Yes, I will watch HOTD....bc its based on a closed story, with beginning and end of the book fire & blood and probably will have just 3 ou 4 seasons instead of like 8 seasons game of thrones had.
I hope the producers dont fuck it up, the story of dance of dragons is really direct, doesnt need to invent any subplot or change much, has charismatic players of all sides, a bit of dramatic weddings and bastards and dragons. And a douche womanizer targaryen for the male audience and doctor who tumblrinas to stan lmao
Ofc I side with TeamBlack, fuck the hightowers
Anddd i will tag HOTDspoilers everytime I post about it
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I obviously don't want you to let any cats out of bags if you're planning this for the main fic, but "Please talk to me. I need to hear you." for Abby and Aegon post-Rook's Rest?
So good news: My ass doesn't have anything planned for the Dance quite yet, so we're going into the general canon for this. So Aegon and Abby were in KL, they were crowned, and things continued as they did in canon.
warning: violent pregnancy loss (off-screen), grief, mentions of past violence. ANGSTY
It had been three weeks.
Rain patters on the wall of windows facing the sea, the deep blue and green curtains pulled back to let in the watery light of the miserable day. The fire crackles in the great hearth and braziers are lit to keep any chill away from the king. There is still dust lingering along the corners she finds from where Aegon smashed his dead father’s Valyrian model, and how he’d screamed for it to be tossed in a trash heap, for every single shattered piece of it to be hauled away never to be seen again.
Abby thinks of how she decorated the room after their coronation. Once all of the old things - including the bed that the rot of the king had melted into - had been taken out. There were the erotic mosaics still etched in the walls that Aegon enjoyed, as well as a tapestry of her above the fireplace in their bed chamber, the one of Sunfyre above the hearth in the main room. Couches overflowing with soft pillows and blankets, her drawing supplies by the great doors to the balcony.
Often, the room was filled with flowers - wisteria and roses, her favorite.
Now it smells of burnt flesh, of medicinal poultices, of milk of the poppy, of her own tears. She sits in the great chair beside the bed, eyes red rimmed. Surely, she’s cried enough to turn the streets of King’s Landing into rivers. Her needle stabs into her fingers, drawing blood but little sound from her. Drops of it dot the white of the blanket she’s embroidering for the baby that will never come.
Not after that terrible night.
Her ribs still ache from the blows, the swelling along her face having gone down that she can at least see out of both her eyes again.
First it was Aegon, furious at what had been done to her, helpless to take away her pain, their pain. Now it is she who is angry and helpless, impotent at his bedside.
Thunder rumbles outside and she tosses her embroidery across the room, the anger in her a muted thing, difficult to feel in the most visceral ways. It hugs her insides, curling through her bones and wrapping around her limbs like mist. The only sound is her wet gasping, the crackle of the fire. Aegon’s own soft wheezing. The left side of his face is burned, the injury skating down the side of his body but thank the Seven, thank the Old Gods, thank them all, that his armor did not fuse into him to be cut away and cause him more pain.
“Come to the Sept,” Alicent had tried to console her. “Come and pray, it will ease you.”
“The only one I’ll ever pray to is my husband,” she had growled, pulling away from her cousin’s hold. “Leave me. Leave me with him. There is nothing left to comfort me while he is like this.”
“Please talk to me,” she whispers, barely audible to her own ears. “Please, I need to hear you.” Her voice cracks. “mo réalta geal, please.”
Please don’t leave me.
Abby stares down at him, her eyes tracking over the planes of his face, the feel of him one that she knows so intimately that she can feel the sensation of his skin against her fingertips - phantom and comforting. Her breath hitches and she bites down on her fist, eyes shutting tight as another wave of pain, of grief, of loss so acute in her empty belly, in her hollow ribs, threatening to drown her as she wept. “Aegon,” she sobs, her voice small, her plea lost in the hiccups as she bows over him, her tangled, limp hair absent of its luster.
She doesn’t know how long she weeps, but long enough that she falls asleep, her head resting on the bed beside where his hand rests, bandaged fingers little comfort but enough. Her face is a mottled mess, red and puffy, her lashes stuck together from her tears. Abby drifts into her dreams, snatches of memories. Of the maester confirming her pregnancy, of the way Aegon whooped and lifted her into his arms, and she thought they would never be happier.
But then the pair of them came, to rob them of their joy, to take her babe away, to take them both from Aegon had Ser Criston and Ser Arryk not gotten to them. But they had each other, and they would get through it, they would survive this horrible attack, they would defend their family and their home.
Until Aegon flew, crashing with Meleys above Rook’s Rest. The Red Queen plummeted to earth, but Sunfyre had survived. Aegon had survived. Somehow.
Fingers brush against her forehead and she whimpers, rubbing her face into the light blanket and her eyes cracked open.
Aegon’s fingers came into focus as they wriggled, and the rasping, hoarse whisper, “I’m sorry,” crackled in the air. She couldn’t breathe. Abby blinked, her hand trembling as she touched her fingers to his and slowly, as if she’d wake from a dream, she lifted her head to see Aegon’s own, heavy lidded and unfocused. “I left you for so long.”
“Aegon?” Was he real? Was this his voice?
His mouth twitches slightly as he tries to smile at her. “You are so beautiful.” Slurred and crackly, but Aegon all the same. Abby carefully lifts the bandaged hand in hers, kissing him softly as she moves further on the bed. His uninjured hand moves, heavy and slow from disuse, to cup her cheek with a clumsy movement that causes her to wince. “Sorry,” he whispered, fingers gentle. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere…” a sigh, his eyes fluttering. “Found you….. Mine now.”
“Yours,” she promised. “Yours.”
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