#&& the lord confessor (Larys)
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@ophelialighting asked: Send 🌿 to accidentally get caught under the mistletoe with my muse. (for Larys from Alicent?)
Every year, as the winter solstice drew near, the maidens inside the Red Keep hung mistletoe around the castle in hopes of a kiss from one of the knights and young lords. Dreaming of a marriage in the coming year. And every year, Larys avoided all of them. Truthfully, he preferred spending those days in the Black Cells. Surrounded by the screams of those imprisoned there. Surrounded by the smell of blood and death. It was better than finding himself under those green leaves. Having to look into the disgusted expression of whatever lady unfortunate enough to be there as well. An avoidable embarrassment for all involved. After all, he knew his place in the matters of courtship.
But he could not ignore the Queen calling for him. Still, he wished he had as he found himself standing under a mistletoe with Alicent. One of her maids-in-waiting must have hung it up, knowing her sons and Ser Criston joined her on occasion. Larys forced a smile on his face. Ignoring the traditions was meant to bring bad luck to both parties. And, while he was a rational man, he was superstitious, as well. Especially, with things as old as the first men.
Putting his fingertip under the Queen's chin, he lifted her face to his. Even hunched over, he was taller than her. Standing so close, it was hard to deny that he would tower over her with a straight back. Height was the only trait he shared with his brother. Before his Queen could say anything about his impertinent behavior or he would lose his courage, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers. The kiss was short and gentle, and if his clubfoot had allowed it, he would stepped back the moment it was over. Instead, he remained close. “My apologies, your grace. I found it pertinent to avoid a year of bad luck. These are chances one should not take while at war.”
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A Vow of Blood - 71
Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.
Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….
Chapter 71: The Tower of the Hand
AO3 - Masterlist
Daenera cast a steely gaze up at the Tower of the Hand, bristling at the tall structure and the man that resided within it. As the tension of a persistent headache wound its way up her neck, a guard swung open the door, signaling her to enter along with the guard that had been dispatched to fetch her, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous entry. The tower’s stairs coiled upward, a relentless serpent of stone that she ascended with a deepening scowl, her muscles still aching from the morning’s arduous climb to the Dragonpit. The brief hours of rest she had taken were abruptly curtailed by this summons.
Approaching the Hand’s office, the distinctive sound of a cane tapping against the stone floor heralded the presence of someone she loathed to meet. Lord Larys Strong emerged with a measured pace, his cane marking his progress. His cold gray eyes swiftly found Daenera, locking onto her with an unsettling focus.
A surge of irritation welled up within her, a tight coil of resentment unfurling in her gut as she sensed his gaze sweep over her. With a steely resolve, she locked yes with him, standing tall and proud, refusing to curl in on herself as she had done when he had stripped her of her dignity. She was determined not to show any sign of weakness under his scrutinizing stare.
“Princess,” Lord Larys Strong intoned, his voice cloaked in a veneer of politeness. He offered a bow that, while respectful, seemed to Daenera more a performance of duty that genuine deference. The formal greeting did little to mask the undercurrent of tension between them.
“Lord Confessor,” Daenera returned the greeting, her voice carrying a deliberate neutrality, stripped of any hint of warmth or familiarity. Her gaze shifted to the cane in his hand, noting its deep, almost ebony hue. Intricate, serpentine patterns were etched along its length, lending an air of subtle elegance to the otherwise simple object. “I see that you’ve gotten a new cane. Might I inquire what became of the previous one?”
Daenera was well aware of what had become of it, of course. Aemond had destroyed it, snapped it in half in a gesture of retribution for the humiliation she had suffered at the hands of Larys. It was a bold move, perhaps even reckless, yet she found herself grateful for the act.
Lord Larys Strong offered a thin smile, his attention briefly dropping to the cane as he idly twisted it, its tip scraping around on the coarse stone floor with a grating wound. “Regrettably, it snapped in two.”
“What a pity,” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with feigned concern while her expression remained impassively cool.
“Indeed, but such is the fate of things that endure beyond their capacity. They turn vulnerable and weak,” Lord Larys observed, his fingers idly caressing the cane’s sturdy surface. “Given my long reliance on a cane, I’ve grown to foresee such weakness. It’s almost as if, with enough pressure, even the steadfast can be made to bend and succumb. It is a pity when such things happen to what was thought to be unbreakable.”
Daenera listened, her demeanor composed yet alert, recognizing the veiled implications of his words and the resilience–or perhaps defiance–they suggested. Daenera was left pondering whether he meant that she was the cane or Aemond, regardless of who, the insinuation unmistakably hung in the air–that the act of breaking his cane had laid bare a vulnerability for the both of them, one ripe for exploitation. It suggested a universal truth; under sufficient strain, even the most resolute would break.
“I liked the other one better,” Daenera remarked shortly, a feigned smile on her lips. “It possessed a certain charm. It had that little firefly sigil of yours.”
Larys’s lips curved upward slightly more at her words. “A replacement is currently being crafted. Until then, this one shall suffice.”
“I do hope the new emblem stands out more. Upon my initial glance at the old one, I mistook it for a toe,” Daenera quipped, a slight mock to her tone. Within the depths fo Larys’s cold gray eyes, there sparked an indiscernible flicker, its mere presence unsettling in its ambiguity. It bore a subtle resemblance to the gleam that had once illuminated his eyes, a gleam that had seemingly found delight in her past humiliations–a mere shadow of it, yet enough to stir discomfort.
Daenera offered him a smile that was more courteous than warm, and then shifted her focus away, signaling an end to their exchange. She began walking down the hall, only to be halted by Larys as he spoke again.
“Princess…” Her path was suddenly barred by the swift arch of the cane, compelling her attention back to Larys as annoyance burned within her narrowed gaze.
“I find myself compelled to extend my apologies,” Larys continued, advancing slightly, the sound of his cane tapping softly against the floor. “It was never within my intentions to cause you any form of indignity–”
“You had me stripped,” Daenera interjected sharply. Her hands clasped tightly before her, her fingernails pressing into her flesh. She could still feel the raw sting of that humiliation, recalling vividly how his guards had torn at clothes and pawed at her through the fabric.
“I thought it a necessity to remove anything that could potentially cause harm, to yourself or to others. I see now that it was a mistake, that my actions were excessive–”
“You refused me a semblance of dignity by keeping me in that state,” Daenera countered fiercely, detecting no trace of genuine regret or apology in his time. The cruelty of his actions had been deliberate, aimed at belittling her, rendering her vulnerable and exposed–a tactic to strip her of her dignity and power. Regardless of his justification, she recognized in his eyes, a clear testament to the enjoyment of her discomfort. He had taken delight in her degradation, in humiliating and deceiving her, and even now, she saw that spark in him. It made her skin crawl.
“What is the worst, I think,” Daenera interjected, halting Larys’s response with a sharp look, “was not the humiliation or being left in my undergarments. It was the enjoyment you took in your deceit.”
“I never took joy in my actions, and I never deceived–”
“Then what would you call it? A lie? Manipulation? Treachery? How would you label your actions, Lord Confessor?” Her voice was icy, unmoving, and her gaze just as frosty, as she stared at him.
Larys’s smile tightened, yet it maintained a veneer of controlled empathy, rendering him seemingly benign, almost compassionate. He shifted slightly, as though uncomfortable under the hardness of her gaze. “My intention was merely to ensure your compliance without incident.
“You offered me a glimmer of hope only to cruelly withdraw it,” Daenera retorted, her nails pressing into her palm, her anger flaring. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes, but she forced them down with a hard swallow. She would not waste any more tears on him. “You were callously cruel, my lord.”
“I only ever wished to protect you, Princess,” Larys claimed, his gaze softening slightly, yet his eyes remained sharp, a cold intellect lurking within. “The conflict looms large, and without your mother ceasing her claim to the throne, it will grow into a war. And war, Princess, spares none. The safest place for you to be is here. You might view my measures as harsh, yet my sole aim has been your preservation. As my brother would have wished…”
Daenera understood his position all too clearly. The notion of her fleeing was a fantasy he had never entertained, nor had he ever intended to act against his own self-interest; his allegiance had always been with himself. The affection he professed for her, the familial warmth he pretended to hold for her as his niece, was nothing but a facade. Every instance he mentioned his brother, every detail he had shared with her, served only as a means to manipulate her emotions. If he had held any genuine love and respect for his brother, he would never have made such disparaging remarks about him. It had all been a deception, a falsehood she vowed never to be deceived by again.
“A fool with a fool's honor,” Daenera repeated the words he had made about his brother. “And you are no fool, are you, Lord Confessor? But even fools have more honor than you – even rats.”
Larys let out a soft sigh. “Your mother cannot protect you for what's to come, nor can she give you a future beyond this conflict. The Hightowers offer that with the man I believe you to love.”
Daenera’s eyes subtly widened, the weight of his words settling over her like a dense shroud, pressing heavily upon her shoulders. It felt like an accusation, a statement of fact. A profound sinking feeling pulled at her stomach, as her blood seemed to retreat from her head. Her ears began to ring with a sound akin to the howl of the wind, and she felt as though she were on top of Vhagar with Aemond once more, plunging towards the ground as he laughed at her fright. Her heart momentarily ceased to beat, suspended within the moment of dread, before it stuttered back to life again.
There was something profoundly harrowing about the nonchalance in his delivery, the way he gave voice to a truth she had neither the courage to face nor the capacity to name–a truth she had buried deep within herself, locked away from the light of recognition and acknowledgement. She would keep it there, where it was safe from both the world and herself.
Larys continued. “As the princess and the wife of the King’s brother, your position after the conflict will be advantageous. You’ll lead a life filled with satisfaction and comfort. Not just you, but your children too.”
“If,” Daenera sneered, her voice laced with disbelief, her thoughts a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. “That presumes the Greens triumph in this conflict–if they don't, instead, choose to eliminate me alongside my family.”
“Considering the Prince’s vehemently seeking your hand in marriage as well as his defense of you, one might argue your place by his side in the future is assured,” Larys observed, eliciting a sharper glare from Daenera.
“And if the Greens fail in this endeavor to steal the throne–”
“They already have the throne.”
“If they fail to win this war,” Daenera corrected herself. “What of me then? Am I to plead with my mother for my husband’s life? Am I to plead with her for your life? Or am I to hang alongside all of you?”
Daenera shook her head, her expression one of incredulousness and disillusionment. “You do not care for me, Lord Confessor. To you, I am naught but a pawn you wish to move about the board.”
A crude, cold smile formed on her lips, as she regarded him with a pointed look. “It is clear now that I was foolish to place my trust in you. You only wish to serve your own interest. I see that now. It is a mistake that I will not repeat.”
Daenera set her eyes forward, her back straight as a blade and her head held high, as she started down the corridor, decisively ending this farce of a conversation. She could feel his gaze on her, icy and calculating, its sharpness akin to needles against her flesh. As she moved past him, she intentionally struck his cane with her foot, applying just enough force to knock it out from under him. The act seemed to catch him off guard as the cane hit the ground with a resonant clatter, rolling to hit his clubbed foot. It was a petty move, laden with spite and maliciousness.
Without sparing him a second glance, Daenera continued her stride towards the door of the office of the Hand. Upon reaching the imposing dark wooden barrier, she knocked firmly. A voice from within granted her entry, and she pushed the door open, stepping into the oppressive quietude that filled the office of the Hand.
Daenera stood at the center of the room, observing Otto Hightower as he diligently penned on a piece of parchment, the quill’s tip dancing across the surface, trailing a series of inky letters in its wake. This meticulous act of writing produced a rhythmic scratching that filled the room, second only to the occasional crackle from the hearth.
Her gaze wandered, taking in the office’s sparse decor. This was her first visit to the office of the Hand, and she found the space starkly barren, devoid of any personal touch. It stood as bland as its master, favoring functionality over warmth. The walls held no portraits or tapestries, instead it was a barren landscape of dark stone. The shelves were lined with leather-bound books and scrolls, their spines bearing the weight of governance and law, a testament to the room’s dedication to the realm’s administration.
A tall, narrow window allowed a sliver of light, its beams fighting against the gloom but only managing to illuminate the small round table beneath it, framed by two chairs.The room battled with the shadows, the scant light struggling to penetrate the inherent darkness, casting an oppressive pall over the surroundings.
The desk, a solid piece of dark wood, bore the marks of constant use: scattered parchments, an inkwell nearly depleted, and the wax seal of the Hand, signifying the authority vested in its occupant. The only ornament, the brass seven-pointed star, hung with a sense of solemn duty rather than decoration, its presence on the wall behind the desk, seeming to imply divine favor from the gods– it stood as a reminder of the Hightowers' ties to the Faith.
A heavy, ornate chair sat behind the desk, its high back and imposing structure serving as a throne of sorts for the Hand, while a pair of simpler chairs faced it, their less elaborate design indicating their use for visitors or petitioners.
And then there was the hearth, despite the fire’s attempt to inject life into the room, it seemed more a necessity than a comfort, its flames battling the chill that the stone walls failed to ward off.
Daenera stood firm, her eyes meticulously surveying the room’s every detail, determined not to be the one to break the oppressive silence. Even as Otto Hightower’s focus remained tethered to his desk, his presence exuded a formidable blend of authority and detachment. The flickering hearths light played across his visage, casting half in shadow, with the sigil of the Hand of the King gleaming ominously in the dim light.
Otto Hightower concluded his writing, setting the quill aside with a deliberate motion before lifting the freshly inked parchment. He gave it a gentle blow, hastening the ink’s drying with a practiced ease. His gaze, sharp and calculating, lifted to meet Daenera’s, emanating a chill that seemed to fill the room. With a nonchalant hum, he commanded, “Please, take a seat.”
Daenera remained where she was, refusing to move for a long, petulant moment. Yet, summoning her will, she forced herself to move, taking a seat in one of the chairs. Throughout, Otto’s gaze never wavered, tracking her every step with an almost tangible intensity.
Once the parchment was carefully set aside, Otto leaned back in his chair, embodying the very essence of authority and expectation. His stare became an examination, mirroring the thoroughness with which Daenera had inspected his surroundings moments before. Unflinching, she met his gaze, her expression composed yet alert, her lips pursed in anticipation of the conversation that was yet to unfold. The silent exchange between them crackled with an unspoken tension, each waiting for the other to breach the stillness that remained.
“Green becomes you,” Otto Hightower remarked, piercing the silence with an observation that momentarily caught Daenera off guard. “It fares well with your complexion. One might almost mistake you for a Hightower.”
The underlying slight was unmistakable, a veiled jab at her heritage. The implication of being a bastard hovered silently between them, palpable and pointed as he appraised her, noting the absence of the distinctive Valyrian traits.
“Isn’t that the point?” Daenera retorted, her voice laced with icy politeness as she forced a smile. “To remake me in the image of the Queen Mother… The green gown, the styling of my hair, even the choice of jewelry. I find myself adorned in the colors of your house, a symbolic gesture, to say the least. While you may seek to dispute who my father is, Lord Hand, you cannot deny the womb from which I came. I am my mother’s daughter–regardless of your efforts to the contrary.”
Under the weight of Otto Hightower’s scrutinizing gaze, Daenera felt an undercurrent of tension, manifesting subtly in the restless dance of her fingers against the green fabric of her gown. This sense of unease had been her constant companion since the moment she was summoned to the Tower of the Hand, a premonition that no positive outcome awaited her here.
“But you did not send for me to discuss my attire,” Daenera asserted, locking eyes with him in a silent challenge. “Why am I here?”
Otto was unphased, leaning forward to produce a blank sheet of parchment and placing it before her.
“You are to write a letter to your mother, urging her to agree to the terms of her surrender,” he instructed, adjusting the inkwell for her use. He then rotated the parchment he had busily scribbled down upon her entry to face her, revealing the carefully penned directive. As Daenera’s gaze scanned the document, each word etched into the paper sharpened her indignation.
Turning her attention back to Otto, her eyes blazed with a fierce blend of defiance and scorn. “And should I choose not to comply?”
Daenera met Otto’s gaze with unwavering defiance, her jaw clenched tightly as his eyes narrowed at her resolve. She made no move towards the quill laid out before her, choosing instead to embody the resistance they so readily attributed to her character–defiant, spiteful, insolent.
“You seem to misunderstand the position you are in,” Otto remarked, his voice slicing through the air with a chill. His fingers drummed on the armrest, a subtle echo of impatience, perhaps sparked by irritation rather than any shared sense of unease.
“I am well aware,” Daenera shot back, “I am your hostage.”
“Indeed,” Otto conceded with a nod, his expression unyielding–carved in stone. “Yet, it appears neither my daughter nor your betrothed have informed you what it fully means for you…”
“I am not ignorant of my situation,” she responded firmly, the spark of defiance turning into a childish obstinance.
Otto emitted a low, condescending hum, a sound that only served to heighten Daenera’s frustration. “As a hostage, your comfort is at the King's discretion.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air, ensuring their gravity was fully absorbed.
Her gaze hardened, her teeth biting into the soft flesh of her cheek to stifle the retort simmering at the edge of her lips. He spoke to her as though she hadn’t already felt the ‘King’s’ discretion. It was as if he discounted the last few days–how she had been confined against her will, subjected to indignities, and made to wear the color of their cause while forcing her into a display of submission before the usurper who now sat upon the throne. It wasn’t so much the King’s discretion but rather their discretion–The Queen Mother, The Lord Hand, and even the Lord Confessor. Their discretion alone.
Otto Hightower addressed Daenera with a condescending tone, as if she were a naive child unaware of her dire circumstances–as if she needed to be schooled on the realities of captivity. Yet, Daenera was acutely aware of her situation; she understood the full gravity of being a hostage all too well–had heard the stories of Maegor the Cruel, of disputing lords, of war. His words, laden with belittlement, did little more than underscore her understanding of the precarious position she had been thrust into.
“The level of comfort we afford you is contingent on your mother’s compliance–and your own. It is my advice that you acknowledge and accept the circumstances you are in and the precarious nature of your position. However, defiance on your part…” Otto made a quick shift of his head, letting his words trail off, the threat implicit in his silence. “The consequences of any childish defiance, any acts of rebellion, or any semblance of resistance that might border on treason will be met with appropriate severity.”
Daenera clenched her jaw, the sensation of her encroaching cage tangible; it was as if invisible chains tightened around her wrists and throat, the oppressive weight of unseen shackles bearing down on her with each word Otto spoke.
“While we have no desire to harm you, Princess… circumstances may compel us to reconsider,” He added, the chill in his voice underscoring the seriousness of his warning. “It is in your best interest, and by extension, your men’s best interest that you comply.”
The threat lingered in the silence between them, ominous and sharp as an executioner’s blade held aloft, its shadow casting a pall over Daenera. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a frantic rhythm of fear and defiance. Her fingers clenched tightly into the fabric of her dress, seeking some anchor in the storm of emotions swirling within her.
The memory of Joyce, though her body had been removed by the time they returned to Maegor’s Holdfast, haunted her. The harrowing sight of her friend, lifeless and displayed as a grim warning was seared into her mind. Even now, she could see the expression on her face when she closed her eyes.
“How can I be certain you haven’t already executed my men?” Daenera challenged, her question laced with skepticism yet strategically aimed to pry information about the fate of her men–who was dead, who was in the dungeons, and who might have escaped.
Otto immediately seemed to recognize her underlying motive. “Currently, I believe we have five of them in our custody.”
He rifled through the parchment strewn across his desk, retrieving a list, and he continued in a tome of matter-of-fact as he read the names aloud: “Your sworn shield, Fenrick Locke, and your guards, Eddin Follard, Kevan Mertyns, Sithric Greenfield, and the young boy, Patrick Horpe.”
A heaviness settled within Daenera, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach at the mention of Patrick. Absent from the list were Darvin Crooler and Jelissa Stout, sparking a glimmer of hope that perhaps the two had successfully made it to Meraxes, but those left off of the list could very well be among the dead, like Joyce and Edam.
The ship's crew were also absent from the list, their absence from the dungeons suggesting they might have eluded capture, setting sail before they were apprehended. If this was true, she could only hope they reach Dragonstone soon.
Casually, he returned the list to the pile, reclining once more in his seat. “However, following your… spectacle with Rhaenys, that number may dwindle. And it will decrease further should you resist our demands.”
“My mother will see through this farce,” Daenera remarked, gesturing towards the letter which he intended her to copy word for word in her own hand. “She will know those words aren’t mine.”
Otto Hightower exuded an unnerving air of calculated detachment. There was a coldness to him, a sense of ambition so pure it seemed to strip him of any warmth or genuine human emotion. Daenera found herself wondering if he was ever capable of a genuine smile or if his expression was doomed to a perpetual stoicism.
With a measured calmness, Otto spoke up, “I recognize the difficulty you face in accepting this situation. Nevertheless, we are duty-bound to fulfill what was Viserys’ final decree–to rectify the mistake he made years ago by naming your mother as his successor.”
At his words, Daenera let out a derisive scoff, a sound teeming with disbelief and frustration. “Your ambition knows no bounds, Lord Hand.”
“I merely strive for the realm’s stability,” Otto responded with such stoicism that Daenera wondered if his heart had rotten away in his chest, leaving nothing but empty space and his own lofty aspirations.
“Do not pretend to care for the good of the realm,” Daenera retorted, her voice laced with animosity. “Your aim has always been to see your own blood on the throne. You’ve sought to weaken Viserys’ rule, orchestrating elaborate plots to undermine and remove my mother as his heir to install your grandson as king, not out of any loyalty to the realm, but to secure your own hold on power.”
Daenera’s words were a blistering rebuke, and she leaned slightly forward, her resolve unwavering, “You may have crowned Aegon as King, but the realm will see through your lies. History will remember you all as the usurpers and traitors you are.”
Otto Hightower remained stoic, his gaze cutting sharply towards her. “The realm will acknowledge Aegon as its legitimate ruler.”
“Why?” Daenera sneered. “Because he’s got a cock?”
“No great ruler has ever been a woman.” Otto declared, the statement hanging in the space between them, an indictment on the basis of gender.
Daenera felt the sharp bite of Otto’s indictment, its bitterness coiling within her, festering like a relentless wound inflicted by the harsh realities of her existence. This wound was profound, resonating with the silent chorus of women everywhere, etched into their souls by the world’s harsh decree–by the utterances and blades wielded by men of his ilk. It was a wound that wept silently into the void, a lamentation of all women as they were cut by the world around them.
“Even if your mother were Jaehaerys reborn, she remains a woman,” Otto persisted, unfazed. “No woman could ever think to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”
“History is full of terrible rulers that have all been men,” Daenera answered him, digging her nails into the fabric of her dress and into the meat of her thighs. “There may be no precedent for women to rule but–”
Otto interrupted her with a wave of dismissal, “The absence of precedent is not without reason; such things are simply not done. Women are not meant to rule. Your mother's appointment as heir was a temporary measure, void the moment Viserys bore a son. Should she prioritize her well-being and that of her children, she would surrender her claim to the throne and acknowledge Aegon as her King.”
“And what becomes of the realm when Aegon proves inept and unworthy of the throne?” Daenera questioned sharply.
Otto responded with a measured calmness that belied the gravity of the discussion. “Time will reveal his capacity for rule. As the rightful heir, his path to kingship is ordained. And as his Hand, I will be there to guide him.”
“You think him a mere puppet, as pliable as Viserys was?” Daenera asked, her skepticism palpable, alluding to Aegon’s known recklessness and disregard for consequences. If anyone weren’t fit to rule, it would be him. “And when he finally realizes the full extent of his power, what then?”
“Power, Princess Daenera, is a delicate balance, “ He said, his tone laced with a subtle condescension. “Aegon will come to understand the weight of his crown, and the responsibilities that follow. Be assured, I harbor no delusions regarding the potential challenges we may face, but I will be there to offer him counsel.”
Otto’s demeanor remained impassive as he gestured towards the parchment. “Impress upon your mother the necessity of her surrender–and the consequences of refusing.”
Daenera’s gaze reluctantly returned to the parchment, bitter tears prickling behind her eyes, her throat constricting. She gripped the quill, its tip dipping into the ink before she paused, the nib suspended above the parchment. The act of writing words not her own, words that beckoned her mother to surrender, to concede to a forced peace, and to feign hope for their presence at the wedding with Aemond felt like a betrayal. And though the words would remain words on parchment, she felt them rot within her mouth, felt them turn in her stomach, felt them etch themselves into her bones.
With a cold determination, she lifted her eyes to meet Otto’s, her gaze sharp beneath her lashes. “Your threats may loom large, Lord Hand, forcing my hand to pen this letter. But be under no illusion–it changes nothing. My mother will stand firm.”
“For the sake of the realm,” he intoned, his voice a steady beacon of his conviction–and deep with an underlying threat, “I hope she has the wisdom to accept.”
As the quill touched the parchment, greedily absorbing the ink, her movements were deliberate, each stroke laden with the weight of compulsion. Penning these words felt like an act of betrayal, the quill’s tip seeming to pierce her skin, etching each word into her flesh, engraving the betrayal on her.
With each sentence crafted, an underlying menace pulsed through the ink–a silent, screaming testament to her status as a hostage. The letter’s promises, though seemingly benevolent, were etched in duplicity. They spoke of life, of peace on Dragonstone, even of allowing them to come to her wedding, as if such an event weren’t mere exhibitions of their power. These assurances, suggesting a future at all, were a stark contrast to the reality of their situation, painted in stark relief against the blank canvas of parchment.
Beneath the surface of her calm exterior, a stormy sea of anger and fear roiled within her. Yet, she shielded these emotions behind a veneer, refusing to grant Otto the satisfaction of witnessing her despair. Internally, she grappled with the painful acknowledgement of her role in this political game–a mere tool wielded to bend her mother’s will. Regret was such a suffocating, cruel thing as it wrapped around her throat. She should have gone with her family when she had the chance.
With a steely resolve, Daeenra met Otto’s gaze, her voice laced with determination. “Rest assured, Lord Hand, my mother will see through your schemes. If you kill me she will not hesitate to return the insult, and Daemon will be far worse.”
“Taking your life would be an error,” Otto stated, “hence, the decision to align you with us through a marriage to Aemond. This alliance holds more value than any consequence of your death, despite the challenges it may bring… Consider this a chance to improve your standing, and be grateful we are prepared to offer you a more comfortable arrangement than we have our other hostages.”
The notion of gratitude, as Otto suggested, felt like a bitter pill, echoing harshly within her, chafing against her very soul. The idea that she should feel ‘grateful’ for their ‘generosity’–for allowing her freedoms that were rightfully hers, for sparing her the isolation of a dungeon cell, for granting her a semblance of comfort amidst the looming threats against her and her loved ones–was infuriating. Each word he spoke was a reminder of the transactional nature of her existence in their hands: comfort and privilege at the expense of her autonomy and choice. With every mention of gratitude, it became clearer that her so-called ‘comfortable arrangement’ was nothing more than the gilded cage she already thought it was, a luxurious imprisonment where the currency was her compliance and the stakes were the lives of those she cherished.
Daenera lifted her gaze to meet his, eyes narrowed as she scrutinized his words. “And when you have no use for me as a hostage, what becomes of me then?”
As his gaze swept over her, Daenera couldn’t help but wonder what he saw–a mere piece to be strategically placed and potentially sacrificed, a threat to be kept in line, or simply a girl, tears teetering on the edge of her vision, coerced into a corner.
“So long as Rhaenyra and your brothers breathe, you remain a hostage,” he declared. “What happens once there’s no need for a hostage remains up to you and your decisions through this.”
Returning the quill to the inkwell, Daenera reclined in her seat, processing his words with a heaviness that weighed down her stomach. His message was unambiguous: Her value was contingent on the survival of her family–of her use as a hostage. Their lives were the thread suspending her over the abyss of expendability. Yet, in a cruel twist of irony, her captors were intent on severing this thread and end all of them.
As she settled deeper into her chair, her gaze fixed on Otto, who now examined the letter she had been coerced to write. He lifted it, scrutinizing each word she had penned–his words–before giving a satisfied nod. Carefully, he aired the ink, waiting for it to set, then methodically folded the letter, placing it on the desk.
Daenera’s attention drifted to her own hand, pausing on the scar slicing through her palm. She traced it softly, lost in thought, haunted by the implications of her forced compliance and the deeper, unspoken threats that lay beneath the surface.
Her gaze raised to Otto, observing as he prepared the sealing wax over the flickering candle flame.
“Is Aemond aware of the nature of this betrothal?” She inquired, her voice tinged with skepticism and something else, something more bitter. “Does he understand that I am a hostage until you no longer have use for me and may be put to death along with the rest of my family?”
Otto’s response was measured, his scrutiny tinged with a hint of amusement as the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “Aemond might hold a certain fondness for you, Princess, but he is acutely aware of his duty. Even as his wife, your role remains largely political–a pawn, if you will, held for leverage.”
Daenera offered a contemplative hum, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that mirrored his own. “You appear quite confident that he perceives our marriage purely as a political strategy.”
Otto’s brow lifted slightly, and Daenera couldn’t decipher if it was astonishment, amusement or surprise. His head tilted slightly as he observed her for a long moment before answering. “Aemond is, above all else, dutiful and loyal to his family. He is acutely aware of his responsibilities and the expectations placed upon him. While he may have had a personal interest in securing you as his wife, the strategic benefits of it cannot be ignored.”
As he spoke, Otto lifted the spoon of molten wax away from the candle’s flame, carefully pouring it onto the folded letter. The wax spilled out in a deliberate, emerald stream, pooling on the parchment before cooling. “Regardless of Aemond’s personal request, a marriage alliance between you and one of the King’s brother’s was inevitable. It serves a dual purpose: securing the appearance of your allegiance and reinforcing our position.”
Daenera felt a tightness in her chest, her thumb pressing into the scar on her palm, forcing her nail into the tender flesh and between the bones within.
Otto continued, “The pre-existing connection between you two merely provided a convenient pretext for this arrangement. The mere presence of this ‘connection’ casts shadows of doubt over your loyalty in the eyes of Rhaenyra and her counsel. In the fertile ground where uncertainty is planted, victory can be harvested.”
With a final gesture, he placed the wax back down, then firmly pressed the Hand of the King’s seal into the now-cooling wax, creating a precise imprint and sealing the letter shut. “Aemond is under no illusions about the importance of this marriage–and he understands it for what it is.”
Daenera fought back the tears that threatened to breach her composure, a fierce indignation igniting within her at the sheer unfairness of her circumstances. Her gaze lingered on the letter resting on the table, a part of her yearning to snatch it and cast it into the flames, consequences be damned. Instead, she raised her eyes to meet Otto’s, her gaze sharp and challenging.
“Yet,” she began, her voice strained but determined as she ventured to plant her own seed of uncertainty, “Given the lengths to which Aemond has pursued my hand, one might argue that duty alone does not drive his actions.”
Straightening her posture, Daenera tilted her head, her expression one of calculated interest as she observed Otto’s reaction. “Emotions are such a fickle thing, wouldn’t you say? Unpredictable. While his loyalty stands firm now, what implications might arise if I were to bear his child? Could he so easily cast aside his child’s mother?”
Otto’s response was a smile, devoid of warmth, a mere thinning of his lips that did not reach his eyes, which flickered with a steely intensity. “A child would indeed fortify the bonds of your marriage… And it would certainly show the both of you where your loyalties should lie.”
As Otto’s words unfurled, Daenera felt a profound heaviness settle over her, her heart twisting painfully within her chest. The satisfaction that danced briefly across Otto’s features at witnessing the crestfallen look on her face only served to solidify the heaviness. He leaned back, an air of triumph surrounding him, yet even in his triumph he maintained an impeccably rigid posture. His gaze, sharp and shrewd, betrayed a mind always scheming–always calculating the next move to make.
Daenera realized she was ensnared in his meticulously spun web, forced into a corner with no escape that didn’t demand a piece of her soul. Everywhere she looked, she saw the opulent yet confining bars of her prison, a golden cage from which there was no immediate release. Her only recourse was to adapt as best as she could to the circumstances, to find some semblance of comfort amidst the opulence that served as her shackles, all while patiently waiting for an opportunity to change things.
The sharp rap at the door interrupted their intense exchange, drawing Otto’s attention away from her for the first time in what felt like eternity. “Enter.”
As the door swung open, Daenera shifted in her seat to glimpse the newcomer. Gwayne Hightower stepped into the room, his appearance marked by the distinct auster Hightower traits–a slicked-back hairstyle and those icy blue eyes so reminiscent of his father’s. A green cloak hung over his shoulders, the Hightower sigil prominent on his leather jerkin.
“The ship is prepared for departure,” Gwayne reported, positioning himself at the edge of the desk, his gaze briefly intersecting with Daenera’s before locking eyes with his father’s.
Otto extended the folded letter to his son. “Make sure Rhaenyra understands the gravity of her situation. If she remains obstinate, hand her this.”
Gwayne secured the letter in his jerkin with a nod. “I will leave immediately.”
“Very well,” Otto responded, his voice steady, as he reclined once more. “Rhaenyra will be aware of Aegon’s coronation by now. Daemon, I suspect, will not be pleased to see you.”
“I imagine not,” Gwayne agreed. “But he cannot do anything lest he break convention.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Otto warned. “Now, go.”
As Ser Gwayne left, Otto’s gaze once again settled on Daenera, its intensity anchoring her in place, laden with the silent weight of judgment and expectation. It was a sensation akin to being bound by invisible shackles, each glance from him tightening these restraints around her. Despite the suffocating grip of her circumstances, which seemed to wrap around her neck like a noose, and the ever-narrowing confines of her gilded cage pressing in, Daenera’s spirit rebelled in the only manner left to her. They had branded her with many labels–insolent, petulant, obstinate–and in a moment of quiet rebellion, she embodied these traits.
With a deliberate yet seeming accidental flick of her wrist, Daenera sent the inkwell tumbling as she rose from her seat. Black ink cascaded across Otto’s desk like a sudden, dark deluge, swallowing the parchments in its path and desecrating the meticulously penned documents and notes beneath.
Otto’s reaction was swift, his hand shooting out to salvage the inkwell, but the damage was done. He surveyed the calamity before him, a pool of ink seeping through the fibers of the parchment, obliterating words and wisdom alike. His expression was a mask of controlled irritation as he witnessed the defilement of valuable correspondence and records, each blot of ink a testament to the defiance that simmered beneath Daenera’s composed exterior.
“Oh, my apologies, Lord Hand,” Daenera uttered her apology, her voice taut with feigned remorse as she lowered herself in a courtesy, bowing her head in a display of contrition. “Such clumsiness on my part, I truly hope I haven’t spoiled something of importance. Alas, I am but a clumsy girl, it seems.”
Otto’s irritation was palpable, his stare piercing as Daenera edged towards the door.
“Princess…” He began, his tone halting her attempted departure. Turning to face him, she met his icy, cautionary look. “Do well to remember our conversation and the precariousness of the position you’re in. It’s not merely your own comfort that hangs in a balance here… I do hope you find some lesson in this.”
Biting back a retort, Daenera averted her eyes and executed another surrendering bow, a gesture of forced submission. Resuming her path to the door, she allowed herself one more act of petulance; her hand swept a decorative silver flagon off the table by the door, sending it crashing to the floor with a loud clang. The door swung shut behind her, severing her from Otto’s presence, yet the oppressive sensation his his scrutiny lingered, as if penetrating the barrier of the wood to weigh heavily upon her.
The tension between her and Otto lingered like a dense fog as she stood in the dimly lit hall under the watchful eye of the guard who had escorted her to the Tower of the Hand. Together, they made their way down from the tower, descending the winding staircase to emerge into the modest courtyard below. The chill in the air seemed to mirror the coldness she had left behind in Otto’s study.
There, she spotted Ser Gwayne preparing his departure, gracefully hoisting himself onto his steed. The sight of him stirred a mix of emotions within her.
“Ser Gwayne,” she called out, her voice cutting through the air, drawing his attention downward.
The knight peered at her, his gaze a blend of curiosity and wariness, akin to that of a fox – astute yet ready to adapt. He acknowledged her with a tone of both respect and caution, “Princess.”
“I wish to ask a favor of you,” Daenera said, her voice steadier than she felt.
“You may,” Ser Gwayne responded, his interest piqued, a sly smile playing across his lips. To Daenera, he always seemed like a clever fox, his demeanor more approachable than his father’s, yet within the amiable exterior lurked a hidden sharpness – one to be wary of.
“When you deliver the letter,” she started, her voice thickening with unshed tears, the raw emotions evident in her plea, “please convey to my mother that I am her daughter, and I love her. Inform her that I have not forgotten who I am.”
Ser Gwayne observed her silently for a few moments before offering a slight nod. Her message was deliberate and straightforward, lacking the subtlety for any underlying message that might reveal more than the Hightowers would allow her to convey. If possible, she would have chosen different words, urging her not to agree to their demands, to declare war, and to reclaim her throne.
“Thank you,” she whispered, a fragile smile touching her lips. “And Ser Gwayne, do return with your head still upon your shoulders.
His grin turned wry at her remark, “I shall endeavor to do so, Princess.”
“Ensure that you do,” Daenera replied, her tone laced with a seriousness that belied her concern not for Gwayne’s safety, but for the diplomatic balance her mother might upset by having his head removed, and what it might mean for her position. “It is not for your sake. I do not wish for my mother to stain herself with the blood of an envoy and defy convention.”
“Understood,” Ser Gwayne responded, his expression amused, the light of jest twinkling in his frosty gaze. “The preference to keep my head firmly attached is mutual, Princess.”
With a respectful incline of his head, Ser Gwayne gently coaxed his horse forward, gradually picking up speed as he made his way towards the castle gates and the docks that lay beyond.
Daenera stood there, watching his departure, a weight of sorrow and concern anchoring her heart.
“Princess, it’s time to return to Maegor’s Holdfast,” the guard intoned, his voice leaving no room for debate. His grasp was gentle yet firm on her arm, prompting her to start moving, a silent reminder of the constraints around her. Once he felt her comply, he loosened his grip, maintaining a matching stride by her side.
As Daenera made her way into Maegor’s Holdfast, a chilling sight greeted her. Two more bodies had been strung up, ominously swinging from ropes secured to the second floor balustrade.
Daenera is starting to realize just how confined she is--and what the price of acting out in a big way is.
Does she still act out in small ways that is stupid to punish her for? Yes. Like, Otto wouldn't kill her men for knocking over an inkpot. It's in this small way she finds some form of liberation and comfort, even as the cage is pressing in around her, even as the shackles chafe at her skin.
And yes, we will know what exactly is written in the letter once Rhaenyra receives it.
Next chapter: We finally make our way to Dragonstone, where the calm is broken by Rhaenys bringing the news. We will get to follow Rhaenyra as she's told of her father's death, and we will follow Daemon as he sends out ravens and calls for the guards to stay vigilant + Him sitting the children down.
#a vow of blood#hotd#aemond targaryen#house of the dragon#hotd fanart#aemond fanfiction#hotd aemond#aemond x reader#aemond one eye#aemond x oc#aemond targaryen x oc#hotd fanfic
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"When one's never invited to speak one learns to observe". how surprising it is for alicent to find she shares something with larys! how horrible and disgusting to be as low as the crippled lord confessor! being queen means nothing if she's still the scared little girl.
this entire scene is so delicious because you really can see larys' entire strategy changing from solely manipulating alicent to finding someone that might be more equal to him than anyone else. and being surprised too! there's a lot to say of larys /LARYS/ finding alicent someone so alike to him and deciding to "put her in a box" and maker ashamed of a part of her own body. LIKE HE IS. you are too perfect, i have to degrade you
and alicent is sooo disgusted by him but still STILL inviting him over for ten years and finding in him a sympathetic ear to her woes, someone who understands her perhaps a bit too well. someone who isn't a man by westerosi standards, follows her lead and its harmless. in appearance
after larys murders his family and makes this show of power to alicent, making her beholden to him, it's when the conflict of their gender makes itself known. before, they were less than men, but now, he is just another man who's made alicent subjugate to his wishes and i think its why, more than the act itself of larys masturbating to feet, this conflict of a disabled man (not a person to the westerosi) dominating alicent is more disgusting to her. he can't force her in other typical ways. only in this new strange one more degrading to her by design.
it's the taking advantage of her that obviously makes alicent distrust him more. he took her words during an intimate dinner, yearning for her father, and twisted them to his own plans and tie her in a "inextricable bond of blood". it's an intimate betrayal akin to rhaenyra lying to alicent on her mother's grave.
#ramblings ramblingsssss#just thinking about Them#alicent hightower#larys strong#alicent x larys#house of the dragon#mariana does things
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The Silver Dragon (24/?)
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character
Word Count: 4748
Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.
Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.
Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?
Chapter Summary: Aemond, Arianwyn, and Queen Alicent race to find Brynna. Larys Strong informs them that she has been taken to the Throne Room by none other than Daemon, who claims that it was Brynna herself that attacked him the night before. Not only that, but he also accuses Aemond of forcing Arianwyn to marry him, and of raping her so that the marriage could not be dissolved.
Warnings: Violence.
Series Masterlist
Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99 @dc-marvel-girl96 @henriettadreaming @multiple-fandoms-girl @gyuxmilk @somemydayy @kittykylax @whore-of-many-hot-men
The Trial of Brynna Taler
Arianwyn had never craved violence. When she had tackled Rhaena years ago, all she wanted was to save Aemond. When she stabbed Daemon last night, it had been a desperate attempt to save her own life.
But now, as she frantically ran through the halls of the Red Keep in a dress borrowed from the Queen, she wanted nothing more than to feel her father’s blood running through her fingers.
If he had done anything to hurt Brynna, she did not know what she would do. Claw at his face, perhaps. Or rip every hair from his head. Gouge out his eyes. Take his sword and cut him in two, like he had done to Vaemond Velaryon. Command Emrys, the dragon he had once kept from her, to burn him alive.
Or maybe she would simply unleash Aemond upon him.
From the murderous glint in his eye and the hard set of his jaw, she knew that was the cruelest thing she could do.
Her husband would make him suffer for what he had done to her. By the time Daemon finally breathed his last, perhaps some small modicum of justice would have been served.
Arianwyn was torn from the fantasy of revenge when she rounded a corner and nearly slammed into Aemond’s back. She could not see why he had stopped, only that his hand was on the hilt of his sword, ready to defend his wife.
“Stand down, Aemond,” Alicent commanded, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder as she stepped around him.
Though he did not release his weapon, he did step aside, allowing Arianwyn to see Larys Strong, the Lord Confessor, standing before them.
Leaning heavily on his cane, the clubfooted Lord of Harrenhal looked over the harried group with a grimace. “I am afraid your presence is urgently required in the Throne Room, your Grace. Prince Daemon claims he has been attacked, and is demanding a trial immediately.”
“A trial?” Arianwyn asked, trapped somewhere between fear and hope. A trial meant that his attacker was alive, for corpse could not face judgment.
Larys’ dull blue eyes locked onto her face. “He has brought the accused – your long-serving maid, Brynna Taler – before the Hand and the Small Council.”
“Has he hurt her?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking with terror.
Flicking his eyes to Aemond and to the sword on the Prince’s hip, Larys replied carefully. “Not grievously, my Lady.”
But the words offered no comfort. That Daemon had laid even a finger upon her was enough to set her tears flowing and a sob ripping from her wounded throat.
That single cry was more than enough for Aemond. He growled, drawing his blade as he pushed past the Lord Confessor.
Alicent followed him, shouting futilely for him to remain calm, with Arianwyn not far behind. Despite the relative warmth of the day, she pulled the fur stole the Queen had given her tighter around her neck to hide the grisly bruises that lay there.
Aemond could hardly see the path in front of him for the bloodlust surging through his veins. The fearful stares of courtiers and servants alike as he stalked through the halls of the keep were as inconsequential to him as rats in the gutter.
However, the words they whispered more frequent as they got closer to the Throne Room echoed through his mind.
“Do you think he really did it?”
“Of course not! He has only done what we have always expected.”
“It’s only that she’s been kept on that island that it hasn’t happened sooner.”
“That’s precisely what I mean! He’s been stewing in anger for all these years.”
“Perhaps since he could not have Lucerys’ eye, he took her instead.”
“She may have loved him once, but that was when they were, and he had no scar.”
“Would you really want that sharing your bed?”
“Gods, just look at him. Not even Maegor looked such a villain.”
“He did it. Of that, I have no doubt.”
Aemond would not react. He would not give them that satisfaction.
Still, he could not help but grip his sword tighter, until the skin of his knuckles ached with the effort. He could not stop his scar from burning, or the skin surrounding it from twitching. Nor could he stop his stomach from roiling, for despite Arianwyn’s ardent insistence in his continued beauty, he knew that the whispers were true.
To all but his wife, he was hideous – nothing more than a villain and a monster.
The feeling of despair only deepened when he approached the open Throne Room doors and heard Daemon’s voice echoing throughout the hall.
“Arianwyn was distraught,” he said, voice wavering with fabricated despair as he addressed the growing crowd. “It is no wonder why. From the moment we arrived, Prince Aemond never once relented in trying to molest her before our very eyes – ”
His false tale of woe was cut short when the gathered crowd gasped as one at the sight of the One-Eyed Prince, the steel of his drawn blade gleaming in the dawn’s light, storming into the room, Daemon’s ‘distraught’ daughter close behind.
At the sight, Jace burst from his place by his mother’s side, drawing his own sword and pointing it toward Aemond’s chest.
“Release my sister!” he shouted, despite the fact that Aemond was clearly not holding her hostage.
“I am not your sister!” Arianwyn yelled back.
Aemond said nothing. He did, however, raise his own blade in reply as he took an offensive stance.
How dare Jacaerys call her ‘sister?’ What little blood they shared was thin, and tainted by his bastard birth. Perhaps if he had been more than Aegon’s boorish toady in their youth or been kinder to Arianwyn on Dragonstone, Aemond would not now be so eager for this fight.
Tilting his head in a silent dare for Jace to make the first move, Aemond could not help but wonder whether the Curse of the Kinslayer applied to bastard nephews.
But then Arianwyn screamed anew when she saw the woman kneeling before the Iron Throne.
“Brynna!”
Arianwyn pushed past the Queen, moving around Aemond and his outstretched sword. He reached his offhand out to stop her, but she brushed it aside.
“Take my hand, Arianwyn,” Jace whispered as she passed him.
She did not give him the courtesy of a reply or even a glance at his pleading face.
Daemon glared as she approached, but she did not face him either.
At the base of the Iron Throne, she tripped over the too-long skirts of Alicent’s dress, falling to her knees before her lady’s maid.
“Brynna, I’m so sorry,” she cried as she took in the woman’s wretched state.
A large purple bruise covered most of her face, from her split brow to her bleeding lip. Her nose was clearly broken, still marked with a dried river of blood.
But the worst of it was her hands. Her lithe, nimble hands that had crafted some of the finest dresses in the history of the Seven Kingdoms – including the dress that had become Arianwyn’s wedding gown.
Shattered.
Each finger bent and twisted, like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. The skin was so red and bruised that Arianwyn could hardly see the countless cuts marking where Daemon’s stone had struck over and over and over again.
Arianwyn knew that while it was not by her own hand, she had done this. By angering her father, by stabbing him. The moment she married Aemond, she made everyone that she loved a target for Daemon’s wrath, and he had wasted no time in claiming his first victim.
“Oh, gods!” She cried, dropping her head to Brynna’s lap. “This is all my fault! I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Through her throbbing pain, Brynna tried and failed to quiet Arianwyn’s frantic crying, but soon found herself sobbing along with the girl. She wanted nothing more than to stroke her silver curls, but her hands were in far too much pain. Besides, she would never wish to see her Lady marred with blood.
“It is not your fault,” Brynna whispered, voice hoarse from screaming.
Arianwyn did not believe her.
She would beg and beg for forgiveness until her voice gave out. Until her knees bled from kneeling, and her eyes were dry of tears. She would beg until the Mother herself appeared to offer her mercy, or until the Stranger took her away – though to the heavens or the hells, she did not know.
At the door, Aemond raised his sword level with Daemon’s heart as he strode past Jace. The young Prince moved to stop him but was pulled back by his mother.
It was Daemon who had done this. He had hurt his wife’s greatest friend. He had made Arianwyn cry. And he would pay for it.
But Daemon paid him no attention. Rather, he sighed, and with an expression of relief to rival the worst actors in King’s Landing, took a single step toward his daughter. “Arianwyn!” he cried, “How relieved I am to see you unharmed!”
Tearing her eyes from Brynna’s ruined hands, Arianwyn stared at her father, brow furrowed in bewilderment.
She had been harmed, and he was the one who had done it.
“Stay away from my wife,” Aemond growled, circling around his new father-by-law until he stood protectively between him and Arianwyn. He could feel the fiery rage in his heart hot on his breath, and could swear he heard Vhagar roaring in the distance.
“Was it not enough for you to steal my dear Laena’s dragon?” Daemon asked, brow crumpled with false heartache and a voice loud enough for everyone in the Throne Room to hear his words clearly. “Now, you must take my firstborn daughter, as well?”
“I have stolen nothing,” Aemond hissed, angling the point of his sword to Daemon’s neck. All it would take was one motion, one cut, and the Rogue Prince would never harm Arianwyn again. “Can you say the same, uncle?”
“Prince Aemond put down your sword!” Otto bellowed from the throne. “There will be no more blood spilled in this hall!”
But Aemond did not move, save for a twitch of the muscle in his jaw. Gods, his scar was blazing. It had not hurt like this since the night it was given to him.
“Despite that pin on your breast, Otto, you have no right to rule in this. It is a family matter,” Daemon spat, dropping his besieged father act.
Otto did not yield an inch, speaking calmly, with all the authority of the Iron Throne. “Indeed. Concerning my grandson and my great-niece. And seeing as how, in his absence, I speak with the voice of the King – your brother and Prince Aemond’s father –I have every right to rule on this family matter. Don’t you agree, Lord Wylde?”
The Master of Laws jumped slightly when his name was called, but he quickly collected himself and answered, “Yes, my Lord Hand.”
The only hint of Otto’s smugness was the nearly imperceptible twitch of a smile on his lips. “With that matter settled, we can begin the proceeding. Prince Aemond, I will not repeat myself again. Put. Down. Your. Sword.”
Against all instinct and every nerve in his body, Aemond obeyed. Though he did not sheath the blade, nor did he move away from his wife.
Alicent finally moved away to the door to the foot of the dais, joining a concerned Helaena and a hungover but intrigued Aegon.
As she passed Rhaenyra and her children, the Princess and the Queen exchanged a look that Aemond could not decipher.
The Hand sighed, gesturing with an open palm to Brynna. “Grand Maester, for the love of the Mother, will you please tend to this poor woman?”
Daemon seethed, “That ‘poor woman’ has attacked a Prince of the Realm!”
“I have not!” Brynna shouted.
“She did not!” Arianwyn yelled simultaneously, with such a cold fury that she was sure she bore icy claws. Emrys’s howling echoed through her mind as she pulled away from her maid, only enough to allow Orwyle the access he needed to assess her wounds.
Orwyle examined Brynna quickly, then looked back to Arianwyn and gave a slight smile. She will recover, he seemed to say. She may not be the same, but she will recover.
But Arianwyn’s heart was hollow, and she could not return the gesture. Brynna would not recover if she was soon executed.
Once he was satisfied that Brynna’s wounds were being tended to, Otto lowered himself upon the Iron Throne. “Prince Daemon,” he said, “If you are quite finished with your performance, the Crown will now hear your accusation.”
Daemon bit the inside of his cheek, mulling over whether to respond to the Hand’s remark. Deciding against that, he once again painted his face with fatherly concern. “After our family meal last night, I went to check in on Arianwyn. She had been so upset when she left, after seeing her dear brother attacked by none other than the man who had treated her with such unabashed vulgarity all evening.”
Arianwyn looked up at Aemond, begging with wet eyes for him to speak in his own defense. But he only continued to glare at Daemon, for the comforting thought of spilling his uncle’s blood was the only thing distracting him from the pain searing through his very skull.
Unchallenged, Daemon continued. “When I reached her rooms, this woman,” he pointed at Brynna as he spoke, drawing the court’s attention to her, “was at the door. She would not allow me entry to my own daughter’s chambers.
“First, she told me that Arianwyn was unwell. Then, that she was asleep. When she had run out of excuses, I demanded she stand aside to let me through. But she would not. So, I went to push past her. That is when she took her shears and did this.” He tossed the bloodstained iron shears to the floor, and tore off the linen wrapping around his right hand before raising it above his head for all to see.
A large gash was visible in the space between his thumb and forefinger. As Daemon turned to present his hand to those behind him, Aemond was gratified to see the wound was wide enough for a beam of sunlight to shine through the hole. When this was over, he would have to congratulate his wife on a job well done.
“I, of course, was able to subdue her even with the wound, and she quickly revealed the sinister scheme.” Daemon grinned at Aemond as he went on, “The Prince here paid her quite handsomely to sneak him into our guest quarters, that he might steal her away for his own. He forced Septon Eustace to wed them. And then, I imagine, he raped her so the marriage could not be dissolved on account of a failed consummation.”
Arianwyn’s mind was spinning. From the audacity of Daemon’s lies. From her disbelief that in the face of such slander, Aemond continued to stay silent. From the conflicting whispers swirling around her.
“The most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
“Look at the cold look in his eye. He knows he’s been exposed.”
“I have known them since they were children. Prince Aemond could never hurt her.”
“He should be gelded without delay, and sent to the Wall to rot.”
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. How could they believe such lies? Daemon’s own demons were well known, as were Aemond’s virtues. At least, they had been when she had left the capital. What had changed since then, beyond the scar now marking his face?
If enough of the court was so quick to believe Daemon’s story, what could she possibly say to sway them?
Her only salvation was that it was the Hand sitting the Iron Throne, not the King.
“An interesting story, my Prince,” Otto said, not a hint of emotion or bias in his voice. “Though I am afraid I find myself with several questions regarding its details.”
Daemon scowled, unable to keep the disdain from his eyes. “And what, pray tell, are your questions?”
“I think we should start at the beginning, don’t you? With Prince Aemond’s behavior at the King’s dinner.” Otto raised his eyebrows, the only hint of his confidence. “You see, my Prince, I was seated closer to him and Arianwyn than you were, and yet I saw no such evidence of molestation, attempted or otherwise.”
When Daemon opened his mouth to counter him, the Hand simply continued, “Though I may be mistaken. Perhaps we should ask the Princess Helaena, who was herself seated at Arianwyn’s side, what she saw?”
Daemon scowled, but did not object as Alicent encouraged Helaena.
“My sweet girl,” the Queen whispered, “can you tell us what you saw between Aemond and Arianwyn?”
Helaena, at last seeming to realize where she was, glanced between her brother and his wife. When she saw Arianwyn crying on the floor and Aemond clutching his sword, she looked mildly concerned at their predicament. “I saw love, gentle and true. As it has always been.”
For a moment, the Princess smiled proudly, but it faded as a shadow passed over her lilac eyes. “Shattered glass,” she murmured, “the silver shards sharper than the blunt point of the broken blade.”
Not even Daemon had a clever answer for the seemingly meaningless words.
But in the silence that followed, Arianwyn looked closely at her cousin as the fog cleared from Helaena’s eyes. At the dinner, she had said something about a cloak – a white cloak – in the moonlight.
Had she somehow known?
Perhaps more importantly, what did she know now?
“But these are the small details of your tale, Prince Daemon. Indeed, they may be crucial to its veracity, but whether or not a lady was molested can be quite easily mistaken by even the most perceptive among us.” A tentative laugh went up among some of the gathered crowd, and the Hand let it run its course before he continued.
“Let us focus instead on the larger picture. For that, it seems we are missing the most important testimony. Arianwyn?”
Otto’s question broke her from her musings on what Helaena’s words might mean. He tipped his chin, and she was surprised to find reassurance in the gesture. “Please stand and tell us what happened – but speak only the truth.”
Those words, spoken to her once before, long ago, brought Arianwyn back to the Throne Room on Driftmark. She was kneeling at Aemond’s side, pressing kisses to his trembling hand only moments after his eye was taken. She could feel Rhaena’s nails scratching her skin, the heat of Aemond’s fresh blood flowing through her fingers, and her aching chest wheezing for breath. She was drowning in desperation as she begged the King to believe her tale.
How had it come to this again?
“Aemond has done nothing untoward,” she said as she stood on shaking legs. How she wished he were within reach so she could hold onto him for strength. “Nor has Brynna. But the Prince and I are indeed wed, and our union has been consummated – willingly.”
As she spoke, Arianwyn felt her confidence grow. She steadied herself and stepped towards Aemond, lacing her fingers through his. He startled at the touch, for she had approached him from the left. But he relaxed and sheathed his sword when he saw the plea in her eyes.
“Septon Eustace can attest to the veracity of the marriage,” she said, looking only at her husband. “My household guard, Grand Maester Orwyle, Ser Criston Cole, and my maid Brynna, all bore witness. Orwyle confirmed the consummation this morning.”
When Daemon scoffed, Otto held up a hand to silence him. The Prince looked for a moment as though he may argue, but he was pulled back by his own wife taking his hand. Rhaenyra gave him a stern look, whispered something in his ear, and he stilled.
“My dear, why wed in such haste? And in near complete secrecy?” Otto asked.
Arianwyn considered her words carefully. She knew Otto wanted her to tell the court everything – but he could not possibly know what he was asking.
Someday, Daemon would pay for his crimes. But today, all Arianwyn wanted was to free Brynna and remain by her husband’s side.
“Aemond and I have been in love these many long years, even when separated,” she said. The truth, even if she had only just learned it. “We did not want to wait any longer for our families to negotiate a marriage contract or allow them to promise us to anyone else.”
That was a lie. But by the faces in the crowd, it was at least a good one.
“I apologize for any pain our impatience has caused,” Arianwyn continued, bowing her head toward Alicent, Helaena, and Aegon. “We have deprived our family of seeing us wed and all the celebration that comes with it.”
Aegon smiled, raising his brows, “I had but one chance to bring my brother’s wife to bed, and I have missed it,” he muttered.
Suppressing a grin, Arianwyn went on. “We married out of love, my Lord Hand. There is no more to say than that.”
The Hand again smiled at her, “Thank you, Arianwyn.”
She began to curtsy, but Aemond held her still. “You are a Princess now,” he murmured, “You need not bow to him anymore.”
“Septon Eustace,” Otto said, turning to face the man, “You performed the marriage?”
The Septon nodded. “I did, my Lord Hand.”
“And did the Lady Arianwyn show any reticence during the ceremony? Did she appear nervous or afraid?”
“No, my Lord Hand,” Eustace replied. “She was as happy as any bride I have ever seen. Happier, perhaps.”
Arianwyn blushed, squeezing Aemond’s hand. She could feel his heart racing through the contact and wished desperately to calm him. But he would not be satisfied until Brynna was free, and Daemon was not.
He was a dragon who had caught the scent of his prey, and he would not let it go free.
“Grand Maester,” Otto now plainly bore a smile as he turned to Orwyle, “can you indeed confirm the consummation?”
“I can indeed, my Lord Hand.”
“And can anyone else attest to Brynna Taler’s presence at the ceremony?” The Hand glanced around the room until he found twelve knights clad in bronze armor.
But it was Ser Criston Cole who answered. “I can, my Lord Hand.” He looked to Prince Daemon with an expression of pure disdain. “I would swear my sword to it.”
“I thank you, Ser Criston, but I wager that will not be necessary.” Otto finally smiled as he swept his eyes past Arianwyn to his grandson. “Prince Aemond, is there anything you should like to say to the court?”
Aemond finally tore his eye away from Daemon, gaze softening as he looked upon Arianwyn’s beautiful, hopeful face. There was much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell the whole court – the whole world – of Daemon’s crimes. He wanted to see him arrested and face the Father’s justice. And when he was executed, he wanted to be the one to swing the sword.
But Arianwyn saw it all on his face, every sinful thought he had. She pulled him towards her, wrapping her hand around his wrist, and shook her head.
“No,” Aemond sighed. “Only that everything my wife has said is the truth.”
The Hand turned back to Daemon, “Well, my Prince. It seems that matter is settled. But there is still the question of your wound. Would you care to offer the court another explanation as to how you were injured?”
The Rogue Prince was practically steaming with rage. The sight awoke a feeling of sinister pleasure within Arianwyn’s heart. That feeling, combined with the strength she drew from her husband’s touch, had her hands moving to the stole around her neck before she could think better of it.
“Perhaps he could explain this as well,” she said, pulling the fabric from her throat and exposing her wounds for all to see.
A gasp rippled through the crowd at the sight of her bruises, and the anger in her father’s eyes sharpened. Arianwyn only smiled.
Daemon snarled, “The work of your new husband, obviously.”
Arianwyn laughed. A light, blithe chuckle – wholly out a place at such a solemn occasion. “I think you’ll find my husband’s hands too large to make such small marks,” she said with an animalistic tilt of her head.
Aemond suddenly felt the urge to take her, right there and then. She had always had such fire within her, though it was rare that she let anyone but him see its glow. How he longed to burn in that delicious fire.
On the Iron Throne, Otto smiled proudly at the newest Targaryen Princess. He had thought her as harmless as Helaena, but perhaps she would prove more of an asset in the days to come. “Well, Prince Daemon? Have you any explanation for the court?”
Daemon only sneered before Rhaenyra stepped in front of him, cutting off whatever biting remark he surely had planned.
“I think we have heard more than enough,” Rhaenyra said, the same forced diplomacy in her voice as the night before. “I suggest, my Lord Hand, that we dismiss this matter entirely, as the unfortunate result of an excess of wine at dinner.”
Otto nodded, content in his victory – one more trueborn Targaryen, and one more dragon.
“Grand Maester Orwyle,” he commanded, “please take the lady Brynna to the Rookery tower and give her your greatest care. Dear lady, you have the sincere apology of the Crown, as well as my personal assurance that you will be compensated for your troubles.”
“Thank you, my Lord Hand,” Brynna said. Then, with the aid of the Maester, Brynna stood and curtseyed. Then, as she was led out of the Throne Room, she flashed a quick grin at Arianwyn – a promise that she would find her soon and that she wanted every detail of the bedding.
Arianwyn was practically overcome with relief. As her breath heaved, she felt the warmth of Aemond’s hand holding hers climb up her arm and spread throughout her entire body. Aemond focused on the feel of her pulse slowing, the pain in his face fading with each beat of her heart.
For long moments, the only sounds in the hall were the gossiping whispers of the court. Those who could not believe that Daemon had lied were evenly matched with those who could not believe Aemond had gotten away with his crimes.
But they were soon silenced when Rhaenyra again spoke. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. I thank you for your kindness and hospitality. But I am afraid we must now take our leave.”
“We hope to see you again soon, Princess,” Alicent replied, sincerity in her eyes.
With a quick nod, Rhaenyra turned her gaze to Arianwyn and Aemond, giving a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Before we go, I would like to offer my best wishes to my dear stepdaughter and her new husband.”
Aemond again tensed, but Arianwyn kept her grip on his hand firm. “Thank you, stepmother,” she said without returning the smile.
Rhaenyra stood in silence, apparently expecting the same grandiosity for the departure as she had for her arrival. But just as before, she would not receive it. So finally, after several awkward minutes, she relented and led her family from the hall.
Only Baela stayed behind to embrace her sister before going. “I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
“I will see you soon,” Arianwyn promised. “Perhaps for your own wedding?”
Tears coming to her eyes, Baela only grinned and nodded before following her family out of the Throne Room and the Red Keep.
Though she was surrounded by her family – the true family she had missed for so long – Arianwyn felt a sliver of emptiness creep into her heart as she watched her sister leave.
But then she felt her husband’s strong arms wrap around her, and all was right.
“If you would excuse us, my Lord Hand,” she said, not looking at the man atop the Iron Throne but at Aemond’s lips. “But my husband and I have yet to break our fast, and I find myself feeling quite hungry.”
Next Chapter
#aemond fanfic#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen#aemond#aemond imagine#aemond one eye#aemond the kinslayer#aemond x reader#aemond x oc#prince aemond targaryen#prince aemond#house of the dragon imagine#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon aemond#house of the dragon#hotd fanfic#hotd x reader#hotd aemond#hotd#ewan mitchell
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Thoughts on the possible Aegon and Aemond post blood and cheese spoilers.
Aegon fleeing to a brothel to deal with his grief and whatever feelings he may be experiencing is not a surprise. I know people may be disappointed, and I get it. But I guess it would be unrealistic to expect him to suddenly develop new/better coping mechanisms during what is not only an extremely stressful time for him on so many levels, but also especially after suffering such a devastating loss. More on that last bit later.
I know some of us were hoping the loss of their son might bring Aegon and Helaena closer. And I don't think this is necessarily impossible, even if Aegon is out there whoring and drinking his way through Flea Bottom and/or the Street of Silk.
Helaena was clear about neither wanting or enjoying Aegon’s sexual attention. And we know Aegon feels the same way. I think having them suddenly seek physical intimacy with each other as a form of comfort would be an interesting choice, but I don't expect the show to go that way. They could still grow closer in other ways, but I'm afraid it's unlikely. What they'll probably want to show us is Helaena isolating herself and sinking deeper and deeper into depression in her grief.
I'm not quite sure what else they might do to portray Aegon’s grief and how he'll experience and deal with this loss. Some of the choices the writers made for the character in season 1 are definitely going to prove a tough hurdle to take to do justice to his character in this particular storyline. I definitely hope they can still pull it off.
Now onto the rumour that Aemond will be the one to torture Blood. How weird am I for actually loving this idea? In a possibly twisted way I'm really excited about this and seriously looking forward to seeing this.
Not just because I know Ewan is going to blow us away with his performance. I'm sure it will be terrifying to watch, but he'll look hot doing it. Who said that? Shut up, Jen!
Anyway, someone commented on the rumour, saying it's just different ways of mourning, and I think that's an accurate assessment. While Aegon has his coping mechanisms, so does Aemond, and his has always been to wield his grief and rage into something he considers useful.
What's interesting in terms of character development, is that we know that while this rage fuels him and drives him, he lacks a true outlet for it. And we have already seen how that can end in a tragic outcome.
So while on some level it may seem like a positive thing for Aemond to channel all his rage, grief and worst of all his guilt into torturing Blood, as fucked up as that may sound, and it definitely is, I think it will prove just another step on the path of him becoming that man who killed the entire Strong family and torched the Riverlands.
And I think this is part of why I do love the writing choices for Aemond’s character in season 1. Instead of just making him the mostly one-dimensional villain from Fire & Blood, we'll get to see the journey, the descent so to speak.
Because as much as I think it makes sense for Aemond to be the one to torture Blood, there's a reason why royal families had a professional to take care of this stuff. And the thing is, the Greens do have someone like that. Larys is right there, he's the Lord Confessor. As much as I understand why Aemond wants to do it, probably believes he's the one who has to do it, it's just so maddeningly devastating, so heartbreakingly sad.
Aemond is only 18 years old, and while that makes him officially an adult, both in Westeros and in most of our own world, that's still tragically young. I mean, that's part of the tragedy of the entire story, that they were all so young.
But the worst part is that I think this is just the culmination of the role Aemond has been assigned within his family and faction, has chosen for himself, the one he's managed to convince himself he wants for himself. He's their protector, this dangerous man who wants people to fear him because it makes him useful and valuable for his family.
If people can't be bothered to care for the young boy who was hurt and wronged in such an awful way, he'll make sure they'll acknowledge the monster he's had to become, the dangerous and efficient swordsman, the rider of the largest dragon in the world, the mad dog who will do anything for his family. In a way he's become the Daemon to Aegon’s Rhaenyra, or perhaps his Visenya. He has become his weapon.
And if the dehumanising aspect of that is not bad enough on its own, he now has to close off his humanity even more to do what is needed of him.
And yet still so painfully human, he's so full of grief and rage and guilt. More than that, those feelings are partly caused by the idea that he's failed his family twice now. He killed Lucerys. He couldn’t save Jaehaerys. He couldn’t protect Helaena. It is all his fault, he's past the point of no return, and now he's a dead man walking. The only thing he can do to postpone his end is to ensure the destruction of the people who were responsible for this monstrous crime.
Aemond has become the most dangerous animal in the world and they've backed him into a corner.
I'm so looking forward to seeing him snap.
#house of the dragon spoilers#hotd spoilers#aemond targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#blood and cheese#jen rambles#i wouldn’t call this analysis or meta#just me trying to put my thoughts into words#i am completely normal about this man
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yes, Larys is very tall
@addam-of-hull reblogged the post “kingsroad: The most adorable Lord Confessor in the...” and added:
#prev tags HES SIX FOOT THREE?!??
LOL, it was a bit surprising to me too when I found out (per some Larys fans and per Matthew Needham's bio on the Casualty fansite). And some other celeb bio sites were reporting otherwise. But then I checked screencaps and you can see he and his family (Lyonel, played by Gavin Spokes, reportedly 6'1"; Harwin, played by Ryan Corr, reportedly 5'11") all look near the same height-- except Larys is hunched over.
And yeah, Larys is hunched over his cane in basically every scene he's in, unfortunately. (deliberately?)
But if you look at behind the scenes, well, that tells the real story. For example, at the HOTD premiere party in England, there's Matt Smith (6'0"), Matthew Needham, and Steve Toussaint (6'3"):
Are you tall enough to reach the middle bar of the H? Two of these men can. 😂⛰️
(Also it's kind of sadly hilarious to look at Matthew's photos on Getty and see that whenever he's with other actors, he's either looming in the back of group shots or half-crouching to fit in the frame...)
#addam-of-hull#house of the dragon#larys strong#matthew needham#actors#height#asoiaf heights#he's very tall#lol according to a friend more people would know if they just read the right fics 😏
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In the book, didn't Rhaenyra have her first ladies-in-waiting at the age of 8 in the year 105? Weren't they, moreover, the sisters of Harwin? Why are they non-existent in the series?!
Yes she was 7-8. Lyonel Strong brought his 2 sons and 2 unnamed daughters with him to court:
Thrice-wed and thrice a widower, the Lord of Harrenhal brought two maiden daughters and two sons to court with him. The girls became handmaids to Princess Rhaenyra, whilst their elder brother, Ser Harwin Strong, called Breakbones, was made a captain in the gold cloaks. The younger boy, Larys the Clubfoot, joined the king’s confessors.
(Fire and Blood; A Question of Succession)
No handmaiden/lady-in-waiting or other young girl exists in HotD’s royal court, which is both historically unrealistic and canonically incorrect. All the nobles are adults aside from Young Alicent and Young Rhaenyra.
And none of these girls existed in the series because Rhaenicent has to have its day, anon.
You see, these two girls are supposed to be the only ones who live at court so that they can be lonely asf and get together. Plus, they don’t have to hire women and girls that they’d have to write more lines for or pay.
(Unlike the placid and silent actors who play Borros’ Baratheon’s daughters of episode 10. Maris’ words are lost, so what was the point of having these actors there at all?! Borros could have just mentioned them and Aemond’s acts and the episode would be the same without these actors.)
#asoiaf asks to me#rhaenyra targaryen#the strongs#rhaenyra's ladies in waiting#the strong sisters#ladies-in-waiting#asoiaf canon#book vs tv comparisons#maris baratheon#borros baratheon#hotd critical#westerosi culture#westerosi court culture#westerosi society
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Someone starts spreading slander against Lady Strong for whatever reason. Somehow they were dragged off by the guard and brought to be visit Lord Confessor Larys in the cells 🙂
OH NOW WE ARE GETTING IN THE YANDERISH PART OF THIS STORY 🔥
Yeah, Larys does not take these kind of things smoothly...Let's hope no one notices a missing person on the court...
#ask#a song of ice and fire#yandere concept#yandere x reader#house of the dragon#yandere imagine#house strong
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Lord confessor Larys thoughts are underrated. Like, god, imagine him talking/bragging about their affair that could get them in deep shit to the guys that he’ll torture to death
It’s like his weekly therapy of "oh yeah we love each other, we love each other so bad. She wants to keep it secret which is fine, you know, I’m totally fine with it. Yeah. You know sometimes she does feel a bit cold towards me-"
Prisoner: "Please… The pain, no more-"
Larys: "Yeah you’re right, I know I know, she’s good enough to me as is, we’ve got a good thing going on, why change-"
#house of the dragon#larys strong#larycent#the new fic A Weakness is the perfect time to post this ol’ thing#i was supposed to make it a comic but the composition was being difficult#cw torture#cw#go read larycent fics#he is friendless#he has no one else he could talk to about it tbh
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@ophelialighting asked: “I fed my last husband to my dragon. If you make me take another, I may eat him myself.” (from Alicent to Larys?)
Cruel amusement sparkled in the Lord Confessor’s eyes. This was how he enjoyed his queen most. Forfeiting her tightly grasped dignity to spew fire hotter than any of the dragons her children rode. He relished this side only chosen few had the privilege to ever witness. It was much preferable to her shame and humiliation. To the degradation, he put her through for his own pleasure. Only in these moments could he look into the depth of Alicent Hightower. See the darkness there. A reflection so undeniably familiar.
He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips as he rested his chin on the hands holding his cane. A posture of impish youthfulness. “Do not let any unassuming ears hear you speak like this, my queen. They might think you had a hand in your first husband’s death.” The smile dropped from his face, leaving a mask of expressionless somberness in its wake. Sitting up again, his blue-grey eyes wandered around her room. “Do not worry yourself, my queen. There is no talk of betrothing you again.” Albeit it couldn’t be put past the Hand. Alicent was still young enough to bear children. She was still a bargaining chip to secure her son’s reign. War would come, and they needed allies. And Otto Hightower had proven once before that he was willing to sacrifice his daughter’s happiness for his own power. Larys knew it would not be something he would ever let happen. Selfishly, he wanted the queen for himself. Wanted her to need him. “I promise your bed will remain cold.” The corner of his lips raised, no mirth reaching his eyes. “Unless you chose to take a lover.” The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
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i think alys strong not only likes her family i think larys is her favorite i think a lot of what he knows as a spymaster (not to mention as a lord confessor) is stuff she taught him
#worlds worst love square alicent larys aemond alys#NEED her to be creepy and get along with her creepy brother
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How ambitious is Lyonel?
disclaimer: we don't know a lot about lyonel, so much about this is what i've parsed out from the show and many personal headcanons.
i would say he's very ambitious! no courtier who seats in the small council and accepts the handship does it purely out of self-sacrifice for the good of the realm.
the thing is that we have to remember that lyonel grew up in the bosom of a family just recently raised to the most powerful lordly seat in the riverlands, closest to the capital and biggest castle in the whole of westeros. they went from a small house to one of the paramount houses in the riverlands by jaehaerys himself. in the same decades the scandal of ser lucamore the lusty broke out and the strongs were cast as this sort of pariah. a knight of the kingsguard is one of the highest position in the realm, probably ser lucamore was aided by jaehaerys raising his brother? father? uncle? to lord of harrenhal, so when he broke his vows he threw all the work done in one fell swoop. the strongs were not just the new lords of harrenhal but also the family of the oathbreaker and the father of sixteen bastards.
a privilege such as that, and assuming the first lord strong of harrenhal was lyonel's father, would have marked him a lot and how the family should comport themselves esp after ser lucamore's scandal. i think these things gave lyonel the ambition to rise above it and gain more favor from the crown and make them forget about what brought his house down. we know he went to the citadel for a few years to learn as much as he could and that he was called to serve in viserys' council for his knowledge of the law and it gave him a chance to also bring his sons and give them positions under his office and of course raise themselves to offices with importance like harwin going from gold cloak to commander and larys from generic torturer to lord confessor and then master of whispers. all this showing the family's main purpose in the city is to scale the ladder and be indispensable to the crown.
i wouldn't say he's more ambitious than most, but definitely more than people think. he does what any normal ambitious lord does: he gets a position in court, rises to the council and to the second most powerful position in the realm, and with it he helps his family to achieve more offices too. which gains them power and privilege.
the difference from other overly ambitious lords like otto (and they are parallels in the show!) to me lies in the ways they try to grasp their power and how they achieve it. while otto is very obvious with his self interest in both having power over viserys and making alicent and by extension his grandchildren rise above the rest and with that to make the hightower name shine or whatever, lyonel's way is more subtle. like viserys says, lyonel is not a hand that will hector him because lyonel is very self aware of how the dynamics & people work and what's good for the realm will eventually bear fruits for the individual or the opposite. he also values hard work & honor and duty far more than he should meaning that he prefer to pave a cleaner path than most would.
rather than try to manipulate viserys for lyonel's gain like offer harwin for rhaenyra knowing that viserys would seriously consider this because he trusts lyonel, he does not and instead he offers the same advice from when viserys was looking for a wife: the velaryon alliance is vulnerable. you did not marry laena, then you must marry laenor to rhaenyra. he knows that if the crown looks and is weak, then the council and its lords are too. a marriage between harwin and rhaenyra would not have worked for the crown and lyonel might not have wanted it either.
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So what do you think of Larys being the culprit? I remember you thought it was going to be Daemon…I’m very confused as to why he did it…
i think it’s a bit silly innit. Clearly the way theyre taking the character is that he is unambiguously evil and a kinslayer for uhh fun and profit and is willing to stir shit and push the greens and alicent into worse and worse acts (or just do those awful things on their behalf without asking). thematically. thats what theyve decided he’s for. but like, it doesnt make a lot of logical sense for him to kill harwin. if he wants to help prove that rhaenyra’s kids are harwin’s, why would he kill the father who resembles them???? literally counterproductive to his own aims. and if he wanted to bring otto back as hand he couldve yknow. Tried just convincing viserys to let lyonel resign again???? anything? instead of? immediately chomping at the bit to murder his own father? i get that daemon couldnt really have done it because he was in pentos (im very bad at keeping track of timeline stuff in f&b so idk if this is also true in the books) but larys? it doesnt advance his own position! he’s already lord confessor and he wouldnt need to be lord of harrenhal to be master of whisperers if that’s what he’s aspiring to. it even turns alicent against him somewhat! so.... otto gets brought back, i guess is the point, but why would they assume that viserys would even want to bring him back? it’s kind of a random unexpected decision on his part. i guess you could say that his aims arent truly aligned with the greens and he’s secretly pitting them both against each other and he just wants to stir shit. But again... Why. then he’s just sort of flatly willing to murder his own family members for a giggle. alright. So..... shrug emoji. we’ll see how it shakes out.
#i dont want him to turn into show littlefinger just going Chaos is a ladder and using that to#explain off very logistically silly decisions#and i also think its weird to make the disabled guy the most unambiguously gleefully evil guy there.#cool layered character you got there. have you considered making him not very layered at all#not that the adaptation needs to be faithful. because it doesnt. but i did prefer larys in the book being a total enigma#hotd#hotd spoilers#larys strong
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I live 24/7 in the larycent tag… How do you think an ongoing secret relationship (wether romantic or sexual) between the two of them would go? Or how it would work?
What about public courting or a non-secret relationship? I know that one’s tougher but… Gimme your thoughts 👀
Larys totally puts the tools given to him as spy master, Lord Confessor, and also as a warg — yeah, this has been implied so much now and it would make sense since 1. In F&B we know very little of him to the point where it's likely he had a hand in that 2. It's not unbelievable that the Maesters would erase any mention of magic beyond to revile people and Larys is such an enigma that he was probably never on their radar — to good use to make sure no one finds out they are banging on the side, and if it weren’t for the fact that the entire staff has been whispering about the Queen having over the Lord Confessor on quite many days, it might really have been the world's best kept secret.
Alicent has gotten her whole public image of being the virtuous and pious Queen so that is her alibi. And, of course, given Larys's public persona as the quiet effeminate second son who wears pretty clothes, is certainly seen in a negative light because of his disability, and has never been able to do any traditionally masculine things, hell, part of the rumours might even be that he's not even into women and a "pervert".
But a public courting, in a world where she's not Queen and just Lady Alicent Hightower? Hoo boy.
They connect in a similar way they do in canon: both of them outsiders, ignored by the world - and Alicent in different ways, since she might not be Queen anymore, but she's still a popular bachelorette and the most beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms!
Them actually being an item because they are on the same wavelength and feel good with the other would certainly seen as odd and no doubt they'd get a lot of pushback. Lyonel I see as very surprised that his "lesser" son and not Harwin has struck up a friendship with the Lady Alicent and that they fancy each other's company and not be against it but also fully aware that this shouldn't be — while Otto would feel it's an insult to him, his daughter, and his house, forbidding her to see him and maybe even purposefully arranging Alicent to get married to someone else.
But of course, Larys is far from powerless and could find ways for them to meet in secret, the fucking castle has a maze of secret passages, so its not like anyone can stop him at least?
They'd certainly be seen as Westeros's most unlikeliest couple so far, because of the perceived oddity of "Hottest Woman In The Known World" and "Lord Clubfoot The Hideous" and also because, what a shocking revelation, they hang out because they get along, not because there's an arranged betrothal!!! Relationships among high profile nobles in Westeros born from affection/love are comparatively rare and even those tend to end in tragedy (just think of Rhaegar and Lyanna), and god knows whether it could work out!
Larys has a hereto unknown plan that he sticks to, so it might very well be that we see Alicent pulling a Jaime/Criston and tells Larys they ought to elope so they could be happy in a place where no one cares about who they are and also gets rejected. Or maybe it works out just fine — whatever happens, we will always have fanfiction to play in our sandbox 🥲💖
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| @magnuswylde |
| setting :: jaehaerys approaches an old friend to offer him a role in his new kingdom |
They were boys when they first met. Barely on the cusp of manhood and as it was tradition he was sent somewhere. Most boys were fostered with the then Prince and some months the Prince would accompany them to their homes and back again. He took a liking to the sons of House Wylde, he found them to be fascinating. Stormlanders were quite different from them. From their coloring to their traditions and the way they spoke.
Even with all those differences he still found himself connecting with the man. It started when Jaehaerys swore on the Gods to be on his best behavior and when that was the case he wandered around more, poked through people’s things and tried to sneakily follow people, as youth he was terrible at stealth and as a man, he avoids doing it often.
Together, Magnus Wylde and Jaehaerys Targaryen were on the same side of an ever flipping coin landing between chaos and destruction often. What he liked about Magnus rung true for his like of many people. The darkness around them, the darkness over their heads, and it wasn’t a cloud that threatened to bring a downpour. The dark of them saw one another and bounded them quietly.
“Do you remember the rock, Magnus?” Jaehaerys turned to face him then looked back over the Blackwater Bay. “I always thought your strength deceptive. And that’s good, I think. I think it’s wise when people don’t expect what they’ll be getting form someone, it gives them little time to prepare. And even less time to adjust because you have taken them by surprise.”
He looked over at him once more, turning fully to face him, he trusted the man a great deal. They already had their spy in Lyra Celtigar and he wouldn’t unseat Valyrians for anyone. There was a greater purpose for the Lord in front of him.
“I want you to be my Lord Confessor, it’s a title not used since the gimp Larys Strong. Some believe the role should be combined with spy masters, I do not. For there are those who must use silver tongues for their secrets while others, you if you accept, can use a stronger touch.”
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What roles come under cersei as queen? For instances could Robert be allowed to create small council positions for lord of art, lord of (dances/singing/poetry).
To my understanding, the roles in the small council have a bit of flexibility as advisors can be added to the traditional roles (hand of the king, lord commander of the kingsguard, master of laws, master of ships, master of coin, grand maester and master of whispers), also a member of the council can have a double duty (i.e. Larys Strong was master of whispers AND lord confessor, which isn’t a council role). So yeah, I guess there can be wiggle room for a king to temporarily appoint extra people in support of the existing council members, or to give additional duties to, idk, the master of coin and the grand maester so they oversee the redecoration of the Red Keep. But I doubt that you could plausibly have an officially appointed seat for activities such as art and poetry, because the council is built specifically for government. As much as I maintain that art and even leisurely activities had a political weight in societies analogue to Westeros, it’s clear that the council operates at the level of literally running the entire realm and not just the court. Plus the fact that the existing traditional positions amount to seven feels significant.
As for your specific example… sorry but I don’t really see it. We’ve been in Cersei’s head and she doesn’t think for a minute about art or music. Courtly activities are something she performs but actually dislikes doing (ultimately she’s quite a misanthrope). Sansa might be the one who, when queen or great lady, goes “we should totally allocate some of our budget to art and leisure”, we’ve had multiple instances showing it’s something she cares about. But still, not something that would substantially change the structure of the small council as it exists of now.
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