#lord corbray

[drakaripykiros130ac]

This should be the final scene from House of the Dragon:

The extremely emotional reunion of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s sons.

Aegon III Targaryen married to Daenaera Velaryon.

Alyn Velaryon and Baela Targaryen as the Lord and Lady of Driftmark.

Rhaena Targaryen (the rider of the Blacks’ pride and joy, the dragon Morning) and her husband, Corwyn Corbray (Brave valeman and Team Black supporter).

Alicent Hightower’s horrific, well-deserved end and the treacherous Green line permanently ended.

A new beginning for the true members of House Targaryen.

And I want Rhaenyra’s theme to play in the background, just as it did in the first episode, because this is after all, her victory.

[malaquitesgallery]

‘As long as he is considerate, kind and noble, I know that I can love him.’— Lady Rhaena of pentos, of house Targaryen ‘the dragon twin’, lady wife to her first husband, lord Corbray and lord Hightower; rider of Morning.’ |

Her and Baela’s matching pearls🤭🤭

[melrosing]

MBO Robert's Rebellion: Season 2 Episode 1

finally worked out how all the events of the rebellion break down into ten episodes you better believe im so serious about finishing this

anyway we're onto season 2 and rhaegar's about to get silly

SEASON ONE: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5, Episode 6, Episode 7, Episode 8, Episode 9, Episode 10

title for this one: the most i've ever thought about petyr baelish

Open to a woman’s screams. The chaos of the birthing room as Elia gives birth to Aegon with great difficulty. Rhaegar stands watching on, anxious, as the baby emerges silent - it takes several frightening moments before the boy cries out. Elia collapses once she hears him, and there’s a great rush to recover her. Meanwhile, Rhaegar is presented with the child. The maester says he is glad that Elia has been delivered of a son, as he fears she will not be able to bear another. Rhaegar, looking at his son, murmurs that this must be Aegon. But, he says, there must be a third. There cannot be a third, says the maester

Opening creds. if this were an anime we’d have changed the song by now so we’re going from caramelldansen to the lucky star opening

Jaime Lannister training in the yard of the Red Keep with two other members of the Kingsguard, Lewyn Martell and Oswell Whent. The king has kept him at arm’s length since Harrenhal, so Jaime has been able to forget the circumstances of his joining the KG for a bit and enjoy training with these elite knights - he seems to have built some rapport with Lewyn and Oswell already. Lewyn suggests the approaching Barristan Selmy try Jaime; Barristan, who is still dubious of a teenager’s place in the KG, declines and says he has come to convey a message instead - Aerys has requested Jaime’s presence in the throne room. Jaime, surprised, goes alone

Aerys, accompanied by Arthur Dayne, is receiving congratulations from lords and ladies of the court on the birth of his grandson, his Hand Lord Merryweather proposing a great tourney. Aerys dismisses all but Arthur upon Jaime’s arrival, and bids him closer - we get the sense that Aerys has harboured some residual fears about Jaime, but attempts to push those aside now. He has Jaime stop before him at the top of the steps to the throne, and looks at him directly. Quivering, then almost fond, Aerys tells Jaime he has his mother’s face. Then, his voice hardening: ‘but you’re your father’s child, I know.’ Arthur, from the foot of the throne, calls Jaime down ‘with his grace’s permission’, which Aerys allows. Jaime gratefully acquiesces, and follows Arthur to the exit. Arthur tells him to relieve Jonothor Darry in Maegor’s Holdfast, and watches Jaime leave with a hard, searching look

SUDDENLY!!! Big clash of swords. We’re at a melée at the Eyrie. Robert makes short work of various opponents one after the other. Faced suddenly with Ned, he grins apologetically before tossing him comfortably to the side, finally duking it out with Lyn Corbray (yes i remember him) and winning to great ardour

With Ned and Robert afterwards striding back towards the castle. Robert suggests Ned puts his back into it next time, he knows he was letting him win. Ned replies that he doesn’t get as much out of this southern sport as Robert. Nonetheless, he notes that Robert fought with fire today, and Robert replies that he was imagining each of his opponents as Rhaegar Targaryen. His marriage to Lyanna will be brought forward in light of the Prince’s odd behaviour at Harrenhal - whether Rhaegar was drunk or mad as his father, Robert will not share his betrothed. Anyway why don’t they go unwind at a brothel later lol

At camp with Lyanna and Rickard, who are travelling through the Riverlands for Brandon’s wedding - they’re camped near Harrenhal, awaiting his arrival before they travel back to Riverrun with him. Lyanna and Rickard aren’t on the best terms: Rickard has recently pulled forward her marriage to Robert in an attempt to defend her honour following events concerning the Prince last year. Lyanna appeals to Rickard once again to postpone the wedding; Rickard says he believes Lyanna will learn the appeal of marriage when she sees Brandon married to Catelyn. Lyanna bitterly wonders if Catelyn would be so happy if she knew that Brandon had loved before. Rickard, angry to hear his daughter talking of THAT kind of thing cough, says a man can love before, to better know his wife when he meets her. Lyanna asks why it’s a different rule for women? Rickard scolds her, reminds her he’s made her a fine match and that the wedding is being brought forward for her benefit - she’s been the cause of enough trouble already. Lyanna storms off into the woods, Rickard calling her back angrily

At Riverrun with the Tullys - big ole feast. Hoster raises a toast to Catelyn’s engagement to Brandon, as Catelyn smiles shyly at his side. Petyr, on the sidelines, looks ready to combust. The feast turns to a dance: Catelyn takes her first turn with Brandon (he's a very showy dancer, and makes her laugh with big spins and flourishes). Then she dances w Hoster and Brynden, whilst Petyr dances with Lysa, constantly craning his neck to look over at Cat. Eventually Petyr manages to break away from Lysa and ask Cat for a dance. Cat, in high spirits, giggles and jokes with him, and Petyr, already a few drinks down, tries to kiss her. Catelyn pushes him away laughing, and Brandon, having seen it all, jokingly scolds Petyr for trying. That something so serious to him is a joke to the pair of them stings terribly. Petyr skulks away to his room 

Rhaegar with Elia. Rhaenys is playing in his lap, but both her parents are distracted. Eventually Elia looks to Rhaegar, and Rhaegar, realising they’re about to talk, asks a maid to take Rhaenys away to play with Viserys. When they're gone, Rhaegar remains silent - but Elia reads his mind. With some strain, she tells him she’s given him all she can now: they may have no love for another (Rhaegar does not jump to quarrel this, and Elia’s heart visibly sinks despite itself) - again, they may have no love for one another, but she still means to do her duty. These children are both of theirs, and they must protect them. Rhaegar nods, but his mind appears to be elsewhere

Brandon is due to part ways with the Tullys for now as he goes to meet Rickard near Harrenhal. Catelyn whispers her thanks in Hoster’s ear for the fine match just as soon as Brandon’s out of earshot - but Petyr overhears. His face twisting, he immediately steps forward to challenge Brandon (who is already mounting his horse) for Catelyn’s hand. Catelyn in utter shock, Hoster Tully looking fairly murderous like 'you do this on the day of my daughter's engagement'. Brandon is first stunned, then amused, then stunned again when he realises Petyr is serious. He tries to put the boy off, saying he’ll meet a lady of his own one day, but the condescension only turns Petyr’s eyes darker - Brandon sees that. Fed up trying with the kid, he says he’ll humour him, if it only helps Petyr come to his senses

Rhaegar deep in the library at the Red Keep with Arthur Dayne. Surrounded by books and scrolls, he mutters, uncomprehending, what Elia has told him - that there will be no more children, no third head of the dragon. Once all his dreams had told him to choose Elia, and he had followed them to her without a care for his own wants or desires. But now his dreams show something different: they show what he fears his heart wants - so how can he trust whether it’s truly the visions he follows, and not his heart? Arthur like idk that sounds rough man

Petyr arrives before Brandon shoddily armed, and Brandon (in full armour) declares that this would be a poor fight indeed. The Tullys watch on, Hoster still raging, Cat and Lysa in a panic. Brandon offers Petyr opportunity to yield, but Petyr strikes his breastplate pathetically with his sword. Brandon offers him the chance to yield again, and still Petyr seeks to provoke him. Finally, Petyr lands a blow that comes a little too close to blood for Brandon’s liking. Finally enraged, he sends Petyr flying with a fist, never drawing his sword. Petyr attempts to rise again, but Brandon stamps down on his chest (Lysa begins shrieking), and Petyr chokes. Catelyn screams, and begs Brandon to leave the boy - she’d never marry him anyhow, but he was dear to her once. Brandon raises his eyebrows, and wipes his foot on the grass. Washing his hands of the business, he kisses Catelyn’s hand before departing, whilst Petyr coughs up blood into the dirt, watching Brandon ride away with pure hatred in his eyes

Ned helps a drunken Robert back up the spiral stairs to his room once again. They pass Jon Arryn’s solar, and he smiles with a touch of conspiracy to suggest their secrets are their own. Ned grimaces - he has no secrets

Don’t ask me where the nearest brothel is to the eyrie i hate to think. I don’t know how they got back with ned half carrying a drunk robert they just did

Petyr lies barely conscious in a dour back room of Riverrun - all that Hoster is willing to afford him now. The door creaks open, and a figure steps through the door, candle in hand. Petyr says: ‘Cat.' The figure answers: ‘It’s me.’ Petyr, eyes barely open behind the bruising, grins a bloody grin. The figure tells him tearfully that Hoster means to send him back to the Fingers as soon as he’s healed, that it’s all monstrously unfair, that Brandon is a brute, that she hates to see Petyr suffer so. Petting his face, the figure says that no-one knows she’s here, so for tonight at least they can do what they like. Petyr grins wider as Lysa leans in to kiss him

In KL: Jaime, patrolling the courtyard, sees green light flashing in the windows of the throne room. He frowns, uncomprehending, and walks carefully towards a side door to investigate. Opening it, he hears muffled screams coming from the throne room beyond the next door, and approaches with great trepidation, one arm outstretched. SUDDENLY!!! Arthur Dayne emerges from the throne room, and we have the faintest glimpse of a bright green light: a terrible scream rings out. Just as quickly, the door is closed again. Arthur studies Jaime a moment, then suggests he goes to bed: his duties are done for the night

Rhaegar having an absolute Willy Wonka’s tunnel of visions. Blood seeping into a fast-running river, dancing green flames, guts spattered across stone floors. And a blue rose again. Rhaegar opens his eyes at once, suddenly resolute

Lyanna, sat alone in the dark woods, turning a dried flower crown about in her hands

[unusual-raccoon]

Silver Son (Ch. 2) | by Unusual_Raccoon (JaceLuke)

@livinginafantasysposts, @andromaxeoftroy, @saintbehemoth, @mondstaub1, @the-heartlines, @the-white-w0lf, @potatochips-15, @arkah-archive, @lunar-19, @bimyself06

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Jacaerys Velaryon, Blonde Jacaerys Velaryon, Jace is Daemon's Biological Son, Complicated Relationships, Political Alliances, Canon-Typical Violence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Jacaerys Velaryon, Omega Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra), Episode: s01e08 The Lord of the Tides (House of the Dragon), Viserys I Targaryen Lives, Daemyra Have Disney Parent-itis = they died, Brother/Brother Incest, POV Alternating, Political Alliances, Arranged Marriage, Valyrian Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Valyrian Wedding, Loss of Virginity, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Knotting Summary: With few options left, Lucerys travels to Dragonstone to marry his mother's eldest son and heir, Jacaerys Targaryen. WC: 8,9K+ Ao3 Link

It began with a proposal. The promise of marriage in exchange for protection.

A marriage…to the prince of Dragonstone.

Their breakneck pace had consumed two weeks' worth of time in an instant, and before Lucerys had a true moment to recuperate, he was standing upon blue-veined white marble within the Eyrie’s High Hall.

“Prince Lucerys,” The lady of the Vale welcomed him, eyes as blue as the sky creased at the corners in a small sign of fondness.

“My lady,” he greeted, lowering his head in a show of deference to his host.

“I pray your time in King’s Landing has seen you well.”

“It has my lady, and while I am eternally grateful for your hospitality, I’m afraid I will need to depart from the Eyrie soon.”

To her credit, Jeyne Arryn took the news with aplomb.

“Might I ask, who is stealing you away, dear cousin?”

“I am Targaryen, my lady, I worry you may find the truth upsetting.”

She arched a single brow, the same shade of honeyed-gold as her hair. Whatever fondness she reserved for Lucerys in the months since his mother’s passing seemed to vanish at the mere insinuation of him.

What power you wield, dear brother.

The image of pale hair stained more crimson than silver flashed through his mind.

“I see.” She replied with an icy sort of diplomacy that made his teeth clench cold. Her disdain gleamed through in the blue of her eyes.

“And you’re certain there is nothing I can do to persuade you otherwise?”

She spoke with a royal I, not only of herself but also of the Eyrie and all its vassal houses…House Corbray amongst them. He thought of Ser Corwyn – the kind, gentle Valeman that had seen him return to the Eyrie safely.

Corwyn, who carried Valyrian steel upon his hip. He pondered briefly the wail Lady Forlorn might make when she collided with Dark Sister.

The hairs on his arms stood on end. He prayed it would not come to such unpleasantries.

Yet, as he imagined falling sway to Lady Arryn’s suggestions and wedding Ser Corwyn, Lucerys’ mind only conjured the image of Alyssa’s Tears scorched dry by dragonfire, yellow-orange flames shot through with veins of green, and his betrothed’s body severed at the neck, his handsome head gnashed between Vermax’s thorny jaws…

Have care, I will crush him if he intends to deny your departure.

He recalled his brother’s words even a fortnight later, as though he was yet twined in Jacaerys’ arms rubbing mindless fingers against the dried blood, blood his brother had spilled in Lucerys’ name, upon the velvet of his sleeve. He chastised himself still for the thoughtless creature he had been reduced to with his lungs full of his elder half-brother’s scent: the heat of an open flame and the heady musk of white oak.

The thought inspired a conflicting sense of hot and cold spreading through his body. A simultaneous pleasure and pain.

“I think it is for the best, my lady.”

Her smile was amiable, but far from pleased.

“Very well,” She hummed in acquiescence.

It was not until she descended from her carved weirwood throne that Lucerys voiced another rather pressing concern.

“I must admit, dear cousin, I fear how he will take the news.”

Jeyne Arryn offered a soft smile, her hand folded over the delicate expanse of his forearm and he was reminded of the few times the lady of the Vale had taken him hawking in the Mountains of the Moon.

“He loves you, he’ll understand.” she reminded with a knowing tilt of her lips.

Lucerys exhaled. He hoped love might be enough to soften the blow of his elder brother’s proposal as Lady Jeyne escorted him to his apartments in the Maiden’s Tower.

. . .

A long soak in a marble tub had not seen his nerves much improved. In fact, Lucerys felt more disturbed knowing he was avoiding the inevitable.

He sank deeper into the water scented with orange blossoms and rose hips, while it was a distraction, it was certainly a pleasant one; it did wonders for his sore bottom after two hard weeks on horseback.

He hadn’t dithered for much longer before dressing. 

He omitted his usual high-collared samite gown with a laced-tight bodice to accentuate curves nature had failed to provide, in exchange for a soft, modest shift to sleep in. 

He layered a patterned dressing gown over his shift to stave off the everpresent wind of the Vale.

There was a knock at the door and Lucerys grimaced. He wasn’t ready, yet still approached his fate with a raised chin - as mother had taught him.

“Prince Lucerys-”

“Ser Corwyn,” He greeted, voice lilted in surprise.

“My deepest apologies, forgive the intrusion, I was not aware-” the knight stammered at Lucerys’ state of dress.

“There is nothing to forgive, the fault is mine own,” Lucerys murmured, cheeks warm, as demure as any proper worshiper of the Seven desired in an Omega.

The insinuation of his nakedness was enough, even layered in sleepwear as he was.

Lucerys crossed bashful arms over himself and Corwyn reddened further.

“I have heard the news of your departure,” Corwyn informed steadily and to the point, eyes focused on some fixed point just over Lucerys’ shoulder.

“From Lady Jeyne, I have no doubt” he had shared the news with none other,“– forgive me, it is uncouth to speak of my host in such a way.”

Corwyn shook his head.

“It was uncouth of my Lady to share business that was not hers.”

Lucerys swallowed, wringing his hands together, discreetly scratching small scent glands in his wrists until the air sweetened with his natural scent.

Vanilla and browned butter.

“I gather that she has informed you as to why I must be leaving…”

Corwyn nodded, nostrils flaring subtly. His jaw tightened.

“She has…”

He looked away, sheepishly with a dusky color upon his cheeks that revealed what his nonexistent scent did not. He chafed at the thought of Lucerys departing to Dragonstone - to Jacaerys.

“Ser, I pray you will not think less of me now…it is not a thought I think I can bear.”

Corwyn’s eyes were a bluish-grey, a beautiful, but understated color that Lucerys admired as the knight turned back towards him in shock.

“My Prince I would never.”

“I don’t believe our Lady shared this information with the thought that it might sour my opinion of you.”

“Oh,” Lucerys exhaled with the kind of smile that enamored countless at court, “good,” he hummed with a dithering kind of naivete a simpering storybook Omega possessed.

Corwyn appeared ensorcelled.

He prayed silently that Jacaerys might be so simple to gain mastery over.

“I believe my cousin has shared with me this news to embolden me…”

Embolden, Lucerys thought. Corwyn’s eyes focused on him then, breathing a touch shallow like he meant to sling Lucerys down onto the floor to ravage him…

Instead, the knight drew Lady Forlorn from the sheath upon his hip.

Lucerys’ heart stilled for a moment before Corwyn knelt before him, head lowered.

“With your permission, my prince, I would swear myself to you…as your protector.”

His brother’s words rang through his head once more as the knight’s hands clasped the weeping woman carved into the sword’s pommel and grip.

You have gone too long without an Alpha. Too long without proper protection.

Lucerys was not acquisitive enough to think he could have both his brother’s protection and Ser Corwyn’s.

A choice was required.

He imagined yet again the sound that Lady Forlorn might make when she clashed with Dark Sister, yet when he pictured Valyrian steel on steel he could only hear the bellow of a dragon…

“You honor me deeply, ser…but, I am afraid I cannot accept. To bind yourself to me on the eve of my marriage…it would not be wise.  I fear my betrothed will think ill of it. However, I hope that should I ever need such a gallant knight you might permit me to call upon you?”

Ser Corwyn rose with a conflicted look etched upon his face.

His bluish-grey eyes softened as Lucerys draped an effete hand over the knight’s forearm. Corwyn’s gaze lingered on Lucerys’ hand.

“Of course, my prince.”

Again, Lucerys offered that affable smile and his sweet scent and all was well.

“Rest well, my prince.”

Lucerys blinked slowly, a soft smile about his lips, “I shall certainly rest easier now ser, thank you.”

With Corwyn addressed he would face his greatest challenge yet on the morrow.

. . .

In the morn he was awoken by the sound of his door opening and a riotous blur bolting inside. He was spared only a moment before said blur was atop his bed – bouncing.

“You’re back!”

“Joff,” Lucerys hummed, half asleep, partially shielding his body from each spring of his younger brother’s body.

“You’re back!” He exclaimed again with a wide, gap-toothed smile, “What was the capital like? Did you get to see the king? Is it true that you killed someone?”

Lucerys’ eyes widened immediately, what vestiges of sleep remained fled from him. 

He wrangled his younger brother in his hands like catching lightning in a bottle.

Joffrey tugged at the silk sleeves of Lucerys’ shift, irritated at being held captive.

“Where have you heard such things?” Lucerys asked seriously.

“A girl from the kitchens,” Joffrey shrugged, “She said someone died-”

Gods damn Jacaerys Targaryen. Already whispers floated about the validity of his hearing of succession. Matters hadn’t been helped by the same rumor mills purporting that Ser Vaemond’s head had allegedly been fed to his elder brother’s dragon; he had yet to hear the word kinslayer but knew it hung on countless tongues.

“You should not repeat such talk, it is not princely.”

Joffrey tugged upon Lucerys’ sleeve, eager to be released.

“Swear it,” Lucerys commanded with a waggle of his finger.

“Fine, I swear it, let go-”

“You swear what?”

“I swear not to repeat unprincely things, Luke-” Joffrey whined.

Lucerys smiled fondly despite himself and released his grip upon his younger brother, content to let him whirl about.

And whirl he did. He had become so content in the Vale. A part of Lucerys mourned the thought of taking him from what had just started to feel like home. It wasn’t fair.

“Joffrey?” Lucerys called as Joffrey’s dark head bobbed around. His brother fiddled with something on the other side of Lucerys’ apartments; something breakable no doubt.

“Something did happen at court…something important.”

“Is this about you getting married? I already know,” Joffrey said, sounding rather bored as he watched the viscous swirl in a stoppered inkwell.

“Another rumor from your spy in the kitchens?” Lucerys asked, unmoved by his brother’s pout.

“No - and she’s not a spy!” He huffed defensively, “Melara told me that you’ll marry her father. I’m not upset, Luke, I promise. I like Ser Corwyn. If you marry him, do you think he’ll train me to be a knight and give me his sword when I’m older?”

Lucerys felt ill.

“Joffrey, come here,” He beckoned, voice trembling. His brother whined a petulant little noise, but remained at Lucerys’ desk, shaking the stoppered inkwell.

“Now.”

It was cruel, Lucerys knew, but he prayed none of his children were Alphas, that none would ever be so obstinate as his brother - brothers. He prayed for Betas and Omegas to quicken in his belly when the time came, for obedient children with sensible little heads on sensible little shoulders.

“She said House Corbray’s colors are like ours, red and black - and white too, but that we wouldn’t have to change very much.”

Change, Lucerys thought to himself, how much of that have we endured already?

Joffrey continued his blabbering, stubborn at that. Lucerys winced, his frustration mounting to a point of eruption.

“I won’t be marrying Ser Corwyn!”

Distantly, he heard glass shattering as the inkwell toppled to the ground. Lucerys bolted from the bed, taking Joffrey’s little hands in his own. He scrutinized his brother’s palms for any shards of glass amidst the overwhelming pools of ink on his pale skin…

“Why not?!”

“Oh, Joff, look at your hands! You mustn’t be so careless.”

His younger brother tore his hands out of Lucerys’ grasp, visibly crestfallen. The pristine white silk of his sleeve was slashed with ugly splatters of black ink.

“Why aren’t you marrying Ser Corwyn?”

Why? Why indeed…

Lucerys sighed. How could he tell a child of seven years about the politics of the matter? Or worse yet, that in the most aggravatingly primal sense, a piece of him yearned for Jacaerys…

“I’ve been presented with a stronger proposal.”

“But, you said we’d be safe here, that we wouldn’t have to leave!” 

His younger brother argued, what else could he have said to a grieving child who had just fled the only home he had ever known? Their exodus from Dragonstone had been a hasty affair, yet in the midst of their pain and fear, it seemed the only thing they could do.

“This proposal means more protection, real protection,” Lucerys swallowed, each breath scraping the inside of his throat like shards of glass as his brother’s face reddened, “Joff, we can go home.”

Tears welled in the muddy brown of Joffrey’s eyes.

He held his brother’s dirty little hands so tightly in his own, clinging desperately.

“But if I am to keep my word, we must leave soon.”

Lucerys brushed an affectionate finger beneath the cleft in his brother’s chin.

“You haven’t misplaced Tyraxes’ saddle have you?”

Joffrey blinked slowly with a dawning realization, sadness forgotten at the prospect of flying again.

“No…”

“Good,” Lucerys hummed before ruffling his brother’s dark curls, swallowing beyond the lump in his throat as he spoke, “you’re going to need it.”

. . .

The fortnight he had allotted had passed, and for two days and two nights longer, Jacaerys had waited.

He had spent 6 years in the North as a ward of Lord Cregan Stark, estranged from his family, and yet, he had never yearned more ardently for his own blood than he did in the two weeks since leaving King’s Landing.

Every morning he waited on Dragonstone's beaches for a young white dragon to pierce the clouds and the scent of vanilla and browned butter to shower him from the sky; for Lucerys to come home to him.

Each day that passed he weighed the worth of simply collecting his brother on dragonback. Of flying to the Eyrie, Dark Sister in hand…like Visenya on Vhagar, and dragging his little wife home.

But then he thought of Lucerys…of sweet, gentle Lucerys.

He refused to force the matter. Lucerys would come to him in time, he knew it…

And so he waited, morning after morning.

And each morning yet he had been disappointed, though he was not the only one.

Baela was still bitter about his decision to break their betrothal that had been arranged since they’d been born…

A marriage done in the tradition of Old Valyria was binding, unbreakable, a union that could never be undone or annulled. Immutable to the word of any king or council. It was everlasting.

He’d been rehearsing the words since he’d had ears to know them. Leagues away in the bitter cold, they had given him warmth. The knowledge he might one day speak them to the one that he loved, as his mother had, as his father had, as was his right.

He was owed this. Tradition dictated for the two oldest children to marry, as Aegon and Visenya had; there was duty and honor in it. By definition, Jacaerys and Lucerys were their mother’s eldest children - the two destined to wed.

He stared at the sky, awaiting his destiny.

. . .

It was the third morning and the sky was a cool blue, drowsy in color when a bright streak sailed through it…

Descending toward the island like a falling star.

Lucerys. 

Jacaerys had never seen anything so picturesque, so perfect-

Then came the rambunctious squawk of a dragon scarcely large enough to fly. Black and red and chasing after gulls, belching plumes of black flames.

Joffrey.

“Dohaerās, Tyraxes!” A reedy little voice called.

“Ninkiot, Arrax,” Lucerys commanded calmly and Jacaerys watched as that young dragon, glittering pearl white and gold, spread his wings to slow his descent to the island.

The sea breeze rolled over the shore, tasting of salt and morning air, of vanilla and browned butter…

Lucerys was a vision in supple charcoal gray, wool-lined riding leathers. His dark curls were wind-tossed and his cheeks a ravishing shade of red.

Those beautiful brown eyes widened at the sight of him.

His younger brother cleared his throat, calling up to Joffrey.

“Come down here,” He commanded, “now.”

Lucerys’ expression was unreadable as he marched across the sands toward Jacaerys, Joffrey in tow.

The dragonkeepers handled their mounts, even the unruly Tyraxes who had feathers hanging from his maw.

“Jacaerys,” Lucerys greeted coolly, with a defiant little raised chin. Jace wanted him then and there — marriage be damned, he wished to pup Luke in the sand. He pushed the thought away, quite capable of ignoring his hindbrain.

“Brother,” Jacaerys responded smoothly, smile softening, “welcome home.”

Lucerys gave a small nod, dainty gloved hands clasped together demurely.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Lucerys said primly, poised and practiced and perfect.

Jace chuckled, “Oh, I doubt that very much. Come along, we’ll get you both settled.”

They stepped through the Great Hall’s massive red doors, flanked by household guards at every step.

He felt Lucerys gasp as he pressed a palm to the small of his brother’s back, leading him into the hall. Luke walked along, spine stiff, his scent dripping from his pores.

It was surreal, sharing the space with Lucerys once more… It had been so long since they had been here together, lived here together.

“Prince Jacaerys,” Maester Gerardys greeted fondly, “and Prince Lucerys, how comforting it is to see you two together once more…”

For the first time since his brother had returned home, Jacaerys witnessed that icy demeanor thaw. His smile was soft and genuine and beautiful…

“It is…good to be home,” He answered, and to Jacaerys’ surprise, his words seemed sincere. Buried somewhere beneath the stoicism his younger brother wore like a coat of mail, he was happy.

“Your mother would be pleased.”

Lucerys’ throat bobbed and his eyes misted, for a moment he seemed to lean into Jacaerys’ touch upon his back. He steadied Lucerys instantly, naturally — it was what elder brothers were meant to do.

He caught a brief flash of gratitude in the corner of a brown eye when Lucerys glanced back at him.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Jacaerys said softly, to which Lucerys nodded, a pliant little thing.

“I know where my room is,” Joffrey called, running off blindly, to Lucerys’ horror and Jace’s amusement. Lucerys seemed mortified of Joffrey’s boyish behavior, like some minute thing would pull the rug out from beneath them, as though he may cast them out to the wilds once more…

He’d sooner fall upon his own sword than permit such a thing to happen.

“It’s alright,” Jace soothed, tasting the frantic spike in his younger brother’s scent, vanilla and burnt butter, “he’s home too.”

Lucerys nodded, swallowing thickly.

“When will the ceremony be?” Lucerys asked, his voice steady like he’d practiced the words.

“When would you like it to be?” Jace asked in return, something that seemed to bewilder his younger brother who stared up at him owlishly. Something he hadn’t prepared for.

“Soon,” he said, a tad uncertain as Jacaerys slowly circled him like prey.

“Soon?” Jacaerys echoed with a wily smirk. Lucerys’ brow dipped in what he knew was annoyance.

“Yes, soon, unless you intend on making me wait.”

There he was, Jacaerys grinned, all teeth - his Luke.

“Had I known you were so eager to be my wife, I never would have left King’s Landing without you…” His lips touched his younger brother’s ear.

Lucerys exhaled a shaky breath that he very badly wanted to be a scoff, struggling to right his mask of aloofness. The rich scent of vanilla and browned butter, nutty and earthen and sweet, betrayed him.

“Is tonight soon enough for you, brother?” Jacaerys asked, his subvocals flanging.

Lucerys turned, blinking up at him, pink-cheeked.

“Y-yes.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Lucerys said with his raised little chin, as though he had been so decisive, to begin with; Jacaerys could only focus on the cute cleft of his chin that he wished to trace with his tongue.

Without another word, his younger brother turned and exited the Great Hall, marching down a corridor after Joffrey.

. . .

Valyrian wedding ceremonies were not as time-consuming as weddings performed under the faith of the seven. The very same priest that had performed their mother’s wedding was summoned to conduct theirs.

The materials had been gathered and garments prepared.

A natural stone dias was dressed accordingly. A thick chalice of inscribed Valyrian steel sat upon the dias, filled halfway from a decanter of blood wine.

Jacaerys’ hands shook as he reached for the traditional robes worn during Valyrian wedding ceremonies. The fabric was a pale cream color, with thick blood-red collars and a gradient along the hem and sleeves.

They were meant to symbolize blood purity… the irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Father was the last to wear these…”

Jacaerys exhaled, fingers trailing over the dyed collar of the robe. He never had the right to refer to Daemon Targaryen as his father publically, yet as he stared at the garment, shapeless against his dressing table, it felt right. His father had worn these robes, and Jacaerys would wear them after him.

“He’d be proud of you…”

Baela intoned, her voice alarmingly gentle despite how angry she had been with him in the past weeks.

“Even if I’m marrying against his wishes?”

His sister smiled a radiant thing. Pretty enough to kiss, but he knew better than to try.

“Especially because you’re marrying against his wishes. You chose your own bride…he’d admire that.”

Baela stepped closer, inspecting the ceremonial garment. The fabric seemed endless when lifted into her tiny hands.

“You have every right to wear them, Jace. You’re a Targaryen.”

He nodded and began unlacing his tunic.

“Slower,” His sister bade, her deep violet eyes raking over every ounce of unveiled flesh with unbridled want. Spice flower and cinnamon hung heavy in the air. There was time when that scent beckoned him like a siren’s call, yet there had always been another scent, more potent —— dragonsong.

“I don’t want to forget a thing,” She added sadly, and Jacaerys felt a twinge of regret…she had always been good to him.

Jacaerys slowed, plucking away each individual lace with the utmost care. The garment swayed open and he heard the sharp intake of her breath.

He smiled softly. He couldn’t marry her, but he could give her this.

. . .

It all felt foreign to Lucerys like something out of a dream. His hair painfully twined into a snug series of plaits and braids atop of which the ceremonial headdress was placed.

The robes were long, the dyed hem puddled like blood around his feet.

Unbidden emotion snagged in his throat as he straightened the headdress. His entire life had led to this moment, from the day he was born and the maester had announced what resided between his legs. He was an Omega, he was born to be someone’s wife. Jacaerys’ wife. His face burned hot for reasons he dared not contemplate.

He was to be married and his mother wasn’t here to witness it…

He glared at his reflection in the looking glass.

He blinked away the tears quickly and straightened his back. Jacaerys wanted a wife and he’d get one…and Lucerys would get the legitimacy he’d been lacking. He would certainly be a wife, but Jacaerys had been born an Alpha —— he would become Lucerys’ weapon. It was all he could find comfort in; for this was not a union borne of love.

Lucerys’ bravado held up quite nicely as they traveled to the dais where the ceremony would be held. Jacaerys looked as he always did, aggravatingly handsome; rakish, even, in the long ceremonial robes with his silver hair bound in twists away from his face.

Countless candles burned around the dias, ensconcing them in a golden hue.

It was surreal, standing on warmed stone in the very same spot, in the very same gown his mother had once worn…

Joffrey stood beside Maester Gerardys, a sour look on his little face, in the same spot where Lucerys had stood as a child. Fragmented memories of his mother’s wedding washed over him like the dewy evening rain. 

A hand in his clutched so tightly. Father had died. Warm lips pressed to his crown, there was no giggling when he pressed his cold little feet to the backs of warm knees; just a need to be sated, and comfort that was given. There was no room for laughter on the grim day. Mother had never looked so beautiful. The hand in his was pulled away. It hurt, that missing piece, like a severed limb…

“Luke?”

Lucerys felt the memory fade away as he blinked his way back to the present. Jacaerys stared at him with unabashed concern.

“Hm?” he hummed, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you ready for the ceremony to begin?” The priest asked.

“Yes,” Jacaerys said without hesitation, and all eyes were on Lucerys.

“Yes,” Luke nodded, the tassels of the headdress bouncing.

“Very well.”

Ceremonial dragonglass daggers were given to each of them.

“I’ll go first,” Jacaerys told him and Lucerys nodded, and when he smiled at Luke, it was the smile of an elder brother. 

Rest easy, little brother, that roguish smile said, I’m here. His hands trembled as he brought the shard to his Jacaerys’ mouth. He didn’t flinch when Luke cut him. The dagger split the supple flesh of Jacaerys’ lower lip with ease. Blood oozed bright and warm. He gathered some upon his thumb, transfixed by it. The candles seemed to glow brighter, the air more fragrant. He painted the sigil upon Jacaerys’ skin.

His own dagger was lowered as Jacaerys approached. A large hand came to grip his chin, stroking the skin fondly. He tensed in anticipation of the sting of the dagger. He met his brother’s gaze, those hypnotic violet eyes, silver lashes brushed gold in the candlelight. He felt warm, very warm wrapped in Jace’s scent. His hindbrain was alight. Gently, the dagger sliced his lower lip, he hardly felt it.

He blinked and Jacaerys’ thumb was wet with his blood.

The liquid crimson felt hot against his skin as his brother painted the accompanying sigil.

Blood would flow, and their line would continue. 

He watched as Jacaerys’ dagger carved a wound across his palm. Lucerys did the same.

The priest carried forth the chalice and spoke the binding words. An embroidered chord of gold tied them together.

“Hen lantoti ānogar”

Blood of two

“Va sȳndroti vāedroma”

Joined as one

Jacaerys’ hand clasped with his, the open wounds upon their palms bleeding into one another. Unerringly intimate; eternally entwined. The golden chord soaked crimson. Red oozed into the chalice.

“Elēdroma iārza sīr”

And song of shadows

“Izulī ampā perzī”

Two hearts as embers

Lucerys stared into the chalice, at the placid surface of the blood wine, small dots of liquid crimson littered the rim, like crushed garnets. His reflection stared back.

The wine smelled of figs and iron and was thick upon his tongue. He’d never known something so foreign, yet so perfect. Heat raced in his veins when he swallowed it. Jacaerys’ eyes never left his, his hand clutched so tightly…they were a perfect fit.

“Prūmī lanti sēteksi”

Forged in Fourteen flames

Fourteen candles stood taller than the rest.

“Hen jenȳ māzīlarion”

A future promised in glass

Jacaerys tilted the chalice toward his lips. Lucerys squeezed at his brother’s hand, fresh blood sticking between their palms.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi”

The stars stand witness

“Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo”

The vow spoken through time

“Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.”

Of darkness and light.

“Your vows must be spoken.”

Lucerys nodded and swallowed the urge to mewl as Jacaerys’ hand squeezed his; both comforting and consuming.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” they spoke the words in unison. The lingering taste of wine on his tongue deepened. The richness of Jacaerys’ scent thickened in his lungs. He could taste only fire and blood…

The priest lowered his hands and inclined his hooded head towards them to indicate the ceremony was complete. Lucerys’ entire being pulsed hotter than the dragonmont. They were married. Bound in blood.

He stared at Jacaerys, still struggling to fathom when his brother’s lips were on his - kissing him, ravenously; like he had waited his entire life for such a moment. And it returned to him, the frayed pieces of a memory, like torn pages in a book, as Jacaerys’ hands gathered his face between them, tender and so familiar - they had done this before.

Oh.

He felt a fool.

He gasped when his brother pulled away, mouth red. Lucerys’ legs felt boneless. His hand clutching Jacaerys’ sleeve, anchored to his brother, his husband, his other half…

Jacaerys’ tongue chased the trickle of crimson from Lucerys’ mouth. He mewled then, openly, unabashedly, without meaning to.

His brother’s forehead touched his, tacky with blood. A deep flanging purr swelled there and Lucerys struggled to remain upright with his knees turned to liquid. A strong arm curled around his waist.

The sky shook with the triumphant cries of Vermax and Arrax. Blasts of dragonfire burst above them in a spectrum of color, yellow-orange, gold, copper, and bronze, swirls of white, pearl, emerald, and jade green. There were streaks of rainbow light where their flames collided as their dragons danced in the sky overhead.

With the wedding complete, only one thing remained…

Their wedding night.

. . .

The inside of the Lord’s chambers were carved in dark stone, the snarling heads of dragons frame towering columns around the bed, a blood-red canopy draped above it.

Dragonstone was not known for its forgiving weather, and despite the chill that was ever-present in the air, Lucerys felt like the flesh might slough off his bones from the heat that raged within him.

A fire burned in the hearth that resembled a dragon’s maw, with flames crackling between pointed stone teeth.

A touch dragged featherlight over his pulse and he gasped, body burning hotter than the fire.

He looked at his brother - his husband with new eyes.

“Forgive me,” He murmured in apology, “I feel…warm.”

Jacaerys offered a smile, a flash of pointed teeth that left Lucerys breathless.

“‘Tis your blood calling.” His husband explained.

Lucerys flushed deeply.

“Do not fret,” Jacaerys hummed, fingers finding Lucerys’ chin, stroking the skin fondly, “We will answer it.”

Lucerys nodded, struck into a demure state, his heart hammered hard in his chest.

There was nothing entirely complicated about seduction, Lucerys knew, most Alphas simply desired a chase. A submissive bit of prey that they could play with before devouring them whole. It became clear Jacaerys was no different in that regard.

It brought to mind a memory far more recent…

“Tilt your head, just gently over your shoulder. A tad more. Perfect. Lower your eyelids. Less, Lucerys.” Daemon clucked.

“I feel like an imbecile,” Lucerys complained, though his step-father chuckled.

“I assure you, you don’t look like one.”

He snorted, “Is this how mother got you to fall in love with her?”

Daemon hummed a laugh, flicking Lucerys’ ear as he passed by, “Don’t slouch, extend your neck. There. Delightful. Any Alpha with a knot between their legs will understand the invitation. And, no, your mother was the exception in that regard.”

Lucerys rolled his eyes. Unsurprised to find that his mother, as always, was so perfect.

“You have no shortage of suitors, even now, but it never hurts to know how to keep them.”

Lucerys flushed, “I have…suitors?”

Daemon nodded, “Many. Amongst our vassals Houses Bar Emon, Celtigar, and Massey have already put forth proposals for your hand. You even have the attention of an Alpha up North…”

“Truly?” Lucerys gasped, strangely flattered.

“He’s been the most persistent of all,” Daemon said with a wink.

“That’s enough practice for today, little one. With any luck, matters of marriage won’t be relevant for some time. At least not while your mother and I draw breath.”

The fresh loss of his parents' death yawned open once more, like a gash across his heart, at the memory, but he ignored the pain. His blood had already spilled today. Lucerys turned his back to Jacaerys as he began the tedious process of removing countless metal pins from his hair. Discreetly, he nipped at the scent gland in his wrist.

The aroma of vanilla and browned butter, rich and sweet dripped into the air. A Siren’s call.

Unlike Ser Corwyn who had merely blushed and floundered at the presence of his scent, his husband however,  evidenced a more promising reaction.

He heard the sharp intake of Jacaerys’ breathing. The subtle beginnings of a growl left Lucerys weak at the knees.

He shook his curls loose with a soft sigh, he arched his back with an indulgent stretch.

When he turned back towards his husband, he did so employing everything Daemon had taught him. His head tilted coyly, his eyes hooded just right, bare neck extended boldly…

“Husband,” he called with intention, his voice a touch higher than it typically was, “shall we- mmph!”

Being kissed was as disorienting as it had been the first time, scorching, the taste of blood on his tongue. His husband’s hand cupped his bottom. Lucerys considered it a rousing success.

He panted, mouth slick. Jacaerys’ tongue glided against the roof of his mouth and something glittery and warm surged down to his toes. His brother’s fingers curled beneath Lucerys’ chin. A softer, kinder kiss was pressed to his crown, and yearning opened up in him like an old wound.

“I’ve missed you…” Jace whispered against Lucerys’ dark fringe. Longing resounded in his voice, spanning deep like the roots of a tree.

Lucerys swallowed, a strange sense of guilt left him feeling hulled. A part of him wanted to feel what his brother did as well, yet there were still pages torn from their story in his mind; pages he feared he may never recover.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t-“ He stammered, frightened that his husband may be slighted by history Lucerys had forgotten…

“I know,” Jacaerys soothed, thumb pressed to the cleft in Lucerys’ chin. A dizzy back and forth was etched in his flesh by the callused pad of his husband’s finger.

When his brother kissed him a second time, it was a slower exchange. Jacaerys’ mouth and tongue coaxed his into action. It was evocative, sensual, reciprocal; dragonsong. It was the stoking of embers, the spreading of wildfire to every corner of his being.

“On the bed,” his brother growled, a crass hand swatted his bottom.

Lucerys nodded.

Their robes were placed aside and Lucerys settled upon the bed, skin bare and pulsing hot.

He laid carefully upon his stomach, firelight licking at his back. His face burned as he arched his back, his bottom sticking out in subtle invitation.

The bed dipped beneath the addition of another body and Lucerys drew in a steadying breath. His lungs were coated with the aroma of white oak and an open flame; heady and thick. His hindbrain secreted pacifying pheromones that left him strangely at peace.

He was going to be claimed, he realized, holding fistfuls of sheets. He would be mounted like a broodmare…

A warm hand grazed his spine.

A breath that smelled of figs and blood wine caressed his ear.

“What are you doing?”

Laid upon his stomach, Lucerys should have felt vulnerable; his neck was left exposed. He tilted his head against the bedding, curls loose as he caught the corner of his husband’s statuesque visage knelt upon the bed.

“I-” Lucerys swallowed, mouth uncomfortably dry. Even now, as bare as the day he was born, he was meant to exude aplomb. Jacaerys clearly desired a confident lover.

“I am not so naive, journals and written accountings detail that being upon one’s stomach is the most efficient way to ensure a successful mount…”

Jacaerys’ expression remained unreadable, but then he chuckled that pleasant sound that buzzed in Lucerys’ ears.

“...a successful mount.” Jacaerys echoed to himself with a shake of his damnable silver head. Lucerys flushed hot with embarrassment, feeling anything but confident.

A warm hand settled upon the small of his back. The simple touch inspired a strange building pressure. Jacaerys’ lips touched his ear and Lucerys exhaled a flustered sound into the bedding.

“You have spent too long with Andals that do not know how to fuck…”

His husband’s voice dripped thick and hot into his skull, like honey, or blood. His quim clenched. His husband seemed intent on showing Lucerys the error in his ways.

“Fucking is a pleasure. And Omegas were made to be pleased.”

There was lightning in Jacaerys’ voice, raw power, like the crackling of logs in the hearth.

“Here,” Jacaerys murmured, “turn over.”

He blinked up at him, at his pale hair, at his violet eyes that were nearly glazed black, at the sharp contrast of gold light and rich velvety shadows painted by the hearth across his husband’s body. His mouth had grown wet at his lean abdomen and sturdy shoulders, at his firm chest and strong arms…

A picturesque virile Alpha.

“There you are,” Jacaerys hummed, eyes so very fond.

His thighs are eased apart and Jacaerys settled between them. Each touch exchanged between them felt like it might set them alight. Mere kindling to a fire.

Every sensation titillated and overwhelmed.

A finger trailed featherlight from the hollow of his throat to the spot above his navel where that building pressure persisted. He was left gasping. Tears beaded in his eyes.

“Mm,” Lucerys sighed, unaccustomed to such intimacy, such nearness as his husband caressed the spot as the feeling worsened.

His fingers dipped lower toward the dark mound of his quim, wiry curls matted with slick.

Lucerys’ hips leapt from the bed with a cry at the barest touch. A clever, knowing thumb unveiled his bud, teasing it. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, wetting his temples, inevitably soaking into his loose curls.

His husband’s damp fingers teased along the seam of his quim; leisurely, as if skimming the lines of a book he had read before.

He felt as a digit slipped down to the knuckle into his velvety embrace.

“Jacaerys,” He croaked. The concave dip of his stomach quivered as his husband’s attention returned to the pink ache of his bud; his fingers made a lewd sound, so thoroughly wetted with slick.

Jacaerys’ silver head lowered with a knowing look and began to kiss him breathlessly; each press of Jace’s lips against his own selfishly stole what air remained in his lungs, and good sense from his mind.

He anchored a fist in his husband’s pale hair if only for an ounce of control, to claim something in return.

He sucked on Jacaerys’ tongue when it dipped into his mouth; he felt his husband’s body shake with a melodic swell of his subvocals.

“When I claim you, it shall be like this,” Jacaerys murmured through spit-slick lips into Lucerys’ panting mouth, their foreheads were pressed together, tacky with dried blood and sweat.

“Not for a ‘successful mount’, but so that I may look upon you, so that I may see the pleasure writ across this face,” His husband paused mouthing at Lucerys’ jaw, weight steadied on a forearm, Jace gazed down at him with such longing, “to have gone six years without it, ‘tis a crime against our nature. Yours and mine.”

Lucerys longed to pry the words apart, like field dressing a fresh kill, to permit nothing to escape his grasp nor understanding. Yet, his husband’s fingers grazed his cunt once more and all sense was lost, bleeding from the pulsing, open wound of his weeping gash.

A few fingers glided into his heat, effortlessly and Lucerys moaned. Ashamed of how easily his body had been reduced to something so carnal.

He was lost in the pleasure, the thick haze of pheromones in his head, and the scent of Jacaerys in his lungs.

When his hips leapt once more, it was to chase the rhythm of Jacaerys’s fingers spreading him open; shaping the walls of his quim like a smith molded metal — with patience and dedication.

His husband’s digits sought deep, fingers squelching amidst the sticky nectar and slick flesh. Without preamble, that knot of tension above Lucerys’ navel was pulled so readily to its limits, fingers pressing at the tender raised flesh until the tension broke.

Lucerys yowled, the sensation smarted, whip-fast as he came undone. His cocklet, stiff and yearning just above the seam of quim, spurted a few delicate ribbons of white against his stomach and chest. His quim gushed as a more potent release took hold, soaking around his husband’s fingers and onto the bed. A pleasure swallowed him so readily that he could not make sense of an end or beginning.

A garbled stream of hybridized Valyrian and common peppered his ears like a rain of arrows.

“There you are,” Jacaerys huffed, eyes ablaze with awe, “Issa lēkia.”

“ābrazȳrys…” he snarled, “mate…”

His body, so laden with pheromones only longed for one thing. To be claimed.

What power you wield, dear brother.

Jacaerys had tasted his blood once already. Surely he wanted more, needed more, needed to sink his teeth into Lucerys’ neck, where his bonding gland lay pristine and untouched.

“I, I need-”

“I shall give you what you need, wife.”

Pangs of longing littered his flesh, like ground glass in raw meat. He watched, mouth wet as Jacaerys’ cock swayed heavy and thick between well-muscled thighs.

It seemed impossibly large then; too large.

“Mm, b-brother… it won’t-”

“It will fit,” Jacaerys assured with a smile that Luke wanted terribly to believe, a brief kiss was pressed to Lucerys’ lips, “you were made for this,” another kiss, “you were made for me.”

Lucerys nodded, permitting his body to fall slack, tensionless, sedate with pheromones and supplicant for his Alpha.

The fattened head of his husband’s cock rubbed slowly along his quim, gathering nectar along the girth.

His stomach quivered as the glistening crown of Jacaerys’ manhood pressed obscenely large to Luke’s quim, puffy and pink.

“Shh,” Jacaerys soothed. His thumb toyed with Lucerys’ bud, rubbing tender little circles as the head applied a hint more pressure.

His legs spasmed as pleasure frothed in his belly.

He whined, the lips of his quim stretching to welcome the thick, drooling head.

His hips inched higher as Jacaerys’ eased lower. He envisioned the steel-tipped head of an arrow piercing the soft cushion of a straw-stuffed target.

The lips of his quim opened like a flower in bloom.

Jacaerys held himself painfully still as Lucerys mewled beneath him at the thin barrier of his maidenhead halting his brother’s path.

His brother kissed the salty spill of his tears; seeming to savor them as readily as he had Luke’s blood.

He awaited the agony that every maester and septa warned young Omegas of, for a geyser of blood to burst from between his thighs as his Alpha sank down to the bulb of his knot.

Yet, as Jacaerys finally slipped completely inside, it wasn’t at all as violent as Lucerys had imagined. It stretched the walls of his quim to what felt like its limits, certainly, but, the sensation did not inspire any pain. Rather, it felt like a wound being sewn shut, flesh knitted together, a sword in a sheath, a sense of completeness so profound that he wished to weep.

Oh.

“There you are,” Jace panted, a wry turn to his lips before his hips eased back.

A hand cradled his jaw as they laid, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Blood upon their skin, sharing the same dewy breath.

One flesh, one heart, one soul…

The motion of Jacaerys’ hips was fluid, they beat against him as wrathful as the gale upon the sea. Every wave threatened to drag him under. Devastatingly beautiful.

Lucerys gasped, mouth agape as his brother’s eyes stared into his. Jacaerys’ hips pumped, large cock pushing and pulling his insides; molding him anew.

There was a harmony to it, the creaking of the bed, the crackling of the logs, the wet rhythm of Jacaerys’ hips colliding with his. The blood-red canopy above the bed quivered like a razed kingdom behind his husband’s silver head.

He dug frantic nails into the muscle of his brother’s back. He felt power. True power rippling beneath his fingertips.

The broad tip of his brother’s manhood found the raised flesh tucked away within his walls upon every thrust; pleasure spiraled and screamed within him.

Jacaerys’ grip tightened around his jaw. He began to lose track of what limbs were his and which were not.

Barely-there breasts bounced with every thrust, grazing his brother’s muscled chest. His nipples pebbled stiff as they scraped against Jacaerys, the sensation worsening the tension that tangled in his belly.

His quim fluttered, each pulse yearned to draw his husband deeper.

Lucerys dug a heel into the flexing muscle of his husband’s buttocks, urging him faster.

He mewled. Beyond words. Thrashing to bare his neck; recalcitrant and desperate. That only made Jacaerys fuck him harder.

Bloated stones, swollen with seed, slapped against Lucerys’ milk-white bottom.

Jacaerys’ free hand dug into the pliant flesh of Lucerys’ soft little bottom, urging his narrow hips to meet every harrowing plunge of Jace’s cock.

The wet lips of his quim, stretched thin, kissed the bulbous swell of Jacaerys’ knot upon every perfect union of their hips.

He urged his hips down, guided by his brother’s hand, yearning in a primal mania to have that knot inside of him.

The head of his brother’s cock kissed his womb, caressing that soft pink channel on every deep thrust.

His insides felt molten, like the flesh may slough off his bones at any moment. Like every cant of his brother-husband’s hips urged a tongue of dragonfire to lap at that sacred place. The place he yearned to have filled.

Jacaerys offered the dripping length of his tongue and Lucerys suckled upon it readily, filled by him so completely.

He anchored himself to his husband, nails caught upon the rippling muscle of his back.

He has no words left to give, save for a garbled string of “please”. 

“Are you close, my love?”

Jacaerys asked, voice little more than a growl, his forehead pressed to Luke’s.

Lucerys thrashed at the delicious torment of his building release, tears streamed down his cheeks. He was close, horrendously so. 

His husband’s lips found his, drinking deeply of his anguish.

The cadence of his husband’s thrust had grown all the more ardent in response. The very bed seemed to quake. Yet all he could see was Jacaerys, the silver of his hair, the violet of his eyes, Lucerys’ own blood painted upon his skin…

“Please!” Lucerys cried out, drunk upon the scent of white oak and an open flame, burning with a longing writ in their shared blood upon his very bones. Stripped of all constraints and vanity, he was simply an Omega in dire need of his Alpha.

When he arched his neck, his husband hadn’t the will to refuse a second time. He mouthed at the spot that so dearly needed attention, he adored it with his lips and tongue.

Each thrust fucked him so deeply into the rich, sweat-soaked featherbed. He arched, yowling at the unbearable sensation of his husband’s broad head at his womb.

“Once more, wife,” Jacaerys panted, breath hot as dragonfire ghosted along his lips, “come for me, brother. Shower me in your love.”

His bud was found and assaulted with the unrelenting press of sword-callused fingers; Urging him and higher.

And in a moment, he was undone, his release snapped like their chord of blood-red and gold and his world shook like all of Dragonstone would fall apart around them. His release gushed from his stretched-wide quim, drenching his husband and the bedding further. Jacaerys growled a deeply pleased guttural sound, his hips continued to pump into the squelching mess of Lucerys’ dripping sex, the firm grip of his hand cradled Lucerys’ jaw, forbidding him from looking elsewhere, at anything but Jacaerys.

He could only watch as a trembling look of awe passed over his husband’s face.

Jace’s hips surged forward and Luke bowed off of the bed at the undeniable ache of his husband’s knot popping inside. The thick head pressed against the slender pink opening of Lucerys’ womb. His thighs shook. Teeth were at his neck, kissing then breaking the skin. The bite was clean and perfect and unifying. Lucerys cried out towards the blood-red canopy above them. In that moment he saw a burst of color behind his eyes: the endless rainbow of their combined dragonfire. A third sharp release was upon him; brief and blinding. His cocklet spurted weakly, his quim clenched, milking the fattened bulb of his Alpha’s knot. A desperate whine fell from his lips as he felt it begin to swell. They were tied now, irrefutably: in body and blood.

His unspooling mind retreated to their vows once more as his brother’s seed distended the concave of his belly —— one flesh, one heart, one soul.

A rumbling purr started in his chest and his fingers wound through Jacaerys’ silver hair of their own volition. It was an intrinsic need as primal as the ache to purr, was the need to touch his brother. His husband. His mate.

He became prey pinned beneath his Alpha. His toes curled in atavistic delight.

He felt unbearably whole like he had found his missing piece.

When his brother’s lips inevitably withdrew from the fresh site of Lucerys’ bondmark, he was overcome with the bone-deep urge to weep. Yet, Jacaerys soothed him with a low, nearly musical flange of his subvocals that said, ‘Rest easy, little brother. I am here.’ Lucerys felt the spike of pacifying pheromones filling his frantic hindbrain, putting him promptly at ease. He felt the press of an aquiline nose to his temple, gentle and familiar. He fought his body's need to fall slack and submissive, instead twisting stubbornly upon the bed if only to feel the tug of his Alpha’s knot keeping them tied. A satisfied prickle of overstimulated tears stung his eyes. A dutiful tongue lapped at the slow ooze of blood from the site upon his neck.

A tug persisted at the base of his skull. A nascent thing through which all flowed. Their bond.

There was no word so apt for his current state other than claimed. Even still, adrift within the overwhelming emotion of it all, Lucerys sought some semblance of assurance; some logic to the disorder Jacaerys had made of him.

His mind scrabbled for clarity, despite how his eyelids drooped and his limbs curled into the preternatural heat of his Alpha’s body, wrapped in the woodsy aroma of white oak and the bittersweet bite of an open flame.

He fell deeper still into a place so utterly content as an aquiline nose and warm lips nuzzled fondly at his hairline. It was not long until whisps of vanilla and browned butter roamed in fragrant curls from his sweat-slicked skin.

“I’ll be going soon,” Lucerys said amidst a yawn as firm fingers pressed warm divots into the underside of his thigh.

“Going where, precisely?” Jacaerys asked, indolent, but displeased. The emotion trickled over, like rainwater through a leaking roof. Lucerys frowned at the feeling.

He thought of propriety, of what he’d been taught of formal marriages such as theirs.

“To my own chambers, husband,” Lucerys informed, though he hadn’t the strength to lift his head while he spoke.

“I could use the rest,” he added sweetly, knowing an Alpha’s ego was utterly in want of stroking.

Jacaerys exhaled through his nose before Lucerys felt its straight bridge touch the upturned curl of his own.

“Mm,” his Alpha hummed, “then rest.”

Longing poured over as a hand settled at the dip in Lucerys’ waist where they lay.

“You are my wife now, Lucerys. My chambers are yours.”

Curious, he thought to himself.

It brought to mind a memory formerly lost to him…

“Let me in!” Lucerys demanded in a nasally whisper, lips pressed to the crack in the door.

“Jace-”

The door budged far enough for him to catch the gleam of his elder brother’s silver-gold hair and he felt a swell of victory.

“I can’t let you in, Luke. Mother will have my head-”

“She will not! Oh, Jace, she won’t catch us. She never does.”

Jacaerys’ face twisted in a conflicted expression, but in his heart, Lucerys knew he had won. The door swung open and Lucerys rushed inside. His hand clasping with his brother’s pulling him towards the bed.

“You mustn’t make a sound, hm?” Jacaerys warned, a finger held to Luke’s lips.

Lucerys nodded giddily.

“I won’t. I promise.”

As the memory faded, Lucerys found himself unbearably drowsy, his head pressed to a strong chest, his cold little feet tucked to the backs of warm knees, as familiar as the lines traversing his palms.

I had mastered you once brother, he thought to himself as he squirmed closer into the cage of his husband’s arms, I can do it again.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

TWOW: Alayne I (Sansa I)

My little lovebug! ❤️

She's finally here! 🥺

To celebrate, I might just copy and paste the whole gosh darn thing. You've been warned.

Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves for the mind-blowing, heart-stopping, epic conclusion of Operation Stumpy Re-Read Project!

Before we dive in, we need to revisit a theory that I proposed in Jon X, ADWD.

The last time we saw Jon's and Sansa's points of view in the same book was A Storm of Swords. You might recall the deliberate placement of their back-to-back chapters was anything but subtle.

The text was often copied verbatim, the situations were perfectly mirrored, and the topics of love, marriage, and family were prevalent in both.

You can view a quick summary of it all here.

That brings us to this chapter. Some of you might not be aware, but George was originally planning to put Alayne I in A Dance with Dragons.

That Sansa chapter I talked about finishing, for instance. It's still finished, but my editor and I decided it belongs in THE WINDS OF WINTER, not A DANCE WITH DRAGONS, so it's been moved into the next book. Sansa will not appear in DANCE. - Not a Blog

Based on the intentional placement of previous Jon and Sansa chapters, I have hypothesized that it should be possible to determine the original planned position of this Alayne chapter.

Below, I will do my best to argue Alayne I, TWOW was originally indented to appear directly before Jon X, ADWD.

Alright, it's time!

She was reading her little lord a tale of the Winged Knight when Mya Stone came knocking on the door of his bedchamber, clad in boots and riding leathers and smelling strongly of the stable. Mya had straw in her hair and a scowl on her face. That scowl comes of having Mychel Redfort near, Alayne knew.

I'm so slow, I'm only now picking up on the vague hints of Jon and Sansa's connection from the highborn-lowborn divide between Mya and Mychel Redfort.

She sounded so like Sansa, so happy and innocent with her dreams. Catelyn smiled, but the smile was tinged with sadness. The Redforts were an old name in the Vale, she knew, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. His love she might be, but no Redfort would ever wed a bastard. His family would arrange a more suitable match for him, to a Corbray or a Waynwood or a Royce, or perhaps a daughter of some greater house outside the Vale. - Catelyn VI, AGOT

She even had a king for a dad!

+.+.+

Why did she have to mention Harry? Alayne thought. We will never get Sweetrobin out of bed now. The boy slapped a pillow. "Send them away. I never asked them here." Mya looked nonplussed. No one in the Vale was better at handling a mule, but lordlings were another matter. "They were invited," she said uncertainly, "for the tourney. I don't…" Alayne closed her book. "Thank you, Mya. Let me talk with Lord Robert, if you would."

Oh look, 13-year-old Sansa is acting 24 again, and can I just mention she's absolutely fantastic at managing her son cousin.

+.+.+

"I hate that Harry," Sweetrobin said when she was gone. "He calls me cousin, but he's just waiting for me to die so he can take the Eyrie. He thinks I don't know, but I do." "Your lordship should not believe such nonsense," Alayne said. "I'm sure Ser Harrold loves you well." And if the gods are good, he will love me too. Her tummy gave a little flutter.

Back to 13.

Just like Arya and Mercy, you can still find traces of Sansa in Alayne.

+.+.+

"I don't want you to marry him, Alayne. I am the Lord of the Eyrie, and I forbid it." He sounded as if he were about to cry. "You should marry me instead. We could sleep in the same bed every night, and you could read me stories."

In the future, it might be a good idea to ensure that Jon and Sweetrobin are kept apart at all times.

+.+.+

No man can wed me so long as my dwarf husband still lives somewhere in this world. 

I don't know about that.

"Hush, you'll be the death of us. I did nothing. Come, we must away, they'll search for you. Your husband's been arrested."

"Tyrion?" she said, shocked.

"Do you have another husband? The Imp, the dwarf uncle, she thinks he did it." - Sansa V, ASOS

x

When Her Grace suggested that she would be pleased to help arrange marriages for his sons to the daughters of great southern lords, Lord Stark refused brusquely. "We keep the old gods in the North," he told the queen. "When my boys take a wife, they will wed before a heart tree, not in some southron sept." - Fire & Blood

+.+.+

Alayne stroked his fingers. "There, my Sweetrobin, be still now." When the shaking passed, she said, "You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth." "No. I want to marry you, Alayne." Once your lady mother intended that very thing, but I was trueborn then, and noble.

Trust me, this is less than nothing, we're only warming up. I can do way better than this.

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

"Who brings this woman to be wed?" asked Melisandre.

"I do," said Jon. "Now comes Alys of House Karstark, a woman grown and flowered, of noble blood and birth." - Jon X, ADWD

+.+.+

Alayne smoothed his hair. Lady Lysa had never let the servants touch it, and after she had died Robert had suffered terrible shaking fits whenever anyone came near him with a blade, so it had been allowed to grow until it tumbled over his round shoulders and halfway down his flabby white chest. He does have pretty hair. If the gods are good and he lives long enough to wed, his wife will admire his hair, surely. That much she will love about him. 

Mounting evidence that Sansa is plotting to kill Robert Arryn.

Why would he fear a blade?

+.+.+

"The Lord of the Eyrie can do as he likes. Can't I still love you, even if I have to marry her? Ser Harrold has a common woman. Benjicot says she's carrying his bastard." Benjicot should learn to keep his fool's mouth shut.

Lmao.

+.+.+

"Is that what you would have from me? A bastard?" She pulled her fingers from his grasp. "Would you dishonor me that way?" The boy looked stricken. "No. I never meant —" Alayne stood. "If it please my lord, I must go and find my father. Someone needs to greet Lady Waynwood." Before her little lord could find the words to protest, she gave him a quick curtsy and fled the bedchamber [...].

Masterfully done!

This is why I can't have children, I would have locked him in a closet.

+.+.+

When she had left Petyr Baelish that morning he had been breaking his fast with old Oswell who had arrived last night from Gulltown on a lathered horse. 

Did you know that the number of references to Oldtown gradually increases from book to book until it surges in A Storm of Swords, right before the city is formally introduced at the beginning of A Feast for Crows?

Gulltown is on a similar trajectory. The city is referenced nine times in this chapter alone. Nine.

+.+.+

Though snow had blanketed the heights of the Giant's Lance above, below the mountain the autumn lingered and winter wheat was ripening in the fields.

For timeline purposes: Sansa is lagging behind where Brienne and Jon currently are in the story.

Snow in the riverlands. If it was snowing here, it could well be snowing on Lannisport as well, and on King's Landing. Winter is marching south, and half our granaries are empty. Any crops still in the fields were doomed. [...] "I know," Jaime said, "there has been a white raven from the Citadel. Winter has come." - Jaime VII, AFFC

+.+.+

Alayne loved it here. She felt alive again, for the first since her father… since Lord Eddard Stark had died.

Stop.

+.+.+

She hoped they might still be talking, but Petyr's solar proved empty. Someone had left a window open and a stack of papers had blown onto the floor. [...] She closed the window, gathered up the fallen papers, and stacked them on the table. One was a list of the competitors. Four-and-sixty knights had been invited to vie for places amongst Lord Robert Arryn's new Brotherhood of Winged Knights, and four­ and-sixty knights had come to tilt for the right to wear falcon’s wings upon their warhelms and guard their lord.

It is widely speculated she saw something she shouldn't have, but hasn't fully grasped the significance yet.

Did you know there's 64 squares on a chessboard?

+.+.+

The competitors came from all over the Vale, from the mountain valleys and the coast, from Gulltown and the Bloody Gate, even the Three Sisters. Though a few were promised, only three were wed; the eight victors would be expected to spend the next three years at Lord Robert's side, as his own personal guard (Alayne had suggested seven, like the Kingsguard, but Sweetrobin had insisted that he must have more knights than King Tommen), so older men with wives and children had not been invited.

We love a petty king.

so older men with wives and children had not been invited.

Perfect for Blackfish! Where is that former Knight of the Gate? I know he's coming, the ellipsis of truth tells no lies.

And if Ser Brynden should survive this siege, he might be inclined to claim Riverrun in his own name . . . or in the name of young Robert Arryn. - Jaime V, AFFC

Where else is he supposed to go?

Edit:

Oh! @decadelongsummer reminded me that Jaime I, ADWD would have come before this. (<- <- <-)

"Might the Blackfish seek refuge at Raventree?"

"He might seek it, but to find it he'd need to get past my siege lines, and last I heard he hadn't grown wings. [...]" - Jaime I, ADWD

+.+.+

"They're young, eager, hungry for adventure and renown. Lysa would not let them go to war. This is the next best thing. A chance to serve their lord and prove their prowess. They will come. Even Harry the Heir." He had smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. "What a clever daughter you are."

I will turn your liver into paste, and feed it to cats.

+.+.+

"What a clever daughter you are." It was clever.

✨ Clever girl! ✨

Dontos chuckled. "My Jonquil's a clever girl, isn't she?" - Sansa IV, ACOK

x

"There's a clever girl." He smiled, his thin lips bright red from the pomegranate seeds. - Sansa VI, ASOS

x

"[...] It was clever of you to see it. Though no more than I'd expect of mine own daughter." - Sansa I, AFFC

x

Sers, the Lady Alayne, my natural and very clever daughter . . . - Alayne II, AFFC

+.+.+

The tourney, the prizes, the winged knights, it had all been her own notion. Lord Robert's mother had filled him full of fears, but he always took courage from the tales she read him of Ser Artys Arryn, the Winged Knight of legend, founder of his line. Why not surround him with Winged Knights? She had thought one night, after Sweetrobin had finally drifted off to sleep. His own Kingsguard, to keep him safe and make him brave.

Sounds like something a queen might be responsible for planning.

Unreliable narrator Sansa Stark (or George R. R. Martin). Ser Artys Arryn was not the legendary Winged Knight from the Age of Heroes. Two different people.

I don't know if this is important or not, but while reading the history of Ser Artys, a few things stuck out.

Leading the attack was a champion in silvered steel, with a moon-and-falcon on his shield and wings upon his warhelm. Ser Artys Arryn had clad one of his knights retainer in his spare suit of armor, leaving him in camp whilst he himself took his best horsemen up and around a goat track that he remembered from his childhood, so they might reappear behind the First Men and descend on them from above. - The World of Ice and Fire

While fighting King Robar II Royce, Ser Artys used a decoy of himself, while he snuck up and around a goat track that he remembered from his childhood.

What's interesting about that is that Roose Bolton uses a decoy in ADWD, which fools Ramsay.

When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. Ramsay's smile curdled at the sight, and anger flashed across his face. "What is this, some mockery?" - Reek II, ADWD

But what really stands out is the goat tracks. I know a character who has deep appreciation for goat tracks being used during war.

"Goat tracks?" The king's eyes narrowed. "I speak of moving swiftly, and you waste my time with goat tracks?"

"When the Young Dragon conquered Dorne, he used a goat track to bypass the Dornish watchtowers on the Boneway." - Jon IV, ADWD

I don't know. It involved knights from the Vale, so it made me pause.

+.+.+

Lord Nestor was showing Lady Waxley his prize tapestries, with their scenes of hunt and chase. The same panels had once hung in the Red Keep of King's Landing, when Robert sat the Iron Throne. Joffrey had them taken down and they had languished in some cellar until Petyr Baelish arranged for them to be brought to the Vale as a gift for Nestor Royce. Not only were the hangings beautiful, but the High Steward delighted in telling anyone who'd listen that they had once belonged to a king.

It's the conclusion of the most anticlimactic side plot in the entire series.

"Not as yet. In truth, he seems quite unconcerned. His last letter mentions the rebels only briefly before beseeching me to ship him some old tapestries of Robert's." - Cersei IV, AFFC

x

Petyr laughed. "Perhaps I shall. Or better still, to our sweet Cersei. Though I should not speak harshly of her, she is sending me some splendid tapestries. Isn't that kind of her?" - Alayne I, AFFC

This is nothing. It's only meant to showcase how Littlefinger purchases the loyalty of others.

+.+.+

At the north end of the yard, three quintains had been set up, and some of the competitors were riding at them. Alayne knew them by their shields; the bells of Belmore, green vipers for the Lynderlys, the red sledge of Breakstone, House Tollett’s black and grey pily. Ser Mychel Redfort set one quintain spinning with a perfectly placed blow. He was one of those favored to win wings.

Showing off, as per usual. She's only doing this to make Arya look bad.

+.+.+

"The Lord Protector's daughter," the bald knight announced, all hearty gallantry. He rose ponderously. "And full as lovely as the tales told of her, I see." Not to be outdone, the pimply knight hopped up and said, "Ser Ossifer speaks truly, you are the most beautiful maid in all the Seven Kingdoms." It might have been a sweeter courtesy had he not addressed it to her chest. "And have you seen all those maids yourself, ser?" Alayne asked him. "You are young to be so widely travelled."

"You are even lovelier than I was told, princess," he declared. "The queen has told me much and more of your beauty."

"How odd, when she has never seen me." - Jon XI, ADWD

+.+.+

Alayne could not help but shutter. Myranda's husband had died when he was making love with her. "Those Sistermen who came in yesterday were gallant," she said, to change the subject. "If you don't like Ser Ossifer or Ser Uther, marry one of them instead. I thought the youngest one was very handsome." "The one in the sealskin cloak?" Randa said, incredulous. "One of his brothers, then." Myranda rolled her eyes. "They're from the Sisters. Did you ever know a Sisterman who could joust? They clean their swords with codfish oil and wash in tubs of cold seawater." “Well,” Alayne said, “at least they're clean.”

"Some of them have webs between their toes. [...]"

Uh huh.

Listen to me. Listen to me.

You know why this is here.

Davos: I:

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Remind me, what did we learn in Davos I?

To get home and call his banners, Stark had to cross the mountains to the Fingers and find a fisherman to carry him across the Bite. A storm caught them on the way. The fisherman drowned, but his daughter got Stark to the Sisters before the boat went down.

[...]

Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward.

[...]

That was when Stark said, 'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true … but what if we prevail?' My father sent him on his way with his head still on his shoulders. 'If you lose,' he told Lord Eddard, 'you were never here.'" - Davos I, ADWD

Right, exactly. Go ahead and remind us of the Three Sisters in a Sansa chapter, George. Nobody can figure out where this is going.

+.+.+

"Some of them have webs between their toes. I'd sooner marry Lord Petyr. Then I'd be your mother. How little is his finger, I ask you?"

Alayne did not dignify that question with an answer.

Totally normal thing you might ask his daughter.

+.+.+

"Is that a promise or a threat?" Myranda said. "The first Lady Waynwood must have been a mare, I think. How else to explain why all the Waynwood men are horse-faced? If I were ever to wed a Waynwood, he would have to swear a vow to don his helm whenever he wished to fuck me, and keep the visor closed." She gave Alayne a pinch on the arm.

Um, I have a theory!

"No," Catelyn agreed. "You must name another heir, until such time as Jeyne gives you a son." She considered a moment. "Your father's father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest . . . it might have been a Templeton, but . . ." - Catelyn V, ASOS

+.+.+

"My Harry will be with them, though. I notice that you left him out. I shall never forgive you for stealing him away from me. He's the boy I want to marry."

"The betrothal was my father's doing," Alayne protested, as she had a hundred times before. She is only teasing, she told herself… but behind the japes, she could hear the hurt.

We can't be certain, but she doesn't give off the same vibes as the other Myranda on the show.

+.+.+

Alayne could not see the front of his shield from where she stood, but his attacker bore three ravens in flight, each clutching a red heart in its claws. Three hearts and three ravens. She knew right then how the fight would end. A few moments later and the big man sprawled dazed in the dust with his helm askew. When his squire undid the fastenings to bare his head, there was blood trickling down his scalp. If the swords had not been blunted, there would be brains as well. That last head blow had been so hard Alayne had winced in sympathy when it fell. Myranda Royce considered the victor thoughtfully. "Do you think if I asked nicely Ser Lyn would kill my suitors for me?" "He might, for a plump bag of gold." Ser Lyn Corbray was forever desperately short of coin, all the Vale knew that.

Based on my powerful foresight, I predict that Lyn Corbray will exhibit violent tendencies in the future, possibly while utilizing his Valyrian steel sword.

Don't ask me who the victim will be.

+.+.+

There is truth in that, Alayne thought, but some demon of mischief was in her that morning, so she gave Ser Lyn a thrust of her own. Smiling sweetly, she said, "My lord father tells me your brother's new wife is with child." Corbray gave her a dark look. "Lyonel sends his regrets. He remains at Heart's Home with his peddler's daughter, watching her belly swell as if he were the first man who ever got a wench pregnant." Oh, that's an open wound, thought Alayne. Lyonel Corbray's first wife had given him nothing but a frail, sickly babe who died in infancy, and during all those years Ser Lyn had remained his brother's heir. When the poor woman finally died, however, Petyr Baelish had stepped in and brokered a new marriage for Lord Corbray. The second Lady Corbray was sixteen, the daughter of a wealthy Gulltown merchant, but she had come with an immense dowry, and men said she was a tall, strapping, healthy girl, with big breasts and good, wide hips. And fertile too, it seems. "We are all praying that the Mother grants Lady Corbray an easy labor and a healthy child," said Myranda. Alayne could not help herself. She smiled and said, "My father is always pleased to be of service to one of Lord Robert's leal bannermen. I'm sure he would be most delighted to help broker a marriage for you as well, Ser Lyn." "How kind of him." Corbray's lips drew back in something that might have been meant as a smile, though it gave Alayne a chill. "But what need have I for heirs when I am landless and like to remain so, thanks to our Lord Protector? No. Tell your lord father I need none of his brood mares." The venom in his voice was so thick that for a moment she almost forgot that Lyn Corbray was actually her father's catspaw, bought and paid for. Or was he? Perhaps, instead of being Petyr's man pretending to be Petyr's foe, he was actually his foe pretending to be his man pretending to be his foe.

Uh oh, Nostradamus senses something. There she goes leaking the plot again!

The king's own fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, making mock of everyone with such deft cruelty that Sansa wondered if he was simple after all. - Sansa II, AGOT

x

Sansa shuddered. Every time she looked at Ser Ilyn Payne, she shivered. - Sansa III, AGOT

x

Varys was wringing his soft hands together, Grand Maester Pycelle kept his sleepy eyes on the papers in front of him, but she could feel Littlefinger staring. Something about the way the small man looked at her made Sansa feel as though she had no clothes on. Goose bumps pimpled her skin. - Sansa IV, AGOT

x

For his sigil he had taken a bloody spear, gold on a night-black field. The sight of it raised goose prickles up and down Sansa's arms. - Sansa V, AGOT

x

Ser Boros was short-tempered, Ser Meryn cold, and Ser Mandon's strange dead eyes made her uneasy - Sansa I, ACOK

x

"I don't want to." Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. "Please, please, I don't want to." - Sansa V, ACOK

x

Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. - Sansa VIII, ACOK

x

Yet the more she thought about it all, the more she wondered. Joff might restrain himself for a few turns, perhaps as long as a year, but soon or late he will show his claws, and when he does . . . The realm might have a second Kingslayer, and there would be war inside the city, as the men of the lion and the men of the rose made the gutters run red. - Sansa I, ASOS

Believe in Sansa. The bottom line is that Lyn Corbray is a problem, and he's not as loyal to Littlefinger as Littlefinger thinks. Where this goes, I couldn't tell you.

(I desperately wanted to highlight every instance of Daenerys incorrectly reading someone, but I chose to be an adult.)

+.+.+

Alayne turned abruptly from the yard… and bumped into a short, sharp-faced man with a brush of orange hair who had come up behind her. His hand shot out and caught her arm before she could fall. "My lady. My pardons if I took you unawares." "The fault was mine. I did not see you standing there." "We mice are quiet creatures." Ser Shadrich was so short that he might have been taken for a squire, but his face belonged to a much older man. She saw long leagues in the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, old battles in the scar beneath his ear, and a hardness behind the eyes that no boy would ever have. This was a man grown. Even Randa overtopped him, though. "Will you be seeking wings?" the Royce girl said. "A mouse with wings would be a silly sight." "Perhaps you will try the melee instead?" Alayne suggested. The melee was an afterthought, a sop for all the brothers, uncles, fathers, and friends who had accompanied the competitors to the Gates of the Moon to see them win their silver wings, but there would be prizes for the champions, and a chance to win ransoms. "A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that's not likely, is it?"

Speaking of problems.

You know who Varys is, I trust? The eunuch has offered a plump bag of gold for this girl you've never heard of. I am not a greedy man. If some oversized wench would help me find this naughty child, I would split the Spider's coin with her. - Brienne I, AFFC

The following is speculative, but also highly rational in my opinion.

It would be incredibly illogical for the author to introduce Ser Shadrich in Brienne's first chapter, reveal his objective to the reader, have him show up in the Vale near the same book's conclusion, clearly signal to the reader that he's correctly identified Sansa, and then proceed to not utilize him in any meaningful way. This is not what a red herring looks like.

There's probably a reason why Brienne's been gifted the knowledge of his appearance, and his objective. Brienne may not know what Alayne looks like, but she does know what Ser Shadrich looks like.

There's probably a reason why Brienne gauges both of their fighting skills while anticipating a potential encounter. (Come on.)

The Mad Mouse, she thought, at her first sight of him. Somehow he's followed me. Her hand went to her sword hilt, and she found herself wondering if Ser Shadrich would think her easy prey just because she was a woman. [...] If it was Ser Shadrich dogging her heels, she might well have a fight on her hands. She did not intend to partner with the man or let him follow her to Sansa. He had the sort of easy arrogance that comes with skill at arms, she thought, but he was small. I'll have the reach on him, and I should be stronger too. - Brienne II, AFFC

We watched Brienne intercept a Stark daughter three different times on the show.

None of these scenes can happen in the books, but we already know the show creators drew inspiration from canon events, and assigned different characters to the roles.

They gave the role of Biter to the Hound and made Brienne fight him, do you not think it's also possible one of these scenes is inspired by Brienne intercepting Shadrich and Sansa in the books?

"But Brienne's currently captured by Lady Stoneheart near Pennytree, and has a broken arm and face!"

Sansa's 👏 and 👏 Brienne's 👏 storylines 👏 aren't 👏 synchronized.

He told us what Brienne would do! He told us!

The Eyrie would be simpler, and Lady Lysa would surely welcome her sister's daughter . . .

Ahead, the alley bent. Somehow Brienne had taken a wrong turn. She found herself in a dead end, a small muddy yard where three pigs were rooting round a low stone well.

[...]

"I was looking for the Seven Swords."

"Back the way you come. Left at the sept."

"I thank you." Brienne turned to retrace her steps, and walked headfirst into someone hurrying round the bend. - Brienne II, AFFC

Brienne 👏 will 👏 escape! She'll 👏 turn 👏 back!

+.+.+

They made a race of it, dashing headlong across the yard and past the stables, skirts flapping, whilst knights and serving men alike looked on, and pigs and chickens scattered before them. It was most unladylike, but Alayne sound found herself laughing. For just a little while, as she ran, she forget who she was, and where, and found herself remembering bright cold days at Winterfell, when she would race through Winterfell with her friend Jeyne Poole, with Arya running after them trying to keep up.

Always nice seeing her act her age.

+.+.+

Harry the Heir, Alayne thought. My husband-to-be, if he will have me. A sudden terror filled her. She wondered if her face was red. Don't stare at him, she reminded herself, don't stare, don't gape, don't gawk. Look away. Her hair must be a frightful mess after all that running. It took all her will to stop herself from trying to tuck the loose strands back into place. Never mind your stupid hair. Your hair doesn't matter. It's him that matters. Him, and the Waynwoods. Ser Roland was the oldest of the three, though no more than five-and-twenty. He was taller and more muscular than Ser Wallace, but both were long-faced and lantern-jawed, with stringy brown hair and pinched noses. Horsefaced and homely, Alayne thought. Harry, though… My Harry. My lord, my lover, my betrothed.Ser Harrold Hardyng looked every inch a lord-in-waiting; clean-limbed and handsome, straight as a lance, hard with muscle. Men old enough to have known Jon Arryn in his youth said Ser Harrold had his look, she knew. He had a mop of sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, an aquiline nose. Joffrey was comely too, though, she reminded herself. A comely monster, that’s what he was. Little Lord Tyrion was kinder, twisted though he was.

Wow, how much do you love that?

Sansa directly compares the horse-faced Waynwoods, who have Stark lineage and were once potential heirs to Robb, to the more attractive Harry Hardyng (aka Joffrey).

I'm sorry, you have to see this:

Un-fucking-real. So close. They're always so close.

Yeah guys, why isn't she thinking about Arya? It's obvious we're supposed to be thinking about Arya during this passage. The author's intentions here are clear, the subtext is Arya. Sansa comparing these Stark-ish, likable Waynwood men to the comely yet rude Harry the Heir is totally about Arya. Arya's written all over this. We're so clever to see it.

Side note,

Joffrey was comely too, though, she reminded herself. A comely monster, that's what he was.

x

"Beauty can be treacherous. My brother learned that lesson from Cersei Lannister. [...]." - Jon XI, ASOS

Love when my babies both learn about beauty's hidden dangers!

+.+.+

"I look forward to a spirited discussion." Ser Roland swung down from his horse, turned to Alayne, and smiled. "I had heard that Lord Littlefinger's daughter was fair of face and full of grace, but no one ever told me that she was a thief." "You wrong me, ser. I am no thief!" Ser Roland placed his hand over his heart. "Then how do you explain this hole in my chest, from where you stole my heart?"

Man, these horsey Waynwoods are crushing hard on Sansa. hehehehe.

Instead, he blamed Jon Snow and wondered when Jon's heart had turned to stone. - Samwell III, AFFC

+.+.+

"You are in the Falcon Tower, Ser Harrold," Alayne put in. Far away from Sweetrobin. That was intentional, she knew. Petyr Baelish did not leave such things to chance. "If it please you, I will show you to your chambers myself." This time her eyes met Harry's. She smiled just for him, and said a silent prayer to the Maiden. Please, he doesn't need to love me, just make him like me, just a little, that would be enough for now. Ser Harrold looked down at her coldly. "Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger's bastard?"

+.+.+

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt. She showed the Waynwoods a stone face as they blurted out awkward apologies for their companion. When they were done she turned and fled. Near the keep, she ran headlong into Ser Lothor Brune and almost knocked him off his feet. "Harry the Heir? Harry the Arse, I say. He's just some upjumped squire." Alayne was so grateful that she hugged him. "Thank you. Have you seen my father, ser?"

Oopsie daisy, Nostradamus has returned.

The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated. The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one. - Sansa II, AGOT

x

"Look at that upjumped oaf," Joff hooted, loud enough for half the yard to hear.

[...]

I hope he falls and shames himself, she thought bitterly. I hope Ser Balon kills him. When Joffrey proclaimed her father's death, it had been Janos Slynt who seized Lord Eddard's severed head by the hair and raised it on high for king and crowd to behold, while Sansa wept and screamed.

Morros dropped his lance, fought for balance, and lost. One foot caught in a stirrup as he fell, and the runaway charger dragged the youth to the end of the lists, head bouncing against the ground. Joff hooted derision. Sansa was appalled, wondering if the gods had heard her vengeful prayer. - Sansa I, ACOK

x

At the last possible instant, Ser Humfrey's [Hardyng] stallion reared away from the oncoming point, eyes rolling in terror, but too late, Aerion's lance took the animal just above the armor that protected his breastbone, and exploded out of the back of his neck in a gout of bright blood. Screaming, the horse crashed sideways, knocking the wooden barrier to pieces as he fell. Ser Humfrey [Hardyng] tried to leap free, but a foot caught in a stirrup and they heard his shriek as his leg was crushed between the splintered fence and falling horse. - The Hedge Knight

A knight from the Vale.

Correctly predicting it will happen to an upjumped oaf.

A Hardyng.

There are two certainties in this life: death and Harrold Hardyng falling off his horse. (Plenty of people don't pay their taxes.)

+.+.+

The vaults were large and dark and filthy. Alayne lit a taper and clutched her skirt as she made the descent. Near the bottom, she heard Lord Grafton's booming voice, and followed. "The merchants are clamoring to buy, and the lords are clamoring to sell," the Gulltowner was saying when she found them. Though not a tall man, Grafton was wide, with thick arms and shoulders. His hair was a dirty blond mop. "How am I to stop that, my lord?" "Post guardsmen on the docks. If need be, seize the ships. How does not matter, so long as no food leaves the Vale." "These prices, though," protested fat Lord Belmore," these prices are more than fair." "You say more than fair, my lord. I say less than we would wish. Wait. If need be, buy the food yourself and keep it stored. Winter is coming. Prices must go higher." "Perhaps," said Belmore, doubtfully. "Bronze Yohn will not wait," Grafton complained. "He need not ship through Gulltown, he has his own ports. Whilst we are hoarding our harvest, Royce and the other Lords Declarant will turn theirs into silver, you may be sure of that."

I smell converging storylines!

Our best hope may be the Eyrie. The Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. Jon wondered how Lady Catelyn's sister would feel about feeding Ned Stark's bastard. - Jon IV, ADWD

Someone cut Littlefinger's head off, so everyone can eat.

Anyway, there's more Gulltown. Gulltown, Gulltown, Gulltown!

She might do better to take ship for Gulltown or White Harbor. I could do both, though. - Brienne II, AFFC

x

If the Stinking Goose yields nothing, I will take passage on a ship, she decided. Gulltown was only a short voyage away. From there she could make her way to the Eyrie easily enough. - Brienne III, AFFC

x

"Gulltown next," her captain told her, "thence around the Fingers to Sisterton and White Harbor, if the storms allow. She's a clean ship, 'Strider, not so many rats as most, and we'll have fresh eggs and new-churned butter aboard. Is m'lady seeking passage north?"

"No." Not yet. She was tempted, but . . . - Brienne V, AFFC

NOT YET. NOT YET! GULLTOWN -> SISTERTON -> WHITE HARBOR. HE TOLD US. HE FORESHADOWS EVERYTHING. IT'S RIGHT THERE.

+.+.+

"And is Ser Harrold with them?" Horrible Ser Harrold. "He is." Lord Belmore laughed. "I never thought Royce would let him come. Is he blind, or merely stupid?" "He is honorable. Sometimes it amounts to the same thing. If he denied the lad the chance to prove himself, it could create a rift between them, so why not let him tilt? The boy is nowise skilled enough to win a place amongst the Winged Knights."

Gosh, since his introduction, it seems like we've been constantly reminded that this upjumped squire is rather inept when it comes to sports.

"Our cousin Bronze Yohn had himself a mêlée at Runestone," Myranda Royce went on, oblivious, "a small one, just for squires. It was meant for Harry the Heir to win the honors, and so he did." - Alayne II, AFFC

+.+.+

"Come," Petyr said, "walk with me." He took her by the arm and led her deeper into the vaults, past an empty dungeon.

I will cut your eyelids off.

+.+.+

"Yes," she said, "but why must he be so cruel? He called me your bastard. Right in the yard, in front of everyone." "So far as he knows, that's who you are. This betrothal was never his idea, and Bronze Yohn has no doubt warned him against my wiles. You are my daughter. He does not trust you, and he believes that you're beneath him." "Well, I'm not. He may think he's some great knight, but Ser Lothor says he's just some upjumped squire."

Sansa's acquiring a new perspective through experiential learning: understanding the bastard experience. Aww. <3

+.+.+

Petyr put his arm around her. "So he is, but he is Robert's heir as well. Bringing Harry here was the first step in our plan, but now we need to keep him, and only you can do that. He has a weakness for a pretty face, and whose face is prettier than yours? Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him."

Getting to the good stuff.

I'll tell you one thing, I have more faith in Sansa successfully accomplishing this than 6-year-old Alys Karstark.

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

"It is my own fault. My lord father told me I must charm your brother Robb, but I was only six and didn't know how."

Aye, but now you're almost six-and-ten, and we must pray you will know how to charm your new husband. - Jon X, ADWD

I've said it a million times in other Sansa chapters, so I won't elaborate, but if you truly believe Littlefinger's plan is to wed Catelyn 2.0 to imitation Brandon Stark, you might be out of your mind.

Petyr put his arm around her.

I will pluck every hair from your head, and genitals.

+.+.+

"I don't know how," she said miserably. "Oh, I think you do," said Littlefinger, with one of those smiles that did not reach his eyes.

Excluding the instance where she copied Harry's words, that is the only time she calls him Littlefinger in this chapter.

She hasn't forgotten.

+.+.+

"You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. I cannot seat you on the dais, but you'll have a place of honor above the salt and underneath a wall sconce. The fire will be shining in your hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are. Keep a good long spoon on hand to beat the squires off, sweetling. You will not want green boys underfoot when the knights come round to beg you for your favor." "Who would ask to wear a bastard's favor?"

"Harry, if he has the wits the gods gave a goose… but do not give it to him. Choose some other gallant, and favor him instead. You do not want to seem too eager."

I'd be hesitant to allow fire to shine in Sansa's hair.

This feels like a developing story. I'd love to know who is getting this favor if it's not Harry the Arse.

He had worn her favor in the Battle of the Blackwater, where he'd slain a Myrish crossbowman and a Mullendore man-at-arms. "Alyn said her favor made him fearless," said Megga. "He says he shouted her name for his battle cry, isn't that ever so gallant? Someday I want some champion to wear my favor, and kill a hundred men." - Sansa II, ASOS

x

"Saving yourself for Lord Robert?" Lady Myranda teased. "Or is there some ardent squire dreaming of your favors?" - Alayne II, AFFC

x

Edmure escorted her up the water stair and across the lower bailey, where Petyr Baelish and Brandon Stark had once crossed swords for her favor.  - Catelyn XI, AGOT

+.+.+

"Lady Waynwood will insist that Harry dance with you, I can promise you that much. That will be your chance. Smile at the boy. Touch him when you speak. Tease him, to pique his pride. If he seems to be responding, tell him that you are feeling faint, and ask him to take you outside for a breath of fresh air. No knight could refuse such a request from a fair maiden."

The above won't happen, but in her next chapter, I'll be super on edge whenever she's exposed and there aren't many people around.

+.+.+

Petyr drew her close and kissed her on both cheeks. "The night belongs to you, sweetling, Remember that, always."

I will make you deepthroat a cactus.

+.+.+

The feast proved to be everything her father promised. Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Suckling pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor's hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. And best of all, Lord Nestor's cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant's Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar. For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out. Sweetrobin loved lemon cakes too, but only after she told him that they were her favorites. The cake had required every lemon in the Vale, but Petyr had promised that he would send to Dorne for more.

A splendid subtlety, lol.

Nice, Littlefinger gifted her a giant penis. I wonder if the ones from Dorne taste any better. (I'm sorry.)

Look, it's a feast!

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

The stewards began to bring out the first dish, an onion broth flavored with bits of goat and carrot. Not precisely royal fare, but nourishing; it tasted good enough and warmed the belly. Owen the Oaf took up his fiddle, and several of the free folk joined in with pipes and drums. The same pipes and drums they played to sound Mance Rayder's attack upon the Wall. Jon thought they sounded sweeter now. With the broth came loaves of coarse brown bread, warm from the oven. Salt and butter sat upon the tables. - Jon X, ADWD

+.+.+

When the last course had been served and cleared, the tables were lifted from their trestles to clear the floor for dancing, and musicians were brought in.

[...] "As am I," Coldwater said. Rising, he offered Alayne his hand. "Would you honor me with this dance, my lady?" "You're very kind," she said, as he led her to the floor. He was her first partner of the evening, but far from the last. Just as Petyr had promised, the young knights flocked around her, vying for her favor. After Ben came Andrew Tollett, handsome Ser Byron, red-nosed Ser Morgarth, and Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse. Then Ser Albar Royce, Myranda's stout dull brother and Lord Nestor's heir. She danced with all three Sunderlands, none of whom had webs between their fingers, though she could not vouch for their toes. Uther Shett appeared to pay her slimy compliments as he trod upon her feet, but Ser Targon the Halfwild proved to be the soul of courtesy. After that Ser Roland Waynwood swept her up and made her laugh with mocking comments about half the other knights in the hall. His uncle Wallace took a turn as well and tried to do the same, but the words would not come. Alayne finally took pity on him and began to chatter happily, to spare him the embarrassment. When the dance was done she excused herself, and went back to her place to have a drink of wine.

Oh my goodness, they're dancing! Ser Jon Waynwood sounds like a hoot.

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

The queen's men outnumbered the queen's ladies three to one, so even the humblest serving girls were pressed into the dance. After a few songs some black brothers remembered skills learned at the courts and castles of their youth, before their sins had sent them to the Wall, and took the floor as well. That old rogue Ulmer of the Kingswood proved as adept at dancing as he was at archery, no doubt regaling his partners with his tales of the Kingswood Brotherhood, when he rode with Simon Toyne and Big Belly Ben and helped Wenda the White Fawn burn her mark in the buttocks of her highborn captives. Satin was all grace, dancing with three serving girls in turn but never presuming to approach a highborn lady. 

[...]

"You could dance with me, you know. It would be only courteous. You danced with me anon."

"Anon?" teased Jon.

"When we were children." She tore off a bit of bread and threw it at him. "As you know well."

"My lady should dance with her husband." - Jon X, ADWD

Dance with me, Jon Snow! You'll dance with me anon.

Don't be offended Alys, you're not the right partner.

When the musicians began to play, she timidly laid her hand on Tyrion's and said, "My lord, should we lead the dance?"

His mouth twisted. "I think we have already given them sufficent amusement for one day, don't you?" - Sansa III, ASOS

And neither was he.

I won't get too deep into each dance partner, because this post is long enough, but I'm sure you can see there's more than a few allusions to Jon (Coldwater, Tollett, Ser Byron, Royce, etc.).

Read more here:

Allusions to Jon in The Dance Partners of TWOW, Alayne I (@cappymightwrite)

+.+.+

And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. "Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?" She considered for a moment. "No. I don't think so." Color rose to his cheeks. "I was unforgivably rude to you in the yard. You must forgive me." "Must?" She tossed her hair, took a sip of wine, made him wait. "How can you forgive someone who is unforgivably rude? Will you explain that to me, ser?" Ser Harrold looked confused. "Please. One dance."

Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him. "If you insist."

Boo, hiss. Wrong dance partner!

She'll talk circles around you if you let her.

+.+.+

He nodded, offered his arm, led her out onto the floor. As they waited for the music to resume, Alayne glanced at the dais, where Lord Robert sat staring at them. Please, she prayed, don’t let him start to twitch and shake. Not here. Not now. Maester Coleman would have made certain that he drank a strong dose of sweetmilk before the feast, but even so.

Oh good, the doctor who keeps tempting fate is back.

Just give him a cup of the sweetmilk before we go, and another at the feast, and there should be no trouble."

"Very well." They paused at the foot of the stairs. "But this must be the last. For half a year, or longer." - Alayne II, AFFC

+.+.+

Instead she said, "I have heard that you are about to be a father." It was not something most girls would say to their almost-betrothed, but she wanted to see if Ser Harrold would lie. "For the second time. My daughter Alys is two years old."

Your bastard daughter Alys, Alayne thought, but what she said was, "That one had a different mother, though."

What a totally unique name we've given this kid!

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

Jon turned to Alys Karstark. "My lady. Are you ready?" - Jon X, ADWD

Did I say he's Brandon Stark? I meant Brandon Stark with a little hint of Robert Baratheon.

+.+.+

"Yes. Cissy was a pretty thing when I tumbled her, but childbirth left her as fat as a cow, so Lady Anya arranged for her to marry one of her men-at-arms. It is different with Saffron." "Saffron?" Alayne tried not to laugh. "Truly?" Ser Harrold had the grace to blush. "Her father says she is more precious to him than gold. He's rich, the richest man in Gulltown. A fortune in spices." "What will you name the babe?" she asked. "Cinnamon if she's a girl? Cloves if he's a boy?"

That roast is worthy of applause.

Fun words are everywhere!

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

"Hobb's mulled some wine with cinnamon and cloves. That'll warm us some."

"What's cloves?" asked Owen the Oaf. - Jon X, ADWD

+.+.+

"Saffron is very beautiful, I'll have you know. Tall and slim, with big brown eyes and hair like honey." Alayne raised her head. "More beautiful than me?" Ser Harrold studied her face. "You are comely enough, I grant you. When Lady Anya first told me of this match, I was afraid that you might look like your father." "Little pointy beard and all?" Alayne laughed. "I never meant..." "I hope you joust better than you talk."

I am extremely confident he does not.

Are tall girls with honey in their hair his type? Too bad.

+.+.+

For a moment he looked shocked. But as the song was ending, he burst into a laugh. "No one told me you were clever."

✨ Clever girl! ✨

Melisandre closed her eyes, remembering. "West."

"She is not coming up the kingsroad, then. Clever girl. [...]" - Melisandre I, ADWD

+.+.+

He has good teeth, she thought, straight and white. And when he smiles, he has the nicest dimples. She ran one finger down his cheek. "Should we ever wed, you'll have to send Saffron back to her father. I'll be all the spice you'll want." He grinned. "I will hold you to that promise, my lady. Until that day, may I wear your favor in the tourney?" "You may not. It is promised to… another." She was not sure who as yet, but she knew she would find someone.

Before I get to the last bit, can I tell you something?

I read a sizeable amount of fandom commentary on this chapter, and not one single person contemplated who she's saving her favor for. It didn't come up once.

People are either deliberately avoiding asking themselves that question, or they believe the ending of this chapter is insignificant, and the topic won't resurface again. I'm not sure which one annoys me more.

+.+.+

"You may not. It is promised to… another." She was not sure who as yet, but she knew she would find someone.

Now turn the page.

(-> -> -> Jon X?)

It's the Alys Karstark x Sigorn wedding chapter! Yay.

Interestingly, in the first few pages of that chapter, the author intentionally creates an initial impression that it's Jon Snow who is marrying Alys Karstark. Curious, isn't it?

Let's discuss what we know about the bride, who the author led us to believe Jon Snow was marrying.

According to the fandom, Alys Karstark is Jon Snow's girl in grey. Small problem with that, she never wears grey, and never travels near a body of water to get to Castle Black.

"I saw water. Deep and blue and still, with a thin coat of ice just forming on it. It seemed to go on and on forever."

"Long Lake. What else did you see around this girl?" - Melisandre I, ADWD

However, she was fleeing from a forced marriage. Her great-uncle has assumed the role of Lord of Karhold, and made her a match, despite lacking any rightful claim to the land or castle.

Your uncle … would that be Lord Arnolf?" "He is no lord," Alys said scornfully. [...] Uncle Arnolf is only castellan. - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

"Lysa was murdered before the document could be presented for her signature, so I signed as Lord Protector. I knew that would have been her wish." - Sansa I, AFFC

The marriage is to her uncle, Cregan Karstark. Sorry, I should clarify this uncle isn't actually her uncle, it's just what they call him.

He's my great-uncle, actually, my father's uncle. Cregan is his son. I suppose that makes him a cousin, but we always called him uncle. Now they mean to make me call him husband. - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

"Wed?" Sansa was stunned. "You and my aunt?" - Sansa VI, ASOS

x

"I am Alayne, Father. Who else would I be?" - Sansa I, AFFC

Perhaps you're wondering how we arrived at this point. Long ago, Alys' father desired her to marry the future Lord of Winterfell. Unfortunately, at that time, she was too young to captivate him with her charm.

"It is my own fault. My lord father told me I must charm your brother Robb, but I was only six and didn't know how." - Jon X, ADWD

↓

Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him. "If you insist." - Alayne I, TWOW

Instead, she was betrothed to Daryn Hornwood, and they were patiently awaiting her coming of age.

Before the war I was betrothed to Daryn Hornwood. We were only waiting till I flowered to be wed - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

If they do that … why, then we shall know that there is no taint in your blood, and when you come into the flower of your womanhood, you shall wed the king in the Great Sept of Baelor, before the eyes of gods and men. - Sansa IV, AGOT

Sadly, Daryn Hornwood died in the war. Rickard Karstark was forced to find her another lord to marry.

My father wrote that he would find some southron lord to wed me, but he never did. - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. - Sansa III, AGOT

Of course all that went to shit when Rickard Karstark got his head cut off.

Your brother Robb cut off his head for killing Lannisters. - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

"But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" - Arya V, AGOT

Now, it's worth mentioning that Alys' older brother Harrion is the rightful heir to Karhold. However, if he were to die, Alys would inherit Karhold, which ambitious men like her uncles are aware of.

Should my brother die, Karhold should pass to me, but my uncles want my birthright for their own. - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

"But he does not know you," Dontos insisted, "and he will not love you. Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It's your claim they mean to wed."

[...]

She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn't matter, there's still Robb, he's a man grown now, and soon he'll wed and have a son. - Sansa II, ASOS

x

"The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name," his uncle Kevan put in. "Had that not occurred to you?" - Tyrion IV, ASOS

x

"Winterfell has withstood fiercer enemies than me. It is Winterfell, is it not?"

"Yes," Sansa admitted.

He walked along outside the walls. "I used to dream of it, in those years after Cat went north with Eddard Stark. In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold." - Sansa VII, ASOS

Thankfully, most people in this story are familiar with the rules of succession.

If her brother is dead, Karhold belongs to Lady Alys. - Jon X, ADWD

↓

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." - Jon IV, ADWD

Hence, the arranged marriage. Enter Cregan Karstark, a dangerous man who covets her birthright. He has a dark history, having buried multiple wives, and he would no longer need Alys if she ever had his child.

Once Cregan gets a child by me they won't need me anymore. He's buried two wives already. - Jon IX, ADWD

↓

"Only Cat." He gave her a short, sharp shove.

Lysa stumbled backward, her feet slipping on the wet marble. - Sansa VII, ASOS

x

Arya's gone, the same as Bran and Rickon, and they'll kill Sansa too once the dwarf gets a child from her. - Catelyn V, ASOS

Fear not, for this story finds a happy ending. Before her not-uncle can get his hands on her, our hero Jon Snow intervenes and arranges a marriage between Alys and a wildling, ensuring her safety and happiness.

"So," said Alys, as Jon poured, "I am now a woman wed. A wildling husband with his own little wildling army." - Jon X, ADWD

↓

I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. - Jon X, ADWD

The guy is such a white knight, he even daydreams of gifting her Cregan's head! (Thank you @that-plo-koon for that one.)

I should make his head a wedding gift for Lady Alys and her Magnar, Jon thought, but dare not take the risk. - Jon X, ADWD

↓

[...] wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. - Sansa VI, AGOT

x

"Tromp tromp I'm a giant, I'm a giant," he chanted. "Ho ho ho, open your gates or I'll mash them and smash them." - Sansa VII

[...]

A mad rage seized hold of her. She picked up a broken branch and smashed the torn doll's head down on top of it, then pushed it down atop the shattered gatehouse of her snow castle. The servants looked aghast, but when Littlefinger saw what she'd done he laughed. "If the tales be true, that's not the first giant to end up with his head on Winterfell's walls." - Sansa VII, ASOS

Isn't that a great story? Other than a few amusing nuggets, that mostly covers everything.

My brother Harry is the rightful lord - Jon IX, ADWD [Brother Harry]

↓

"Harry the Heir?" - Alayne II, AFFC [Father Harry]

x

Jon turned to Alys Karstark. "My lady. Are you ready?" - Jon X, ADWD [Sister Alys]

↓

Your bastard daughter Alys, Alayne thought - Alayne I, TWOW [Daughter Alys]

So that's Alys Karstark, the girl George had us believing Jon Snow was marrying, in a chapter likely intended to follow this one.

While we're on the topic of that Jon Snow fakeout wedding, can I tell you what my favourite passage was?

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled. - Jon X, ADWD

Ha ha ha! Me too, bud. I am also reminded of your little sister.

Boy, what a ride that was.

Final thoughts:

Fam,

WE DID IT!

I can't believe I finished.

-> return to menu <-

[francesminos-tt]

Lucemond a/b/o where omega Lucerys has a bastard son and he is under no illusion to believe the other father would recognize this child. Why would he? Aemond despises Luke for taking his eye, and the only night they lay together is after that dreadful family dinner. This child is not born with love and passion but with bitterness and vengeance.

The year is 134 AC. It’s been 5 years since the harshest winter hit Westeros and brought with it the plague known as the Winter Fever. The plague claimed many lives, men and women, lords and peasants alike, including the former king’s hand, Otto Hightower. History would say the dance of the dragons ends before it can even begin. Ironically, it was the plague that prevented this bloodshed.

Lucerys is lord of the tides for 2 years now, after the sea snake succumbed to the plague. He is also the father of a 5-year-old bastard, Laenor Stone, who was born during an epic blizzard when Lucerys took shelter in his grandmother Aemma’s maiden home. Since then, Laenor Stone lives in the ancient castle of Heart’s Home, which belonged to house corbray.

The citadel just announced the great news that the longest winter since conqueror’s time had finally ended. Luke’s younger brother, Ser Joffrey bears the good news and repeats the Queen’s request for her second-born to return to court.

Spring is coming and there is a grand tourney hold to celebrate the union between Aegon and Jacaerys. The betrothal of the alpha crown prince and the omega “usurper” is written in history as the Great Comprise.

Luke asks for the Queen permission to let Laenor become Jace’s ward. If all plays well, his son could make a fine king’s guard with no lands, no wives and no titles. It’s a suitable position for a bastard. Aemond doesn’t have to know because Luke doesn’t plan to tell him and thank the seven Laenor has brown hair.

Aemond, on the other hand, is man of the past. The alpha is still bitter that his mother, the dowager queen Alicent has to go back to old town after she barely survived from the plague. Helaena volunteered to go with her. It’s all Aegon’s fault that he bent the knee to Rhaenyra shortly after Otto’s death.

No. Aemond was ready to fight if not for Alicent’s sudden illness. He is still ready to fight. And that hateful whore Lucerys dares to put his bastard son under Aegon’s care. It’s like a blow to the face. Aemond would not stand such humiliation.

[littlefeatherr]

First Lady by bayyardwu

Alayne could not help herself. She smiled and said, “My father is always pleased to be of service to one of Lord Robert’s leal bannermen. I’m sure he would be most delighted to help broker a marriage for you as well, Ser Lyn.”

“How kind of him.” Corbray’s lips drew back in something that might have been meant as a smile, though it gave Alayne a chill. “But what need have I for heirs when I am landless and like to remain so, thanks to our Lord Protector? No. Tell your lord father I need none of his brood mares.”

The venom in his voice was so thick that for a moment she almost forgot that Lyn Corbray was actually her father’s catspaw, bought and paid for. Or was he? Perhaps, instead of being Petyr’s man pretending to be Petyr’s foe, he was actually his foe pretending to be his man pretending to be his foe. Just thinking about it was enough to make her head spin.

Alayne I, The Winds of Winter

[targsource]

TARGARYEN PORTRAITS: PART 4

by riotarttherite on twitter

featuring: Lady Jocelyn Baratheon (1), Lord Rodrik Arryn (2), Ser Corwyn Corbray (3), Ser Garmund Hightower (4), King Aegon III (5), King Daeron I (6), King Baelor (7), Princess Daena (8), Septa Rhaena (9), Princess Elaena (10)

[nrilliree]

When I uploaded a map, Greens wrote "but there were more people living in the green territories, so it doesn't count!" So now I'll put it another way:

Team Black:

Velaryon

Celtigar

Staunton

Massey

Emmon

Darklyn

Bracken

Hayford

Harte

Crabb

Brune of Brownhollow

Brune of the Dyre Den

Stark

Dustin

Manderly

Cerwyn

Hornwood

Tully

Butterwell

Strong

Mooton

Darry

Frey

Blackwood

Charlton

Mallister

Piper

Vance

Smallwood

Deddings

Perryn

Chambers

Bigglestone

Penny

Grey

Wode

Beesbury

Caswell

Costayne,

Footly

Grimm

Merryweather

Mullendore

Oakheart

Rowan

Tarly

Buckler

Fell

Arryn,

Borrell

Corbray

Royce

Sunderland

Team Green:

Hightower

Lannister

Wylde

Peake,

Fossoway,

Ambrose

Rodden

Graceford,

Leygood

Butterwell

Rosby

Bourney

Mooton

Lefford

Swyft

Reyne

Redwyne

Baratheon

Swann

Tully

Vance

High Council of the Triarchy

Three unnamed lords and landed knights, slain during the Second Battle of Tumbleton

I guess we all know why Alicent and Otto preferred to take over the throne rather than calling a meeting of the great council?

[aegor-bamfsteel]

Why do you think George says that GOT Littlefinger isn't asoiaf Littlefinger? Except the whole stupid plot of marrying off Sansa to Ramsay, I don't see much difference between the book and show version. I really apologise if it's coming of as too argumentative.

I don’t think you’re coming off as argumentative, but I don’t know what else to say about show vs book Littlefinger that I haven’t already said in the previous ask, or what GRRM said in a Machiavelli documentary:

Book Littlefinger and television show Littlefinger are very different characters. They’re probably the character that’s most different from the book to the television show. There was a a line in a recent episode of the show where, he’s not even present, but two people are talking about him and someone says ‘Well, no one trusts Littlefinger’ and ‘Littlefinger has no friends.’ And that’s true of television show Littlefinger, but it’s certainly not true of book Littlefinger. Book Littlefinger, in the book, everybody trusts him. Everybody trusts him because he seems powerless, and he’s very friendly, and he’s very helpful. He helps Ned Stark when he comes to town, he helps Tyrion, you know, he helps the Lannisters. He’s always ready to help, to raise money. He helps Robert, Robert depends on him to finance all of his banquets and tournaments and his other follies, because Littelfinger can always raise money. So, he’s everybody’s friend. But of course there’s the Machiavellian thing. He’s, you know, everybody trusts him, everybody depends on him. He’s not a threat. He’s just this helpful, funny guy, who you can call upon to do whatever you want, and to raise money, and he ingratiaties himself with people and rises higher and higher as a result.

He’s saying that showFinger is an obviously evil beard-stroking villain wearing dark clothes with a bad reputation nobody should trust with their plans. By contrast, bookFinger is a helpful, witty guy wearing bright clothes who is willing to raise money for the higher ups. A minor lord like him couldn’t possibly have goals that involve getting the powerful people to destroy each other while they promote him because he’s obviously no threat. Keep in mind we’re still debating what exactly his goals are, and if Lysa hadn’t spilled the beans about Jon Arryn’s death, we would be even more in the dark about what he’s actually done.

A contrast is how they respond when swords are pointed at them. In the oh-so-amazing “power is power” solipsistic scene in the show, Showfinger boasts to Cersei about how he’s so powerful because he knows things, so in response she has a bunch of men hold him at sword point to show him she could have him killed at a moment’s notice. Bookfinger would never get himself into that situation because that’d be showing his hand and getting a valuable ally to distrust him. When he does get a sword pointed at him, it’s because he paid Lyn Corbray to cause a ruckus at the Lord’s Declarant meeting, buying him valuable time while looking like the wronged party. Sansa figured this out with few clues, but it had to be told because it’s so subtle (who could guess a hotheaded swordsman from an ancient family would be in Littlefinger’s service?). And that’s what GRRM was saying about book versus show Littlefinger: the show version lacks the subtlety that made the book version such a secretly powerful enemy.

[goodqueenaly]

I would like to think that the reason Waymar Royce avoided sleeping under Craster’s roof was more noble than selfish. After all, we have in the examples of Waymar’s (male) family members men who, while certainly not immune to the sort of personal and political ambitions common to Westerosi blue bloods, uphold a certain moral standard at the same time. If Ser Robar Royce sought out a place in Renly’s Rainbow Guard to win the sort of personal glory denied to nobly born second sons, and approached war with a lightness that disturbed Catelyn, he still prioritized honor enough to sacrifice himself so that two innocent women could escape the site of (and blame for) Renly’s murder. If Lord Yohn Royce sought and cultivated the favor and control of both the young Lord Arryn and his somewhat older heir presumptive, Bronze Yohn nevertheless exploded with fury at Lyn Corbray’s (staged) attempt to breach the ancient tradition of guest right during their conference at the Eyrie. Nor was Waymar himself personally bereft of a sense of honor, as demonstrated in his fatal determination to defend the Night’s Watch even against a supernatural enemy he could not have hoped to defeat.

So perhaps Ser Waymar, coming across Craster’s Keep on his very first command ranging, decided that he was not going to condone the same blind-eye allowance of Craster’s rape and slavery of his daughters and “wives” which other Night’s Watch officers allowed when they stopped over with Craster. How, perhaps Waymar might have thought, could he respect the chivalric charge to protect women and the innocent (as Robar Royce would do for Catelyn and Brienne) while sitting by as Craster verbally and physically abused the women and girls in his household? (To say nothing of Craster’s sacrifice of his sons, which admittedly Waymar does not seem to have known about.) Did Waymar, as Jon would in ACOK, decide that Craster was akin to an unjust bannerman, more fit to be hanged than to be trusted as even an uncertain ally? Consequently, did Waymar make the choice Jon would - to reject the obligations of guest right, that socio-political tradition which would in the future be so vigorously defended by his own father?

Of course it’s possible that this refusal was simply a reflection of Waymar’s aristocratic arrogance - that Ser Waymar found the midden heap of Craster’s Keep too humble and impoverished to house him, the knightly son of a great lord of the Vale and an officer of the Night’s Watch. Yet I feel like the more interesting reading is to view Waymar as a sort of proto or imperfect Jon Snow. Just as Ser Waymar was another privileged but extraneous aristocratic scion whose socio-political position virtually required that he pursue a career in the Night’s Watch - and as Waymar and Jon both hold to the fundamental mission of the Night’s Watch against the Others, with Jon perhaps eventually succeeding where Waymar (not for lack of trying) failed - so perhaps Waymar and Jon shared a feudal/chivalric disgust in the unjust actions of Craster.

[wweskywalker]

“When the Hand asked if she had any favorites amongst the lords and knights who had paid her suit, she confessed that she was “especially fond” of Ser Corwyn Corbray, whom she had first met in the Vale whilst a ward of Lady Arryn.”

[atopvisenyashill]

DAEMON BALLFYRE THEORY

it’s an unserious name but a serious theory!!!

WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT QUENTYN BALL

If Daemon had ridden over Gwayne Corbray . . . if Fireball had not been slain on the eve of battle . .

-small mention from eustace in the sword sword

For his hot head and red hair. Ser Quentyn Ball was the master-at-arms at the Red Keep. He taught my father and my uncles how to fight. The Great Bastards too. King Aegon promised to raise him to the Kingsguard, so Fireball made his wife join the silent sisters, only by the time a place came open, King Aegon was dead and King Daeron named Ser Willam Wylde instead. My father says that it was Fireball as much as Bittersteel who convinced Daemon Blackfyre to claim the crown, and rescued him when Daeron sent the Kingsguard to arrest him. Later on, Fireball killed Lord Lefford at the gates of Lannisport and sent the Grey Lion running back to hide inside the Rock. At the crossing of the Mandel, he cut down the sons of Lady Penrose one by one. They say he spared the life of the youngest one as a kindness to his mother.

-egg says this in the mystery knight, bolded parts mine

Daemon was the name Daena gave to this child, for Prince Daemon had been the wonder and the terror of his age, and in later days that was seen as a warning of what the boy would become. Daemon Waters was his full name when he was born in 170 AC. At that time, Daena refused to name the father, but even then Aegon's involvement was suspected. Raised at the Red Keep, this handsome youth was given the instruction of the wisest maesters and the best masters-at-arms at court, including Ser Quentyn Ball, the fiery knight called Fireball. He loved nothing better than deeds of arms and excelled at them, and many saw in him a warrior who would one day be another Dragonknight.

The king sent the Kingsguard to arrest Daemon before he could take his plans for treason any further. Daemon was forewarned, and with the help of the famously hot-tempered knight Ser Quentyn Ball, called Fireball, he was able to escape the Red Keep safely. Daemon Blackfyre's allies used this attempted arrest as a cause for war, claiming that Daeron had acted against Daemon out of no more than baseless fear. Others still named him Daeron Falseborn, repeating the calumny that Aegon the Unworthy himself was said to have circulated in the later years of his reign: that he had been sired not by the king but by his brother, the Dragonknight.

-these are both from TWOIAF, again bolded and italicized parts mine.

WHAT STICKS OUT TO ME

Quentyn is married, a landless knight, and clearly older than Daena - it’s not just about a man “spoiling” a young, royal maiden but imo also that Quentyn specifically would get in a LOT of trouble because he is low class (see: Bonifer & Rhaella) and married to boot

He was master at arms, which gives him the ability to be in Daemon’s life without arousing suspicion from anyone, and also proximity to Daena to allow for an affair, even with her on the Maidenvault.

He’s name dropped SEVERAL times and he’s clearly very important to the founding of the Blackfyre Rebellion despite being both very lowborn and also dying in a kinda lame way (not even during the battle, just by a lone archer)

He wanted so badly to be on the kingsguard he forced his wife into the Silent Sisters, only to be denied by Daeron

He seemed to be on good terms with Aegon IV

Everyone seems real sure that the daddy was Aegon and we’re not given a reason why

Aegon doesn’t claim Daemon as his bastard until after (presumably) Daena has died

Also, Aegon doesn’t claim Daemon as his bastard until after all of the Great Bastards have been born

EYE think that Aegon IV was purposefully trying to have a bastard that could challenge Daeron, and that his affairs weren’t just like lust, boredom, wanting to disrespect Naerys & Aemon, etc. There is, imo, a shift in his mistresses being just, any woman he has access to - Falena, Bellegere, Cassella, and Meg - to woman who are highborn maidens from powerful families in Westeros - the Blackwoods, Brackens, and Lothstons. Even Serenei fits in here, given that Targ-looking wives from Lys & Volantis are not uncommon before or after Aegon IV. He’s even mentioned as still having a role in Aegor’s life by visiting him, potentially trying to groom him to rebel. But then everything with the Brackens blows up in his face (which is his own fault tbc), and Brynden is an emo fuck with red eyes, and Shiera is a girl. Then Daena dies…..and an opportunity opens up. Daemon looks like a Targaryen, no one knows who the father is, but for some reason everyone already suspects him (imo this is due to Rhaenyra’s boys looking like Harwin - like just a misogyny thing that SURELY Daemon couldn’t get his look from his mother alone, look at Rhaenyra’s kids vs Alicent’s), so publicly claiming Daena’s child at last gives him the perfect rival against Daeron.

ALSO, we have a few times in the story where someone joins the Kingsguard to be closer to a woman they want to protect - Aemon & Naerys, Jaime & Cersei, and Loras & Margaery. I think Lewyn & Elia likely fall under this as well. I think it makes sense Quentyn would see joining the Kingsguard as an opportunity to be closer to both Daena & Daemon especially given his low class status; skilled knights can rise to the Kingsguard even from lowborn or baseborn backgrounds. ALSO ALSO again, our only evidence of Aegon IV being the dad is, ya know, Aegon himself. Daena stayed silent her entire life on the subject. I like to think she had a reason for this - not that she protecting Aegon, but that she was protecting Quentyn.

[allyriadayne]

if jace survived who do you think would be his hand of the king?

i talked a little bit about this here where if jace becomes king he keeps corlys for a time, but dismisses him for being a traitor at the end, but to make this short, two answers:

in my heart, and because i'm very biased and if you think about it it does make a bit of sense: tyland. hear me out, after the war, like it happens in f&b there will be a lot of lords trying to get a say in how a young king, jace in this case, has to run the realm esp if he doesn't want to repeat the mistakes of the past. again, there is a lot of pushing to forgive the lords on the green's side and forget all about it. i really don't see jace actually forgetting about it lmao but i think if he can't flush out the people he doesn't trust bc they supported the greens that fast, he could find some kind of kinship with tyland. who as we saw was perfectly unoffensive, or at least cunning enough to appear so in canon, and also a more or less able administrator. he keeps this job at least until jace either trusts him or he finds another to take his job, someone entirely loyal.

this one is more speculation based because after transitioning to a more stable and peaceful reign, let's even say it's chronological 1) corlys (switched sides at the end) > tyland (jace couldn't see past his green past or dies like in canon) then the next option will be someone jace knows his loyalties or at least someone who will not get in jace's way (micromanaging the realm babyyyy). i think he would choose someone older, to counterbalance his youth and someone not so controversial to balance again his controversial birth. but maybe not a great lord who will feel he's too important to serve a bastard. i kinda been thinking of maester gerardys? to make a call back to jaehaerys and barth but i think any minor lord from the blacks could be good enough for jace. i think.......corwyn corbray? loyal, close family for being rhaena's husband, minor enough, a second son, and from one of the big regions that supported rhaenyra. he also was one of the regents for aegon iii.

[jackoshadows]

To get an idea of how unreasonable Catelyn’s hatred and prejudice against Jon Snow was, remember that Cat would rather have some unknown, distant cousin from the Vale get Winterfell rather than Ned’s son who grew up in Winterfell. Especially remarkable when the knights of the Vale under Lysa Arryn refused to fight for Robb and the North. So there is literally no benefit in naming them heir to Winterfell and the North.

“No,” Catelyn agreed. “You must name another heir, until such time as Jeyne gives you a son.” She considered a moment. “Your father’s father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest . . . it might have been a Templeton, but . . .”

“Mother.” There was a sharpness in Robb’s tone. “You forget. My father had four sons.” - Catelyn V, ASoS

Catelyn wants a temporary heir until Jeyne has a son (I love how confident Catelyn is that Jeyne will have a son!) and she thinks the distant Vale cousin - a Waynwood, Corbray or Templeton - whom she has never met, is the logical choice here. This makes no sense as Robb points out to her.

She had not forgotten; she had not wanted to look at it, yet there it was. “A Snow is not a Stark.”

“Jon’s more a Stark than some lordlings from the Vale who have never so much as set eyes on Winterfell.”

She then argues that a legitimate Jon Stark’s sons would be a threat to Robb’s sons by Jeyne. This implies that she thinks a Corbray or a Templeton or a Waynwood’s future sons will be more trustworthy than Jon’s sons. Why? Is it because Jon is a bastard and therefore his children of bastard blood are destined to be untrustworthy compared to trueborn children? 

“ I know you trust Jon. But can you trust his sons? Or their sons? The Blackfyre pretenders troubled the Targaryens for five generations, until Barristan the Bold slew the last of them on the Stepstones. If you make Jon legitimate, there is no way to turn him bastard again. Should he wed and breed, any sons you may have by Jeyne will never be safe.”

If we take Lyonel Corbray as the Vale cousin, then Catelyn is saying that his heir Lyn Corbray is more trustworthy than Jon Stark’s future children....

Here is where it gets interesting and is possible foreshadowing for how the Stark succession is finally decided.

“Jon would never harm a son of mine.” “No more than Theon Greyjoy would harm Bran or Rickon?” Grey Wind leapt up atop King Tristifer’s crypt, his teeth bared. Robb’s own face was cold. “That is as cruel as it is unfair. Jon is no Theon.”

“So you pray. Have you considered your sisters? What of their rights? I agree that the north must not be permitted to pass to the Imp, but what of Arya? By law, she comes after Sansa . . . your own sister, trueborn . . .”

This almost feels like the author winking to the readers when Catelyn asks Robb if Jon Stark would give way to Arya Stark. Knowing what readers know of how much these two care for each other, the answer from us to Catelyn would be a resounding yes! Yes, Jon Stark would give way to Arya Stark.

I also strongly feel that it will be Arya who will crown Jon Snow as King in the North by the end of TWoW - Jon gives Arya a sword and Arya will give Jon the arms ( "Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.”) - and in ADoS we will see Jon giving way to Arya as Lady of Winterfell/Wardeness of the North.

[stromuprisahat]

Fewer than a dozen maids remained, and the press had thinned considerably, when a sudden trumpet blast heralded the arrival of Baela Velaryon and Rhaena Corbray. The doors to the throne room were thrown open, and the daughters of Prince Daemon entered upon a blast of winter air. Lady Baela was great with child, Lady Rhaena wan and thin from her miscarriage, yet seldom had they seemed more as one. Both were dressed in gowns of soft black velvet with rubies at their throats, and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on their cloaks. Mounted on a pair of coal black chargers, the twins rode the length of the hall side by side. When Ser Marston Waters of the Kingsguard blocked their path and demanded they dismount, Lady Baela slashed him across the cheek with her riding crop. “His Grace my brother can command me. You cannot.” At the foot of the Iron Throne they reined up. Lord Unwin rushed forward, demanding to know the meaning of this. The twins paid him no more heed than they would a serving man. “Brother,” Lady Rhaena said to Aegon, “if it please you, we have brought your new queen.” Her lord husband, Ser Corwyn Corbray, brought the girl forward. A gasp went through the hall. “Lady Daenaera of House Velaryon,” boomed out the herald, somewhat hoarsely, “daughter of the late and lamented Daeron of that house and his lady wife, Hazel of House Harte, also departed, a ward of Lady Baela of House Targaryen and Alyn the Oakenfist of House Velaryon, Lord Admiral, Master of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.” Daenaera Velaryon was an orphan. Her mother had been carried off by the Winter Fever; her father had died in the Stepstones when his True Heart went down. His own father had been that Ser Vaemond beheaded by Queen Rhaenyra, but Daeron had been reconciled with Lord Alyn and had died fighting for him. As she stood before the king that Maiden’s Day, clad in pale white silk, Myrish lace, and pearls, her long hair shining in the torchlight and her cheeks flush with excitement, Daenaera was but six years old, yet so beautiful she took the breath away. The blood of Old Valyria was strong in her, as is oft seen in the sons and daughters of the seahorse; her hair was silver laced with gold, her eyes as blue as a summer sea, her skin as smooth and pale as winter snow. “She sparkled,” Mushroom says, “and when she smiled, the singers in the galley rejoiced, for they knew that here at last was a maid worthy of a song.” Daenaera’s smile transformed her face, men agreed; it was sweet and bold and mischievious, all at once. Those who saw it could not fail to think, “Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.” When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost. The last few maidens were brought forward hurriedly to do their turns, but the king’s desire to put an end to the parade was so palpable that poor Henrietta Woodhull was sobbing as she curtsied. As she was led away, King Aegon summoned his young cupbearer, Gaemon Palehair. To him was given the honor of making the announcement. “His Grace will marry Lady Daenaera of House Velaryon!” Gaemon shouted happily.

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

I need a painting of the twins on their horses. Blood of the Dragon, bitches!