her eyes opened to past the time her eyes closed, feared for the safety of her children, and their happiness, unfairly, she knew, was not at the top of her concerns. To know that this might keep her son safe, to know that for the first time in years too many to count on her own hands, her son looked happy…

“I am half convinced the dance only makes sense to those with Valyrian blood,” Alicent said, a small smile crossing her face as she attempted to reassure her cousin. Abrogail’s features scrunched up uncertainty.

“Should we also not do a Riverlands dance as well?” The uncertainty left her, a small curl of a mischievous smile crossed the girl’s face as she eyed Aegon. “I’d like to see how well you perform that.”

Alicent pursed her lips at her son’s indignant look. Abrogail was not pregnant, there had been no scandals, no whispers. Whatever the girl had done to influence her son appeared to be working, the words she had said in such anger had taken root as Alicent had hoped. Aegon had thrown himself into good presentation, regardless of whatever dalliances her son had engaged in with Lady Cassandra.

“You are marrying a Targaryen, and with that comes certain expectations and obligations,” Alicent said carefully, her fingers running along the deep sleeves of her deep green gown, fingers tracing along the golden embroidery of the cuffs. “The might of the Targaryen House will be on display.” The girl nodded, eyes averted respectfully and Alicent watched her son continue to wind one of the long, red curls around his finger. He tugged on it, drawing her attention.

Alicent looked away to watch the minstrels leave the hall, the door closing with a soft thud behind them, the ladies continuing to work on their sewing. “Your brother is not here? Nor Helaena?”

“Daeron is with Helaena in the gardens. He has no interest in dancing,” Aegon rolled his eyes as Gwayne did. “He’s twelve.”

“Aemond is in the training yard with Ser Criston,” came Abrogail’s soft addition, reaching up to bat Aegon’s hand away from her hair. “He’s training for the wedding tourney.”

Aegon snorted. “Even though he complains how tourneys are nothing to real war.”

“Do not think you’ll escape the training yard with me,” Gwayne teased him. “Just be grateful I won’t have you out at sunup, given your newlywed status.”

Abrogail flushed. “Is-is everything alright, your Grace? Did something happen?” Aegon’s eyes swiveled curiously from the girl to her and Alicent smoothed her hands over her skirt.

“We would announce it at dinner, but I had hoped to speak to Floris.” she shook her head. “Lord Borros has agreed to the betrothal between Aemond and her. Obviously not for a few years - she is only a girl, but it will at least give time for her and Aemond to get to know one another.”

‘You had been only a girl’, Alicent thought. It was why she had fought so hard against her father to wait just a little longer before betrothing Aegon and Abrogail. To give the girl more time, the way her mother would have wanted, the way that it had not been afforded to her. She would do what she could for Floris.

And hopefully give Aemond time to come around to the idea.

Alicent sighed. Hopefully, her second son would be in a more receptive mood after hours having Ser Criston exhaust him with drills. “I shall go find your brother and hopefully catch him before he flees for Vhagar. Floris will be easy enough to speak to, if her sister hasn’t found her already.” She reached out, stroking Aegon’s hair, pushing the silver strands out of his eyes. The way he stiffened did not go unnoticed, and her heart ached with guilt. Her hand dropped, her smile tight and Aegon gave her a slight bow, Abrogail bobbing her own curtsy, a murmured ‘Your Grace’ whisper soft.

The moment Jace saw Aemond dominating the training yard, he felt his stomach drop and promptly went right and through the tunnel towards the gardens. While things with his uncle had been only filled with tension, Jace knew when to pick his battles and that was one he did not need to dive into.

The terraced gardens of King’s Landing featured in some of his earliest memories, when things were simpler, when the animosity and the tension hadn’t suffocated them all. In the gardens, the rest of the world fell away, much like how he felt when he rode Vermax, his jade wings skimming the waves of the sea, the salt wind in his face. The suffocating stench of King’s Landing was not so bad here, and while one was never alone - too many servants, too many lingering lords and ladies, all to ever truly be hidden - it was still a reprieve and Jace made his way down to the third terrace where the fountains were. With the fountains were mud, and he knew that Helaena would be there with her jar to dig up little things to feed her collection.

The first thing Jace heard was the laughter of children, and he spied Floris Baratheon swinging a stick rather aggressively at Daeron, whose eyes were wide in shock at the battle cry she let out. A grin broke out across his face as he gathered himself, and swung his stick back with equal fervor. Baela’s ladies - minus his step-sister who was still at High Tide - were gathered on the stone terrace along with Helaena’s new lady, eating cakes and gossiping.

Helaena herself crouched beside some of the large stones, a jar beside her as she rolled over one of the stones. Her hair was bound in a simple silver braid hung over one shoulder, her deep green gown embroidered with silver moths turned muddy and damp from the wet ground. Jace watched her pick a worm from where it clung to the stone and set it carefully away.

“Fish with feathered fins,” she said as Jace approached and he noticed her gaze was focused on her work, fingers twitching, the words nonsensical. He had not seen the expression on her face in years, had thought, mayhaps, her moments had abated over time as she grew older.

It was not the case. It was not something the princess had grown out of, and he remembered with clarity of a frantic, sobbing fit she’d had when they were children. Helaena was meant to be handled gently - Jace remembered his mother saying as much when they were young, not long after Daeron had been born. He should treat Helaena kindly, and respect when she did not want to be touched, and be mindful of loud noises. And so he did, stern with Luke when he would screech in excitement or indignation, snap at Aegon when he raised his voice. It had been the two of them playing in the halls of the Red Keep, playing a game of hide and seek, and he’d found Helaena, frozen in the hallway to his mother’s room, tears streaking down her face, clutching something to her. It had been nothing, but she would not drop her arms, and not knowing what to do, Jace had gotten his mother. Belly round with Joffrey, she’d come out, concern etched on her features and together they sat on the ground with Helaena, his mother not touching her but speaking to her in calm tones.

“The rats, the rats, the rats are coming,” Helaena had whispered in a frantic mantra.

“The rats will not hurt you, hāedus. I will go to Lord Lyonel and we will ensure there are more ratcatchers employed. I promise.” His mother said firmly and clearly, not dismissing the concern, her gaze towards him.

“And if we find a rat, we will get Abby’s cat to help catch them,” Jace had promised with a nod.

She was not crying here. She was distant from the world around them, and focused on something that wasn’t the little bugs she was dropping into the jar. Helaena was so far away and Jace kneeled beside her. The ground was wet and cold and promptly began soaking into the wool of his trousers. He ignored the uncomfortable sensation and remained beside her, curls in his eyes and reached for the scurrying little bugs to drop in the jar.

“Fish with feathered fins and storms of ivy,” she whispered. “Not that one. The red ones get ignored.”

Jace started when he realized she had addressed him in the middle of her whispers and dropped the red pill bug back onto the soft earth. It eagerly burrowed back into the soil, vanishing without a trace.

“Shall we find you a fish with feathered fins?” he asked her softly, a slight jest in his voice as he attempted to draw her back into the present moment. Helaena did not reply to him but shifted the jar better between them and he went about pulling up the next large stone to pull the bugs from beneath it.

“Promises shatter in ice,” Helaena said.

“What?”

Heleana drew back to sit on her heels, the rock falling back in place and her hands covered in mud. Her gaze appeared to fix on them and Jace watched her quietly, the sounds of Daeron and Floris’ laughter filling the garden. It felt ominous to him, the feeling rushing in like water behind a broken dam.

Tentatively, Jace lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder. “Helaena, come back to me,” he urged gently, thumb stroking against the soft wool. “You’re going somewhere and I haven’t any idea how to follow you.” He would if he could, for he knew that whatever plagued Helaea was a frightening place that she should not traverse alone, even tethered to Dreamfyre as she was.

All he could do was reach for her, and hope that she heard him.

Helaena slowly blinked, as if the act itself was something she had to remind herself or force herself to do. Jace swallowed and chanced a glance over his shoulder. Daeron and Floris were still chasing one another with their sticks, and the ladies were occupied with their chatting. He frowned with an uncertain feeling. Should her ladies not be attending her? Or did they think it best to leave her be? A sharp inhale of breath drew his focus back to Helaena. She pulled away awkwardly, hands fluttering and fingers flexing.

“I…” Helaena looked lost, confused, and she stared at him but did not meet his eyes, mouth opening and closing, words unable to escape her. Jace shook his head and kept his hand to himself in her clarity of not wanting the touch.

“You’re alright. You’re safe here.”

“Helaena?”

Abrogail’s voice carried past the hedge and she came around the bed, mouth tight, gripping tightly to Wylla Karstark’s hand. The dark haired woman looked pale, face tense as she followed.

“See?” Jace said, hoping it would comfort the princess. “Abrogail’s here.” Would that help? He felt impotent, helpless, useless in the worst possible way.

Abrogail and Wylla dropped to the other side of Helaena, the mud and damp soaking into the hems of their skirts. “How long has she been like this?” Abrogail asked, voice quiet but firm, blue eyes searching the princess’ face before looking at him.

“Since before I came.” Abrogail reached for one of Helaena’s hands, spreading her fingers out and gently stroking each of them to keep them from bending back into the anxious claws they had been. The ease of the motion spoke to how often they’d done it, Abrogail pressing her thumb gently into Helaena’s palm to ease the rigidity.

“Helaena? What is the matter?” Abrogail leaned in and Helaena did not meet her gaze but drew back, pulling her hand away and clutching both to her chest. A sound escaped her throat, small, a growl perhaps? Or a whimper? Helaena’s silver braid swung and she sharply changed direction, shifting to her knees to grab Wylla’s hand.

“Silence doesn’t mean the grave,” Helaena hissed. Wylla’s gray eyes were wide, brow furrowed in confusion as Helaena leaned in, pinning Wylla in place like a moth on one of her boards. Jace could see how tightly she gripped the other’s hand.

“Your Grace?” Wylla whispered and Helaena grabbed her now with both hands, shaking her head. Abrogail met Jace’s eyes, confused, before her gaze went to the ladies sitting on the terrace. The confusion turned to incredulity.

“Have they been sitting here this whole time?” she asked him in a calm voice, and the familiarity of it hit him in the chest. Her voice was calm, but there was nothing calm in the words. There was a quiet anger simmering beneath those words, brightening her gaze, and it reminded him so much of Ser Harwin that it took his breath away. Gentle and fierce.

Jace knew immediately that she meant, and he felt his own jaw tick as his understanding of the situation shifted. He nodded, holding her gaze, feeling a tempest inside of his chest. “I’ll stay here,” he promised and Abrogail’s gaze softened along the edges, her hand reaching out as if she meant to cup his cheek before she stopped herself. Hand still in the air, her fingers curled and with another nod, she gathered herself up to do whatever it was she meant to do.

“Don’t.”

Abrogail stilled, awkwardly half standing, Helaena’s fingers gripping her wrist. “What?”

The princess dropped a hand from Wylla to reach for Abrogail’s wrist. “Don’t,” she repeated, her head tilting, her mouth pursed in annoyance. “Don’t do that.”

“But, Helaena-”

Helaena yanked Abrogail’s arm hard enough that the unbalanced girl toppled over with a wet slap and Abrogail grimaced as the mud and wet soaked into her more uncomfortably. “They are supposed to be tending you.”

“And they are. I sent Margaery away before Jace came by.” Helaena sounded more exasperated than the annoyance that filled her actions and she gestured for Jace to hand her the jar of bugs. “You mustn’t lecture them.”

“I-” Helaena gave her a look and Abrogail shut her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry.” In the quiet after the words, Daeron gave a shout and Jace saw him hit the ground hard, his stick sword flung out of his hand as Floris Baratheon stood over him, her own sword pointing right into his face. The ladies cheered and clapped for Floris, and offered their sympathies to Daeron. Helaena huffed and let go of Abrogail’s wrist.

“Jace was here and I was fine. Thank you, Jacaerys.” His cheeks flushed beneath her unblinking gaze, chest warm, even as the confusion of what had all happened still stormed inside of him. “He came exactly when I needed. Not too early, nor too late. I am capable of expressing my own needs.” Abrogail flushed for different reasons, fingers twisting. “What is it?”

Abrogail looked to Wylla. “The queen came to our dancing lessons-”

“Was it about how you keep stepping on Aegon’s feet?”

“I didn’t step - No!” Abrogail’s nose wrinkled with annoyance. “‘Tis not my fault dances are so complicated and that my feet do not behave. No.” A deep breath, another look, this time in the direction of Floris and Daeron. “She said that Aemond and Floris are now betrothed, she was going to find Aemond and then you.”

The silence held. Then, “Even though Wylla and Aemond have been kissing everywhere?” Helaena asked.

“But she’s eleven,” Jace protested.

The words hung in the air while it was Wylla’s turns for her cheeks to flush and Abrogail to stare at her. Jace also looked at her, surprised that Lady Wylla would even want to voluntarily get that close to Aemond, let alone kiss him.

“You’ve been kissing Aemond? And you didn’t tell me?” Abrogail’s incredulous voice was hushed so as not to pull the attention of the others.

Wylla shrugged helplessly. “It hasn’t been everywhere,” she muttered beneath the attention. “And this isn’t the point. I…” Wylla shook her head. “Prince Jacaerys is right, Floris is a little girl, does she mean to send them both to Storm’s End?”

“At least it isn’t Cassandra,” Helaena said with a frown. “No, they will not be sent to Storm’s End. Floris is my ward. She will stay with me for as long as I can keep her.” A sigh. “Floris has many years before she is to be married. Who's to say the betrothal will even last?”

Wylla looked uncertain. “You sound sure of yourself.”

Helaena looked at her. “I’m not. But Lord Borros is feckless and mercurial, he may change his mind if it means he cannot betroth Cassandra, or if he has a son.” Jace did not know if those were truly Helaena’s opinions on the matter, or if she was mimicking what her mother had said.

“Can you not break it as you did yours?” Abrogail asked. Helaena shook her head.

“Breaking my betrothal to Aegon should never have worked, and it was because our grandfather already found it distasteful that he convinced our father to break it on the eventual promise that Aemond and I might marry, and that also isn’t happening. Obviously.”

The look on Wylla’s face was one of confused near-disgust, one that Jace had seen in many outside of their family. Most found it objectionable to imagine kissing their own siblings, and Jace himself could not imagine kissing Luke if his brother had been born a girl, so he perhaps understood that.

Besides, none would find it strange if Helaena was only his cousin, for the blood they shared was the same in that regard.

“Floris will not mind if you keep kissing Aemond, Wylla, do not fear that,” Helaena continued, tightening the lid on her jar.

Wylla sputtered, glaring at Helaena. “Respectfully, Helaena,” she said, not even giving her the proper title, and Helaena looked up from her jar. “I do mind. I will not be some paramour, or continue some ill-fated dalliance with your brother just because Floris doesn’t mind. Floris is eleven and she deserves to be treated respectfully, not to mention I deserve it. I will not be shamed, or the newest subject for court gossip.” She sniffed, and Jace could not tell if she was trying not to cry, or if she was so angry she could spit. Abrogail rested a hand on Wylla’s back, lower lip caught between her teeth. Helaena shut her mouth, brow furrowed, and looked at her jar of bugs. “If Aemond suggests such a thing, I will cease everything. I will not allow him to do that to me, nor anyone else. I will push him out of a window for such a thing.”

Jace smothered his laugh into a cough at the imagery of such a threat, and had to keep from offering to assist the lady.

Helaena pressed her lips together, a little snort escaping her. “I would like to see that. He does need it sometimes,” she allowed. “I will see what mother says when she comes.” Her fingers drummed against the jar, and still, Helaena did not meet anyone’s eyes, still caught in whatever in between space that plagued her, but her words were more present, and that was truly what mattered.

Sitting there on the cold, wet ground, Jace wondered what his mother would say about all this. He had been sent to King’s Landing not just to serve on grandfather’s small council, but to be her eyes and ears amongst the viper’s nest. Any piece of information, no matter how small, could possibly become crucial to her cause. But as he sat there, Helaena’s hand drifting to rest near him, it felt like a further betrayal to reveal the conversation, even though he had, more or less, been a part of this. It wasn’t as if it had been overheard and none of the women knew he was there. They had none, and spoken openly regardless.

He could put off writing. At least for now.

AND WITH THAT! We are on our way to Harrenhal! I'd love to know what you loved about this chapter, and what you're looking forward to! Any questions or curiosities? ALSO! WE are sooooo taking bets on what (if anything?) is going to go wrong at this epic Westerosi Royal Wedding. And if you aren't sure what to say, drop a dragon emoji in the comments so I know you were here <3 and as always, thank you for being here. I appreciate each and every one of you.

[Next Chapter]

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (33)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, metion of underage sex, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

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Even when she was a child, Alys used to have dreams about a white-haired man, arriving on a huge beast the size of a mountain to change her life. Her mother did not know what moon tea was and did not know that she could remove an unwanted child.

She was therefore born as a burden and the unpleasant result of a brief affair between her mother Lena and her father, Lord Lyonel Strong. She bore the name Rivers, like any bastard child.

For as long as she could remember she had been haunted by dreams and visions which, as it turned out later, were reflected in the future. She saw a sheep with its throat cut in a dream, and the next day she found her mother, lying on her bed with her veins cut − from then on, she managed on her own.

She was always told by the men around her that she was beautiful, that she had gorgeous hair and eyes − she decided to take advantage of this. She lost her maidenhood at the age of thirteen with a guard who smelled of sweat and alcohol.

She remembered feeling immense pain and discomfort − she tightened her lips so she wouldn't start screaming. Afterwards, he gave her some coins and the bread that he had received for meal.

Her father used to send her some coins, but not enough. When he found out how she was making money, he forbade her to do so, putting her under the authority of the maester.

He began taking her to fields full of grasses and herbs, telling her about their properties and what could be made from them.

Alys then thought that health was a supreme value and if she learned the secrets of herbalism and disease, she would be a person who could not be disposed of or killed.

She would be indispensable.

She was not wrong.

She was never wrong.

When her father died in the flames, she felt nothing. She didn't regard him as a father, but more as her protector whom she served.

She knew that he was ashamed of her existence.

After his son, her half-brother Larys Strong took over, she knew that she had to act quickly. She saw blood in her dream, a rose bush without flowers, full of thorns − she knew what it meant, she knew that evil would come with him.

She avoided him as much as she could, hiding in the shadows, wrapping his guards and fellows around her finger. She saw the way they looked at her, knew what to do, how to make them want her. She didn't impose on them, merely showing them what they could have, her gaze was enough to make sure that they couldn't forget her.

When it became apparent that she was expecting a child, she wondered whether to leave it in her womb − she finally decided to let the gods make the choice.

When she miscarried after a few months, she did not even shed a tear − she thought, however, that her breasts were full of milk that was about to go to waste.

She became a wet nurse, sizing up some gold again. Her little fortune grew slowly, her tendrils tangled around Larys like a spider web.

Still, she dreamt of the white-haired prince without an eye. She had heard of him, about Prince Aemond Targaryen − she knew that he was ten years younger than her and she knew that they were destined to meet.

She saw herself stroking her swollen abdomen and knew that this was his heir, his seed.

And then, finally, each time she heard the splash of the water, saw his body sink to the bottom of the lake along with his great dragon.

She wondered what she could do to save him, why the man who was destined for her was also destined to die like this, before he even saw their child.

She felt nothing when word reached her that Prince Aemond had officially chosen one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters as his wife. She thought it changed nothing.

Marriage was a dry agreement between families.

Passion was something else entirely.

She became concerned, however, when she stopped dreaming about him from that point on − she prayed about it before going to sleep, but no vision with him, neither in the sun nor in the fire ever came to her again. After a few weeks she wept in despair for the first time, understanding that something had happened, that destiny had changed.

That the gods had intervened.

Her dreams of him were replaced by another, recurring one − she saw fire consuming fields and forests, destroying houses, burning people, unstoppable and uncontrollable.

Then she saw black clouds coming, the sky trembling, and a warm, gentle rain falling on the scorched, mutilated earth, bringing relief, its scent filling her lungs.

And then the fire came to her.

It began to burn the fields where she had gathered herbs, it burned the house of the people from whom she had bought milk, it burned the grove where she had prayed, leaving only dust and ashes. They brought her along with other people to die and then she saw him.

She felt her heart begin to pound hard as she saw his eye patch − he stood in full armour, sure, cold, unfeeling, fire bursting in his heart.

She stared at him as if enchanted, and when their eyes met and she stopped in front of him she knew that he felt something.

Their shared destiny.

When she heard that he was suffering from pains related to the eye that he now no longer had, she made an ointment especially for him and carried it to him.

She knew that this was her moment.

As she stepped into his chamber a shiver went through her − she saw his cold gaze drop greedily to her breasts, felt a squeeze between her thighs at the thought that he desired her. She knew he did; she could feel the tension between them in the air.

She was never wrong.

"I have brought an ointment to apply to your eye, Your Grace. One of the guards conveyed me you were in pain." She said, looking at him with a light, sensual smile. She saw that he hesitated and did not know what to make of her words.

Finally, however, he nodded, pulling his eye patch off, watching her closely. She approached him unhurriedly, placing the jar of ointment on the table, leaning over him. She saw his gaze escape to her breasts and smiled with satisfaction, feeling that as soon as she was done they would fuck on that table.

She removed a sapphire from his eye socket, which she gently placed on the cloth that she had prepared earlier. She put the ointment on her finger and began to spread it over his eye socket, glancing at it carefully, so as not to miss any wound.

She sensed, however, that something was wrong − he looked away from her and stared somewhere to the side, thoughtful, his eye red.

His thoughts had left her, but she didn't know where or why.

She pressed her lips together at the thought, feeling pain and a squeeze in her throat.

She had waited so many years for him, and he was thinking of someone else.

When she finished, she placed her fingers gently on his hand, wanting to remind him of her presence, but he flinched suddenly as if she had snapped him out of a trance and took his hand away, glancing at her warningly, his lips tightened.

"You may leave." He said, turning his head away, not looking at her.

She felt as if he had slapped her.

However, she did not show her distress.

Over the years she had learned to mask her pain and discomfort well.

"I could give you an heir, Your Grace." She said and saw him flinch all over, glancing at her in shock.

She was the only woman who could give him what he wanted.

Fire and darkness, the passionate, aggressive dance of their bodies, the struggle and fulfilment full of screams and moans.

She could have given him a child.

He looked at her, in his gaze no longer desire but a darkness that shocked her.

"You may leave." He said with emphasis, menacingly, low, so that she felt shivers down her spine. She swallowed quietly and bowed respectfully to him.

"Your Grace." She said softly, turned and walked away, closing the door behind her.

She was furious with herself, but she could not hold back her tears as she walked down the corridor of the fortress.

She had waited for him, waited so many years, seen them together flying through the heavens on his great dragon towards the sky.

She had seen their son.

What had happened?

She circled around him like a shadow, not intending to impose on him, wanting him to come to her himself, to break.

She could see that he was in a fury, on fire, that he glanced at her sometimes with a look that could kill and bring her to fulfilment at the same time.

He knew perfectly well what she could give him and some part of him wanted it.

However, she woke one night to hear a commotion outside her door, to hear someone whining and moaning. She left her chamber, going down the stairs barefoot, and that's when she saw them.

He embraced her, pressing her against the wall as if he wanted to devour her, her hands clenched on his hair and shirt, her legs wrapped around his waist, her lips parted sweetly, eyelids clenched in pleasure, sweat on their bodies.

She saw his hips move greedily inside her, saw her body shudder with each of his brutal, helpless thrusts, saw him whisper to her, panting loudly. She sobbed and squirmed at his words until she came at last, and he with her.

After that, they sank to their knees, stroking their faces, looking at each other.

Her Prince desired another.

He craved his wife.

She returned to her chamber, feeling only emptiness.

She lay down on her bed and gazed at the starry sky, knowing that she had nothing − the only purpose of her life was to wait for his arrival.

Without him she was just Lord Strong's bastard, a whore who no one would ever marry.

The next day she rose at dawn as she did every day, slowly preparing ointment for the burned wounded, moaning and wailing outside the fortress.

She treated everyone who needed it, not refusing to help anyone.

She shuddered when she heard that someone come inside and recognised the girl who had moaned in the Prince's embrace the night before.

His wife.

She noticed, surprised that she was not wearing an attire appropriate to her position − she looked like a boy, betrayed only by the braid woven from her hair and her soft, gentle face and girlish curves under her attire. She bowed before her, her expression calm and gentle.

"My Lady. What brings you here? I did not expect your visit." She said softly, wondering what she might have wanted.

She thought she had found out that she wanted to seduce her husband and had come to threaten her.

Women often did that, especially when she shared her bed with their husbands.

As if she was the one who had sworn allegiance to them.

"I’ve heard a lot about the Witch of Harrenhal. I would like to help you treat the wounded." The girl said lightly, walking through her chamber with a happy smile, looking around curiously.

This was not the answer she had expected and she felt intrigued.

She thought that she would play her game.

"Truly? That’s an amazing coincidence. I could really use someone to help me." She muttered low with satisfaction.

It was true that there was so much work to do with the injured that she didn't know where to put her hands first.

A helper would indeed be useful to her.

She took a wooden board out of a drawer and placed some roots and herbs beside it, placing a second knife next to it. She pointed with her hand to the place opposite her, and the girl approached, apparently waiting for her instructions.

"I prepare an ointment to help burns heal faster. I use it the most, so I have to prepare a new one every morning. This white root is a weeper, cut it into small cubes and then squeeze the juice out of them into this jar." She said calmly, pointing to the jar standing beside her. She nodded and got straight to work.

"What do they call you? I wouldn’t want to address you as witch. It’s impolite." She said lightly without looking at her, squeezing the juice from the root exactly as she should.

She thought that this girl was more than intriguing.

"Alys, my Lady." She said calmly and they spoke no more to each other.

She had thought that she would now be listening to a tirade about her husband or hearing stories about women seducing someone else's men and what befell them.

Nothing of the sort happened, however.

She was aware of the effect she had on her husband and was not afraid of any other woman.

Who could be a threat to her when he wanted her so much?

They spent the rest of the day among the wounded, applying a jointly prepared ointment to their wounds. They worked at a distance − she was quicker, so she did not wait for her, the prince's wife, however, did not seem to care.

She saw that, despite her discomfort, the girl showed compassion and concern for the soldiers, chatting to them, even bestowing a smile on them at times. She saw that she was dirty from dust and blood, all sweaty, locks of her hair stuck to her face − she thought, watching her closely, that she was not pretending.

The girl who had taken everything from her seemed so innocent.

She looked away, but then looked at her again, something about her attire caught her eye.

She saw that there were deer embroidered on both sides of her bodice.

The Baratheon family crest.

Strom's End.

Strom.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing quietly − it was only then that she understood the meaning of the dreams that had tormented her for the past nine months.

She was the rain that had put out the fire.

By arriving in Harrenhal, she had saved her husband from ongoing self-destruction.

She realised with both pain and relief that she was no longer haunted by visions in which the Prince was drowning together with his dragon.

He's not going to die, she thought.

She had done what she would not.

She soothed his anger.

She lowered her gaze, painfully aware that she had lost the moment the Prince had chosen her as his wife.

Slowly the sun began to set, so she approached her and informed her that they should eat something − she did not want her to faint because of her.

She knew that she would be met with the fury of her husband.

They sat down on the grass near the fortress a short distance from the wounded, and she took out a piece of bread, cheese and smoked ham from her pack.

"Forgive me, my Lady, this is not a lordly meal. However, I did not think anyone would be joining me today." She said, ripping everything in half and handing it to her in turn. The girl looked at her surprised, her eyes bright, her face gentle.

"We are at war and people are suffering from hunger. A meal like this is perfectly adequate." She said calmly, taking a piece of bread into her mouth without hesitation and biting into it without even croaking.

She knew she must not have liked it, but her behaviour impressed her.

She did not behave like the high-born ladies that she had the opportunity to meet.

They would never eat stale bread, sitting on the dirt with her.

"I imagined you differently, my Lady." She said with amusement, lifting her curious gaze to her. She saw that the girl was confused, feeling that perhaps she was mocking her.

"Indeed?" She asked lightly, trying to hide her anxiety, and she chuckled lowly, unable to contain herself, looking away.

"Yes. Forgive me for this boldness, but you are a charming being." She said lowly, pressing her lips together and looking at her fingers, smiling under her breath.

"What do you mean?" She asked quietly, turning her head away, looking far into the woods, clearly afraid that she would see something in her eyes that she might not like. Alys smiled, seeing this.

"You don't suit this place…" She began, and she looked at her, furrowing her eyebrows charmingly. "…but the fire has called to you, and the scorched earth can breathe at last with relief under the raindrops."

The girl froze completely, her lips parted in shock − she thought, as surprised as she was, that this was not the first time she had heard those words.

"What does that mean?" She asked quietly. She reached out to her with her hand, touching her cheek with her fingers.

It was as soft as she had imagined.

"It means that your husband is not going to die." She said calmly, and then the prince's enraged voice rang out, summoning his wife back to him.

She saw how violently he grabbed her by the nape of the neck, how he pressed his forehead against hers, how his nose traveled down her cheek.

She thought, shocked, that despite the aggression and darkness that filled his heart, he was tender towards her.

He let her go at last, walking away, leaving her alone.

And then all hell broke loose.

The girl whose soft skin she had just appreciated was lying burnt by the dragon fire that she had barely managed to extinguish on her − she watched helplessly as her skin clumped with the material oozing and bleeding.

She thought she should feel the satisfaction of her never being beautiful again, but she didn't.

"My Lady, we have to get out of here, please!" She said loudly, trying to lift her up − the girl sobbed loudly, rising from her knees and they both moved towards the woods.

They fell beneath the trees, a large red dragon burning everything around them. She glanced at her burn and touched it, she screamed in pain − she pulled a bottle from her pocket and unscrewed it, handing it to her.

"Drink, it's poppy milk. It will hurt." She said quickly.

She watched in disbelief as the girl immediately emptied the entire contents, trusting her completely − then her eyes grew misty, her body settled into a half-sleep, and she set to work.

She did everything she could to help her, but her wounds must have left scars.

Her body would never be the same again, she thought, looking at her thoughtfully.

She wondered if he would still love her when he saw her like this.

He, however, when the battle was over literally threw himself at her, falling to his knees beside her.

"− is she alive? −" He breathed out, trembling all at once with madness, terror, happiness and despair. She lowered her gaze, looking at her.

"− yes −" She said quietly, grabbing her wrist, checking her pulse. She felt his hand push her away violently with such force that she fell to the grass.

"− don’t fucking touch her −" He hissed, looking at her with hatred and a murderous rage from which her throat tightened.

His expression changed instantly to one of gentleness when he grasped her cheeks in his hands, as if he became a different person.

She had never seen anything like this before in her life.

"− why is she asleep? −" He asked helplessly, and she sighed quietly, rising to sit up, massaging his shoulder.

"− her attire melted to her skin − I had to clean the tissue, so I gave her poppy milk − I applied the ointment, but she’ll still have extensive scars − the gods are watching over her − the flame flashed across the ground right next to her −" She said calmly.

He pressed his face against his wife's neck, sobbed loudly and froze like that, breathing heavily.

She rose and walked away, allowing him to be alone with her.

He called on her only once afterwards, to show him how to apply medicine to her wounds.

When she unwound the clothes for the first time and he saw how her burned skin looked, he covered his mouth with his hand, his eye red and terrified, his throat clenched. She lowered her gaze at this sight, continuing her work in silence.

When she finished, she saw that he was stroking his wife's cheek, looking at her sleeping face thoughtfully.

"I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I want to be unaware of your existence. If you ever touch her again, look at her, or speak to her, I will take your eyes out, rip out your tongue and cut off your hands." He said slowly, a menace and darkness in his voice from which her throat tightened.

"You may leave."

_____

Taglist 1

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @tempt-ress @blairfox4 @crazymusicgirl104 @ahristata @menaosama @ladywin17 @queenofshinigamis @rae-seri

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Hi, hope you are doing well. I've read some of your posts recently and you seem very knowledgeble on ASOIAF details, so I wanted to ask you this: I've read that the Stark Family Tree in TWOIAF have many wrong details. Do you have links for its corrections or perhapes a corrected version of the Tree? And do you know if the Lannister one has any errors? Thanks!

Yes, there's a few wrong details in the first edition of TWOIAF, which apparently should have been corrected in more recent editions. (Supposedly if you bought the Kindle version you can push an update? I can't seem to get it with my, um, unbought copy though.) The wiki's errata page is here, but let me copy the details for the Stark and Lannister trees:

Stark Lineage:[135]

Jocelyn Stark is mentioned to have married "Benedict Rodgers". However, this is supposed to be Benedict Royce. According to Elio Garcia, co-author of The World of Ice & Fire, Martin mistakenly called Royce "Benedict Vance" in earlier notes.[136] However, Harrold Rogers, the husband of Branda Stark, is correct.[137]

Munkun's True Telling says Cregan Stark had a younger brother who died in 119 AC.[138] However, in the family tree Cregan has no siblings.

For Rickon Stark (son of Cregan)'s daughters Serena Stark and Sansa Stark, Serena is marked as the elder one in the book. However, Sansa is the elder one in George R. R. Martin's notes.[139][140]

Bolded names in the family tree indicate that said person has ruled as Lord of Winterfell. However, the names of Rodwell Stark and Donnor Stark are not bolded, even though they had been Lords of Winterfell. This should have been corrected by the third print.[141]

Spelling of Mariah Stark's name is changed to Myriah in later prints.[134]

Lannister Lineage:[142]

Jaime Lannister's name is misspelled as "Jamie".

Joffrey Baratheon's name is misspelled as "Joffery".

Myrielle Lannister's name is misspelled as "Myielle".

Willem and Martyn Lannister are not listed to be twins, even though they have been stated to be twins on multiple occasions elsewhere.

Bolded names in the family tree indicate that said person has ruled as Lord of Casterly Rock. Neither Cersei nor Cerelle Lannister are marked as "ruling lord or kings". As both have been specifically stated to have been "Lady of Casterly Rock",[132][143] this is an ommission. Kevan Lannister's name is bolded, while he was never a ruling Lord. As Cersei has remained "Lady of Casterly Rock" despite the charges of high treason,[143] and has two heirs who would inherit from her before Kevan would, even if she was stripped from her rights to Casterly Rock, Kevan's name being bolded likely is a mistake.

Melesa Crakehall, the wife of Lyonel Frey, is missing from the family tree.

Hope that helps!

[noeverse]

the daughters of lady aurynn mormont, deemed the great bear cubs

In 130 AC, Lady Aurynn, who had recently turned three and ten, still young for her age, by her royal husband Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, welcomed their first and only child, their daughter Visenya. The labour had been long and perilous, but, call it luck or godly favour, mother and child survived. As he had promised, Prince Jacaerys wrote to Lord Cregan of the birth of the birth of his future daughter-in-law. Although Jacaerys perished at seventeen in the Battle of the Gullet, mother and child survived the Dance and Visenya went to live to Winterfell earlier than expected to one day marry Rickon Stark.

In 134 AC, borne of Lord Cregan Stark, Lyanna Stark was born. She was quiet, shy but still intelligent and kind. Her mother had been seven and ten by then, and had a better birth than with her first child. She went on to marry wealthy Viktor Fell.

In 138 AC, Jeyne Stark was born. She had been named after the late Lady Jeyne Arryn, who had been admired by Lady Mormont, and a formidable regent for King Aegon III. She was the most beautiful and vain of all of her sisters, and went on to secure a match for herself with Lord Lyonel Tyrell

In 140 AC, Alayne Stark was born. She was studious, cunning, cautious and always two steps ahead, and adept with both the lyre and the sword. This earned her a marriage with Loreon Lannister. Despite being twenty years her elder, they got along well and seemed very fond of one another.

In 143 AC, Lysandra Stark was the last born daughter of the marriage, for Lady Aurynn was considered entering her old age. She was brave, ferocious and headstrong, playful and willful. During a visit to Storm's End, it is said that Lord Royce Baratheon clicked with Lysandra, and, taking into advantage the impending separation of Lady Mormont and Lord Stark, asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted if he helped sway the council to make her separation happen. The moment the document was signed and official, Aurynn shipped Lysa to her husband-to-be. They had a happy and blissful marriage.

In 155 AC, Lady Aurynn Mormont, now wife of Alyn Velaryon and Lady of the Tides, baffled everyone by giving birth to her last daughter at the age of four and forty, Daena Velaryon. She was an incredible beauty, and would be a notorious figure during the first Blackfyre Rebellion.

[cowboysanddragons23]

Duncan Targaryen and Jenny of Oldstones are exactly the romantic storyline Rhaegar and Lyanna are erroneously interpreted as:

-Duncan Targaryen was the eldest son of Aegon V, who fell in love with Jenny of Oldstones, who was a peasant girl. He gives up his claim to the Iron Throne and breaks his betrothal to Lyonel Baratheon's daughter so he could marry Jenny, without any personal consequence for him, but ends with his younger sister Rhaelle being offered as a glorified hostage to the Baratheons so they could be appeased because they rebelled due to the broken betrothal, his younger siblings being emboldened to do the same, which leads to Aegon V's reforms failing, Rhaella being forced to marry at 12 and eventually, Summerhall.

When Barristan said that Jenny's dowry was paid with corpses, it means it was literally paid with corpses.

[witchofhimring]

Alys

Based off Medea

Pairings:

(Jason)Aemond Targaryen x (Medea)Alys Rivers

Aemond Targaryen x Cassandra Baratheon

Synopsis: She gave everything for Aemond Targaryen. Her home, her family, the lives of her two brothers, all of her. They had sworn themselves by the Valyrian Gods and she bore him two sons. New comes to Alys of Harrenhal that her love is to marry another.

Warnings: heartbreak, cheating, emotional manipulation, murder, child murder

Stronger than lover's love is lovers hate

A wail pierced the new day. It carried the pain of a thousand betrayed women on its wings. Each dreaded note bleed into the old walls of Harrenhal. The lady of the castle wept. A great lady and witch reduced to crying on her knees on the cold cold ground. Her black hair shrouded her like a robe in mourning. For Alys lamented the death of a great love. The pain she felt were as if Aemond Targaryen had just been killed before her. And in a way, he was. A letter lay crumpled feet from Alys, stained with freshly fallen tears. It held tidings of their sundering and his pledge to another, sworn in a Sept instead of a hidden cave.

Dear Alys,

I pray this letter finds you well. I know that the contents of this letter will bring you much pain, and for that I am filled with remorse. But this must be done. Alys, I am to marry the Lady Cassandra of Storms End. Please do not hate me for this. To incur you displeasure would bring me great sorrow. I will keep you in my heart, always.

Sincerely,

Aemond

"Please do not hate me for this. To incur your displeasure would bring me great sorrow." What did he know of sorrow?! He brought words of guilt but chose not to come himself. Alys hated him, almost as much as she hated herself.

She had been born Alys Strong, daughter of Ser Lyonel Strong. In those days she was the favoured child, adored by all those in the castle. She'd had two brothers, Harwin and Larys, both so dear to her. And her life might have continued in this peaceful way had Aemond Targaryen not landed in front of their castle on his dragon. He had come to demand the allegiance of house Strong for the upcoming war. But Alys, who knew the deep secrets of this earth long hidden, had spelt an enchantment so powerful that not even dragon fire would breach it. She looked down on the young man from up high, sure in her steadfastness. So he passed swearing to come in peace. When their eyes first meet she suddenly felt a rush of an indescribable sensation. Her whole body came alight with a new energy, possessed with desire. The met the Princes gaze, for even in love she never bowed from a challenge. She was proud, and not even a Targaryen could tame her.

Aemond was the first to approach her. Alys was in her room with the sent of sage wafting through the air. Her pestle grinded against the stone bowl each time. Soft words drifted through her red lips as the fire flickered. No one encroached on the lady during these time. For this was her domain were none but her could enter. But today there was an intruder. Not in person, but in the mind. Aemond Targaryen raced through her thoughts. Breaking off chants and messing up potions. Eventually she grew so irate that Alys slammed the pestle onto the table. She had only meet this man for one moment and already he was on her mind. It was unnatural. Above her hearth were little statues. For only Alys knew the Old Gods of Valyria. They spoke to her in dreams, appeared on stormy nights. And so she followed them in their teachings and received power in return. But remember young one. Ones you have accepted, do not ever spurn us. And so she never had. Alys kept her promises.

It was he who approached her the next day. She had been by the stream when Aemond Targaryen, out on a walk, chanced upon her. Their eyes met and immediately Aemond was enchanted. They talked and talked. He showed her his dragon and she helped him win the war. She helped him fight against Daemon Targaryen. And when her father and brothers found out she shared a bed with the Prince, he threatened to disinherit his own daughter. Aemond needed Harrenhal, but he couldn't if Alys was kicked out. And so she committed her darkest deed, something so abhorrent that it sent shivers down her spine. A fire was set in Harrenhal, an accident to the eyes of all. except Alys and Aemond. With the deaths of her two brothers and father, Alys was lady of Harrenhal.

"We shall marry under the watch of my Gods." Aemond brought Alys into a small sept. Alys looked up at the six statues (the Stranger was missing). The one that caught her attention was that of a young woman. Her head was covered by a veil, eyes cast downward. Aemond walked towards it. "This is The Mother. She watches over married women such as yourself." Alys walked up to her and was face to face with the statue. Reaching up, Alys touched her face.

"Then who is yours's?" Aemond looked towards The Warrior. "It will become king one day, and shall set a black crown of iron upon my brow. And my son after, and his son as well."

The rage of Alys was well known all throughout Westeros. The mistress anger over her husband taking a lawful wife. Little did they knew that Alys was no mere mistress, for they had sworn before the Gods themselves. She howled and raged. Her pain echoed through the halls. Her ladies waited fearfully outside, barely daring to breath. They wanted to comfort their mistress. But were too fearful to enter. Finally, Mara, the oldest of Alys's attendants, plucked up her courage and entered. Alys, who's abode had usually been so pristine, was absolutely wretched. Mara carefully padded towards her lay. She knelt next to her. Alys lifted her head. Normally immaculate coal black hair lay in a messy, for in her distress Alys had clawed out pieces which lay scattered across the floor. Those beautiful emerald eyes which minstrels wrote ballads about were puffy, red and swollen. Unkempt nails scratched against the stone. "Oh my poor lady." Mara gathered Alys in her arms and she sept. "What am I to do! He has shamed me and my sons to the whole world!" Whatever was said next past in a series of incoherent blubbering and wails. It was all Mara could do to hold Alys, internally cursing the prince.

Aemond did not even do Alys the courtesy of going in person. A week later the Baratheon banners flew over Harrenhal as Borros Baratheon stormed in. His meaty hand clasped a letter and when Alys read it she nearly collapsed. She had her children were to be banished to Essos. The Kings untidy handwriting marked this official document. "You are to take your bastards out of this kingdom and go where my daughter will not be shamed by your presence." The sneer adorning his horrid face made Alys's insides curdle. Who was this overlarge illiterate lord to make here and insult her!? She was Alys Rivers, Lady of Harrenhal, witch, and rightful wife of Aemond, mother to his heirs. "You say your daughter can not stand the sight of bastards. Yet she will happily bear them for him as I am Prince Aemond's lawful wife!" In two strides Borros made it to Alys. A blinding pain broke across her face, Borros had struck Alys hard. Her ladies angrily surged forward but Alys raised a hand. Cold eyes regarded this man and an idea struck her. She could rage and storm, letting the pain wear her down. But she had two things, a vial of deadly poison from Ashai and a letter by a septon. Then in her madness Alys thought of another insidious step to this plan. It made her blood run cold. Her eyes went to those two little boys which Aemond had cased off. She would make him regret this.

Her voice would have seemed piteous to any other. Borros was not a man moved by mercy, and so this wounded women stirred no sympathy within him. Not that Alys did not try. "My Lord, I know my behavior has not been courteous as of late. Only my grief has been so heavy as of late. Allow me to at least stay long enough to get my affairs in order." Borros scoffed. "So you may continue infesting this land with your poison? No, I will have you out of this country." Next she appealed to a parents love for their child in hopes it might move him. "My sons are young and innocent. Would you want your own children cast to such a miserable fate? I implore you, as a parent, spare my sons for the sake of them, not me." Borros went red in the face. "Do not compare your whelps to my children." She grasped onto one last hope. "At least allow me to humble myself before your daughter, as she is Queen. I would gladly do her homage if only to incur her mercy. I hear far and wide that she is merciful as she is beautiful. Please allow my sons to present her with tribute to show I mean no ill will. " And Alys, the most powerful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, a woman of unspeakable force, prostrated herself before the lord.

"Very well. You have one day."

He did not see the look on her face.

Before Alys lay two things, a golden dress and a dagger. Her fingers traced the blades sharp edges. Alys did not dare touch the dress. What she was about to do would bring the greatest pain and satisfaction. They say that stronger than lover's love is lovers hate. If this is indeed true then it clouded Alys to anything else. Not even the love she had for her children prevailed. Just as Aemond had cast them of so would she cast all recollection of being his. Alys could not imagine living in a world where she was less than she was.

Her two boys were playing outside, completely ignorant of the storm breaking over their heads. Alys took in their silver hair, indigo eyes and the pink tinge adorning their cheeks. They were truly lovely boys, both in body and mind.

Could she do it? This would hurt her just as much as their father. "He is no father." Alys steeled herself. She would cast a wound such as he had never felt. Alys hoped it would settled into his soul like a seed and haunt Aemond Targaryen for the rest of his days. His line would end.

"Mara. Send the boys in."

Blood drenched the floor. The terrified screams still echoed in impenetrable darkness. A knife lay scattered on the ground, now forgotten. In her arms Alys held who had once been her sons. Now mere corpses they were stark white, no tinge of pink to be seen. The only sound Alys could hear was a wailing scream coming from Mara. Alys let her scream. As she herself could not.

"You slay your sons to revenge yourself upon their father! To wound one in such a way that you throw away all semblance of motherhood, of humanity!" Mara collapsed to her knees. Alys never responded. Standing up both sons in arm Alys walked towards the door. They were coming.

Everyone had come to see the sons of Alys met the woman who took their mothers place. Cassandra Baratheon sat proudly on her throne like chair. Beside her stood Borros, a sneer upon his face. The pair looked as if this display was beneath them. Aemond, standing beside her, bend down and whispered something into Cassandra's ear. Beckoning his sons forth Aemond encouraged them to great her. It was only because all eyes were on her and the lovely presents presented to her that Cassandra did not dismiss the boys outright.

They held up a luxurious golden dress and tiara. The items presented were held up by green cloth, so that it did not touch the boys. Eagerly Cassandra laid hands on the objects. The boys were quickly dismissed and Cassandra entranced the audience by wearing the dress and tiara. For a few moments everyone was happy. The mistress had finally relented to the lawful wife.

And then Cassandra let out a shudder. jerking alarmingly, steam started to issue from the lady. Screams erupted and Borros surged forward with a cry. Collapsing, Cassandra cried out. To the horror of all present her skin started to melt. In great steaming clumps skin curled from her body and feel into puddles. Borros, once he reached his dying daughter, held her, and wept. Then a scream of agony tore through him too. Borros was to meet the same fate as his daughter. Melted into a hideous lump of flesh and fluid.

Aemond looked at the scene of carnage before him. He knew who had done this.

Alys did not flee like the messenger had told her. Alone save for the bodies of her son Alys was levitating with the help of thick black clouds. Curling around her, Alys sat upon the clouds like a throne. Over the hill she could see Aemond. The great party behind him was still miles away. She need not stay for them, only the former.

"Alys!" Aemond came charging around the corner, sword drawn. But the moment he caught sight of Alys, in all her ancient finery, and the bodies of his sons, he fell. On the ground he collapsed, like any common beast. With a just filled with white hot hate Alys's eyes board into him. "Did you truly believe your transgressions would go unpunished? You had not only insulted me, but the gods themselves!" Aemond turned his face to her, filled with anger. "Kinslayer. You bring the gods to shame me when it is your shame! May the gods in all their righteous fury strike you down!" Alys threw her head and laughed. She laughed and laughed until her throat ached. "Why do you laugh! Slayer of my children!"

"Your children? Your children!? The ones you meant to disinherit! You are no father, you are their butcher! Had you held to your vows they would still be here. And as for the gods you are both foul and fey in their eyes. You have thrown away the rules they set in place. For that you shall be dispossessed of everything. Your title, good name and lineage. Live on Aemond Targaryen, and spend the rest of your days in weeping misery. In the meantime I shall take my sons and bury them. I shall be free of my crimes, but you never shall." And with that, Alys of Harrenhal was gone.

From that day forth no one saw Alys. No matter how hard they tried the Witch of Harrenhal, who had lost everything, was simply lost. Aemond would live on. But happiness he would not find. No maiden would pledge her troth to a man who had abandoned his wife (the truth came out) and possibly face a miserable death. Aemond's house too would fall. His brothers were killed and Aemond lead one last battle against his nephew Aegon, son of his sister Rhaenyra. But then he set up battle lines, a flag carrying an image of The Mother fell. it struck him upon the brow and Prince Aemond was dead instantly. He fell into the dust, his head caked in dirt and grime.

[istumpysk]

When antis say the Ashford theory doesn't work because of Robert Arryn 🤦 no one said it has to be exactly the same lmao. And most importantly its because Sansa herself does not acknowledge/accept the betrothal like she does with Joffrey, Willas, Tyrion and Harry.

Oh, you silly jonsa.

Just because it's a celebration of Lord Ashford's daughter's thirteenth name day, doesn't mean that's an allusion to Sansa, okay?

And just because the name Lyonel Baratheon means Lion Baratheon in Latin, doesn't imply any connection to Joffrey, okay?

And just because Willas Tyrell was injured in a tournament, because his father hoped he would become the next Leo Longthorn, doesn't mean there's any association between the two, okay?

And just because the maiden's brothers were defeated by Lion Baratheon and Ty... bolt Lannister, doesn't mean there's any similarities to Sansa's storyline, okay?

And just because Harrold Hardyng is destined to meet the exact same fate as the only other Hardyng in the story, Humfrey Hardyng, doesn't mean that can't be a coincidence, okay?

And just because Valarr Targaryen is described as a dark-haired, slim prince, and referred to as the "black prince with the white guardian," doesn't suggest any link to Ghost and Jon, okay?

What about the fact that Lord Ashford's daughter is never noted as having red hair? Why is she never shown sewing? How come she doesn't have a wolf? Why is her name not Tansa?

Seems to me like this theory has a ton of inconsistencies.

[bldofthedrgn]

The Dragon Never Dies.

A story in which a Baratheon girl falls in love with a dragon prince ... slowly :)

warnings: too fluffy?? there isnt much crazy stuff happening its just part 1 just baelor being a flirt (maybe a little ooc?) fem reader, no physical description other than typical Baratheon hair color

word count: 1.5k

The sun gleamed brightly upon the onlookers of the tourney. In large stands surrounding two tilts sat lords, ladies, knights, squires, and other high-born strangers alike, all squirming with excitement for the days events. Y/n sat next to her father, Lord Gowen Baratheon and some other meek nobles amongst her father's closest allies. She had never quite enjoyed the company of many highborn ladies, with their gossiping and insipid rumors, and highborn men made her all the more weary.

Y/n's contempt for socialization never steered Lord Tully's eldest daughter Alice in the other direction, however. Sitting next to her best friend was the only thing that made the blinding sun shining in y/n's face worth it.

"Here", Y/n heard "take this". Y/n looked down to see Alice shoving something resembling a fancy stick in her hand.

"What is this?" Y/n questioned.

"It's a fan." A small giggle escaped the red-haired girls mouth at her friends confusion. "Storm's End tends to get quite balmy during the summer, does it not?"

Y/n's expression had become one of realization. "Pardon me, Alice. My mind is elsewhere at the moment." The young lady need not look to her best friend to know the look of question plauging her face. Y/n sighed. "I am hot and bored. I have never had a taste for tourneys, jousts or melees. Most men fight too brutish or too feebly, it makes for a tiresome battle. I might have a more pleasant time had any of these knights been .. more pleasant to look at."

"There are more contestants to come, maybe they will be attractive!" That was true enough, y/n's uncle had yet to arrive. Same to be said for Alice's brother. The thick haired brunette hoped that more knights had entered the lists forbye Edmund and her uncle, for Edmund would forever stay a sweet young boy in her eyes and she did not find the ancient Valyrian custom of wedding kin to kin too appealing.

Alice had always been a positive girl, a perfect balance to y/n's skepticism. Y/n simply nodded in acknowledgment and allowed her friend to prattle on about this knight or that, waiting ever impatiently for the damned thing to start.

A loud, gruff voice boomed throughout the stands. "The final three contestants!" Y/n was grateful to hear the herald begin his announcement. Thank the gods, this weather is unbearable.

"Lyonel of house Baratheon, the Laughing Storm!" Out rode y/n's uncle in his stag-emblazoned arms atop his strapping brown warhorse. Gods be good, Y/n thought. May the Mother have mercy and the Warrior lend my uncle strength.

The girl and her uncle had always been close, becoming akin to a second father to her after her own had been injured in the Blackfyre rebellion. During Lord Baratheon's time of need, the Laughing Storm took on the many responsibilities as needed of Lord of Storm' End. What's more, he took on the responsibility of family; providing comfort to his niece and good sister, praying nightly to the seven for his brothers return to health.

"Edmund Tully of House Tully, heir to Riverrun!" Edmund rode gallantly past the stands sending fanciful ladies in his immediate vicinity into a spiral of swoons, hair twirls, and giggles. Ever the charmer I see. Y/n could not deny that Edmund had grown to be a striking young man. Regardless, he would always remain the boy who'd follow her to her lessons clinging shyly to her skirts. The Baratheon girl gave Edmund a small smile in show of support, which he mirrored in thanks.

"Prince Baelor Breakspear of house Targaryen, The Hammer! Prince of Dragonstone, Protector of the realm, Hand of the King, Heir to the Iron Throne!" Y/n's eyes perked up at that particular announcement, having always had an infatuation with the history of the Dragon. Who wouldn't want to be a dragonrider?

Her eyes searched the gates with eagerness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dragon prince through the shining sun rays that caught on her eyelashes.

Heavy hooves could be heard, followed by the shaking ground caused by Breakspears great destrier. A maginificent beast with a coat of hair midnight black, matching its riders own armour, tall and powerfully built. A perfect horse for a prince, y/n thought in awe as the prince started past the stands. She hadn't noticed, however, that the royal man had stopped his mount. And he had suspended his trot directly in front of her. Y/n's mind raced with confusion and worry when the broad chested man began to lift his helmet, afraid of what The Hammer himself could want with her. A part of her mind raced with girlish excitement, though y/n would never admit to that.

A mess of short dark hair emerged from his three-headed dragon winged helm, sticking slightly to his forehead from the heat. He truly looked as a Targaryen prince should. Mighty, strong, impermeable as a dragon. His armour, so black the metal swallowed any sunlight, with gold lining and Targaryen heraldry stamped across his chest and shield. Y/n could scarcely remove her eyes from his despite all his royal arms, with strands of his freshly cut storm-like hair falling so perfectly in front of the kind amethysts that sat beneath his steady brow. His face was clean shaven and his nose had a small crookedness to it, no doubt the result of a quarrel or two. Though, the twice-broken nose hadn't diminished his looks. Targaryen men have always been quite handsome, y/n thought to herself bashedly, but Baelor Breakspear was an animal of a different kind.

"Lord Baratheon, my lady." The crown prince bowed, ever the diplomat.

"My prince," y/n's father started, "it is an honor." The Baratheon lord had begun to sweat harder, a smooth sheen of sweat glistening above his brow, though only y/n had noticed. "I am in your service."

Breakspear had the grace to smile, his white teeth somehow seeming whiter in the bright of day. He even has a royal smile.

"I require no service of you, my lord" The prince's voice was not deep, but firm and unwavering holding a kind tone. "I simply wished to tell you that I am gladdened to see your recovery. You are an ally to the realm and a good friend, we have kept you and your good house in our prayers."

Gowen had been taken aback by the princes acknowledgments, though he would not let it show. The raven-haired stag bowed respectfully.

"I thank you, my prince. The recovery was long and hard, but gratefully I am not so easily felled." Lord Baratheon followed with a chuckle.

"That much is true." Prince Baelor offered a light chuckle in return. "I shall hope to treat with you later. And I shall humbly ask for the Lady Y/n's favour in the passes." At that moment the striking prince locked eyes with Y/n, having felt her stare since his trot up to the stands. The normally brazen and confident girl was at a loss for words. She much detested the formality of offering a knight your favour at a joust, but this was the prince of Dragonstone, the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. She could feel her cheeks burning and her chest begin to thump violently, and then came a sharp push to her ribcage.

"Give him the wreath!" Alice scream-whispered into the frozen girls ear. Y/n had never actually been asked for her favour at any tourney, despite her contempt. She had never really been approached by any man seeking more than sin, and even those were few and far between.

The girl began to move, descending as gracefully as her legs would allow in her nervousness. Grabbing a small ringlet of flowers, red and pink, woven together by stem and golden thread, y/n lowered herself over the edge of the stand she sat in.

"I wish you good fortune, my prince." Y/n could no longer hold his stare, her stomach a fury of nerves at the intensity which the Hand studied her with.

"Thank you, my lady." The prince lowered just enough to be in the newly timid girls eye line, forcing eye contact. "Your favour shall give me fortune enough for victory." He winked, small enough for only her eyes, she'd hoped. With a charming smile prince Baelor began his stroll toward his end of the tilt, head held high, waving to the stands of loyal subjects.

Y/n slunk back to her seat, curling her body inward in hopes to conclude with the endless perceiving she had just fallen victim to. She could not deny that interaction had made her flustered, as a princes affection is no small thing. No, she told herself, affection was not present. He was solely being kind, in respect to my father. Simply a formality.

The young lady of house Baratheon could not have been more misguided.

A/n: If u made it this far, thank u for reading :3 this is just part 1 bc im unfortunately a yapper and will make this a slow burn by accident. part 2 to come soon <3 hope u enjoy !

[aegor-bamfsteel]

Why do you think Ser Arlan of Pennytree never actually knighted Dunk?

 If Aegon the Unworthy had given his sword to his heir Daeron instead of his bastard Daemon, there might never have been a Blackfyre Rebellion, and Roger of Pennytree might be alive today. He would be a knight someplace, a truer knight than me. I would have ended on the gallows, or been sent off to the Night's Watch to walk the Wall until I died.

Dunk grabbed her braid and pulled her face to his. It was awkward with the crutch and the difference in their heights. He almost fell before he got his lips on hers. He kissed her hard. One of her hands went around his neck, and one around his back. He learned more about kissing in a moment than he had ever known from watching. But when they finally broke apart, he drew his dagger. "I know what I want to remember you by, m'lady." Egg was waiting for him at the gatehouse, mounted on a handsome new sorrel palfrey and holding Maester's lead. When Dunk trotted up to them on Thunder, the boy looked surprised. "She said she wanted to give you a new horse, ser." "Even highborn ladies don't get all they want," Dunk said, as they rode out across the drawbridge. "It wasn't a horse I wanted." The moat was so high it was threatening to overflow its banks. "I took something else to remember her by instead. A lock of that red hair." He reached under his cloak, brought out the braid, and smiled. —The Sworn Sword

Dunk had seen such sights before. "Back in King's Landing when I was a boy, I stole a head right off its spike once," he told Egg. Actually it had been Ferret who scampered up the wall to snatch the head, after Rafe and Pudding said he'd never dare, but when the guards came running he'd tossed it down, and Dunk was the one who'd caught it. "Some rebel lord or robber knight, it was. Or maybe just a common murderer. A head's a head. They all look the same after a few days on a spike." Him and his three friends had used the head to terrorize the girls of Flea Bottom. They'd chase them through the alleys and make them give the head a kiss before they'd let them go. That head got kissed a lot, as he recalled. There wasn't a girl in King's Landing who could run as fast as Rafe. Egg was better off not hearing that part, though. Ferret, Rafe, and Pudding. Little monsters, those three, and me the worst of all. His friends and he had kept the head until the flesh turned black and began to slough away. That took the fun out of chasing girls, so one night they burst into a pot shop and tossed what was left into the kettle.

Dunk closed his hand around the loose stone. It proved to be less loose than he had hoped. Before he could wrench it free, Ser Alyn lunged. Dunk twisted sideways, so the point of the blade sliced through the meat of his shield arm. And then the stone popped free. Dunk fed it to His Lordship and felt his teeth crack beneath the blow. "The well, is it?" He hit the lordling in the mouth again, then dropped the stone, seized Cockshaw by the wrist, and twisted until a bone snapped and the dagger clattered to the stones. "After you, m'lord." Sidestepping, Dunk yanked at the lordling's arm and planted a kick in the small of his back. Lord Alyn toppled headlong into the well. There was a splash. —The Mystery Knight

The father of the spurned girl, Lord Lyonel Baratheon of Storm's End—known as the Laughing Storm and famed for his prowess in battle—was not a man easily appeased when his pride was wounded. A short, bloody rebellion ensued, ending only when Ser Duncan of the Kingsguard defeated Lord Lyonel in single combat, and King Aegon gave his solemn word that his youngest daughter, Rhaelle, would wed Lord Lyonel's heir. To seal the bargain, Princess Rhaelle was sent to Storm's End to serve as Lord Lyonel's cupbearer and companion to his lady wife.  The invaders landed on Massey's Hook, south of Blackwater Bay, but few rallied to their banners. King Aegon V himself rode out to meet them, with his three sons by his side. In the Battle of Wendwater Bridge, the Blackfyres suffered a shattering defeat, and Daemon III was slain by the Kingsguard knight Ser Duncan the Tall…Afterward, the corpses of the Black Dragon's slain choked the Wendwater and sent it overflowing its banks. The royalists, in turn, lost fewer than a hundred men. —The World of Ice and Fire

…Well, I certainly wouldn’t have knighted that peer-pressure prone, self-pitying, violent hypocrite.

[twoiafart]

THE THREE WIDOWS Artwork by Tomasz Jedruszek

The first of these was Johanna Lannister, the widowed Lady of Casterly Rock, who with her father, Lord Roland Westerling, now ruled the westerlands. Lord Corlys’s ravens, offering pardons and terms, had flown widely before Lord Cregan arrived, and Lady Johanna had responded by accepting all those terms, asking only that the Iron Throne command Lord Greyjoy to abandon his reaving of her lands, returning Fair Isle to its rightful lords and freeing all the noble women that had been taken as salt wives. She also swore to turn over the portion of the royal treasury that had been dispatched to Casterly Rock at the outset of the war, though required that Ser Tyland Lannister be pardoned as well.

The second widow was Lady Elenda, wife of the late Lord Borros Baratheon. She now ruled in the name of her infant son, Royce, who had been born six days after his father’s death at the Battle of the Kingsroad. She was quick to pledge the fealty of Storm’s End, offering up three of her daughters to serve as hostages. Escorted by Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard, the girls would be accompanied to King’s Landing by Princess Jaehaera.

The last widow was the beautiful, fiery Lady Samantha Hightower, widow of Lord Ormund Hightower and the daughter of Lord Donald Tarly and Lady Jeyne Rowan, whose own families had risen in support of Rhaenyra. She had been his second wife and was of an age with Lord Ormund’s children. The death of her husband at the second Battle of Tumbleton could have left her in a precarious position, but the new lord—the fifteen-year-old Lyonel—was smitten with his own stepmother, who was only two years his senior.

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Sixteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen

AO3 Link

Author's Note: And we're back! Thank you all for being so patient with me as I took some time away. I'm honestly glad I did. TL;DR (or read the update in the previous chapter) I lost my job, things were rough. I'm feeling a lot better now and here we are with the final Aegon birthday chapter! As I stated as well, we'll be moving to something closer to a three week posting schedule for the last few chapters of this fic and continue on that posting schedule for the sequel.

PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)

All my eternal love to @vampire-exgirlfriend, whose been my rock. I love you. Please go join her as she finishes up her Aemond fic, They Say I Killed You (Haunt Me Then)!

Warnings: Larys Strong Jumpscare, and MURDER!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Flew Like a Moth to You

Aegon's birthday hunt includes some fantastic girl action and some murder! OH! And Some Jacelaena biting. You love to see it.

Floris Baratheon could not sit still, clutching her bow and quiver, peering out the carriage window as they approached the Kingswood. “A-hunting we shall go, a-hunting we shall go-”

“Hi-Ho the derry-o, a-hunting we shall go,” Abby sang in turn, the song a familiar one from childhood. The Baratheon girl had been quite annoyed that she could not ride a horse the way the other men did, but with the promise that she would not have to sit with her sister in a carriage, she had been content enough.

Abby sat beside Lythene Ryger, who had been quite speechless at the invite to the carriage. Wylla would have normally been with them, but with her soon to be good-sister, Alys Bracken, coming along, she was off playing chaperone and overly curious and mischievous younger sister to Alys and Harrion. Abby was glad she had the opportunity to do so, for her dear friend was giving up much to stay in the south as her Mistress of Keys instead of returning home to the Karhold.

On the other side of Helaena, Margaery Crane of Red Lake sat. Her lush, light brown hair was braided in a crown around her head, and her face was square with large, unnervingly green eyes. Her head was bent towards Helaena’s, threads of evergreen and butter yellow woven in her fingers as she taught the princess how to finger knit. It was an easier pastime during the long carriage ride to the camp than Helaena’s embroidery. Her twin sister, Desmara, sat on Abby’s other side. The only difference between the pair was her dark, chestnut hair and the scar across her full mouth.

“I’m sure if you ask Daeron when he goes out with the party, he’ll retrieve the stag antlers for you,” Helaena said, her eyes focused on the thread between her fingers. “He’ll love the opportunity to prove himself.” Floris rolled her eyes in only the way a girl of one and ten could, her black braid wrapped around her head with stubborn tendrils escaping. She tugged on the ties of her raven black cloak.

“Nay, Your Grace,” she said primly. “I would show my own mettle, and face the stag myself.” Her cheeks were pink all the same. Abby bit her lip to hold back her chuckle, not wanting to tease the girl. She caught Desmara’s own amused look, the scar across her mouth pulling at her own smile.

“Well, I don’t think they’ll let you go hunting the stag, Lady Floris,” she said. Floris looked pleased at the kind address from the elder girl. “But we’ll be going hawking and the spoils are certainly yours. That’s how I obtained the rabbit fur for my gloves.”

“That’s true,” Abby chimed in. “And you are a child of Nightsong, are you not? I’m sure falconry is in your blood.” Floris’ mother was a Caron, with a lineage of fierce warriors nestled in the Dornish Marches. Lady Ellyn Caron had songs sung of her, and how she, in part with other lords of the Stormlands, defeated the Vulture King. It was exactly the kind of family lineage Abby could see Floris idolizing.

Floris nodded seriously, running her fingers along her bow. “This is true. I suppose I should practice.”

“Practice until you come back dragging the stag behind you,” Helaena continued. “My elder sister is said to have taken down a boar with her own hands, only a dagger as a weapon. I think you have that same mettle in you.”

Floris preened, leaning into Helaena’s side to watch the magical weaving of the yarn. Abby’s heart ached with fondness for the girl, pleased that she had been taken on as Helaena’s ward. The girl was not meant to be stuck behind her three eldest sisters. The Smallest Storm would blossom, she hoped, beneath Helaena’s care and attention. It did not go past Abby’s notice of Cassandra’s harsh attentions to her sister. It reminded her of her own sister’s lack of understanding; always critical, always focused on some perception that her behavior would reflect poorly upon her. Floris was exuberant and curious, but she was not into reckless mischief or excessive rudeness.

She’d be good for Helaena. More importantly, had been good for Helaena, who had taken on Margaery Crane as one of her new ladies, and Abby would take Desmara. The Crane twins had endeared themselves quickly, Margaery introducing herself by way of teaching Helaena a new fiber art, and Desmara had gifted Abby a book on Asshai, a knowing wink in her verdant green eyes.

As the carriage pulled into the camp, cheers had already started from the other gathered lords and ladies. “With all that noise, they’re sure to scare away all their quarry,” Abby laughed, peering out the window to look on ahead.

The boys had ridden on horseback, Aegon in the lead on Kostōba, Aemond, Daeron, and Jace on their own horses beside him, with their own small retinue. Their cousin, Lyonel Hightower, was with them, as were a few other lordlings that Abby was unfamiliar with. She spied Alyn Hull’s silver braids from where he was on his own horse, smiling at the sight of the brash young man there within Aegon’s retinue. He had been a true friend to the prince over the years and it was good to see him brought into the fold officially.

Alyn would serve as steward when they departed for Harrenhal, taking on the household duties from Uncle Simon and learning under him. Aegon had been pleased that he’d agreed to the offer, brushing off his mother’s gape mouthed indignation about it. “He’s the reason I still live, Mother,” Aegon had said, unusually mild in the face of Alicent Hightower’s anger that morning as they broke their fast. He’d brushed a kiss against her forehead, and Abby wondered if he had found strength in the security they were building between them, that not even his mother could shake.

Seeing Aegon’s confidence was intoxicating, so rarely did he come off so sure of himself, and she craved to see more of it. Her teeth scraped her lower lip, belly rolling with heat.

“Good tidings to Prince Aegon, second of his name!” came the booming voice of his Uncle Hobart, leading the call of cheers. “Good tidings to him on his nameday!”

“Good tidings!” came the call of the gathered crowd. “Prince Aegon!”

As Abby settled back in her seat to wait for the footmen, she caught Helaena’s gaze. Anxiety crackled between them, mixed with the joy and love there for Aegon’s nameday. After the hunt, Abby was certain Helaena would cocoon in her chambers, barring the door should anyone try to get her into another crowd. Abby didn’t blame her, and in fact, might even join her for a bit.

The cheers had begun to die down by the time Daeron’s smiling face helped them out of the carriage. Windswept, dark blonde hair fell across his forehead as he bowed. “Allow me, my sister, ladies.”

As he helped Floris from the carriage, their eyes met, both faces going pink at the cheeks, and Abby saw her future good-brother’s hand tighten slightly around the girl’s fingers for the briefest of moments before her feet met the ground and she pulled away, her eyes on her shoes. It was not often that Floris fell quiet and blushed so red, and it did not appear that anyone else had noticed. Daeron clenched his hands to himself and his eyes met hers, his own flush deepening before he quickly hurried away.

The king had stayed behind in the Keep, as did several lords and their families. Lord Grover’s health had also kept him behind. Lord Otto had stayed to facilitate court, leaving the festivities that day in Aegon and the queen’s hands.

Her hands, Abby knew, as young ladies of the noble houses began to approach her and the princess, a few mothers in tow.

“Baela’s a Targaryen too,” Helaena muttered. “Why can’t they flock to her?”

The lady in question had rode on horseback, her red leather jerkin fitted against her lithe form over a gray tunic and black breeches tucked into black polished boots. The rings in her hair glinted in the late morning sun, sparkling as she turned her head with a laugh and dismounted her mare by Jace. Abby shook her head.

“Because they’re afraid she’ll be a bad influence, I’m sure. How are they supposed to get husbands if they dress comfortably?” Abby posited, smoothing her hands over her riding jacket. It was a warm evergreen color, deep azure and crimson soutache snaking over her shoulders like the red and blue forks of the riverlands. The crimson lined wool jacket fell just past her knees, and she wore a pair of warm trousers tucked into polished black boots. Helaena was dressed similarly, her jacket the same shade of deep azure as Abby’s decoration, embroidered with silver dragons with black beaded buttons carved in the shape of dragon head clasps running down the front.

“Hasn’t Mother decided that you should remain here to entertain all those ladies?” Helaena asked, their arms linked as they headed to the main tent. Ahead of them, Alicent Hightower was resplendent in a warm cloak of the deepest verdant green lined in black fur, her gown not one for riding or hunting, but far more comfortable for the outdoors. It lacked excessive ornamentation, the black and green skirts swirling around the tops of her own boots. Her hair was much like Helaena’s, wound in a braided crown about her head. Lady Fossoway was a half step behind her with Ser Criston as they always were, with the rest of the ladies trailing after like a gaggle of geese.

“We’re doing the receiving line,” Abby said, the fingers of her free hand fidgeting against the fall of her jacket. “Aegon’s receiving his gifts and then we’ll have congratulations on the betrothal.” She flexed her fingers, the soft leather of her gloves creaking slightly with the movement. They were lined with soft fur, luxurious, indulgent, and while she was certainly never dressed in rags before, it was rare to accept and let herself have new things when they often felt so unnecessary.

It was a new feeling to be excited about the new clothes that she had, more sumptuous than what would normally be allowed at her station.

Wylla joined them as they passed into the pavilion, warm from the braziers placed strategically about the place, each guarded by a cage of decorative wrought iron to prevent unfortunate accidents. On one end of the great tent, a small dias with a simple, dark wood throne, crested with a dragon, wings spread in welcome.

It was the King’s chair, but the king was not here.

“Are we to accompany you while you receive them?” Wylla asked. Her long hair was bound tightly back and wrapped in a coiling knot along the back of her head. Her padded black jerkin clung to her over a long tunic of gray, black riding trousers tucked into a pair of matching boots. Like Baela, she was dressed for a day in the wilderness without the cumbersome dealing with skirts.

“You look nice,” Abby told her with a small smile. “Not quite the Wildling I heard rumor of,” she teased and Wylla snorted.

“It’s a hunt and the opportunity to ride and get the fresh air. We’ll be going hawking while the men go to shove their pricky things into…” She trailed off with a twist of her mouth, the small scar along her top lip pulling at it. “Men waving around their big pointy things.”

“In a far more acceptable manner than what it implies,” Abby added on, giggling at the silly implications of it all. “And yes, I think you should. We’re receiving gifts, so you best take Desmara and Lythene with you to Lady Fossoway for instruction.”

“And then we’ll go hawking,” Wylla said with a nod.

“I have to stay here,” Abby corrected with a shake of her head. “It is my duty to entertain with her Grace.”

The northerner’s brow furrowed and both of them looked in the direction of the queen, her cloak handed off to a servant while she spoke with Lady Johanna. Wylla shifted beside her and Abby could feel the questions and arguments flitting beneath her friend’s skin. She rested a gloved hand on her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. “As I told Aegon, these are some of our new duties, no matter how dull they seem to be. Hopefully there’ll be time for me to go exploring later.” Hopefully. Abby loved exploring the Kingswood, and she’d been looking forward to going hawking, even if she did not particularly hawk herself. However, fun and indulgence could not be had in favor of duty and responsibility.

No matter how much she craved the freedom of it.

Wylla gave her a long look, teeth biting at her lip before she nodded and getured for Lythene and Desmara to follow her. Helaena had already left with Margaery and Floris and Abby was left standing alone, for the moment, amidst the steady flow of nobility pouring in for refreshment and talk. Alone, Abby was relatively unnoticed. Just a small girl in the midst of a crowd, no crown on her head to shout out who she was.

“Abrogail.”

Larys was taller than most people realized, for he did everything he could to make himself small. Few knew that Larys was as tall as Harwin had been, for her elder brother preferred to have such a small cane, to shrink himself into spaces where he could slip in. It was strange, Abby realized, that she had never noticed that it was a trait she shared with him. No desire to be the center of attention, no desire to be noticed, both for their own reasons.

The smile he gave her was an awkward twitch, but Abby noticed that it did reach his eyes, which was a rare thing, and she found herself returning it. Small and shy, perhaps, as if she were still the somewhat muddy little girl she’d been who he’d look at curiously across the breakfast table in the family solar.

He was subdued in a quilted doublet of the same deep azure and brown leather, his cloak a dark green-blue to match, clasped at the shoulder with a firefly broach. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow of his free arm, languidly walking toward a clutch of plump seating not far from the currently empty dais. The smell of cooking food caught on the woodsmoke in the air, and Abby’s stomach rumbled with hunger. They’d only had some fresh bread and cheese on the ride over, and the idea of warm, spiced pumpkin soup and a turkey leg the size of her own face was rather appealing.

“You’ve conducted yourself quite admirably under all the attention as of late, little sister,” Larys complimented, taking a seat on one of the padded benches. She perched beside him, smiling her thanks at the servant who came by with mugs of hot, mulled wine. She inhaled the scent of orange and lemon, the warmth of cinnamon before taking a sip. “Even with your, shall I say, antics at the tourney, they were quite well received.”

“Antics?” she asked lightly, feeling the curl of heat spread across her chest. There was no way for Larys to know what sort of other antics they’d gotten up to. The bite Aegon had left along her shoulder had turned bruised and tender, the imprint of his teeth still deep in her soft flesh. That mark was quite well hidden beneath her jacket and shirt beneath.

Larys only hummed and took a sip of his drink. “The other lords have expressed concern at my choice of husband for you, but I have assured them there is no reason to fret. I simply wanted my sister to be cared for and happy.” He gave her a sidelong look, placid expression barely shifting, his dark eyes large and innocent in his expression. “And everyone can clearly see how happy you two make one another. The queen…” he trailed off with a sigh, “has not quite been pleased but…”

Abby looked down at the deep purple-red wine swirling in the silver goblet. Anxiety prickled through her, confusion at her brother’s attempt, it seemed, to try to bond with her on something more personal. “Her Grace has been very indulgent,” she said softly, mouth twitching into an awkward smile that her brother returned. He inclined his head towards her only just.

“We both understand how passionate the queen’s frustrations can run, little sister,” he said softly, the scent of him cold and clean, like a tomb. Abby blinked, the awkward smile falling from her face. Her throat bobbed, the sting of bile in the back of her throat was almost painful. Had the queen told him what had occurred? Or had Larys, with his strange talents, found out what happened himself. “You will not be her ward for much longer. I imagine, like any mother, she is feeling the maternal ache over the loss of her son to his wife, and the loss of you, who is like a daughter to her.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, busying herself with another sip of wine so she might find the words. They were receiving glances from the bustling court as they found their places, platters and great soup tureens being set out along the tables. Her stomach growled again. “She was quite concerned about… the dishonor I would bring upon the royal family.” Her voice was little more than a shamed whisper and the insinuation was as painful as the day she’d been accused when coupled with Ser Edmund’s harsh words in the gardens. She straightened her shoulders, trying to push past the hurt and shame that lingered still, tilting her chin up, refusing to be cowed. “Apparently some of the other lords are quite concerned about your heir marrying into House Targaryen.” She smiled at the passing servant, plucking a small apple tart off the platter he held. “I have made my own assurances that our children will be raised in the customs of our people, that regardless of dragon blood, we are the Riverlands.” Whether or not Edmund Vance believed her, if he mocked her to those he could find for such statements, well, she could do nothing about that. She could only mind herself.

“It will be a hard road, Abrogail, given that they do not see you as one of them. Lo, they barely see me as one of them, what with all my work here,” Larys said with a nod, looking at the cake he’d plucked for himself. “What matters is that you greatly impressed Lord Tully, and his son has been amenable and welcoming-”

“I may not have grown up in the Riverlands but even I know there’s only so much influence they have,” Abby cut in, chewing her lip after the words tumbled from her, her voice a soft, biting thing. Larys said nothing to that while he chewed on a bite of cake, and she shifted slightly in her seat and took another sip of wine. “It will not be a smooth transition, not for all. A prince? Becoming vassal to a mere lord?”

“Prince Daemon was Lord of Runestone through the dear, late Lady Rhea,” he reminded her after swallowing. “I don’t recall any such problems between him and the Lady Arryn.”

“Jeyne Arryn was kin to his goodsister,” she retorted. She had spent countless hours in the library with Aemond, taking meticulous notes of the lessons the boys had that her and Helaena did not. Part of that involved wiling away a week of stormy, frigid weather, tracing out the family trees of the Great Houses. The Targaryens rarely married out, even before King Jaehaerys, but there had been Aemon and Daella to houses Baratheon and Arryn, and Queen Aemma’s siblings and half-siblings. She’d even traced her own tree: Harwin’s mother, Lysa, had been Lord Elmo’s sister. Larys and Corynna’s mother had been a Frey. Abby’s mother had been a Westerlander, already outside, already suspicious of the clannish houses of her homeland. “And if all the mutterings and murmurings are true, he cared as little and less for them as they did for him.”

She’d heard the rumors of Daemon being responsible for his first wife’s death, and the occasional muttering that he was responsible for Laena Velaryon as well, but in the past few days being with the mercurial Baela, she did not think that was the case. Abby looked back at her brother again, briefly, before smiling in greeting as Lady Redwyne and her sister settled nearby. The queen had sat on the opposite end of the circle of seating, the corral of it split evenly between the pair of them. Her shoulders slumped minutely and she kept her genial smile as the older women settled in.

Laughter caught her attention, Helaena and Baela both with shaking shoulders near the pavilion entrance as other girls joined them. They would be going hawking soon. The sun caught upon Helaena and Baela’s silver heads, giving them a golden shine. A sigh caught in her throat. How nice it would be to join them, to frolic in the lack of responsibility.

Larys shifted, still sitting at her right hand as the rest of the guests filtered in, and her attention drew back to him. “Ah, yes, the princesses and the other ladies are going hawking. Did your grandfather not gift you a new hawk for your engagement?”

Lord Rodrik had indeed. Abby had hawked some when she was a little girl at one of the hunts for Princess Rhaenyra’s nameday, but had never had a one of her own. But Lord Rodrik and her Reyne family were prodigious hawkers and the beautiful Peregrine she’d named Caelus was a little wonder. He’d been trained by her cousin, Emrik, who had fancied himself a falconer, and had sent a kind letter that she was quick to return. Letters had been rare over the years, but there’d always been well wishes and tidings on her nameday.

“He did, and I know we brought him. The queen…” Abby trailed off, her eyes darting to the other side of the tent where Queen Alicent was smiling at the younger Lady Redwyne. “She said that it was our duty to host while Aegon goes hunting. That it’s my duty. To make friends, to comport myself as the future princess.”

“Oh, did she?” Larys asked mildly, cocking his head to the side and leaning on his cane. “Yes, I can see what she would want that. It was, after all, what has been expected of her when she was your age, already with two children. She had far more in common with the matrons of the court at that point. You are here when others who should be are not.”

Rhaenyra should be here. She was the King’s eldest, his heir. Discomfort prickled along Abby’s spine, a latent spike of anger at the woman who had put her family in danger, hurt at how quickly Rhaenyra had moved to Daemon Targaryen after what happened to Harwin. Her fingers curled against her knees before she forced them to relax and stretch. The Crown Princess had always been kind to her, but could Abby even trust that? After what happened at Driftmark, and what happened to her family?

Alone now, save for Larys.

‘Not alone anymore’, she immediately reminded herself, because Aegon was with her now; Helaena and Aemond cared for her too. They too were her family. Not alone, for she had her grandfather and he loved her truly. Yet, she had felt this loneliness for so long. Rhaenyra was not responsible for her loneliness, but in many ways she felt it keenly. It felt as if everything changed because of her.

This marriage, Alicent’s desire for control, Lord Otto’s keen and watchful eye were because of Rhaenyra. Aegon’s pain was because of Rhaenyra.

Her father and brother were dead and gone because of Rhaenyra.

“I am here when others are not,” she said softly, eyes watching those who watched her, her smile flashing as she murmured her greetings as the ladies began to gossip. Larys was murmuring his own greetings to Lord Piper’s wife, complimenting her on the recent betrothal for her son. Abby’s gaze darted towards the front of the tent, where the girls were still gathered as they prepared to go off for their own little adventures.

Alicent Hightower made sure she was there. She made sure that people saw her as queen, someone to be trusted and counted on, someone that could be reached. She was here, as Abby was here.

“If the Targaryens mean to exercise power in our realm, they will be in for a rude awakening.”

Abby was not queen. She wasn’t certain what that future held, but she did know, with certainty, that she was the future Lady of Harrenhal, and that Lythene Ryger, Melony Piper, even Sarra Frey who was lingering nervously with a goblet in hand, they too would be future ladies of houses that she needed to be friends with. Abby could not just rely on the fact that she held the title, not when she did not grow up in her home, not when people like Edmund Vance were so eager to tell her that it didn’t matter, they would see what they wished.

“Lady Sarra,” Abby called, rising with a smile and handing over her goblet. She could feel Alicent’s eyes on her, and that over the other ladies. “I did not have the opportunity to speak with you at the feast last night. Pray, will you join me and the others out hawking?”

Sarra Frey was a tall girl, broad shouldered with high cheekbones and dark hair bound in a twist of three braids down her back. She wore a simple but lovely jacket of deep blue and silver, the colors of her house. At being addressed, she straightened up, green eyes wide with surprise at being noticed. They narrowed slightly, mouth parting before closing. A flush crept across her cheeks.

“I don’t have a hawk with me, Lady Abrogail,” she said softly. At her full height, she was as tall as Aemond, more softly spoken than her severe expression might have said. Abby smiled.

“That is quite fine, there are plenty to go around.” Sarra nodded, handing off her goblet to one of the passing servants and Abby looped her arms through hers and tugged her towards the others. “My legs are exhausted from that carriage ride, shall we go?”

Even Baela’s mask of judgment faded as they walked towards the edge of camp where the Master of the Mews was minding the hawks and preparing to move out further from camp. She was stuck between Helaena and Wylla, the princess’ silver head shining beneath the sun. Lythene was laughing with the Crane twins and even Sarra was pulled into conversation with Zara Celitgar, who was eyeing the tall Frey girl appreciatively.

“Are we not taking a carriage?” Margaery Crane asked as Helaena led the way past the line of them set aside for their later return.

“It is not a far walk,” Abby assured her. “And it’s nice to stretch our legs after all that sitting.” She nodded towards the Master of the Mews and his apprentices carting the hawks ahead of them. Margaery hummed in agreement, confusion placated, and Abby was set to continue onto another subject when there was a commotion from behind them. She looked over her shoulder to see Cassandra Baratheon striding behind them.

“You all left so quickly!” she announced, censure and jovial all rolled into her crisp tone. A slight smirk crossed her sharp features as they approached. Among the three ladies that accompanied her, Lady Elinor kept close at her side. Cassandra’s dark eyes swept over Abby as they drew closer, and she felt picked apart by the gaze, something sharp stabbing between her ribs at the continued haughtiness of the eldest Storm. Abby straightened, offering her own wan smile. Like hell would Cassandra set foot into Harrenhal, but this?

This she needed to be easy with; this she could allow.

“Of course, Lady Cassandra,” she said. “We would be happy to have you.” Helaena made a soft sound that Abby ignored but felt deeply. Her eyes flitted to Lady Elinor at Cassandra’s shoulder, giving her a warmer look. It was her family’s strawberry wine that had been highly spoken about over the course of the festivities, and Elinor’s responding smile was kinder.

“Congratulations are in order, Lady Abrogail,” Lady Elinor murmured. Cassandra’s eyes tightened, her smile frozen on her face.

“Yes, congratulations on your coming nuptials,” she parroted, smoothing her kidskin gloves over the fall of her woolen hunting jacket. “How comforting it must be to wed one’s childhood playmate. No surprises or excitement to worry about.”

The words were harmless enough, but the barb beneath them was clear. Abby tilted her head slightly, her own smile still on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was Baela who spoke, angling her head between Wylla and Helaena to peer at her cousin.

“Not to mention wedding a childhood playmate means there’s no barrier to intimacy, and no secrets kept,” she said, then bit into the apple she had in hand. “Now let’s fucking move before I start hunting with my bare hands.”

Helaena was meant to be in bed but sleep eluded her. She waved away the maids and headed out into the night toward the great bonfire in the center of camp. There was no danger here, much like there was no need to fear in the Holdfast. Her slippers grew wet after only moments, the night dew soaking into the soft fabric and chilling her toes.

She wanted to dance around the fire, stare into the flames like she heard the Red Priestesses did, and wonder to herself if her dreams would make more sense then. Aemond said she was touched as Daenys was, a gift precious to their Targaryen line. It helped ease the fearful strangeness to know that her strange dreams were not simply the ‘odd workings of an overactive imagination.’ That they did mean something, but what? Helaena was never certain. Sometimes she never knew the outcome, other times they became starkly clear.

‘He’ll have to lose an eye’.

“Would you care for some company?” came a low, curious voice, a slight crack on the last word. She looked over to see Jace lingering at the edge of the firelight, his jerkin long discarded with just his gray linen shirt and trousers, a dark blue cape wrapped around him. The bright flames danced in his lavender eyes, giving them a shade of deep purple-red she found curious indeed. Did her own look the same?

“You’re not gallivanting with the boys?” Helaena asked, not meaning anything by it until the words hung in the air, and Jace’s gaze glanced to what he held in his hands. The only ‘boys’ for him to gallivant with were her brothers. Of course there were other lordlings about, but given that Jace was lingering around the bonfire caused her to wonder if he too liked the quiet.

Or if he were lonely.

“I didn’t want to…” Jace trailed off, rubbing his thumb over whatever he held in his hand. The motion of it reminded her so strongly of Abby, Helaena didn’t know how she was supposed to process it. The curl of unease and her mother’s frustration and anger coated her insides. Her own frustrations, deeply buried but still there, like the ever smoking fires of the Dragonmont, bubbled and burbled in response. The king who loved Jace more, loved him like he loved Rhaenyra more. The blind man who ignored Aemond’s nameday even though it had just happened, who only thought of Aegon’s day because of everything that happened.

The dead look in Mother’s eyes that was more and more frequent, when she stared out the window of her solar, her hands twisted and knotted into her skirts. The things that Sire-Father had done to her for no reason except his own dragon feelings, Helaena thought. His need for more and more, consuming him the way the anger would consume Aemond, and the drink would consume Aegon.

All of them pinned to boards in the king’s Freehold miniature; all of them frozen and set on display in his own gallery, for him to take down from time to time to play with.

The burst of a log in the fire startled her and Helaena realized, uncomfortably, that she’d been staring, vacantly, at Jacaerys, who was watching her, still as water, quiet as an orb weaver. He watched her, the fire throwing orange and red across his fine features, catching at the warm red in his dark, dark hair. His right eye was a sheen of red from the fire, his left cast in shadow. Half fire.

Her right side was chilled, when her left was so warm, mirrors of each other.

Half fire.

Jace held out his hand, palm open, offering to her the smooth stone that he had been fiddling with. The ridges of the sea creature who died in it caught upon the light, throwing its own little shadow as it was unable to in life, living in the sea as it did. Only now, in his hand, had this creature found warmth and light.

Helaena reached for it, her hot fingers scraping against his as she took it, feeling his own hot skin beneath her touch.

Half fire.

‘But I am full flame,’’ Heleane thought, for she was dragonflame and lighthouse flame. Lighting the way with fire in her wake. Jace was fire, yes, but he was river water, the way it rippled through him. Still and steady, but crashing and flooding with the ferocity of a dragon’s power. ‘Would this be what her nieces and nephews be?’ Is this what a union of fire and water entailed? Deadly and quiet, steady when they were full of heat and flame.

She rubbed her thumb over the fossilized creature and it felt pleasant against her skin. Soothing, tactile. Grounding. “Thank you,” she said softly and Jace smiled at her. “Pity it’s not another marchpane tentacle.” He laughed, a soft sound that sounded like water over stones and they came to sit on the bench. She shoved her feet closer to the flame and watched the steam rise from the fabric from how hot it was. There was a few inches between them, the warmth emanating, and they sat together, no words spoken. These were her favorite moments, ones she missed. It scraped at her insides, like pushing dirt away from the stone so she could find the worms beneath. They were the memories of the gardens in childhood, Jace beside her, mud and damp soaked into his knees, helping her push the rock up to find the pill bugs and the beetles and the centipedes in the dark, damp earth.

“It was nice to dance with you at the feast,” he ventured, and Helaena looked at him, the shadow along his jaw where he’d wake up fuzzy and prickly in the morning. She reached up to rub the back of her fingers against his jaw, looking at the slight pout of his mouth, the dark fan of his eyelashes. Freckles faint against his skin.

“You're a good dancer. I should know, I’m a good dancer myself.” She smiled at him and he shook his head, a flush on his face and she felt her own spread across her cheeks. He scraped the toe of his boot in the dirt and she nudged her foot against his. He was familiar, in the way Aemond was, but he was new in the way Warren had been. Someone she knew, but didn’t. He wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t pushing and probing at her, looking for a bruise to elicit feelings from, or the thrill of a princess. He didn’t look at her like she was odd, or startle at her staring, her distant sight.

Jace was simply patient, and he waited, and did not seek to chatter. It was new, it was old, it was like pressing against the ground and the dirt giving way, a little tunnel inside that one didn’t know was there, and Jace peered in and made his way inside. A dragon roosting in a cave.

His knee bumped against hers and she looked at him, their matching lavender eyes meeting. It was nice, Helaena thought, that they had this piece to share. Like two different butterflies, different colors and different patterns, but the markings were the same. The wings were the same. Simply… different.

“The mint winds and chokes like ivy,” she said, instead of what she meant to say, which was asking him if he would come looking for stag beetles with her the next day. “The children can’t breathe, it’s bursting from their mouths.” She blinked, startled, but the words that she had not known, had not meant to utter, remained heavy between them. “I-.”

He blinked back at her, brow furrowed. “Helaena, are you-”

A horrible scream ripped through camp and for the briefest moment, Helaena thought it might have been a fox shriek. But this was too loud, too close. Another scream, this time two high pitched ones and then a guttural yell. Jace’s hand gripped hers, pulling her to her feet and away from the fire. She tugged at his hold to move towards the commotion, but he tugged her back. “I’m taking you back to your tent, Helaena,” he said firmly. “We don’t know what’s- Ow!”

She had lifted their hands, sinking her teeth into the plump flesh at the back of his thumb so he’d let go and hurried towards the tents without a second glance, knowing that he’d be following her. She gripped her skirts, grateful for the warmth of Jace’s cloak around her shoulders and her heart sank, panic seizing her chest when she realized it was Abrogail’s tent that was the source of the screaming.

Three of the Kingsguard, including Ser Criston, were already there, as were the gold cloaks that had been patrolling around the outskirts of camp. Their cloaks reminded her of Sunfyre’s scales in all the torchlight, and half-dressed nobility coming out of their tents, bleary eyed in confusion.

On the ground lay a servant with a blade in his chest, blood burbling from his mouth. Helaena looked at him, wide-eyed, Jace trying to get her to look away, and her gaze went up to Wylla Karstark. The northerner was shaking, gray eyes wide as dinner plates, her hair bound for bed, her dressing gown haphazard and sprayed with blood from where the man must have coughed it at her.

“He-he came in. He was on Abby so quickly-”

“I don’t know where he came from!” Abby’s trembling frame was right behind her, clutching one of the pokers from the tent brazier in her hands, still ready to strike. Her curls were twisted and wrapped around the crown of her head, shivering in the night air in just her own nightgown, sleep mussed and clearly straight from bed. “I don’t…” She gulped. “I don’t think he meant Wylla to b-be there.” Her free hand was gripping the back of Wylla’s dressing gown, and Ser Criston laid a hand on Abby’s shoulder.

“Give me the poker, Lady Abrogail,” he was saying in a calm, steady voice like he did when Helaena was younger, cowering in a corner and unable to flee the commotion. “There’s a girl.”

Harrion Karstark was shouting his sister’s name, just as Uncle Gwayne was calling hers. Helaena turned her head to see him coming up, half dressed with his sword belt slung over his shoulder. He reached for her shoulder, tugging her back. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, and Helaena stumbled back into Jace as the crowd parted.

Then, Aegon’s shout of, “Abby!” came crashing over the gathering crowd, pushing his way through with Aemond at his back. She caught her younger brother’s frantic look, seeing the worry ease somewhat at the sight of her before going over to the girls. Abby surrendered the brazier poker as Aegon reached her, frantic over the state of her, pulling his cloak off to wrap around her, fear and fury warring on his flushed features. “What happened?”

The man on the ground was rasping, wheezing, but it was hard to tell if he was alive or not, or if this was how his body signaled death.

“This man came to attack Lady Abrogail, Your Grace,” Ser Erryk said. “Lady Wylla got him good.” His twin nudged the attacker with the tip of his boot as Aemond looked at the man, then at Wylla. His face was carved in hard lines, but his gaze was softened.

“Did you throw it?” he asked. “Or did you pounce on him?”

Wylla blinked, her brother’s broad hands holding her shoulders. “I stabbed him.” Her voice was faint and she took the blade handle, clutching it to her. “He… I was putting away our dresses and there was a commotion… I thought…” Wylla’s brow furrowed, shaking her head. “He came in through the flap beside the bed and crawled o-on top of her. Abby screamed and I just…”

Harrion’s hands tightened on his sister’s shoulders and the girl fell silent with a soft squeak. Aemond’s mouth pursed and he knelt beside the man. His hair fell in a curtain, the band of his eye-patch not holding it back from the vantage that Helaena had. He reached down, and twisted the blade, a wet crack sounding in the sudden hushed anticipation. The wheezing sounds the man was making tapered off as Aemond pulled the blade from his body.

It squelched, a gout of blood spraying, and a strange, hissing sound like wind through a crack sounded. Aemond jerked back as some of the blood caught on the ends of his hair and he rose slowly, wiping the blade of the dagger. “Well he’s dead now, Lady Wylla. Your bravery and quick thinking is to be commended. House Karstark should be proud to have such a brave daughter.” He handed her the dagger, hilt towards her. “Keep this close, since you can be well trusted to use it.”

Wylla’s brother held her tightly as the gold cloaks hoisted the dead man between the pair of them, dragging him somewhere.

“I was half asleep,” Abby said. Aegon clutched her to his chest as his gaze swept darkly around, hands rubbing her arms. “At first I th-thought it was Wylla…” Helaena watched Abby’s hand clutch Aegon’s arm tighter, her voice falling silent. Her other hand reached towards Wylla again, the girls clinging tightly to one another.

“How the fuck did that bastard manage to sneak into my lady’s tent?” Aegon demanded, his voice not a shout like Uncle Gwayne’s had been, but more of a warning growl, like Sunfyre. “Where were the patrols, Ser Criston?”

Their mother’s protector - and Helaena realized that Mother was not there and that Ser Criston must have commanded her to stay in her own tent - shifted only slightly. “The patrols largely keep around the outside of camp to keep people from getting in, my Prince. The patrol that was walking through the tents had not made it back around yet.”

Aegon’s jaw ticked, assessing what Ser Criston had said and knowing it to be true. Helaena knew that Aegon and the others had been lingering in Aegon and Aemond’s tent for whatever gossip and giggling boys got up to in the middle of the night.

“Lady Abrogail and Lady Wylla will share my tent,” Helaena broke in, for she was the princess, and her mother was not here. “And we will have extra guards stationed around our tents, so that our Kingsguard are not stretched thin.” She straightened her shoulders and closed the distance between her and the girls. “This is enough horrible commotion for this night, and you should all be ashamed of yourselves for staring so,” she said, frowning at the crowd that had gathered. “These ladies have been terrorized, and you gawk at them. To bed, everyone! Let us gather your things and get you cleaned up.” The last was said to Wylla, who needed a fresh gown and the blood cleaned from her face.

And like the princess she was, she did not wait to be obeyed, reaching for Abby’s hand to pull her toward her tent.

Thank you for being here! If you loved this chapter, please give a reblog and I would adore hearing what you thought about the chapter! What did you think about the Larys and Abby convo? Baela Targaryen continues to be a force to be reckoned with. I for one love the ladies that Helaena and Abby have been gathering around them. Man what was UP with that attack at the end? And also, Jace clearly doesn't mind Helaena biting him. Good.

Next Chapter

[lilith-kruger]

SEPTA RHAELLA TARGARYEN :The supreme septon was too ill to attend, but sent its most recent septa, rhaella, who had been targaryen, still shy but smiling. It was said that the queen wept with joy at seeing her, for in face and figure she was the living image of her sister aerea, though older.

QUEEN RHAELLA TARGARYEN:Jaehaerys and shaera had two sons, aerys and rhaella. At the suggestion of the forest witch Jenny stones old prince jaehaerys resolved to marry aerys with rhaella, or at least so it is stated in the Chronicles of the court. King aegon, annoyed, washed his hands and let the prince get away with it.

PRINCESS RHAELLE TARGARYEN:The despised girl's father, Lord lyonel baratheon, called the laughing storm, and renowned for his feats on the battlefield, was not a man who was easy to beat when he was hurt in his pride. Finally a brief but bloody rebellion broke out, which only ceased when it was Duncan, of the Royal guard, defeated in single combat Lord lyonel, and king aegon solemnly gave his word that his youngest daughter, rhaelle, would marry Lord lyonel's heir. To seal the pact, princess rhaelle was sent to bastion of storms to serve Lord lyonel as a copera and keep company with his wife.

[nanshe-of-nina]

Posthumous Characters GIF Sets → Jenny of Oldstones

Aegon’s eldest son Duncan, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne, was the first to defy him. Though betrothed to a daughter of House Baratheon of Storm’s End, Duncan became enamored of a strange, lovely, and mysterious girl who called herself Jenny of Oldstones in 239 AC, whilst traveling in the Riverlands. Though she dwelt half-wild amidst ruins and claimed descent from the long-vanished kings of the First Men, the smallfolk of surrounding villages mocked such tales, insisting that she was only some half-mad peasant girl, and perhaps even a witch. It was true that Aegon had been a friend to the smallfolk, had practically grown up among them, but to countenance the marriage of the heir to the throne to a commoner of uncertain birth was beyond him. His Grace did all he could to have the marriage undone, demanding that Duncan put Jenny aside. The prince shared his father’s stubbornness, however, and refused him. Even when the High Septon, Grand Maester, and small council joined together to insist King Aegon force his son to choose between the Iron Throne and this wild woman of the woods, Duncan would not budge. Rather than give up Jenny, he foreswore his claim to the crown in favor of his brother Jaehaerys, and abdicated as Prince of Dragonstone. Even that could not restore the peace, nor win back the friendship of Storm’s End, however. The father of the spurned girl, Lord Lyonel Baratheon of Storm’s End—known as the Laughing Storm and famed for his prowess in battle—was not a man easily appeased when his pride was wounded. A short, bloody rebellion ensued, ending only when Ser Duncan of the Kingsguard defeated Lord Lyonel in single combat, and King Aegon gave his solemn word that his youngest daughter, Rhaelle, would wed Lord Lyonel’s heir. To seal the bargain, Princess Rhaelle was sent to Storm’s End to serve as Lord Lyonel’s cupbearer and companion to his lady wife. Jenny of Oldstones—Lady Jenny, as she was called by courtesy—was eventually accepted at court, and throughout the Seven Kingdoms the smallfolk held her especially dear. She and her prince, forever after known as the Prince of Dragonflies, were a favorite subject of singers for many years.

[goodqueenaly]

Hello! I hope you are well. I'm back with another weirdly specific question/topic I'd love to read your thoughts on. I was looking at the Frey family tree (as one does) and a detail that I hadn't really paid attention to before- there seem to be a few instances of sisters from the same house marrying into the Freys? Sallei and Sylwa Paege, possibly Sarya and Wynafrei Wheat? And--sorry this is going to be weird!--I thought Corenna and Cyrenna Swann might be sisters and I think Walder is (continue

(continued) I think Walder Frey is a person who...would not have hesitation to marry his son's sister-in-law (if Cyrenna and Corenna were sisters). Do you think that's possible at all? And do you think that--if these examples were actually all sisters--there would be a political or dynastic explanation for it, that there would be this kind of pattern? Sorry for the long question. I love your analysis of this kind of marriage/family tree in ASOIAF and would love to hear your thoughts.

While it's certainly not guaranteed that any two female characters are sisters as opposed to cousins or other relations (a point I mentioned with Betha and Melantha Blackwood), I think it is entirely possible that these pairs of Frey brides were in fact sisters in each case. I also think it is entirely possible that Walder would have married the sister of his son's own bride (which, to be sure, was not entirely unheard of in history: Catherine de' Medici schemed to wed her younger daughter Margaret to Carlos, son of Philip II of Spain, after her older daughter Elisabeth), given Walder's own focus on expanding his personal dynasty. Indeed, this was a point I made when I created a speculative family tree for House Whent: since it appears Sarya and Wynafrei married their Frey husbands at roughly the same time, it’s possible that Walder tried to arrange for an advantageous betrothal with the proud Whents (as had Hoster Tully or his father) by offering himself, as a lord in his own right, as well as his eighth son.

As for the Swanns, while it certainly appears that Corenna and Cyrenna married Stevron and Lord Walder, respectively, in roughly the same period of time (given that Stevron’s son by Corenna, Ryman, and Walder’s elder son by Cyrenna, Jared, were both born somewhere in the late 240s), we cannot even begin to guess why father and son married women who might have been sisters, still less why the Swanns agreed to to the double marriage. Did the Swanns, Baptista Minola-like, refuse a marriage for Corenna unless Cyrenna was found a suitor too? Did Walder offer himself, with all the status and advantage of a lordly marriage not perhaps otherwise guaranteed to Cyrenna Swann, if he could secure a match with the proud and ancient Swanns for his heir? Did Walder secure an otherwise unattainable double match with House Swann because, perhaps, the Swanns may have been out of favor with the crown in the aftermath of Lyonel Baratheon’s rebellion? Any or none of these might have explained the double Frey-Swann marriage.

This lack of explanation holds even more true for Sallei and Sylwa Paege, married to the full brothers Jammos and Whalen Frey. Again, while their children are roughly of an age (with Sylwa's son and daughter being four and three years old, respectively, than Sallei's eldest child), there is no evidence whatsoever as to whether these (possible) sisters married their Frey husbands at the same time, still less why they might have done so (or married these brothers at all). These daughters/nieces/cousins of a mere landed knight may have simply married the sons of a lordly neighbor House for lack of better dynastic options, and Walder Frey in turn may have seen these two sufficiently aristocratic sisters/relatives as being an easy means of getting rid of two of his own extraneous sons. But again, until and unless GRRM decides to provide more detail, we're left with the most vague level of speculation.