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bittersweetarts · 1 year

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The Great War - Chapter 1 (Aemond Targaryen Fanfiction)

Summary: A war is brewing, but only some know this – Camyla Peake, daughter of Lord Unwin Peake, is sent King’s Landing to wed the Hand of the King. It is a shame though, that she garners the attention of his grandsons instead.

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage with Otto Hightower, sexism.

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Chapter 1: The Flowering

Camyla Peake was not opposed to the prospect of being betrothed to an older man, but Lord Otto Hightower was a little older than she would have preferred.

Not that it mattered to Camyla’s father, Lord Unwin Peake, whose ambition overshadowed any fatherly concern he may have towards a child; let alone a daughter, because what utility did daughters have outside of marriage and childrearing.

It did not help that Camyla was also old by Westerosi standards, and Lord Unwin Peake had openly resented his daughter for not being wed. Most of the girls Camyla grew up with have long started families and fulfilled their duties. The Head of House Peake often moaned, usually over dinner and wine, that he regretted not arranging her betrothal when she was a child, and had long already arranged a betrothal for Myrielle, Camyla’s younger sister. Myrielle had yet to celebrate her seventh nameday.

Unfortunately for Camyla though, most considered the girl to be barren, until she finally bled for the first time, a few moons before her twentieth name day. It was a miracle really, and when the maids at Starpike Castle discovered the young noblewoman in bed, clutching her sheets, attempting to conceal her flowering. These maids went to Lord Peake right away, to inform him of this, despite Camyla’s begging. An ambitiously cunning man, Lord Unwin Peake set out right away to arrange an advantageous match for his eldest living daughter, and this sadly did not surprise the young woman in the slightest.

What Camyla Peake least likes about herself is how much she takes after her father. Like her siblings, Camyla takes after him physically, with abundantly ash hair and dull gray-brown eyes. Unlike her brothers and sisters though, Camyla was clever and shrewd, like her father. She was not always like this though.

When Camyla was young, she thought herself to be a princess. Her father, an affluent lord, was not affectionate, but her mother, Lady Amyra Tyrell, had compensated for this, bathing her children in love, and impressing upon them their value. Her elder siblings, Titus and Taliya, used to be her playmates, and together, they pretended to rule an imaginary Eighth Kingdom, which was unseen to the common eye; Titus was the gallant King, Taliya was his benevolent Queen, and Camyla was the Princess which their common folk adored. There were no dragons or mean fathers in their Kingdom, and it was Camyla’s favourite place in the realm. Too quickly though, these games became too childish for her siblings, who had to grow up and leave home. Titus was sent to serve their grandsire Lord Redwyne, in Arbor, and Taliya was wed to one of Lord Frey’s sons.

Camyla still lived in her fantasies though, and remained tender hearted. Though her siblings stopped playing, Camyla never did when she was younger, and would imagine countless tales which took place in their imaginary world.

But when their mother had died giving birth to her youngest sister, Myrielle, Camyla became changed. Ten and three, Camyla had to learn to take care of her babe sister, for her father did not.

And when Taliya died giving birth to her first child, while still a girl herself, a part of Camyla died as well. This was when Camyla changed, and as the years passed, Camyla grew to become more like her father, which is why she was not shocked when her father, mere days after her flowering, hastily declared during their supper.

“The Hand of the King. That is who you are to impress when you leave for King’s Landing on the morrow. For your own sake, you should secure this betrothal, for you will not have a home here no more. I have cared for you long enough.”

And that was it. It only took some blood for Camyla Peake’s life to be completely changed. As her father demanded, Camyla spoke her farewells to her younger sister and home at Starpike, and departed on her weeks-long journey, leaving with only what could fit in a carriage and the stern Septa Maris, who would watch over her conduct at the Red Keep (and inevitably report her every movement to her father). Camyla expected sadness to consume her, for she was leaving the only place she had ever known, home not only to her, but to the memories of her mother and older sister; but no sorrow took hold. Camyla only felt empty.

It was not easy to astound Aemond Targaryen, but when his brother, Aegon, declared one afternoon that their grandsire was about to wed a girl half their mother’s age, Aemond Targaryen was truly astounded. Surely this could not be true, because why would the wise Lord Otto Hightower betroth himself now, especially to a girl younger than some of his grandchildren?

No. The one-eyed Prince could not believe it, it must be a malignant lie. His grandsire would not get betrothed for companionship; that was what whores were for, Aemond heard him say once. No, his grandsire would not bind himself to a girl, but rather to her House. But marrying a girl so young, at his age, was a shocking notion, and Aemond could not be the only one astounded by this. It must be a misunderstanding.

But Aegon declared it to be true, and jovially asked the Hand about it over supper the very same evening, in the presence of their mother, the Queen Alicent, and their father, the King Viserys Targaryen.

“It is true.” Lord Otto Hightower answered plainly. Aemond immediately noticed how his mother was silent and did not touch her food, and he noticed how his father appeared rather pleased that evening, weakly raising his goblet while coughing.

“Congratulations, friend. What House does the blessed woman hail from? And when is the wedding to be? We must host a tourney and have a grand feast. It has been long since joy has been spread in these halls.”

Helaena had given birth to Maelor only a few moons ago. Bitterly thought Aemond.

“Thank you, your Grace.” His grandsire tightly smiled at his father, taking a sip of his wine before answering. “It is Lord Peake’s eldest daughter, and as we speak, she should be journeying to us from the Reach. I am to meet her first, to decide whether she would be a suitable wife.”

“What could be wrong with Lord Unwin’s daughter?” Queen Alicent finally spoke, her speech devoid of emotion. Aemond’s eye was still helplessly fixed on his mother; he felt like he was the only one that cared for her behalf and hated that it was so.

Clearing his throat, the Hand answered his daughter awkwardly.

“She is not very young but has never been betrothed. I would like to see her defects for myself before accepting her.”

“Well, how old is the spinster?” The King asked, in a lighthearted tone, but choked on his wine as his Hand answered.

“Twenty.”

The conversation tensed, and their grandsire quickly tried to change the topic. Not very young? She is merely a year older than I am. The one-eyed Prince dubiously thought.

“How I love fresh meat at the Keep.” Aegon whispered crudely to Aemond, who ignored his brother’s insipid comment. Instead, the one-eyed Prince continued watching his mother, who he realised was picking on her nails yet again. His mother was not the only one he worried about, however. Glancing at Helaena, Aemond also contemplated whether she heard what Aegon had said, as she vacantly stared down at her plate.

“Sevens, the scent is revolting.” Camyla Peake declared, pinching her nose.

“Camyla!” Austerely chastised Septa Marris, sharply glaring at Camyla. The middle-aged woman who was not overly fond of her, as of yet. “The Seven’s name should not be said in vain!”

The carriage carrying them was slowing down now, having passed through River Gate. They were not far from the Red Keep now, but Camyla could not see anything beyond its silhouette yet.

“Apologies Septa.” Camyla responded nonchalantly, looking out the window again. The smell really was awful, but at least Blackwater Bay was a better sight. The sky was dull, despite the rising of the sun, and the waters were devoid of colour, but Camyla preferred it to staring at Septa Marris’s scowling face concentrating on her boring needlework.

The journey had taken weeks, and Septa Marris made for poor company, in Camyla’s opinion at least. To pass the time, Camyla tried reading, but it only made her nauseous, and so, with nothing to do, Camyla just sat in silence during their travels. Consequently, there was nothing to distract the brunette from her thoughts.

Camyla was not nervous about being wife to Lord Otto Hightower, for she already knew what her duties would entail: play the role of a nice little bride, and birth a child or two. Camyla also understood her fate all too well – it was to be a pawn, either at her father or soon-to-be husband’s hands. Frankly though, Camyla did not care all that much, or rather, could not be bothered to care. Though the prospect of her life in King’s Landing, being caged in a loveless marriage and the walls of the Keep, bored her, Camyla was also not interested in her father’s games. All he wanted was to make House Peake the greatest in Westeros, but what was so great about it? Most of her family were cruel, bigots, or cruel bigots, and her father was no exception. Moreover, her father did not respect her, simply because she was born without a cock between her legs, so why should she try to vie for his approval?

No, Camyla would not try, not anymore. The young woman had decided that she would not be trying to create a life with Lord Otto Hightower for her father. Should he agree to the betrothal, Camyla would try to pursue some semblance of a happy marriage, only for herself, and if that fails, then she would hopefully have at least a child who she could love. There was the concern that she would not bleed as a woman again, and that she was indeed barren, but Camyla chose to ignore this. It was an irrational fear, for no other woman in her family was barren, so why would she be the first?

Camyla also no longer wanted to return to Starpike, nor did she want to live with her unkind father. Though she missed Myrielle, Camyla did not miss Unwin Peake and the way he ‘showed love’. There was something in Camyla’s stare, defiant by nature, which seemed to infuriate Lord Peakem, and when he had a lot of wine, he would ensure that Camyla knew his fury.

King’s Landing never was where Camyla imagined her home to be, but she welcomed the notion of it. The idea of being a lady wife to an important man was appealing, and her new life at the Keep would be hers to forge. All she had to do was please Lord Otto Hightower well enough. Surely it should not be too difficult. Thought Camyla as she stared at the moving sea waters.

Upon arriving at the Red Keep, Lady Camyla Peake and Septa Marris were greeted by Lord Otto Hightower, rather indifferently, in front of a large crowd of unfamiliar faces.

Camyla did not expect warmth or affection from the Hand of the King, and was actually surprised; not by his attitude, but by his physical appearance. Camyla had expected a man bearing in resemblance to her father, in that the Hand’s countenance would be heavier and more rounded. Instead, Camyla came to meet a tall slender man with a kind face, which made her feel at ease, that is until she actually got to speak to him more directly.

Following his cold welcoming, Lord Otto Hightower practically demanded that Camyla meet him in the Gardens during the afternoon, so that they could properly speak to each other. Camyla wondered what he thought of her. She knew that she was no great beauty, with a wider figure, pale skin and darker hair, but maybe her youth was appealing to him. However, when Septa Marris proceeded to fret over her appearance the entire morning while she unpacked Camyla’s belongings in the guest quarters, Camyla became grow irritated. Why was her beauty the only quality that mattered?

“You were a mess upon arrival – How could I let you meet Lord Hightower like that!”

“It matters not.” Camyla chimed in a bored tone, staring out of the window. The view overlooked the pillars of the Keep and King’s Landing, which was intimidatingly grand. Starpike Castle scarcely compared in scale.

“Of course it matters! Lord Hightower is judging you in everything. He is Hand of the King for a reason.”

Sighing, Camyla snapped back, in a mildly irritated tone. “It matters not to me. If we do not get betrothed, it will not be the end of times, no matter how much my Lord Father tries to make us believe otherwise. I am doing as he demands, but I cannot force the hand of Fate as well.”

Again, Septa Marris chastised Camyla and ranted to her about the importance of acting agreeable and soft-spoken, especially to Lord Hightower and all who are important at King’s Landing. But Camyla quickly grew bored of the speech, and ignored Septa Marris as she began intricately plaiting her thick hair.

Eventually, a comfortable silence lulled over the quarters, and Camyla became distracted with other thoughts. She wondered about court life at the Red Keep. As far as Camyla was aware, the King’s children were the only people close to her age (disregarding anyone not of noble blood), but the young woman hoped she was wrong about this, because otherwise, her life at King’s Landing would be rather solitary and lonely, for Camyla did not expect that the Princes and Princess would be keen to befriend the young wife of their grandsire. Perhaps there were some Lords at the Keep, maybe part of the King’s Small Council, who had daughters living with them. Or perhaps the Princess has some ladies-in-waiting close to her age. Camyla could only hope.

Naturally, Camyla knew of the members of House Targaryen, as well as their reputation. Of Queen Alicent’s children, Prince Aegon, was infamous in Westeros for his unpleasantness, and shamefully indecent past times, meanwhile his sister-wife, Princess Helaena, was often described in conversation as kind, but peculiar in character. Camyla has heard little about Prince Aemond’s character or attitude, but the story of how he had lost an eye when he was little, in exchange for Vaghar, a fierce dragon that had aided in Aegon’s Conquest of Westeros, was well-known. Camyla Peake expected that Prince Aemond would bear some similarity to his older brother in character, and she knew it better to avoid both.

The only Targaryen children that Camyla did not expect to meet was Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daeron. Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, is a woman grown, with her own family, and she lived away from King’s Landing. Prince Daeron, though younger than his siblings, resides in Oldtown, serving as a cupbearer and squire for Lord Ormund Hightower; at least that is what Camyla’s father had said once during dinner with guests, a few moons ago. Either way, Camyla did not expect to meet either of them tonight, which she was fine with. In fact, Camyla wished she did not have to meet anyone from House Targaryen, for none of them, if shown by history, were good companions if one valued their life.

When Camyla finally greeted Lord Otto at the Gardens, the sun was harsh and unforgiving, and the young brunette regretted Septa Marris’s choice of attire for the walk; a hugging, heavy fabric gem-coloured gown, which seemed to trap the heat. Camyla tried to keep her cool, but it was rather difficult.

“Your father and I have known each other for decades. He has never mentioned you to me before now.” The Hand stated simply, his hands clasped behind his back as he strode ahead of Camyla, who walked more slowly, lifting her gown to appear more lady-like.

“I do not why.”

Actually, Camyla did know why, but she would not make Lord Otto privy to that knowledge. Camyla’s answer did not satisfy the Hand though, who stopped walking and turned to face the young woman, his brows furrowed.

“I am going to ask you plainly, and it will be without consequence for our arrangement. You have my word. All I ask is the truth. Have you given up your chastity to another already?”

Camyla’s eyes widened, taken aback by Lord Otto’s forwardness, and immediately responded, her low voice in shame.

“Of course not.”

As she spoke, Camyla’s gaze wandered to her feet. She knew that her age would be an issue, but she did not realise that others would suppose she was unwed because she had whored herself out. Lord Otto Hightower, on the other hand, seemed satisfied in her response, perceiving it to be truthful, and continued to walk, not waiting for the young girl to follow.

“So why has Unwin not wed you off yet?”

Glancing back up, Camyla rushed to keep pace with the Hand, her sight still set to the ground.

“I cannot speak for my father. He is the one who decides on these matters.” Camyla uttered a response. She did not want to lie, but she did not want to reveal the truth to Lord Otto either. Thankfully, he did not press upon the subject anymore, and began to speak to her about his expectations (they were as Camyla anticipated: remain silent, be faithful, and to do as he says). Camyla found that her input was rarely asked, that Lord Otto preferred to speak instead of listen, and Camyla tried to not to be irritated by this. Eventually, his conversation ceased, and he turned to face her again.

“My family dines together most evenings. You are expected to attend tonight’s supper. You will be in the company of the King, my daughter and their children. Dress appropriately and behave as expected.”

Pressing her lips together, Camyla nodded, and this seemed to satisfy Lord Otto Hightower.

“At sunset, I will send for a knight, Ser Arryk, to escort you. You are to be ready by then.”

Having spent some time with Lord Otto Hightower, Camyla formed some semblance of a judgment on him. Similar to her father, Lord Otto was proud and brusque, and Camyla knew how to act around men like that. They preferred women to be quiet and unseen, and Camyla could do that just fine. But did she wish to? Camyla Peake was undecided.

Camyla also knew that Lord Otto Hightower had once been dismissed from his post as Hand, but she did not know why. Did it matter? Camyla did not foresee a close companionship with Lord Otto as her husband, and while this was disappointing, it more importantly meant that she had to look out for herself, because Lord Otto would not. He gave her no reason to trust him. While she could ensure that their betrothal did not happen, what better prospects did Camyla have?

As demanded, Camyla was ready by sunset. Septa Marris had helped get her ready again, and Camyla sat in silence as her hair was undone; it was decided that having her curled locks loose but secured away from her face would best present her features. Septa Marris had also ranted how Camyla should act during the dinner, and to be careful about what she ate, as her hips made her appear wider than most other ladies; this greatly tested Camyla patience. Septa Marris had also tried to get Camyla to profess a detailed account of her conversation with Lord Otto Hightower, but Camyla stubbornly kept her descriptions short and vague. Camyla was no idiot. She knew that Septa Marris would quickly send a letter to her imposing father detailing everything, and Camyla intended to make this difficult, simply out of spite.

After Septa Marris finished getting Camyla ready, the young woman found herself idle with nerves. The sun had long set, but no one had come to get the young woman, and Camyla had no idea where to go. When Ser Arryk finally arrived to escort Camyla, the brunette felt like she could finally breathe again, despite her tight crimson gown, which was sinched to the waist too forcefully for comfort.

Camyla was normally quite forward, but Ser Arryk was intimidatingly large in stature, and despite his friendly face, he was in a seemingly bad mood, so Camyla did not try to ask about why he had arrived so late, and the pair walked silently, for seemingly forever. Camyla was amazed by how large the Red Keep was, and by the time they reached to the dining room, Camyla felt tired and her feet slightly ached.

“You are late.”

A voice echoed the room as Camyla entered. The room was dim, illuminated by candlelight in the hundreds. Camyla had always been drawn to flames and found herself momentarily distracted as she entered, not expecting the room to be set so beautifully.

“Nonsense, Otto. She is right on time – Come sit, Lady Peake.”

Despite his cheerful tone, Camyla went speechless, having been addressed directly by King Viserys, a character previously confined to her books and her father’s conversations. In all honesty, Camyla felt almost stricken just by the notion of the Targaryen King being aware of her existence.

Camyla Peake, still stood by the entryway, was practically frozen in place, and Prince Aemond Targaryen, who was watching her closely, could not help but notice how similarly the young woman resembled a lamb sent for slaughter. With her dark eyes wide and her full lips slightly parted, Aemond Targaryen quickly understood that his grandsire’s future wife was incapable of concealing her emotions very well. The one-eyed Prince could have shown compassion and smiled at her when their gazes briefly met, but instead, he maintained his usual frown. Still watching her, Prince Aemond Targaryen decided that he would not show kindness to the girl, not when her very presence at the Red Keep wounded his mother so deeply.

“Come Camyla, sit.” Lord Otto Hightower spoke up again, and the young woman quickly collected herself, and rushed to the only vacant seat available, between Princess Helaena and her future husband.

Camyla. Prince Aemond Targaryen mused. The name rolled off the tongue very tenderly, and the one-eyed Prince noticed how well it suited the girl. Though her features were simple, there was a graceful humility in her stride, and Aemond Targaryen now found himself incapable of looking away.

The room was silent as the young woman seated herself. When she glanced to her right, Princess Helaena smiled at her, and Camyla forced herself to return the smile, before turning to face the King.

“Thank you, your Grace, for welcoming me into your home. I am honoured, and truly appreciate it.” Camyla lively spoke, mustering all her conviction.

Camyla Peake had thought herself to be well-prepared and did not anticipate her confidence to waver in the presence of the King and his family. Unfortunately, Camyla was wrong, found herself unprepared at the sight of all the fair-haired Targaryens gathered, as well as Lord Otto’s daughter, the Queen Alicent, whose intimidating gaze was piercing. But Camyla knew that she could not show any frailty, not now that she was alone at King’s Landing. So naturally, she attempted to hide her weakness with a lie.

“Please forgive me for my cloddish entrance. I fear that I have not been able to eat since breaking my fast this morning, and do not function well without nourishment.” Camyla spoke in a lighthearted tone, hoping that her attitude could be perceived as endearing.

“Let us begin eating right away then!” The King declared, a grin plastered on his face. Perhaps it was due to the small amounts of milk of the poppy a Maester has Viserys Targaryen consume, but the old King could almost see the face of his dear cousin, Princess Rhaenys, in the Lady Camyla. Though the young girl did not possess his cousin’s lilac eyes, they did have similar darker hair, and the King found their personas to be akin. It was comforting having her around, he decided.

“My love, a prayer before we begin?” The Queen Alicent asked, her voice soft but domineering.

“Yes, of course.” Viserys Targaryen responded nonchalantly, smiling at his wife before placing his goblet back onto the dining table, as though he was merely humouring her.

As Alicent Hightower spoke prayers, thanking the Seven for the bountiful feast that was spread before them, Camyla Peake made a few observations. Not particularly pious, Camyla did not close her eyes during the Queen Alicent’s speech, and she was not the only one.

Daring to lift her head and look across, she saw the one-eyed Prince Aemond, who was sat with his eye firmly shut and his hands devoutly clasped together. At the sight before her, Camyla felt herself flush, realising that the young Prince was actually quite handsome, in an almost rugged way. How was he still not betrothed? Camyla thought to herself, unable to tear her sight away.

Camyla Peake then became mortified, when she glanced to Aemond’s right, and saw the Prince Aegon deviously grinning at her. Immediately, Camyla shut her eyes and began listening to the Queen’s prayers.

“… as well Lady Camyla’s safe arrival to King’s Landing, and may the Mother Above, font of mercy, also bless Lord Father and Lady Camyla’s union, if it comes to be.”

As the Queen’s prayers came to an end, Camyla understood that despite the Queen’s comity, she was not pleased with her father’s choice to remarry, and Camyla could not blame her. Camyla Peake would not be ecstatic if her own father decided to marry a lady half her age.

When Camyla opened her eyes again, she was met with Prince Aemond’s stare, and immediately looked away, her breath hitched. She hoped that Prince Aegon would not tell him how she was staring at him herself during the prayers, but knew that this would be unlikely. What does it matter? It is not them that I need to impress. Camyla attempted to rationalise to herself.

Sudden rough coughing caught Camyla by surprise and the young woman instinctively turned to the head of the table, where the King sat. As she looked at the sickly King, their eyes met, and Viserys Targaryen warmly smiled at her.

“This old man knows that it is not certain yet, but humour me the privilege of a toast, my friend.”

The King turned to Lord Otto, who forced his mouth to turn upright, and nodded. It was not that Otto disliked Viserys’s attention towards him at that moment, but rather because the Hand realised something critical, which did not please him. Otto Hightower realised that the King has developed an endearment towards Camyla Peake, something he fails to show his children (aside from his first born). Otto Hightower also understood that he had to wed Camyla Peake, not only because an alliance with House Peake was imperative, but also because now, the young girl would be useful with the King.

“A toast to my Hand, Otto, and his fair future bride, the Lady Camyla.” Raising his goblet, the King took a swig and everyone else followed in suit and proceeded to eat.

Camyla turned to her left, to look at Lord Otto, and found the man ignoring her completely. Camyla sensed that the Hand was unhappy with her, which made her sigh, perhaps a little to loudly, as the Princess Helaena giggled out loud, making herself known for the first time that evening. Everyone turned to look at her, and the young Princess merely tilted her head and smiled vacantly. Dismissing Princess Helaena’s queer attitude, everyone continued to eat and talk amongst one another. Only Camyla knew why the Princess had giggled, and it felt like a little secret between them.

“I am particularly fond of lamprey pie.” Camyla said quietly, turning to face Princess Helaena, who was pleasantly surprised to be addressed to.

“Did you know lamprey consume the blood of other sea creatures?” The Princess responded, rather loudly, smiling at Camyla, whose eyes widened in shock.

“Surely not.” Camyla answered apprehensively, placing her fork down in slight revulsion. Blood and violence made the young woman feel uncomfortable, and she was not keen on eating a creature that now seemed so vicious. Her new-found disgust seemed to attract the attention of some in the room.

“My sister is correct. Lamprey fish possess many sharp teeth which they use latch onto their prey, in order to draw their blood.” Prince Aemond coolly spoke up. As he did, Camyla abruptly faced him, and found the young Prince smugly smiling at her, as if entertained by her horrified state.

“There is no need to talk about such violent matters in front a lady, brother. Surely you should know that.” Prince Aegon said amusingly, evidently no longer sober. Immediately, the one-eyed Prince’s mood darkened, as though he had stepped on horse shit.

“I was merely making conversation, brother.” The one-eyed Prince responded coldly. Perhaps because Camyla was embarrassed to be discussed about like this, her eyes were glue towards the table, and she noticed how the one-eyed Prince’s hands gripped the silverware that he held, his veins protruding.

“I am sure the lovely Lady Camyla would prefer more pleasant conversation–”

“Lady Camyla is perfectly fine. Thank you for the concern, my Prince.” Camyla interrupted, forcing her tone to remain girlishly sweet, hoping that their bickering would end. She really did feel mortified, having caused a scene yet again that evening.

“Always, my Lady. You are to become family after all, and Targaryens are very concerned with family.” Prince Aegon spoke jovially slurred, though his double meaning was blatant.

The room had gone tense, and Alicent Hightower seethed quietly, astounded and irritated, unable to comprehend how her father was ready to wife a girl who behaves like a child, just as his own grandchildren do. Aside from Camyla, who felt herself flush at Price Aegon’s implications, everyone else ignored it, as that is what they do when Aegon behaved like this. Normally Otto Hightower would intercede and force civility between his grandsons but decided against involving himself in case the conflict escalated.

And so, the evening proceeded as such. Conversation flowed like a river flood, in that it was unsteady, and at times chaotic.

Camyla Peake tried to become invisible once she understood that Lord Otto Hightower was ignoring her, but failed; the King would ask her about her upbringing and life at Starpike, as well as her father, and Prince Aegon attempted to bait her into conversation through lewd remarks. Like her father, the Queen ignored Camyla Peake’s very existence, but the young woman took little notice of this, as her thoughts were elsewhere.

For some inexplicable reason, Camyla felt herself drawn towards the one-eyed Prince, Aemond. Though they scarcely addressed each other again that evening, their eyes would frequently meet, and Camyla felt herself flush under his demanding stare.

Camyla ascertained though that she simply found the one-eyed Prince handsome, and as she drank more wine, her stare strayed towards him more frequently. Prince Aemond Targaryen did not mind it though, and in fact quite liked it. Thankfully, only Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena noticed this silent exchange.

In low side comments, Aegon attempted to bait his younger brother by teasing him about wandering eyes. Princess Helaena, on the other hand, made no mention of this at all, merely vacantly smiling at Lady Camyla and providing empty responses when the young woman attempted to make conversation. Though Lady Camyla liked Princess Helaena well enough, she did find the young Princess to be a little odd.

And as the evening drew to a close, everyone slowly began retreating to their chambers, beginning with the King and Queen, the former of whom had felt unwell. Camyla Peake was again escorted back to her bedroom by Ser Arryk, at the behest of Lord Otto, after politely bidding goodnight to the Hand and his grandchildren. As Camyla and Ser Arryk approached her quarters, Camyla felt bold, perhaps due to the wine she had, and posed a question to the Kingsguard knight, breaking their mutual silence.

“Are they good? The Hand and his family, I mean.”

Camyla’s voice softly echoed the hallway, her eyes fixed to the ground beneath her. Ser Arryk abruptly stopped walking, surprised by her question, and stared at her with his brows furrowed. He had no thoughts about the young woman, and was surprised to hear her address him, as ladies rarely ever did. The tall knight paused for a moment, thinking on his response.

“It is not important, my Lady.” Ser Arryk stated simply, and began slowly walking again, patiently waiting for Camyla to follow him.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this new story! I cannot really explain how I came up with this plot idea, and really, I am here to see how much chaos and angst I can write into it. I will be publishing chapters every week on Wednesday, to make the wait until Season 2 a little more bearable. Though ambitious, this story is going to be quite long, and it begins in 127 AC, two years before the Dance of the Dragons.

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sebeth · 1 year

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Watch "Brief History Of Unwin Peake | House Of The Dragon History & Lore | Dance Of The Dragons (Aegon iii)" on YouTube

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sansas-amythest-hairnet · 10 months

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Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, daughter of King Aegon II and Queen Helaena, wife of King Aegon III. Jaehaera was small when’s he was born and said to be very emotionless, especially after witnessing the violent death of her twin Jaehaerys during an event known as Blood and Cheese. Jaehaera survived her entire family during the Dance of the Dragons and was married to the new young king Aegon III. In 133 AC at the age of ten Jaehaera threw herself from the top of Maegors Holdfast and died, dying the same death as her mother. It is however rumored that she was murdered by Lord Unwin Peake who wanted the title of Queen for his own daughter.

#jaehaera targaryen #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #asoif/got #asoif fanart #asoiaf fanart #house of the dragon #house targaryen #helaena #helaena targaryen #the dance of the dragons #dance of the dragons

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bucknastysbabe · 2 months

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would you pls write canon criston smut? i love your criston fics!!

YES I WOULD LOVE TO!!!! Always brings me joy when people request pookie💘 a short lil fun one

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Blowjobs, infidelity, Criston’s residual guilt, marchers w benefits, wee subby space, Unwin Peake’s daughter, wet and sensual, he’s a soft baby truly, she just likes to please, caretaking

Taglist: @arcielee @bambitas @aemondsbabe @aemonds-holy-milk @rafeism @valeskafics @jamespotterismydaddy @lovelykhaleesiii @starogeorgina @fallingintoyourlilaceyes @fairysluna @sugarpoppss2

Pleasing You - Ser Criston Cole x Peake!Reader

“Today, I feel like pleasing you, more than before. Today, I know what I wanna do, but I don't know what for.” -Today, Jefferson Airplane

They always seemed to meet in the Sept, the Lord Commander noted. He saw the woman in the orange and black of Starpike. He faintly remembered her as a girl when House Dondarrion paid a visit to their fellow Marcher Lords. She held a darkened countenance like Lord Unwin.

“Who are you praying for today, Ser Cole?” Lady Peake asked. Her eyes flashed as one of the streams of crystalline light caught her features. Criston eyed the fellow marcher, a discarded Lady-In-Waiting for Helaena with nowhere to go. She clasped her hands, kneeling in front of the Father.

“I pray for my father. He is marching with Lord Hightower as we speak.”

Criston hummed, “Lord Unwin is a powerful man, I shall spare a prayer for him. I pray to the warrior today, for all the men fighting for our cause, and for my own protection. We leave for Harrenhal soon.”

She made a noise, returning to the silence in the castle Sept. Criston did the same, focusing on his devotions. Poorly ignoring Lady Peake so gracefully whispering words of praise. The man closed his eyes tighter, hands clasping to the point his gloves creaked. He knew he was wound up tighter than a drawn crossbow.

Warm hands slid across his plated shoulders, a familiar scent at Ser Cole’s neck. Lady Peake purred, “Lord Hand, Commander, Ser— whatever Cole,” she thumbed at the tight cords of muscle at his neck.

“I know you need to rest. Care for some company and mayhaps a knead out of this horrid knot?” Criston groaned as her slender fingers circled around the bunched muscle.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” he croaked.

They made a quick route up to the Hand’s quarters, Criston eyeing around, tense and jumpy. He noticed Peake was cool as ever, her quiet disposition the same, a resolute firmness to her being. The marcher needed that. It’s what their shared culture was all about. War, strength, and duty to protect. You must appear brave even in the face of fear.

As they climbed the stairs she tugged his cloak and asked “This must be heavy, you poor thing.” Criston snipped back, “I’ve been wearing this for twenty-odd years, I believe I’m fine Lady Peake.” Her laugh was raspy and playful, something nice in these dreary days. He rationalized his feelings for her as desperation from stress. Simply a transaction.

She stopped him in the center of the room, nimble hands undoing his armor. Peake commented, “If it makes you feel better, I used to do this to my husband all the time. So we share equal guilt. Lucas marches along with the host from the south.”

Criston’s eyes followed her, mouth working around a thought. She placed his gorget, pauldrons, and chest plate on the gilded rack. The fellow marcher sighed, “I can see you know how to undress a knight. Why even please me?”

She looked up with a blank expression, taking off gauntlets. Lady Peake replied, “I don’t know, I just want to. Does it bring you anguish for me to pleasure you?” Criston shook his head, fingers snapping at his padded tunic. She batted off Criston’s hands and redirected his ass to perch on the desk. Otto’s desk. Lyonel’s desk. He swallowed down more guilt, caressing her cheek.

“You beat yourself harder than any man I’ve seen you knock into the ground, you know,” she commented idly. His tunic was open now, only tan breeches and a loose shirt remained. Criston’s cock strained at the fabric, leaving a wet spot. He was a pathetic whore, leaking at simple touches.

“Criston,” she snapped.

“Sorry, I,” he stammered.

“Go sit in the chair sweetheart. Unlace your breeches.”

He followed her orders dutifully, shucking his shirt off, pants coming down to his ankles. Criston hissed at the cold air hitting his flushed cock, the member hitting his taught belly. Lady Peake smirked down at him, pulling the laces of her dress free, ample tits spilling out. He choked on a whine, cock throbbing once more. She dropped to her knees, soft lips kissing at his sore thighs.

Criston tried to relax his muscles, give in to her offered pleasure. He softened his stomach, neck, shoulders, and even his persistent tight jaw. She murmured against his groin, “There we go, relax for me.” Criston nodded slowly, rumbling, “I’m trying, pretty girl, I’m trying.”

Her lips pressed a lush kiss to his sensitive skin, trailing up to his hip. Criston eyed her tits, he wished to fuck them later, maybe she would let him. He inhaled sharply when she mouthed at the base of his cock, long lashes fluttering. The woman’s hand came up to gently roll his sac around, nice and snug and warm.

He groaned, eyelids falling shut as she purred for him to relax a little more. Her hot tongue laved around the length of his cock, suckling gentle and sweet at a twitching vein. His hands fought to grip the chair but laid limp, the word ‘relax’ repeating over and over and over. He whined softly, lips falling open.

The marcher woman enveloped the ruddy tip of his cock with her mouth, hollowing and sucking at the same slow pace. She’d dig her tongue in little circles around the tip, Criston moaning her name. She drooled on purpose, slicking him up luridly. Yet the way Lady Peake behaved it was as if she were merely lending a helping hand, a kind word or act. Not sucking his cock like a trained whore.

Another whine burst from the knight’s throat as she eased him down her throat, breathing roughly through her nose. The hand cupping his balls squeezed a hair, her silky wet throat enveloped around him. She swallowed in pulses, scrambling coherency for Criston besides becoming a moaning and rambling mess.

She bobbed her head, tight throat pulling on his sensitive extra skin. Lady Peake moaned around his length, squirming and rubbing her tits up against his legs. All while taking him deep and sensual, like they had all the time in the world. The knight garbled, “L-let me, can I, y-your hair?”

“Mhmmm,” she hummed, the vibrations eliciting a low moan of pleasure. She felt so good— molding his ever twirling mind into soft clay. Mush. He carefully leaned forward, one of his hands carding into her locks, the other reaching for her breast. Criston stuttered on his compliment, balls aching.

Her nose prickled at his pubes, dark eyes hazy with pleasure. She swallowed him down repeatedly, a lazy way in which she chose the pace. Criston couldn’t jerk her around, he mindlessly pet her hair and made pathetic noises, a heat building low in his belly. It was hotter than the dragon flames he’d seen, curling and smoking.

“Oh- oh gods, pretty girl,” he gasped, cock twitching.

She hooked fingers behind his tightening balls, massaging his taint. He cried out, the heat licking up Criston’s spine now. His dark head was thrown back, throat bobbing as he drew out her name. The sweetest agony. So slow yet powerful. The tension was melting from his body, the Lord Commander drooling and downright squirming as he oozed down her throat.

“Don’t stop, s’close, yes, good baby,” he slurred.

She didn’t.

It felt like ages before she was bobbing at s rapid pace, slender digits pumping his sweet spot. Criston shivered, sweating all over and unable to speak. The fire was consuming him as he gripped her hair, whining and pleading. The band would snap soon, plunging him into white-hot ecstasy.

“Closecloseclose, seven hells,” he grunted, cock unloading into her swollen lips. He cried, gasping for air between whines as he spurt down her tight throat. All while she swallowed and moaned, nipples hard and tight for him. She pulled off, swallowing once more as she wiped her mouth, grabbing a discarded rag to wipe him off. Lady Peake rasped, “Sound so good, feeling better? I have that massage for you now.”

Criston babbled, “Yes, yes, you’re too good. Lovely. Jus- let me gather, hngh, my wits.

#ser criston cole #ser criston cole x reader #criston cole x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #criston cole imagine

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linaartsblogsworld · 4 months

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Aegon III and Daenaera first Meeting

“Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.”

When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost.”“Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.”

When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost.”

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princesssszzzz · 1 year

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Fire & Blood (HOTD) // A Game of Thrones (GOT) Imagery & Parallels

Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts." "Arya learns to fight in the Braavosi water dancer style with Needle." (AGOT, Arya II)

“Baela’s dragon, the slender pale green Moondancer would soon be large enough to bear the girl upon her back." “... a pale pink hatchling with black horns and crest, Rhaena named her Morning.” (Fire and Blood, 432 & 593)

“[Baela] is wild, willful, and wanton, as we feared,” (Fire and Blood, 648)

“[Baela] was as wild and willful a young woman as any in the realm” (Fire and Blood, 645)

“[Arya’s] long horsey face got the stubborn look that meant she was going to do something willful.” (AGOT, Sansa I)

“And Arya … he missed her....so fierce and willful.” (AGOT, Jon III)

“Septa Amarys, who had been given charge of her religious and moral instruction, despaired of her, and even Septon Eustace could not seem to curb her wild ways.” (Fire and Blood, 646)

“Rhaena’s egg had hatched a broken thing that died within hours of emerging from the egg” (Fire and Blood, 432-3)

“Lady was dead” (ASOS, Sansa IV)

“Rhaena enjoyed a life of comfort and privilege, with maids brushing her hair and drawing her baths. Singers composed odes to her beauty, and knights jousted for her favor (Fire and Blood)

“She loved King's Landing; the pageantry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people.” (AGOT, Sansa III)

“It would please me if he was not so old he could not give me children, nor so fat that he would crush me when we are abed. So long as he is kind and gentle and noble, I know that I shall love him.” (Fire and Blood, 649)

“When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong.”(AGOT, Sansa II)

"He's just stupid. He likes to polish helmets and beat on swords with hammers." Arya about the (legitimized bastard) Gendry

"You fool, you thrice-damned fool. If I dared, I would have your bloody head off." Unwin Peake to (legitimized bastard) Alyn

“Baela's dragon brought down our late king. There are many in the realm who will not have forgotten that. Crown her and we will rip all the old wounds open once again”(Fire and Blood)

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hellshee · 1 year

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Lord Unwin Peake, one of the leaders at Tumbleton, insisted Daeron should be proclaimed Prince of Dragonstone immediately. Others, who believed Aegon II to be dead, wished Daeron to be crowned king. When Hugh declared that he should become king, Daeron threw wine in his face.

#house of the dragon #houseofthedragonedit #hotdedit #asoiafedit #daeron targaryen #daerontargaryenedit #welighttheway #i tried doing something lol #house of the dragon spoilers #myedits

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aerltarg · 3 months

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thinking again about my sad boys, aegon and rhaegar, the dragonbane and the last dragon, being depressed since childhood, finding solace in their happy ladies, daenaera and lyanna. but while aegon's older siblings died, rhaegar lost his younger ones. but hey, at least aegon got to be close to his dear younger bro viserys! meanwhile, rhaegar just couldn't have a chance to build any proper relationship with his younger bro viserys, with everything between them. also to think that daeron the young dragon was aegon and daenaera's son and jon, rhaegar and lyanna's son, admired him and considered him one of his heroes... oh bless them, i love them so much

[...] As she stood before the king that Maiden’s Day, clad in pale white silk, Myrish lace, and pearls, her long hair shining in the torchlight and her cheeks flush with excitement, Daenaera was but six years old, yet so beautiful she took the breath away. The blood of Old Valyria was strong in her, as is oft seen in the sons and daughters of the seahorse; her hair was silver laced with gold, her eyes as blue as a summer sea, her skin as smooth and pale as winter snow. “She sparkled,” Mushroom says, “and when she smiled, the singers in the galley rejoiced, for they knew that here at last was a maid worthy of a song.” Daenaera’s smile transformed her face, men agreed; it was sweet and bold and mischievious, all at once. Those who saw it could not fail to think, “Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.” (Fire & Blood)

When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost. (Fire & Blood)

[...] Hope and good feeling reigned over the Red Keep as the new year dawned. Though younger than her predecessor, Queen Daenaera was a happier child, and her sunny nature did much to lighten the king’s gloom…for a while, at the least. Aegon III was seen about the court more often than had been his wont, and even left the castle on three occasions to show his bride such sights as the city offered (though he refused to take her to the Dragonpit, where Lady Rhaena’s young dragon, Morning, made her lair). His Grace seemed to take a new interest in his studies, and Mushroom was oft summoned to entertain the king and queen at supper (“The sound of the queen’s laughter was like music to this fool, so sweet that even the king was known to smile”). (Fire & Blood)

[...] “But I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy.” “You make him sound so sour,” Dany protested. “Not sour, no, but… there was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense…” The old man hesitated again. “Say it,” she urged. “A sense…?” “…of doom. He was born in grief, my queen, and that shadow hung over him all his days.” Viserys had spoken of Rhaegar's birth only once. Perhaps the tale saddened him too much. “It was the shadow of Summerhall that haunted him, was it not?” “Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best. He would go there from time to time, with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.” (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

“At the welcoming feast, the prince had taken up his silver-stringed harp and played for them. A song of love and doom, Jon Connington recalled, and every woman in the hall was weeping when he put down the harp.” (ADWD, The Griffin Reborn)

“The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle.” (ASOS, Bran II)

“By night the prince played his silver harp and made her weep. When she had been presented to him, Cersei had almost drowned in the depths of his sad purple eyes.” (AFFC, Cersei V)

“No one knew,” said Meera, “but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face.” (ASOS, Bran II)

“Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. [...] the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called. When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying, 'Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.'” (ASOS, Bran II)

“He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.” (AGOT, Eddard I)

“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. “Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature. (AGOT, Eddard IX)

“It was said that Rhaegar had named that place the tower of joy.” (AGOT, Eddard X)

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horizon-verizon · 3 months

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Aegon III and Jaehaera “healing together” would be like:

Jaehaera: I miss my father.

Aegon III, having a PTSD trigger: Well, I miss my mother! AND YOU KNOW WHO GRUESOMELY KILLED MY MOTHER WHILE I WAS WATCHING ?!

Jaehaera: And I miss my twin brother! AND YOU KNOW WHO SEND THE MEN WHO BEHEADED HIM IN FRONT OF ME & MY MOM ?!

Aegon III: Nothing would have happened if your grandmother didn’t usurped my mother and your uncle didn’t ruthlessly murdered my brother.

Their marriage would have been SOOO INCREDIBLY UGLY, BITTER, MISERABLE AND HOPELESS. That union never stood a chance. Aegon III spent about 3 years married to her and never made any attempt to befriend her and had more interactions with Unwin Peake’s daughter than her. They wouldn’t have any children, he’d abdicate in favor of Viserys if he didn’t marry Daenaera and then locked himself in a tower.

Yeah, I agree. I understand that the real English War of the Roses that war/sub-battles ended with a happier and successful marriage between the two warring houses of York and Lancaster so it seems that Aegon III and Jaehaera could have also had a great marriage--or at least a civil one with a lot of kids/heirs. However, though yes we had the structure of "one child of the two warring families marry for peace" of the War of Roses, the Dance was modeled and takes inspiration from the Anarchy. Where Empress Matilda fought against her male cousin, Stephen of Blois, for the English throne. Where the conflict was strictly about who deserves the throne: the female declared heir or the eldest male relative? And who will obtain it, who fights for them, who suffers, etc.

Plus Henry VII of the Plantagenet branch of Tudor (through Jon of Gaunt) & Elizabeth of the house of York--the people who married each other while from the opposing houses after the Battle of Bosworth Field--were both relatively healthy adults AND Henry actually won the throne through his own leadership in battle after killing Richard II (her paternal uncle). The same uncle whose mainly held responsible for Elizabeth's younger brothers' disappearances. So Henry & Elizabeth had a way better beginning than Aegon III & Jaehaera.

Even with the Anarchy, GRRM doesn't transfer all of the events or major ones/results into his fiction. The conclusion of the anarchy was still a woman being passed over: Stephen won and got to rule but Empress Matilda's son--Henry Plantagenet-- was designated as the next to rule in the Treaty of Wallingford. She wasn't brutally murdered in front of said son like Rhaenyra, and despite Stephen's efforts his own sons never sat the throne. But the war ravaged England as the Dance did Westeros enough that in both the lords/barons sought peace above all AND Matilda lost the throne. GRRM seemed to want to capture the sense of futility of the war's destruction. There was no happy-dappy marriage or even an attempt at one in the real thing.

Jaehaera was made totally disadvantaged for a reason:

a) making her and Aegon both children in the aftermath of the war, controlled by ambitious adults still who do not have their best interests at heart makes to highlight theie vulnerability and the cause being misogyny and classism leading those in power to declare such wars

b) their parents fighting and destroying each other to the bitter end instead of what occurred in the actual Anarchy

c) the greens pushed for war under the principle of "men only" at the cost of its female members' mental and physical health or putting those in danger (mainly Helaena and Jaehaera) for the sake of power. Jaehaera could have grown up happier and for longer if her own father hadn't decided to calm down and not try to go after several of Rhaenyra's supporters in the way that he was planning to, nor should he have usurped his older sister. He shouldn't have celebrated Lucerys' murder at the feast he threw that was almost certainly part of the inspiration for Blood & Cheese whereby his oldest male heir was killed. His other male heir was put into danger when he, again, usurped Rhaenyra and led armies against her when she had been already declared and ACCEPTED as Viserys heir for years. All he had left was his daughter left, but bc the whole point of his claim was "males only" AND he was himself an asshole, he decided to marry again to get another male heir. It was also Alicent who tried to intimidate or persuade her granddaughter to kill Aegon as if the child wasn't already scarred from war and mentally fragile from her disabilities so that she, Alicent, could get revenge against the already dead Rhaenyra. The greens, not the blacks or Rhaenyra, are the main ones at fault for Jaehaera's demise--her death is on their hands since every which way, they chose power over her.

#asoiaf asks to me #aegon iii #jaehaera targaryen #fire and blood characters #asoiaf #fire and blood #aegon iii's characterization #aegon iii and jaehaera #english history #medeival history #war of the roses #the anarchy #fiction vs reality #the dance of dragons #fire and blood writing

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softsan · 2 years

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Eyes On Fire. (Pt. 4)

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen & Fem!Reader

CHAPTERS: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

WORD COUNT: 3389

GENRE: Alternatively Universes/Canon Divergence, Alternative Ending, The Greens Win, Loosely based on the books/show, Made up House,

DESCRIPTION: After the Greens win the Dance of The Dragons, you a left alone navigating the dangers and woes of Kings Landing. You were one of the last survivors of House Vermillion with the expectation to restore your House to its former glory. Pressured to find yourself a husband, you unintentionally catch the eye of the dangerously, one-eye kingslayer—how will you ever survive amidst those who kill, those who take, and those who wish to eat you alive? Can also be read on AO3 here.

WARNINGS: Bodily Injury, Death, Graphic violence, Torture, Suspicion, Attempted murder, Murder, Poisoning, Possessive themes, Aemond in general

OPTIONAL PLAYLIST: Don’t Fear the Reaper by Denmark + Winter, When You Break by Bear’s Den, Hold On by Brooke Annibale,

Darkness clung to the four walls that kept you contained. The repugnant smell of rot was profuse, while the stone ground was covered in a thick layer of grime.

You had been held prisoner since the day after the tourney, ambushed the morning after whilst walking the Street of Flour, a famous street for its many twists and bends as well as its countless bakeries and dessert stalls. Two cloaked thugs had roughly manhandled you before throwing you into their carriage and speeding away.

You had verily considered, fending them off, breaking an arm or two, and continuing your day as if nothing had transpired but ultimately you decided not to.

It sort to reason that someone had their grievances with you, most likely due to Aemond's recent antic of crowning you the Queen of Love and Beauty. Therefore, you chose to play along. To unearth the question of who? You wouldn’t reveal your hand nor let on that you knew how to fight. You wouldn't risk such notions being spread by the wordlessly prying eyes of the city folk. For months you had tirelessly built an image of fragility and innocence. An image you intended to keep utilizing until you could successfully fulfill your duty to your House.

The dank and dingy vault below the castle was void of sunlight. The only light source available came from the dull lantern, its transparent case protecting the faint flame from blowing out. Beside it stood a short wooden frame that they’d dubbed ‘the bed of tortures’. You were bent over the frame, ropes restraining your wrists behind your back. The twisted strips of hide gnawed at your skin, leaving cuts and burns behind. Exasperated, you blew the mattered strands of hair away from your face, your eyes trained on Lord Unwin Peake who sat on the opposite side of the cell observing how the interrogation progressed.

“Let me ask again,” The foul-breathed servant of Lord Peake tormented, “What kind of relationship do you have with Aemond Targaryen?”

You near rolled your eyes, spent by the same handful of questions the servant had repeatedly asked. You grappled with yourself whether you ought to just tear off the restraints you had managed to loosen over time and stab the servant with the knife you had hidden in the pockets of your undergarments.

Your limbs ached, your stomach famished and most pressingly your mind was bored. You had despised being held hostage during the war and the sentiment hadn’t since changed.

“I guess one can’t go ahead with killing Lord Peake’s servant without inferring further consequences for one’s self,” Your mumble was inaudible, neither Peake nor his servant catching what you had said.

The servant sneered, “What was that? Speak louder girl!” He chastised.

You said nothing, your lip curling in defiance.

It appeared you had made a powerful enemy out of Lord Unwin Peake, the hand to the king. Aemond’s declaration and favor towards you during the joust had foiled Lord Peake’s plans to propel his daughter, Myrielle Peake into Aemond’s arms (and eventually bind the two with marriage). You huffed. Your intentions were never to be thrust between such political affairs, your initial plans were but to attract a wealthy Lord to marry and to save your House. However, after being held captive for days, you were feeling particularly spiteful... Perhaps you would change those plans, perhaps you'd begin to embark on the dangerous political game you'd thus far avoided. A new plan, with a new goal—one which involved the Targaryen Prince after all.

“The relationship between Prince Aemond and I?” You toyed, prolonging your eye contact, “Would you care to hear that we’re close? Or would it make you feel safer if I said we weren’t?”

Lord Unwin Peake’s face soured, comprehending the underlying threat of your words. The conveyance was that if Aemond indeed considered you more than a plaything, more than a pastime then Lord Peake would be faced with the Prince’s unrelenting wrath.

A thick silence lingered as Lord Peake thought through his options.

“From this moment on you shall stay away from the Prince,” He calmly rose from his chair, dusting his trousers, “If you care for that life of yours, I’d advise you not meddle where you ought not to.” He then nudged his head toward one of the instruments that hung to the wall, “Finish off her punishment.” He ordered.

“It’d be my pleasure, my Lord,” The servant eagerly bowed.

You heard the crack of a whip, the distinctive sound of leather.

Lord Peake stopped before the cell’s exit, turning aback, “Her face is to remain untouched,” He soon left, the cold metal bars slamming loudly behind him.

The whip came lashing at your calves. You squeezed your eyes tight, balling your fists until your fingernails dug into your palms. A flurry of curses were stuck to your tongue as you tried to drown out the pain by thinking of happier thoughts, such as taking your sweet revenge and plunging your knife into the servant’s chest.

You felt the warmth of your blood streak down your legs and feet, a puddle of scarlet pooling on the ground below.

A manic laughter echoed throughout the dungeons, “Scream for me,” He sadistically urged.

You gritted your teeth. You wouldn’t oblige. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. You held in any sound, swearing to yourself you’d inflict a pain tenfold worse onto both Lord Peake and his servant.

The fire burned, its flames licking the wood of the balsam fireplace in Helena’s study. Aemond was lent against the fireplace, absently watching Maelor play with his toys. The young boy roared aloud as he pretended his dragon carved from birch burned down the stick figures of men.

Helena had neglected her book, her violet eyes fixated on her brother. She was curious about what had brought on Aemond’s recent behavior. Aemond was not known to listen to just anyone… Even their dear mother struggled to put him in his place. Yet, during the joust he’d immediately caved to your demand, stopping just as you’d asked.

Helena knew this displeased her mother greatly. Aemond was handful enough for her to restrain but to have him now obey another? It threatened all she’d thus worked for, all she’d done to ensure Aemond wouldn’t rise up against Aegon and seize his brother’s crown.

Gaomagon ao hae zirȳla? Do you like her? Helena’s dreamlike voice inquired.

Qilōni? Who? Aemond grumbled, well aware of whom his sister was referring to.

Se riña lēda mele laesi. The lady with crimson eyes.

Before Aemond could answer, his mother Alicent came sauntering into the study, Ser Criston Cole following shortly behind.

Alicent's neck was flushed, her expression clearly vexed, “What do you think you’re doing?” She bellowed, the volume of her voice startling young Maelor.

Helena quickly attended to the boy, picking up Maelor as he began to wail.

“What does it matter?” Aemond countered, his arms firmly crossed against his chest.

“What does it matter?!" Alicent exclaimed, “It matter so, you’ve crowned a maiden from a lower House. A House insignificant in comparison to the great Houses we are hosting during the tourney.” She flailed her arms, “Great Houses we intend to forge allyship with.”

“House Vermillion wasn’t always insignificant,” Helena softly corrected, “Despite, their small fleets they were unmatched in naval warfare. Their vessels were painted red as their sigil, their cargo carried a myriad of hibiscus’ which they threw into the sea to bribe the gods for their victories—”

"House Vermillion was a House which supported Rhaenyra’s false claim to the Iron Throne," The Dowager Queen Alicent cut off her daughter, her eyes narrowing, “A House which should have been wiped out completely.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched at his mother’s last sentiment, “A House, like many others Aegon pardoned,” He sternly rebutted, “An idea you proposed would unite the Seven Kingdoms.”

Alicent's bottom lip trembled, taken aback by Aemond's retort.

“If that’s all mother, I’ll excuse myself.” Aemond’s heavy boots stomped, the door slamming behind him as he left Helena’s study.

“I cannot believe it,” Alicent bespoke to Ser Criston Cole, “Of all the noble ladies in King's Landing why her?” She shook her head in objection.

“Perhaps, it is but a fleeting affection that will die when the controversy and excitement begins to wane.” Ser Criston offered.

Alicent peered upward, still riddled with doubt, “Do you truly think so?”

Ser Criston Cole opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Helena.

“Hair of silver. Eyes of crimson. Footsteps in a set of three,” Helena’s eyes glossed over, as she faded into a trance.

Alicent and Ser Criston exchanged looks, Alicent quickly bending down beside her daughter. She gently took Maelor off his mother’s lap, offering him to Ser Criston to hold while Alicent tried to regain Helena’s attention.

“What do you see?” Alicent had long learned to heed her daughter’s words, to pay mind to Helena’s prophecies, as frequent to none, they near always came to tuition.

“A mother’s beauty. A father’s temperament. All is sound, all is as it ought to be.” Helena finished her train of thought.

The Dowager Queen Alicent’s face hardened. What possibly did the gods have in store for her son Aemond?

“Keep an eye on Lady Y/N Vermillion,” She instructed Ser Criston Cole, “And report back to me. I want to know whom she interacts with, her goals, and her every intention.”

The midmorning offered your deprived and cold self a yearned warmth and solace. The sun's golden rays filtered themselves through the stained-glass windows, reflecting a merriment of colors on the ground beneath your bloody feet. Without assistance, you had managed to crawl up the stairs of the dungeons, trekking a trail of blood behind you.

Your torture had been drawn out the length of the night, Lord Unwin Peake's servant only leaving after the seventh hour. You couldn't discern how long you had stayed laying motionless on the bed of tortures, staring at the unlocked door to your cell. After what felt like an eternity, you dragged your rigid body off, your calves protesting as you forced yourself to stand.

The pain, however, grew too great, causing your vision to blur, and your head to spin. You stumbled, your knees buckling from underneath. You placed a hand on the wall beside you, stopping yourself from faceplanting into the tiles. Days without food and water had finally taken their toll and you hadn’t the energy to continue.

“Lady Y/N Vermillion!” A surprised voice called aloud.

You felt their hands immediately rope around your hips, in an attempt to keep your torso upright. You blinked a couple of times, trying to determine who had found you.

“Ser Criston Cole?” You croaked, your cracked lips turning downward. Surely, you were mistaken.

“Yes, it is I,” He said softly, brushing back your wayward hair that draped over your face.

He observed the terrible state you were in, deducing it to be in result of what had transpired with Aemond during the joust. Others besides the Dowager Queen Alicent would consider you a threat to their political agendas and wouldn’t think twice about taking their frustrations out on you.

Ser Criston Cole’s eyes momentarily flickered toward the sound of footsteps in the distance, “Let me help you back to your room,” He whispered, sounding almost as if he pitied you.

Without waiting for a response, he hurriedly lifted you off the ground and cradled you against his steel-plated chest. You were too frail to argue, allowing him to carry you throughout the rest of the castle.

Ser Criston took an alternative route to your chambers, sensing the footsteps he’d heard, belonged to the prince. Over the past day or two, he'd had been discreetly watching Aemond from afar, noting the numerous times he’d tried knocking on your chambers only to be turned away by Lady Alyssa Royce. Ser Criston Cole was weary of the scene Aemond would surely cause if he saw you in such a state.

As Ser Criston reached your door, his knuckles thumped on the wood.

It was Lady Alyssa Royce who answered, “I’m afraid my Prince, Lady Y/N, still hasn’t returned—" She abruptly paused, sighting you limply lying in Ser Criston Cole's arms.

“Y/N?” Horror replaced her usual unemotive persona, “What happened to her?”

“Let us lay her down first,” Ser Criston bypassed Alyssa without a further explanation.

He quickly lifted the furs and delicately placed you down on the bedspread, “We have to roll her over.” He directed.

Lady Royce obliged without complaint, aiding Ser Criston to roll you onto your stomach. You muffled a cry, the sudden movement aggravating your open lesions. Blood continued to hemorrhage, spilling onto your white linen sheets.

Lady Royce's brows furrowed as she hastily lifted your skirt and removed your torn petticoat. She gasped, once the true extent of your wounds was revealed. The soles of your feet had been mercilessly slashed, whilst the irate lacerations to your calves had cut deep into the muscle.

“There are some gauzes and string in the cupboard,” Lady Royce demanded forgetting her station, “I’ll find us some alcohol to disinfect her wounds.”

“Shouldn’t we call for a maester?” Ser Criston Cole questioned.

You grabbed Lady Royce’s hand with haste, squeezing it with all the strength you could muster, “No,” Alyssa Royce said firmly, apprehending what you were trying to communicate, “Otherwise, Lady Clarice Osgrey will be summoned. Let us keep this between ourselves.”

Sir Criston reluctantly nodded, undecided if he’d pass on what had occurred to the Dowager Queen.

Aemond stalked the corridors, his irritability only increasing by the hour. Over a week had since passed, and you had missed the chaos that was brought by the melee, an event where forty or so riders armed with blunt weaponry, fought to be prized as the next knight. Aemond disinterested how the contest unfolded, drowned himself in drink instead.

You were avoiding him, or so he thought…

As the afternoons passed, he began to grow dubious. Suspicious, why all the other ladies beside you and Lady Royce were in attendance at the Targaryen festivities? He'd also taken note that Lady Myrielle Peake was now serving his niece Princess Jaehaera in your stead.

He reached the large oval door of your chambers, reaching of its handle. However, Lady Alyssa Royce opened the door first, her body blocking Aemond’s view of the inside.

“Where is Y/N?” He sternly imposed, “She has not been in attendance to melee nor has she served my niece.” He drew a maddened breath, “Princess Jaehaera has naught been impressed by her replacement.”

“I’m afraid Lady Y/N is still unwell your highness,” Lady Alyssa Royce politely bowed, her voice ever so slightly trembling.

You listened from inside, overhearing another of Lady Royce’s fumbling excuses. You and Alyssa had always been civil but far from close. Nonetheless, she had aided you, stitched up your wounds, and kept your injuries secret. You owed the girl a great debt, one you’d hope to someday repay.

You were running a fever, your insides hot, your outsides cold. You were sat against the headboard of your bed, leaning on some flat pillows while your legs were covered in furs. A small smile crossed your lips as you continue to listen. In truth, you were gladdened by Aemond’s concern. Thankful, for the countless times he’d implored for you. It wasn’t something you were accustomed to, the worriment, the exertion. Nobody had ever put so much effort in for you.

Aemond’s exasperation was obvert, he was growing tired of the evasiveness of Lady Royce, “Step aside,” He, at last, demanded, the intensity in his tone, making Lady Royce cower.

Your smile faltered, conceding Aemond was going to barge in. You hurriedly unraveled your legs from underneath your furs and forced yourself to stand upright.

You silently yowled, it was as if lightning had struck your legs. It took a few seconds for you to regain your breath, the agony that pulsated from your calves immense. You used the bedside table for support, wincing as you slid on your cloth slippers.

You had made the short distance to your vanity when Aemond furiously pushed back the doors to your chambers, his violet orb narrowing as searched around your room.

“Prince Aemond,” Short of breath, you did your best to bow.

Aemond’s annoyance dissolved instantaneously. Yet, the creases on his forehead remained. He swiftly approached his silvery hair bouncing behind him as he moved. You took a short moment to admire how his hair glistened underneath the yellowish candlelight, how it only enhanced his fearsome beauty.

Aemond abruptly stopped before you, his large hands unexpectedly cupping both of your cheeks, drawing your face closer to his. You involuntarily shivered, as his thumb brushed across your cold lips.

"What is it you are ailed with?" He searched your face, his brows knitted.

Aemond studied your sickly pale hue and the shade of blue that replaced the color of your lips. He felt a protectiveness over you. A feeling which was foreign to him.

“I’ll send for a maester immediately,”

“No,” You shook your head, his hands still firmly resting on your cheeks, “I have no desire to cause a fuss. All I need is some rest.”

Aemond didn’t feel assured, in fact, it only strengthened his worry.

“You’ve had a week’s worth of rest” He pressed “You should be seen by a maester. What if your sickness gets all the worse?” His hands slowly slid from your face and down your arms until he grasped your two hands within his own. Aemond held you so gingerly as if he was afraid you’d break.

Your stomach fluttered, recalling the change of your plans. Lord Unwin Peake desired you to stay away from the Prince… And you’d do nothing of the sort.

“I won’t get worse”

“You couldn’t possibly be sure.” His face close, his breath hot.

You stifled a smile. Boldly you closed the distance, using your nose to gently nudge his, “I am,” You insisted, pulling away.

Aemond’s eye widened, the violet of his iris deepening. He was overwhelmed by the impulse to pull you back but to capture your lips this time.

“Just a few more days of rest and I’ll be back to my true self,” You wriggled your hands free, “But first you must go,” You incited, softly pushing his chest to leave, “You’ve caused me enough trouble. If someone catches you in my chambers, I’d never hear the last of it.”

“What trouble? I only crowed the one deserving of the title of the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Aemond smiled smugly “And showed King's Landing of my intentions,” He playfully tilted his head, his hair falling off his shoulder, “And what a mistake it would be if others were to approach what is mine,” He whispered the last part.

“I repeat,” You light-heartedly shook your head, “Trouble.”

Aemond laughed, relenting and taking a step back, “I’ll go but if you feel worse, promise me you’ll summon a maester?”

“I promise,” You nodded, “My Prince you may take your leave,”

“Not until you are tucked soundly under the covers,” He directed, lifting an arm towards your bed.

“You won’t leave otherwise?” You swallowed, dreading the walk from your vanity back to your bed.

“Yes,” He maintained, “Do you need some help?”

“No need,” You vigorously shook your head, exchanging a daunted look with Lady Royce who had been loitering by the door.

You tried your darndest to ignore the heat that radiated upward with each excruciating step. You just needed to make it to the bed without falling, you told yourself.

Aemond followed you with his gaze, his body stiffening as he caught the stain of red on the hem of your nightgown.

“Y/N,” He said, his tone spine-chillingly cold.

You hadn’t the chance to turn completely round when he wrapped a steel arm around your waist and carefully lifted the cotton of your nightgown to expose your calves.

You sucked in a breath.

Aemond’s face darkened, while an enraged snarl left his mouth. His playful disposition vanished, a seething fury coming to take its place.

“Y/N,” He growled, his arms shaking uncontrollably, “Who dared to harm you?”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond targaryen reactions #aemond targaryen scenarios #aemond targaryen imagines #htod #aemond fanfiction #games of thrones #games of thrones fanfiction

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thevelaryons · 2 months

Text

Addam of Hull was simply a child. But the identity of ‘Addam Velaryon’ is that of a child soldier.

As Addam of Hull, he has never known war in his life. His birth was long after the War in the Stepstones ended and before the Dance of the Dragons began. Addam earns his new name because he managed to claim a dragon. After that, he is positioned in situations where he is expected to commit acts of violence towards others, through his dragon (or at least threaten them with the intent to commit the act):

It is one thing to face a dragon, another to face five. As Silverwing, Sheepstealer, Seasmoke, and Vermithor descended upon them, the men of the Triarchy felt their courage desert them. The line of warships shattered, as one galley after another turned away. The dragons fell like thunderbolts, spitting balls of fire, blue and orange, red and gold, each brighter than the next. Ship after ship burst asunder or was consumed by flames. Screaming men leapt into the sea, shrouded in fire. Tall columns of black smoke rose up from the water.

Addam Velaryon remained aloft, flying Seasmoke around the city walls, the beat of his dragon’s wide leathern wings a caution to those below that any defiance would be met with fire.

It had long been the custom for at least one dragonrider to reside at the pit, so as to be able to rise to the defense of the city should the need arise. As Rhaenyra preferred to keep her sons by her side, that duty fell to Addam Velaryon.

Most notably of all, House Tully had joined the war. Seasmoke’s descent upon Riverrun had at last persuaded that reluctant warrior, Ser Elmo Tully, to call his banners for the queen, in defiance of the wishes of his bedridden grandsire, Lord Grover. “A dragon in one’s courtyard does wonders to resolve one’s doubts,” Ser Elmo is reported to have said.

Addam's behaviour at Tumbleton is actually a dramatic contrast to everything that came before. At the Gullet, he and the other Dragonseeds were expected to participate in the fighting and they did their part as ordered, nothing beyond that. In every other instance after that, Addam doesn't commit the actual acts of violence. The threat always hangs in the air, but Addam displays surprising restraint. It is only at Tumbleton that Addam starts showing heightened aggression and suicidal tendencies. Such traits are quite common amongst child soldiers. Obviously, Addam would be affected by all that he's gone through and now that he's in such a high stress situation at Tumbleton (where he feels that he needs to prove himself), he's starting to show it. His actions become over the top violent:

Most devastating of all was the dragon. Seasmoke came swooping down again and yet again, breathing flame. A hundred tents were soon afire, even the splendid silken pavilions of Ser Hobert Hightower, Lord Unwin Peake, and Prince Daeron himself. Nor was the town of Tumbleton reprieved. Those shops and homes and septs that had been spared the first time were engulfed in dragonflame.

When Addam chose to engage in battle at Tumbleton, it was a clear act of desperation and at the same time, childish hope of victory too. But sometime in the midst of the battle, he does seem to realize the futility of the situation. In a final act of desperation (and Addam knew this would be final), he put himself directly in harm's way to protect the soldiers in his army.

Alone of the four dragons on the field that day, Seasmoke had a rider. Ser Addam Velaryon had come to prove his loyalty by destroying the Two Betrayers and their dragons, and here was one beneath him, attacking the men who had joined him for this fight. He must have felt duty bound to protect them, though surely he knew in his heart that his Seasmoke could not match the older dragon. This was no dance, but a fight to the death.

He goes from someone who's character arc has him positioned to commit acts of violence onto others to allowing the violence be done to him.

It was Addam who was with Corlys for much of the war after earning his new name (while his younger brother stayed with their mother). Unlike Alyn, who was kept mostly sheltered (until he had to take his brother's place), Addam gets several instances of being exposed to warfare and politics. Even the very act of Addam being legitimized as Corlys' heir highlights his position as a pawn, as child soldiers often are. Post Battle of the Gullet, when the Blacks take King's Landing, Addam still remains in a military role once he's stationed at the Dragonpit, tasked with watching over the city. The position he holds would make it difficult for him to let down his guard and act like the child he is.

In the end, when his remains are finally returned to Driftmark, he is not buried at sea as befitting his identity as Addam Velaryon (though that identity is of course still relevant to him despite the violence associated with it). Instead his bones are laid to rest at Hull, where he was born and grew up and spent so much of his childhood. Dead at 16, the same age his mother was when she gave birth to him.

#valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #addam velaryon #addam of hull #meta #I love it when grrm does identify arcs where characters go under a different name #and their life experiences become drastically different as a result #I think if addam had survived tumbleton he would be quite a jaded individual

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bittersweetarts · 1 year

Text

Masterlist ✴ by bittersweetarts

Fandoms: House of the Dragon (TV), The Bear (TV), The Boys (TV)

Little Lamb – Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: As a maiden of a noble house, it is your duty to wed well. But how will you manage to, with a curious and possessive Prince in the picture?

Status: Complete

Spotify Playlist – AO3 Page

Chapter 1: The Summer Solstice Festival

Chapter 2: Jealousy

Chapter 3: Dead of Night

Chapter 4: Morning Sins

Chapter 5: Family Line

Chapter 6: To Be Alone

Chapter 7: Homecoming

Chapter 8: Yearning

Chapter 9: The Tempest

Chapter 10: Solemn Oaths

Chapter 11: Cherry Wine

Chapter 12: Tenderness

Chapter 13: Bound By Blood

Chapter 14: Mercy

Chapter 15: Absolution

BTS Interview by @arcielee

The Great War - Aemond Targaryen x OC , Aegon Targaryen x OC

Status: Work in progress

Spotify Playlist - AO3 Page

Chapter 1: The Flowering

Author’s Note: This story is currently on hiatus

Shades of Cool - Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x OC

Summary: Carmy Berzatto never considered himself to be lonely, just frequently alone. His neighbor however, makes him think otherwise.

Status: Work in progress

Spotify Playlist - AO3 Page

Chapter 1: Strangers

Chapter 2: French Toast

How to Disappear - Soldier Boy (The Boys) x OC

Summary: Eden Reid can't help her curiosity, and Soldier Boy can't help but take advantage of that curiosity.

Status: Work in progress - AO3 Page

Chapter 1: An Act of Kindness

Chapter 2: Sweet

Chapter 3: Out of the Woods

Chapter 4: Talk

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stromuprisahat · 7 months

Text

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

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

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

#ASoIaF #Fire & Blood #valyrianscrolls #ch: Under the Regents: War and Peace and Cattle Shows #Maiden's Day Ball #Aegon III Targaryen #Baela Targaryen #Rhaena Targaryen (twin)#Daenaera Velaryon #Gaemon Palehair #V #GRRM #books #quotes

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gwenllian-in-the-abbey · 5 months

Note

in fire and blood book, it was written that aegon III had thrust one of jahaera’s dolls at myrielle peake whom had craddled the doll as if a baby on maidens ball

how did you perceive that as?

and its interesting detail that it says aegon thrusts one of the dolls at myrielle

So did aegon keep the other dolls?

Ohh such a good question! I don't think the doll has to do with Aegon III's feelings about Jaehaera at all, at least not directly. My take on the doll is that Aegon III is sending a "fuck you" to Unwin Peake through this "gift" to his daughter. (more below, sorry this got long)

the context of Aegon's regency is important here. Although his ascent to the throne is often seen as a triumphant moment for the black faction, for Aegon III on a personal level it is anything but. He's a traumatized kid suffering from depression, forced into a marriage he's too young to take any interest in, with a girl who is equally traumatized (and I don't think Aegon III bore Jaehaera any particular animosity. This is the kid who forgave Tyland Lannister and held his hand as he died, and whose best friend was Gaemon Palehair. His grudges are personal, not generational). Moreover, the regency strips him of all personal agency. At first, there are a few people, like Corlys Velaryon and Tyland Lannister, who more or less are trying to get the realm back on track and set Aegon III up for a successful reign. And at this point, Aegon is still quite young, grieving, and doesn't take much of an interest in ruling. Then the Winter Fever hits, much of the old guard dies, including Tyland Lannister, and Aegon III, now entering adolescence, decides to step up. Hurray!

Aegon seems to find some motivation and sense of purpose during this period, and he impresses people! He tends to the ill, shows compassion, he's there for Tyland's last moments, and then with his Hand gone, he decides to take action. He makes appointments to replace kingsguard and council members who died during the plague, people he thinks he can count on to be on his side, like Alyn Velaryon and Thaddeus Rowan and Robin Massey. He also called his sisters to court. People start saying he's mature beyond his years, and he's showing promise as a king! However, he is still only twelve and under a regency, and therefor the regents have all the power. Unwin Peake and Munkun, the only remaining healthy members of the council at that point, undid all of Aegon's appointments, and Peake named himself both Hand and Protector of the Realm. And at this point things get very bad for Aegon.

Even though Aegon is the king, Peake is calling the shots, and Aegon now knows that his Hand is actively working against him. He tries to protest, to at least keep the kingsguards he'd appointed (they serve for life, right?) but Munkun says he'd not made the appointments the proper way. Aegon withdraws into himself again and goes into what looks like a pretty deep depressive episode. He shows no interest in anything, barely leaves the keep, and the only person who makes him even a little bit happy is Gaemon Palehair. And during this period, the Hand is a real ass to Aegon. He forces him to go watch public executions, the master of arms, appointed by Peake, bullies Aegon and makes Gaemon a whipping boy, and he appoints Marston Waters, who was there when Aegon II killed Rhaenyra, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Aegon is very unhappy with all of this, but what can he do? He's powerless, and if he is openly defiant, the one friend he has gets hurt. Then, to top it off, his wife, Jaehaera, "the little queen," dies by "suicide" although no one really believes it was suicide at all. And suspiciously soon after her death, Unwin Peake decides Aegon is going to marry his daughter. And this is where he overreaches, because it's one thing to name yourself Hand, another thing to possibly murder the queen (no evidence, but word on the street is that it was an inside job) and decide unilaterally that the king is going to marry your child. No one is happy with this, and even though Peake has been going around saying Aegon is betrothed to Myrielle, he is forced by the council to give Aegon his choice of brides.

So the "cattle show" happens when Aegon III is at a low point in his regency, but with this new marriage, he has an unexpected opportunity to stick it to Peake. And this is, finally, where the doll comes in! Aegon at this point is clearly not a fan of Unwin Peake, and yet Unwin Peake is dead set on making his daughter queen. He has Myrielle come and hang out with Aegon practically every day and pays Mushroom talk mad shit about the other girls who might be in consideration. And Unwin Peake is getting pretty cocky about this, saying well Aegon seems to like Myrielle better than he liked Jaehaera (so basically he tolerates her presence-- again, does he have a choice?). Then Aegon III gives her this doll. Mind you, Myrielle is fourteen years old. She's older than Aegon himself and too old for dolls, and this doll is the hand me down doll of a dead girl that her father may or may not have murdered, so this is a weird gift on several counts. And while I don't know whether Unwin Peake gets the message or not, I think Aegon meant it as a fuck you to Unwin Peake. To me, this is Aegon saying "I know what you did, and I know what you're doing. Go ahead and try it." The doll is not just a random doll, it's known that it was Jaehaera's doll. Aegon III may be depressed, but he's not stupid. He knows that he's all but powerless, but in this one thing he's been handed a small bit of agency-- the power to choose his own bride-- and there was no way he was going to choose Myrielle Peake, the daughter of a man he despises.

While the book sort of depicts Daenaera Velaryon is a surprise candidate, an "ace in the hole" from Baela and Rhaena, Aegon knows who his family members are, and he would have known about Daenaera being Baela's ward. Was he banking on his sisters coming through with a suitable bride for him? I think it's pretty likely Aegon knew his sisters would have a candidate for him, and he trusted them to have his back. During the Maiden's Day Ball Aegon again comments to Myrielle about the doll, telling her he's glad she liked it. And isn't it interesting, he doesn't say anything about Myrielle herself, he just mentions the doll? Myrielle brought it to the Ball, cradling it like a baby. When he sees Daenaera, however, he smiles and tells her she looks very pretty. Aegon doesn't get many opportunities to show defiance, and he has to be incredibly subtle when he does because of how little control he has under the regency, but I think that's what the doll was, a small act of defiance right before he makes the one decision he's allowed to make for himself. And Peake throws an absolute fit about this choice too, threatening to resign over it, claiming it was unacceptable Aegon-- only thirteen years old mind you-- would not be able to have children with Daenaera and Baela would remain Aegon's heir (and this is important! and why Daenaera is a strategic choice at this point. If Aegon fathers a child before his regency is over, what are the chances he makes it out of his regency alive?). This time though, the rest of the council calls his bluff. No one is interested in handing him lifelong power through Myrielle, they like Daenaera, Aegon is happy with her, and so Peake resigns. Middle finger successfully raised by Aegon, Myrielle can keep the doll.

#aegon iii targaryen #unwin peake #myrielle peake #jaehaera targaryen #jaehaera's doll #asks #all my homies hate unwin peake

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