#the dornish plot

[catofoldstones]

Okay but Doran is such a Tired Dad™ lol. His daughter is actively working against him, literally planning a coup in the adjacent kingdom they have been warring with till only a 100 years back. Not to mention his well-educated, politically savvy, kill machines of nieces who have always been too hot to handle are now are specifically hell bent on revenge lmao

[lagosbratzdoll]

Whenever I see adaptations of novels, comics, and games that elevate the source material, I get deeply and monstrously bitter. Wheel of Time, Foundation, Percy Jackson, The Boys, Outlander, Big Little Lies, Pachinko, Sharp Objects, WATCHMEN!!! All are so good, so beautifully written and moving that when you stack shit like Game of Thrones beside them, it falls flat on its face.

I still think about Jon telling Angela that he is in every moment they spent together all at once. Every time I think about Watchmen S01E9, my throat gets tight and my mouth wobbles. A triumph of storytelling. When you compare this with the disappointment that is Game of Thrones, it becomes clear that being mediocre, white, and a man often leads to success even when you fail.

I get angry because it’s possible to take novels/comics with so many moving parts and rich history, update them for our time and make the rich source material even richer. Those men just didn’t know how. 

And before anyone says the first three seasons are good. Are they? Are they really? Or are we just blinded by the perceived faithfulness to GRRM’s work when we weigh it against the utter shit show that was the last season? The show lifts all the best parts wholesale from the books and magnifies all the worst parts. 

They portrayed the Dothraki with a lack of care compared to the Free Folk. They furthered the lack of non-white perspectives by erasing what little we had. Presenting freedom as if it is worse than chattel slavery. The extinction of the Dothraki in service of white Northerners who were less than welcoming. 

The show does not name more than half of Daenerys' more prominent Dothraki characters on screen. Killing Irri, Jhiqui and Doreah to further isolate Daenerys. Transferring all the better traits from women to the men in their lives. Turning Jorah from an old paedophilic creep into whatever the fuck that was on the show. Alluding to the “first they came” poem for rapists, slavers and other monsters. Peddling the gentle slave-owner myth as if owning a person is not inherently violent. 

Having Missandei be beheaded in chains to fuel madness for literally no reason. Cersei could’ve bargained for her life or at least some concession from Daenerys with Missandei’s life, but they have her behead Missandei for no other reason than to piss off a woman with a large army and an even larger dragon. It made little sense then, and it makes even less sense now. 

I know it’s a bit much to still be so affected by that dumpster fire almost a decade in, but I saw that interview with those idiots yesterday, and I have been furious ever since. 

[visenyaism]

truly am pouring one out for you (and me) after seeing confirmed white baelor breakspear 🫡

[starry-eyer]

god tywin lannister deserved worse

just remembering elias death and i wanna puke and the way tywin talks about elia and what happened is so damn gross

but rip tommen and myrcella we all know what’s about to happen in the next book :/

the cycle of violence just keeps spinning and damn you tywin for beginning it

(i got a bit crazy in the tags 💀)

[baashirdayne]

The Dornish War || The Valyrian War

Month 1: The Fall of Alicent

Week 1: Alicent dies in the infirmary, with Doran Uller playing a role in her death to prevent her from leaving the West. Her discovery sparks a series of covert actions.

Week 2: First Minister Baashir Dayne's brother impersonates him to maintain the facade of stability while Lord Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood sneak off to the Crownlands disguised as men of House Marbrand.

Month 2: Chaos in New Valyria and the Marches

Week 1: In New Valyria, chaos erupts as smoke and flames rise, igniting the pit. An explosion occurs, leading to crumbling walls and widespread panic, attributed to Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood. Simultaneously, the keep of Hayford is set ablaze by Lords Dastan Allyrion and Ryon Wyl, who have returned to Dorne with valuable secrets.

Week 2: The Wyl of Wyl returns from the Westerlands, where the fighting intensifies in the Dornish marches. He captures a Dondarrion lord as a hostage, signifying a shift in tactics with intentions to take more captives.

Week 3: Lord Deimos Velaryon also captures a Dayne brother in the Marches, escalating the situation further.

Month 3: Siege and Naval Conflicts

Week 1: Lord Wyl and Fowler manage to break the siege at Nightsong, discovering the young Caron lord dead, though the Caron line persists.

Week 2: The Summer Islanders provide ships to Dorne during their visit. These vessels are utilized to launch an attack on the Weeping Town, unaware that Lord Tarth has been guarding the seas.

Week 3: A naval confrontation ensues as Lord Tarth and forces from Houses Wylde and Swann push back against the Wyl men at sea and in the town.

Week 4: In the Marches, First Minister Baashir Dayne and Lord Armaan Yronwood find themselves engaged in a tough battle against the Unsullied, with both sides stalemated. A temporary lull occurs as Silverwing appears in the sky, prompting the Dornish to retreat underground and conduct night attacks.

Month 4: The Wrath of King Jaehaerys II

Week 1: King Jaehaerys II Targaryen dismounts his dragon, intending to join the fray himself. He rallies his troops, engaging in fierce combat with the Dornish fighters. As the battle intensifies, he signals his dragon to take to the skies for a brief respite, planning for her to fly away and rest before returning.

Week 2: However, as Jaehaerys II fights on the ground, the dragon is forced back into action. She swoops down, unleashing fiery destruction upon the Dornish lines, incinerating clusters of warriors. The Dornish forces are compelled to regroup to prevent the Unsullied from advancing too deeply into their territory.

Week 3: In a desperate countermeasure, a coalition forms among the Dornish leaders. Prince Ravi Martell, First Minister Baashir Dayne, and Lord Doran Uller each oversee the deployment of giant crossbows, known as Scorpions. These massive weapons are strategically positioned to target the dragon as she reigns fire from above.

Week 4: The tension reaches its peak as the battle rages on. As Jaehaerys II’s dragon soars above, the three leaders coordinate their efforts, launching a volley of bolts into the sky. The sound of the Scorpions firing echoes across the plains of Dorne, with each bolt seeking its mark as the Dornish forces hold their breath in anticipation.

Climactic Moment: Suddenly, one of the Scorpion bolts strikes true, finding its target. The dragon emits a deafening roar before plummeting from the sky, engulfed in flames and smoke. Chaos ensues on the battlefield as soldiers scramble in shock. It remains unclear whose bolt delivered the fatal blow—whether it was Prince Ravi's forces, Baashir Dayne's, or Doran Uller's—that finally brought down the beast.

Aftermath: The death of the dragon shifts the tides of battle. Dornish fighters, now emboldened by their victory, push back against the Unsullied, reclaiming lost ground. The atmosphere is charged with a mixture of triumph and sorrow as the Dornish forces honor their fallen while preparing for the challenges that lie ahead, knowing the conflict is far from over.

[ Note: All muses in Dorne and New Valyria (Males Only for New Valyria) can take part in the fighting happening in the various locations in the Dornish marches. This is a timeline for about three months in the time after leaving the West. A post of plotting and planning from the New Valyria side ]

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

The Valyrian War || The Dornish War

Timeline from the POV of King Jaehaerys II’s Realms: The Stormlands and Crownlands of New Valyria

Month 1: The Fall of Alicent

Week 1: Queen Alicent, beloved by many, dies in the infirmary, and whispers of foul play spread quickly. Her body is recovered by King Jaehaerys II, who hastily leaves the West to return to King's Landing, bringing the Queen's remains with him. The loss of the queen ignites the realm, and rumors circulate that she was murdered by someone in the West, stirring unrest among both the nobility and smallfolk alike.

Week 2: As Jaehaerys II approaches the Red Keep, the people of the Crownlands, especially in King's Landing, gather in the streets to witness the somber procession of the Queen's body. Tensions rise as grief turns into outrage, fueled by the suspicion of murder. Upon entering the Council chambers, King Jaehaerys’ grief manifests as an explosive fury. His booming rage shakes the walls of the keep, a terrifying reminder of his father’s temper. With none able to provide answers for Alicent's death, Jaehaerys demands justice, vowing retribution.

Week 3: The King sends his Stormlords to the Marches, determined to bring Dornish forces to heel. Lord Wylliam Swann and Morgan Wylde are dispatched to the front lines. However, Lord Lucerys Estermont is ordered back to Estermont lands, charged with guarding the coasts and reinforcing naval defenses, particularly against any attempted Dornish seaborne attacks. Lord Tarth, soon to join Lucerys, is to ensure no Dornish forces slip through the narrow waters. The Velaryon Fleet has not been called but has been ordered to wait for the King's orders should they be needed.

Month 2: Chaos in New Valyria and the Marches

Week 1: Chaos erupts in New Valyria as an explosion rocks the city. Smoke rises as flames consume parts of the pit, a ploy orchestrated by Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood. Panic spreads in the Crownlands as Hayford Keep is set ablaze, the work of Dastan Allyrion and Ryon Wyl, who flee to Dorne carrying critical secrets that could shift the balance of power.

Week 2: In the Marches, Dornish forces, emboldened by their covert successes, push harder against the Stormlords. Lord Wyl returns from the Westerlands, where battles have grown fiercer. He captures a Dondarrion lord, sending a chilling message to the Stormlands. Lord Deimos Velaryon, Master of Ships, strikes back in retaliation, taking a Dayne brother hostage, escalating the conflict between the two regions.

Week 3: As the fighting intensifies, Stormlords find themselves engaged in bloody skirmishes across the Marches, particularly at Nightsong, where they face mounting resistance from Dornish forces. The Crownlands are shaken by the continued unrest in New Valyria, but Jaehaerys' focus remains steadfast on crushing the Dornish threat.

Month 3: Siege and Naval Conflicts

Week 1: Lords Wyl and Fowler successfully break the siege of Nightsong, but the victory is bittersweet. The young Caron lord is found dead, though the Caron line persists through distant kin. Tensions between the Dornish and Stormlanders remain high, with neither side willing to concede.

Week 2: In the seas near the Stormlands, Dorne receives unexpected aid from the Summer Islanders, who provide ships for an attack on Weeping Town. Lord Tarth, having fortified the coastline, intercepts the Dornish fleet. The naval skirmish between Lord Tarth, Morgan Wylde, and the forces from House Swann pushes back the Dornish, who had hoped to catch them off guard.

Week 3: Battles rage at sea and along the coast, as Tarth's forces battle Wyl and his men. The clash extends inland, with the Dornish retreating.

Week 4: In the heart of the Marches, Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood clash with the Unsullied forces brought by Jaehaerys. The fighting reaches a stalemate as both sides find it difficult to gain the upper hand. Just when the Dornish think they might hold the line, Silverwing, the King’s dragon, appears in the skies, casting a long shadow over the battlefield.

Month 4: The Wrath of King Jaehaerys II

Week 1: With the sight of Silverwing looming above, King Jaehaerys himself descends upon the Marches. His presence rallies the Stormlords and strikes fear into the Dornish forces. The King, a massive figure on the battlefield, fights alongside his men, leading charges against Dornish skirmishers. His dragon’s arrival adds to the chaos, as fiery devastation rains down upon the Dornish lines.

Week 2: The King’s fury knows no bounds. His dragon burns entire companies of Dornish fighters as Jaehaerys II pushes deeper into their territory. However, the Dornish forces, ever resourceful, begin to regroup under their leaders. Prince Ravi Martell, Baashir Dayne, and Doran Uller coordinate a plan to bring down the King’s beast.

Week 3: The Dornish deploy their Scorpions—massive crossbows capable of piercing dragon hide. As Silverwing flies over the battlefield, the Dornish leaders launch a well-timed volley, hoping to end the reign of fire.

Week 4: One of the Scorpion bolts strikes true. A piercing cry echoes across the battlefield as Silverwing is struck. In the chaos that follows, the mighty dragon falls from the sky, crashing to the ground in a maelstrom of fire and blood. The Dornish forces, emboldened by the death of the dragon, launch a counteroffensive, pushing back the Unsullied and reclaiming lost ground.

Climactic Moment: With Silverwing dead, the balance of the war shifts. The Stormlords, previously buoyed by the dragon's presence, now find themselves on the defensive. The death of the dragon is a turning point, but the war is far from over. King Jaehaerys, though enraged, gathers his forces, preparing for the next phase of the campaign, while the Dornish leaders, triumphant, brace for the inevitable counterattack. The realm stands on the brink of a new chapter, and the Crownlands and Stormlands brace for what comes next.

[ Note: There will be threads and the like taking placed throughout these events either set before, during, or after. All muses are encouraged to get involved, in the Crownloands and Stormlands male muses are encouraged to get involved in the skirmishes, through there is a noticeable difference low number of Crownlands Lords who came to fight. In these regions women aren't allowed to fight but women can fight their own battles through political intrigue and the like. ]

[martellspear]

the complete disregard for Elia and her children in sickening

[fromtheseventhhell]

Arianne being excluded from the show was one of the worst decisions D&D made cause it led to the collapse of the Dorne plot, which could've been adapted so well to screen if they had actually cared to put in the effort

[c-m-li]

Rereading A Song of Ice and Fire and trying to keep track of the Sand Snakes for the Dornish plot and I just -

There are so many.

Oberyn Martell, you whore!

[pomegranatears]

another one

[fictonrantsworld]

At this point for me it can be anyone but bran, idk how george is gonna convince us booksreaders.

Tho I do have a soft spot for aegon vi or faegon to be the real son Elia and rhaegar and thriving at the end of dream of spring just bc I want Elia martell to win for once.

jesus didn’t die so your endgame for asoiaf is that jon and daenerys get the iron throne

[haetero]

all mine.

PAIRING: aemond targaryen x afab!reader. WORDCOUNT: 1.9k

CW: jealous sex, mating press (hehe), unprotected sex, breeding kink!!, creampie, kind of angsty but its porn w a little bit of plot. use of high valyrian + a sprinkle of aegon bashing! mdni <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this was originally a 500 word drabble and then... i went a bit nuts.. if you enjoyed the fic, pls lmk! not proofread we die like literally everyone lol.

ABSTRACT:

aemond gets caught up with his royal duties and finds himself spending less time with his precious lady wife. determined to take matters in your hands, you make some silly choices involving another prince, which only makes things worse. till it gets better :)

this time, you think you deserved it.

what begun as a harmless jest to get aemond to pay attention to you quickly led to letting aegon drunkenly sweet talk you at supper. and yes, pretending to flirt with your husband’s brother in front of him might not have been the best decision, but you were just having fun right?

wrong.

you were perhaps the stupidest woman in all the seven kingdoms. really, there was no rationale for choosing to engage with aegon for more than ten minutes at a time and yet here you were, ‘giggling’ at his piss poor jokes and pretending to listen to his made up tales of something you couldn’t care to remember.

you could only chastise your past self for your poor decision making skills as aegon whispered into your ear, far too close to your liking. he stunk of the rich, dornish wine served earlier in the evening and his eyes lazily stared at the expanse of your chest. but regardless of whether he was drunk or not, aegon had enough wits about him to realise his brother was furious.

a sly grin on aegon’s face, he seemed to understand the predicament you were in and leaned in to plant a wet kiss on your cheek, before loudly announcing his exit with a parting “my lady”, to further enrage aemond.

internally groaning, you waited till aegon left before daring to take a peek at aemond. but he wasn’t even looking at you.

the complete lack of response terrified you. in fact, you’d almost convinced yourself he didn’t care at all, until you noticed his blanching knuckles gripping his silverware. “aemond, i-," you begun.

in an instant, aemond had gotten up out of his seat and finally looked at you with a look in his eyes that only meant one thing. he mumbled out a quick excusal for the pair of you, before extending his arm towards you with a pointed stare.

you were well and truly fucked.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

before you can realise what’s happened, aemond’s dragged you to your shared chambers at a pace you’re struggling to keep up with. quickly dismissing your maids, he shuts the doors firmly, before turning his back to you and shucking off his outer clothing. you dejectedly do the same, struggling out of your dress. you leave them in a heap on the floor, stripping down till you’re in your underthings.

the sounds of aemond changing have quietened down, spurring you to take a peek at him. he’s left in his pants; his broad shoulders and back on display for you to admire. maybe he'll listen to you if you explain yourself, you delude yourself. tiptoeing over to where he stands, you attempt a sheepish half smile, grabbing onto his bare arm to direct his attention to you.

“please, i’m sorry, i wasn’t thinking, i just missed you,” you start, attempting to make eye contact with aemond. he’s yet to talk to you, pointedly ignoring you. he simply stands there, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge you any further.

you feel stupid, really. doing all this to gain the attention of the man standing in front of you and even then, he doesn’t even spare you a glance. you wait for a few more seconds before deciding to save yourself the embarrassment. with a sigh, you turn back to your shared bed and sit yourself down.

you rush to unpin your hair, readying yourself for sleep. the dull throb of want in your stomach has you frowning but you know the only person who could satisfy you is aemond. in your distracted state, you don’t see that aemond’s turned back to face you.

“do you take me for a fool?” you freeze, not expecting that of all questions. you start to respond when he cuts you off with a glare. aemond huffs out a curse and walks over to stand in between your legs. a part of you think he looks majestic from this view, but you’re quick to silence your thoughts as he slightly lowers himself till he’s level with you.

“you missed me, so you thought it best to what? throw yourself at my brother?” the affronted look in your eyes tells aemond he’s wrong but he’s not feeling very charitable as you try to come up with right thing to say. “and you thought i’d just let him have you?”

“no! i swear, i was being childish aemond,” you try to reason with him. the longer you think about it, the faster you realise how childish you really were. but it doesn’t change your intentions. you were unsatisfied and tired. but you also hadn’t been this close to aemond without someone else being nearby in a while. the dull throbbing sensation in your cunt was starting to spread and you fought the urge to rip your underthings off and let aemond have his way with you.

“if you wanted something, all you had to do was tell me, not run off to aegon,” he muses, his right arm coming up to trace the veins in your neck. aemond can feel the way your breath stutters; he takes note of the way your lips quiver and fingers curl up slightly at his words. you not-so-subtly push your thighs together, trying to alleviate some of your lust by yourself.

a satisfied grin curls at his lips and aemond, finally, leans into the slope of your neck. you shiver at the feather-like sensation of his lips pressing into your skin, grabbing onto his arm to steady yourself before he pushes you onto your back. “aemond, i need only you,” you shyly mumble, before reaching up on your elbows to undo the clasp of his eye patch.

aemond lets you do as much before throwing it behind him, fixing you with a lust-filled gaze that has you whimpering within a second. he leans over you, and makes a show out of dragging the fabric of your underthings down till he’s rid of them, throwing them to the side. you’re shaking as you watch him eye your cunt with a starving look.

calloused hands grab at the fat of your thighs, kneading the soft skin there before pushing them to your chest. you mewl as cold air fans over your wet cunt, catching the way aemond eyes your hole greedily twitching around nothing. “this is what you wanted, right?”

“yes, yes, please,” you beg. if you weren’t so desperate already, you would have gagged at the sound of your whiny tone. but aemond seems to like your desperation. aemond undoes the string of his pants, before palming himself with a squeeze that has him sighing in relief. your mouth waters at the sight before you.

aemond gives himself a moment before he climbs over you, his frame gently pushing onto your knees in the position you’re in. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation of his warmth enveloping you.

“no, look at me, ābrazȳrys,” your silver haired lover grunts, as he goes to drag his cockhead over your slit. “i should get aegon to pleasure your whorish cunt instead.”

your immediate protests brings a smug grin to aemond’s face. of course, he would never let his brother anywhere near the ethereal sight beneath him, but seeing the tortured look on your face brings him a sick sense of pride. he plays with you like this for a moment, rubbing his cockhead over and over your clit till you’re nearly crying out in want.

after what feels like a lifetime, he decides to push into you. aemond intently watches the way his cock catches at the rim of your pussy before he slams into you. your resulting gasp has aemond’s chest tightening as he loses himself to the feeling of your walls clenching around him immediately.

letting out a strangled moan of your name, he sets a brutal pace from the get-go, ploughing forward until you’re clawing at his neck and shoulders for a reprieve. you’re a quivering mess under him, a mix of moans and cries escaping you. you can feel him everywhere.

a light flush rises on aemond’s cheeks and upper chest, a pink hue that matches the fine dresses you might wear to a banquet or a tourney. your teary eyes trace the faint red lines peaking up on his broad shoulders, evidence of your passion that has your core clenching tighter around him. aemond catches your stare, mouth agape in a euphoric state of mind and pushes your knees down even further, if it was possible.

his wife, his lover, his, his, only his.

"it's okay, sweetling," he vows, fat cock bullying your walls as he moulds himself into you. he bends down to leave a path of kisses trailing down your neck, assuming a steady yet punishing pace into your sopping core. "for me, remember? you can take it for me, right?" aemond groans, drunk on the way your pussy sucks him in, eyes squeezed shut in the pleasure you both share.

leaning back, aemond watches you grip the sheets tightly, he feels the way you soak his cock every time he rocks into your pussy. you've gone half mad, tongue lolling out as you chant his name as a mindless mantra. he drags your knees down to instead wrap around his hips, bringing you closer to plant wet kisses down your neck, nipping at the salty skin. you keen into his ear at the change of position, untangling your hands from the sheets to cling tightly to aemond.

"feel good, love?" he murmurs, trailing his arm down till it lights presses onto your stomach as he drives his cock back into you. "tonight's the night i'm filling you up. that way, my fool of a brother will know to stay away from you.”

you don’t even think you’re making sense as you blabber your agreement. you want, no, you need him to give you his heir. you need him to drive himself further into you till you feel him in your chest, in your heart.

the thought of a miniature aemond targaryen running around has your heart swelling in your chest; the life you’ve always wanted but never let yourself dream of for too long. your lives were far too cruel for such a precious being to be born into it, yet aemond seems hellbent on making it come true as he bullies his cock further and further into your cunt.

aemond slows to a dangerous grind and bends down to capture your lips, his lean torso catches on your clit as you arch up into his mouth. "aemond pl-please, i want it," you whine, your hips buck as his languid thrusts reach a spot deeper than you thought possible. "you're mine," he groans into the heat of your mouth, skilled fingers come down to rub taut circles on your aching clit. he feels the telltale signs of your trembling walls and your greedy eyes beg him for release.

“fuc-fuck, nyke’m bē konīr,” aemond huffs, feeling your cunt swell around his cock as he rams deeper into you. you’re scrambling to hold onto anything; his shoulders, his wrists, the pillow, the sheets.

when you start twitching around his cock, walls fluttering at a pace aemond can't keep up with, he thinks you're the most divine creature in all the seven kingdoms.

and as you cream around his cock, aemond finds himself pushing himself into you one more time, filling you with his hot seed and the unspoken promise to cherish you for as long as you'd have him.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

high valyrian translations:

ābrazȳrys - wife. nyke’m bē konīr - i’m almost there.

[venusintheblindspots-blog]

It’s definitely misogyny & racism that causes people to think like this about her & other characters of color, BUT people also cannot fathom characters not having the same information that they have as readers. Arianne’s decision was made because of Doran not communicating with her. She isn’t privy to any of his plans, but what she does know is— her father has tried to get marriage proposals, even to the Freys of all people, her brother is gone across the narrow sea to do who-knows-what and with her uncle dead, her cousins have been imprisoned. And most importantly Doran isn’t talking to HERRRRR.

Like I’m not saying Arianne’s decision was right of wrong but from her POV, she was backed in a corner and needed to act.

no but it IS crazy how often people are like “arianne specifically is stupid” tyrion set the blackwater on fire you guys. cersei staged a coup with a flagon of wine and a boar. theon takes winterfell by introducing the groundbreaking tactic of sneaking up on your enemy. doran’s entire plot so far has been 1) engage my kids to targaryens 2) ????? 3) profit. i think arianna’s plan is like, not the worst we’ve seen lmao.

[novaursa]

Hii,

Can you create a Maegor x Hightower's reader fic? She is Ceryse's little sister and they met when reader was visiting the Red Keep with her family (at this moment they were still kids. Since then, they started a friendship and Visenya noticed it.

But king Aegon was already thinking about making a bethrotal beetween Maegor and Ceryse. Visenya refused and convinced him to consider reader instead since she was closer to age with Maegor and was a friend to him. Aegon agreed and Maegor and reader started having feelings at each eather while they grew up.

They married eached other and had at least three kids before Maegor ascended the Iron Throne (he was still cruel and killed Aegon the Uncrowned when Aenys passed). He never went exile and had the Hightower and the Faith's favour thanks to his wife who was very devoted to the religion.

Seven for the King

Requests are closed

- Summary: A story where Maegor builds a kingdom with the blessing of the Faith.

- Pairing: hightower!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: So, I had to change a few things to make plot make sense better. For example: the Red Keep was not built while Maegor was a child in the canon, but Aegonfort was. And I've killed off Visenya much earlier to compliment the plot you provided better.

The thick stone corridors of the Aegonfort pulsed with heat and history, warm with the breath of dragons and heavy with the scent of incense and oil that lingered from morning prayers in the royal sept. You trailed behind your elder sister Ceryse and your father, Lord Manfred Hightower, your embroidered skirts brushing the ancient cobbles, your wide green eyes roving across every carved pillar, every flickering torch, every proud banner bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. It was your first time in the heart of the Crownlands, in the very shadow of dragon’s bones. Though you had tried to stand tall and proud as a daughter of Oldtown, you were younger than the rest, and your steps were lighter, more hesitant, full of the cautious wonder that only a child could carry.

The court was gathered for a feast in honor of Lord Hightower’s visit. King Aegon the Conqueror himself had invited your family, his voice heavy with diplomacy and the careful maneuverings of a man who forged kingdoms and now sought to bind them more tightly still. The Hall of the Dragon roared with conversation, with laughter, with the clinking of goblets and the rustle of silk. Your sister, radiant in her green and gold, sat poised beside the queen consort Visenya, whose violet eyed gaze watched everything like a hawk. Rhaenys was absent—long dead now—but her memory still haunted the fort.

You sat lower on the dais, near the children, your hands folded in your lap. It was then that you noticed him.

Maegor Targaryen was little more than a boy then, taller than most his age, his pale hair cropped short, his dark violet eyes fixed on a bit of roasted meat he was stabbing too fiercely with his dagger. He was all blunt edges and brooding silence, as though he carried the weight of dragons in his shoulders already, even at ten. You were only a year younger, your face still round with youth, but your eyes were steady, curious. And when he felt your gaze, he looked up—and met it.

You did not look away.

He didn't either.

Later, when the feast ended and you wandered the stone garden behind the fort, you found him again—or perhaps he found you. The air was thick with summer, the scent of warm stone and blooming dragon's breath curling around you both.

"You’re Y/N Hightower," he said, stepping from behind a column, his hands behind his back like a page caught in mischief.

"And you’re Maegor Targaryen," you replied, tilting your chin just slightly, as if daring him to correct you.

"I saw you staring."

"You were stabbing your meat like it was a Dornish prince."

He blinked—once—then barked a laugh, brief and sharp like a sword unsheathed.

"You’re different from your sister," he muttered after a moment, coming closer, his eyes not mocking, but... intrigued.

"Everyone says that. Mostly when they think I’m not listening."

You looked away then, not out of shyness, but thoughtfulness. And he watched you.

"What do they say about me?"

"That you’re Visenya’s whelp. That you’ll be cruel. That you’ll only ever speak with a blade."

Maegor stared at you, and then, slowly, his lips curved into something you had not expected—a smile. It was a small thing, awkward, like it did not belong on his face. But it was real.

"I don’t speak much," he admitted.

"Maybe you should try. Not everyone listens to swords."

"And you do?"

"I listen to what people don’t say."

That was the beginning. After that, you found him in the practice yard with his wooden blade and bruised knuckles, or in the rookery watching the maester bind messages, or pacing the great courtyard like a caged dragon. You were quiet company, but not afraid of him, and Maegor—who frightened even some of the knights with his silence—began to seek your presence. You noticed how he waited for you before beginning a meal. How he handed you a flower he found near the stables—ugly, wild, half-wilted. But it was his way of speaking. It meant more than anything Ceryse’s pretty courtiers ever gave her.

Queen Visenya noticed.

Once, when you were helping her untangle the knots of her hawk’s jesses, she said in that voice of hers, sharp as Valyrian steel, "My son is not soft. But he is not stone either. Not with you."

You looked up, startled, but she didn’t smile. She simply nodded, as if confirming something long suspected.

"Does the king mean to wed him to Ceryse?" you asked quietly.

Visenya’s gaze narrowed. "That was his thought. But thoughts can change."

"And you wish them to?"

"I wish for my son to have what steel alone cannot give him. Anchor. Loyalty. Perhaps… a reason not to destroy the world when it disappoints him."

Later, it was said that the king spoke to your father alone, that Visenya stood near the window with her arms crossed while Aegon stroked his beard and asked after your temperament, your mind, your bond with the prince. Ceryse never spoke of it, but there was a chill in her tone when she spoke your name after that.

Years passed, and Maegor grew into a man of terrifying strength and few words—but you were always the one who could pull a smirk from his mouth, or make him pause when his hand closed around the hilt of Blackfyre in anger. You were no meek court lady, but neither were you steel. You were flame—quiet, slow-burning, the kind that crept into stone and made it crack over time.

When he stood beside you during a feast years later, tall and clad in black and red, he leaned close and asked in a voice only you could hear, "Would you have married me if I’d stayed a brute?"

And you, holding his gaze as you once had as children, answered, "You never were. You were just waiting for someone to see it."

The Red Keep had not yet risen, but the Aegonfort stood proud against the blackened sky, a stone dragon upon its hill, its great halls whispering with the breath of secrets and ambition. The wind off Blackwater Bay carried the scent of salt and fire, and within the Queen’s solar, where the warm light of a hundred beeswax candles flickered against tapestries of conquest and crimson banners, your children slept soundly in the adjoining chamber, and Maegor Targaryen, your husband, stood before the hearth with his massive arms folded, shadow stretching like a beast behind him.

He had just returned from Oldtown, his crimson cloak heavy with dust, the edge of his jaw still smeared faintly with blood he had not bothered to wash clean. You had not asked him whose blood it was. You rarely needed to.

“He called me a butcher,” Maegor said quietly, his voice like distant thunder, steady but full of storm. “Before he died, he said I was a sword with no honor. No heart. No right.”

You watched him from your seat near the fire, your needlework forgotten in your lap. The flickering gold light turned his silver hair to molten steel, and his eyes—those burning dark violet eyes—reflected the flames as if they were made from dragonfire itself.

“Then he died a fool,” you said simply, setting your work aside and rising, silk slippers brushing stone. “There is no honor in rebellion. No heart in treason.”

“He was my nephew.”

“He was your rival.”

Maegor said nothing for a long moment, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a pale, bloodless line. You reached for him then, placing a hand on his chest where his heart beat like the hooves of warhorses on a battlefield. Beneath your palm, his rage stilled—but did not vanish. It never did. It curled and coiled and waited, but with you, it did not strike.

“You did what Aenys would not,” you whispered. “You protected the realm. The Faith would have torn the kingdom apart had you done nothing. You brought them to heel.”

“I bathed their champions in blood,” he murmured.

“And High Septon sang of it as divine justice,” you replied. “Because I made him see it so.”

Your marriage had been forged in strange, uncertain flame, born of Queen Visenya’s cunning and your own quiet strength. You were the younger sister, the less polished jewel of House Hightower, but your devotion to the Seven had always been your greatest weapon. And it was you—not Ceryse, not any other court beauty—who had stood beside Maegor when he was named Protector during the waning days of Aenys’s weak and trembling reign. You who had knelt in the Starry Sept and offered prayers that kept your husband in the Faith’s favor even as he bled their knights dry. You who soothed the realm’s conscience while Maegor silenced its dissent.

And you had given him heirs.

Three sons, each with his father’s silver hair and your green eyes. The eldest, Baelor, already ten, had taken to swordplay as a hawk to the sky, but his heart was gentler, closer to yours. The second, Daeron, was more reserved, always watching—clever and solemn, full of thoughts he did not yet share. And the youngest, Aemion, still in his cradle, clutched your finger with the ferocity of a dragonling even in sleep.

“They will call me kinslayer,” Maegor said again, though there was less venom in it now. “Even with the throne under me, they will hiss it behind closed doors.”

“Let them,” you said, brushing your fingers along the edge of his cloak. “You are king, my love. Let them call you what they will. I will call you mine.”

His eyes softened then, but only for you. For the rest of the realm, Maegor the Cruel had been born at last. He had ascended the Iron Throne with Blackfyre in hand and blood still fresh on his boots. He had broken the Faith Militant, razed outlawed septries, and cast down pretenders. But at home, when the great doors shut and silence fell, he was Maegor—the man who slept with a blade beneath his pillow but pressed your name to his lips before sleep. The man who once laid a crown of red peonies in your lap and didn’t speak a word, just waited for you to understand what it meant.

“Visenya is gone,” he said at length. “I thought she’d see me crowned.”

“She saw more than that,” you replied, guiding him to the cushioned bench beneath the window where you often read together. “She saw the king you’d become. And so did I.”

Maegor sat with a sigh heavy as iron. You curled beside him, your head against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you with the possessiveness of a dragon coiled around its hoard.

“There are others who will rise,” he muttered. “Aenys’ children. The Faith will turn on me again the moment they think I’ve softened.”

“Then we do not soften,” you said. “But we do not close our eyes either. I will keep them close. I will go to Oldtown again. Speak with the High Septon. Remind him of our children—of what we built.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, the unspoken fear lingering between the lines. He had always feared losing you. The only part of him that had not been forged in fire and violence.

“I would burn the world if they ever touched you,” he said quietly, into your hair.

“They will not,” you answered. “You are king. And I am queen. And the realm will kneel.”

And so it did.

The realm bent its knee to fire and faith. To blood and prayer. To the iron will of Maegor the Cruel—and to the soft, unyielding voice of the Hightower queen who stood beside him, not in his shadow, but as the light he followed in the dark.

[turtle-paced]

What do you think is the intended takeaway from Daenaerys' plotline/the Meereen plotline in ADWD? I can see the argument that Jon's plot (and to an extent the Dornish stuff) is about how peace is hard, emotionally unsatisfying, and involves dealing with some people you find abhorrent, but is ultimately the right thing to do compared to the easy path of going to war.

And I can see how it would be strange for Dany's plot to fly completely in the face of that.

But on the other hand the Sons of the Harpy and the Yunkish & allies are just so absolutely lacking in any redeeming features whatsoever that it's very hard to root for peace and reconciliation with them, especially when they kind of take the mick in what they ask for vs what they're willing to give in return. So I kind of hope that we aren't supposed to feel pained at their impending demise.

The important thing here is that the moral of Jon's ADWD story cannot be imported wholesale over to Dany's.

Jon's trying to make a peace between two groups of people who both, basically, want to live. They have radically different ideas about the best way to do it and a mountain of grievances between them, but there's a fundamental commonality, too. They're all people and they're all staring down the winter alike. It's clear to the reader because it's clearest to Jon Snow - it is worth trying to bridge this gap and trying to pull together.

Dany, however, is not dealing with that sort of situation. She's got one group of people who wants to live. And also she has another whose entire goal is the exploitation and subjugation of others. Which cannot be compromised or reconciled in any way, shape, or form. As Dany comes to realise by the end of ADWD, there's no making peace with this, not without compromising the heart of what she set out to do in the first place.

I think the author will still leave us with a few questions about "how far is too far" when it comes to collateral damage, not to mention the inevitable point that there's no magic fix for the generations of violence that the slaving class started, but there's no peace with slavers either. Not a worthwhile one anyway.

This is a point where Jon's plot in ADWD and Dany's plot in ADWD are meant to be contrasted. Both are about the difficulties of making peace, yes... but Jon's is about where peace can and should be made despite the difficulties, and Dany's is where peace can't and shouldn't.

[maegorsbignaturals]

My petpeeve is when someone does a "Haunting the narrative" post and only puts Lyanna and not Elia. Like if most of the dornish plot was not impulsed by her death and the wishes of her brother's to put revenge on her name, like if Ned's decision to tell cersei about his plans was not impulsed by the memory of Robert's lack of reaction over Elia and her children's corpses on his feet and their deaths. Like if ned's decision to accept himself as a traitor and go to the wall was not impulsed by the memory of Rhaenys's and her cat. Like come on she is haunting the narrative toooooo