The war was over. They had lost. Some people had lost everything. None of Leona's line had remained. Highgarden was burned to the ground from dragonfire. More people in Westeros lay dead or broken than living and thriving at this point. But the members of the conspiracy got what they wanted. They got their victory. While Maekar had died with his dragon in the fighting, his eldest son was crowned King of Westeros with his Uncle Viserys as regent. That was the new way of the world.

Desmera Redwyne was no longer here. She and her ship perished under the waves in an off shore battle against the Ironborn fleet. Olenna Redwyne now stood as the Lady of the Arbor. She was scarred from her many battles in the war both mentally and physically, one arm covered in burns from dragon flames. Lynesse Redwyne was traumatized after marrying Daemon Tyrell and losing him only a few moons later, relegated to the island with her younger sister.

As for Rhea...she didn't know what to think or feel anymore. For the last year of the war she had too much to think about, too much to deal with, that she just couldn't think about the rest of the world anymore. She didn't think of herself as traumatized or scarred but maybe that was her repressing it.

Their new monarch was a forgiving one apparently. He did not order the heads of his enemies on pikes and instead just demanded a hostage or a ward from every House that fought against the Claws in the war. Lynesse was in no state to travel and Olenna didn't have any children. In the end Rhea volunteered to be the one to go to King's Landing. She still held onto a glimmer of hope that she would see someone there. Someone she missed very much. And she could take Val with her as well.

The boat was quiet the entire time with all the sailors being subdued. They surely had lost loved ones as well and didn't enjoy going to King's Landing. And they kept their distance from her. She kept her distance from them. Rhea spent most of her time shut in her cabin below decks. When they arrived in the city everyone was bustling. Why wouldn't they be? There was a new King! The war was over! The smallfolk didn't care who won as long as the threat of being killed was no longer being held over their heads.

Someone escorted her to the red keep. They seemed suspicious of her and her small bundle but what damage could one young woman really do? They sat her down in some kind of ante chamber off of the main throne room. To wait her turn before she was paraded in front of the surviving Targaryens to pledge her fealty and figure out who she'd be serving as a lady in waiting while she was here? She didn't know. She wasn't nervous or scared, just somewhat numb.

Rhea sat down on the bench provided and sat Valaena in her lap. The child didn't know what was going on either. She was happy just to finally get off the damned ship that caused her to cry for hours at a time. Rhea smiled at her and waited.

After her collapse in Highgarden there were whispers about her everywhere. Everyone seemed to want to gossip about her. It was easier for them to focus on her than it was to focus on the doom of the war. She did not blame them but she didn’t want anyone to begin connecting the dots between her and their newest prisoner of war. It was at that point she decided to get on a boat bound for her home, the Arbor. She would retire there for the remainder of the war.

There was no fleet at the Arbor, all of the ships had sailed off under the command of her mother, and while more were being built, it was at a snail’s pace. With those facts in mind she wasn’t worried about the island being targeted for a dragon’s flame the same as Driftmark. It would be safer here. And she knew the maester there. Giving birth with him around would make her less lonely. For none of her family would or could come with her.

When she finally went into labor it was unlike any pain she had ever felt before. Each contraction felt as though her insides were being squeezed and pounded to a pulp. They just kept coming one after the other. As soon as she recovered they started all over again. She was crippled by the waves crashing over her and it took the help of two maids to get her standing and walk her all the way to the birthing room.

It was not only the pain that was overwhelming but the feeling of loneliness and loss. There was no one here to hold her hand, to stroke her hair, to tell her she was doing well and that everything would turn out fine. The fears were lingering in the back of her mind. With her luck now that she finally had something to live for and the thoughts of ending her life had gone away, it would be this childbirth that killed her. And the war that killed Viserys. And their child would grow up orphaned with none around to take care of it or love it.

“Breathe,” she heard the maester say with a kind voice and words of wisdom. She hadn’t realized until now that she was holding her breath at all. Rhea let out a deep exhale through her mouth and clenched the sheets as another painful contraction tore through her. For nine moons she had carried this child with her and now it was clawing its way out of her. She screamed, cried, groaned, and writhed, though nothing could stop the onslaught of childbirth.

It took many hours. Rhea lost count but she remembered the sun setting and then the sun began to rise again before her labor was over. Once the baby was out everything was eerily silent and for a moment she wondered if she wouldn’t have anything to live for after all. She watched as her baby started turning blue, panic rising in her chest but her face blank of all emotion, frozen with fear. It was only when one of the midwives leaned forward and sucked the blockage out of the newborn’s throat and the cries started that she was able to relax, letting out a sob of relief when the babe was finally placed in her arms.

“It’s a girl,” the maester told her after the child’s brief examination was finished. “You’ve given birth to a healthy baby girl.”

A girl. Rhea pulled the fussing infant close to her chest and held her as tightly as she could without hurting her. Already she could see wisps of pale blonde, almost white hair on the top of the girl’s head and if she squinted she could see the sharp angles of Viserys’s cheek bones. But she had the roundness of Rhea’s eyes and the same button nose. This was a product of both of them. It was the monument to the only person who ever made Rhea feel like she was seen, and the only person she had seen in return.

The new mother placed a gentle kiss against her head and sighed. She thought about all the people she’d ever loved and all the ones she lost. All the ones she might lose in the future. She remembered the first time she ever lost someone and what that felt like. And with that she knew what she was going to name her daughter. “Valaena,” she whispered. Val. Just like her father.

Six moons later the war had remained a stalemate. Battles were fought and won, some were fought and lost. Thousands of men died to the white hot flame of a dragon’s breath and yet still the two sides tore each other apart. At this point Rhea was tired of it. She wanted it all to end. What was the point of a war to decide who would rule over Westeros when the kingdom became nothing but ruins? When the people were nothing but ash?

Many things had changed for Rhea in the last half a year. Her mother left with most of the Reach fleet north to cut off the Ironborn advance. She hadn’t heard from the fleet at all since they left and had no idea what her mother’s fate might be. Her eldest sister had gone off to war as one of several commanders in King Jaehaerys’s army. No word from her either. It was just Rhea and Lynesse, and Lynesse had grown rather depressed since the war, not least of all because of her quick marriage to Daemon Tyrell.

The biggest change of all was the abrupt new curve of her swollen belly. When Rhea discovered she was with child she’d had two options: moon tea or keeping it. With the possibility of dragons on their doorstep any day and the horror of all the deaths she kept hearing about, she did not want to add another one. As short as her time had been with Viserys it was the first time she ever felt alive and perhaps now her life could finally have a purpose. No one knew who the father of her bastard child was, not truly. Her mother suspected but never told anyone. Because how could she trust these people not to use the child to their advantage? How could she trust anyone anymore?

Those were the thoughts running through her head as a commotion started among those in charge in Highgarden. She watched as trumpets were called and the men started scurrying. They all sounded triumphant so she wasn’t worried about any dragon’s approach. Through bits and pieces whispered by servants and guards alike she learned that they had won the battle at the crossroads though parts of the army were forced to retreat. Not only that but her uncle Benjen was alive and had managed to capture one of the leaders of the opposing army, bringing him back to Highgarden as a prisoner.

His name? Viserys Arryn. When Rhea heard that name she could feel her blood turn to ice in her veins. Her hands went to her stomach in great anguish. He was here now and yet so far away. Would they torture him? Would they kill him? At first she’d resigned herself to the fact that either Viserys would die or she would and that they’d never see one another again. Now he still might die and they still might not see one another again but there was a glimmer of hope that things could be different. He’d saved her life once by warning them about the coup, maybe she could return the favor somehow.

In the dead of night she wrapped a dark cloak around herself and put her slippers on, planning to make her way down to the dungeons and at least see him. She needed to see him, to know he was okay, to have him tell her everything would be okay, even if it was a lie. For some reason she wanted him to know she was still here. To know he was going to be a father. The trek was slow and arduous in order to not be seen but she made it regardless.

No one saw her until she reached the doors that led down to the depths of Highgarden, into the decayed and rotting tunnels of the dungeons. There was a guard in front of the door. Of course there would be a guard in front of the door. Why hadn’t Rhea thought of that? She’d been so desperate that she hadn’t thought clearly enough to plan this out. Before she could turn back the guard had seen her and naturally was wary.

“Who goes there,” he called out in a gruff and demanding voice, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

This was still salvageable. Perhaps someone would take pity on a poor woman like her, unmarried and belly heavy with child. She took a step forward and lowered the hood on her cloak to reveal her strawberry blonde locks and defiant features.

“Lady Redwyne,” he exclaimed in a shocked tone. He seemed to recognize her at the very least. He moved his hand away from his weapon and looked at her with concern. “What are you doing here? You should not be here.”

Perhaps it was the child inside of her or perhaps it was her desperation but Rhea could not stop the tears that pooled in her eyes. She came towards the guard without even thinking, her hands clasped together in a pleading motion in front of her. And when she next spoke her voice wavered and cracked with emotion. Rhea was close to breaking.

“Please….please ser. I know that the King has captured Viserys Arryn and he lies within the cells in the dungeon. You must let me see him. I need to see him. I can’t….you must trust me. I just need to.”

The guard looked her over with a softened expression. His eyes lingered on her stomach and it was clear that he was beginning to put the pieces together. He saw the desperation on her face and while it tugged at his heart he knew he could not. A sigh escaped his lips.

“I am sorry my lady, but I have my orders. No one is to see him. You weren’t even to know he was here. Go back to your rooms and I shan’t tell anyone about this, you hear?”

His voice was kind, sympathetic even, but Rhea didn’t hear that. All she heard was that he was so close to her and yet she wasn’t able to look upon his face. A choked sob made its way out of her body and once the floodgates opened there was no stopping them. The sobs were so violent and unyielding her body began to shake from them. Rhea fell to her knees in despair. This war was going to kill all of them and there was no hope left.

The guard was taken aback by what seemed to be a demon that possessed the young woman and rushed over to help her. Rhea remembered lashing out at him, attempting to scratch his face and slap him, getting out all her pent up anger and frustration on this poor soul who was just following orders. Eventually she felt his strong hands clasping down around her wrists and holding her as delicately as possible. She didn’t remember when she passed out, she just knew that when she came to, her room was pitch dark and she was curled in a fetal position on her bed. Alone. Always alone.

A herald came announcing to everyone at Highgarden that Driftmark had fallen and the fleet burned by the dreaded Terrax. At first Rhea thought the churning in her stomach was due to the horrors described by the desperate runner. The generals were focusing on what the loss of the fleet meant for Jaehaerys but all she could think about was how almost the entirety of House Velaryon had been killed in one fell swoop. All that death and destruction unnerved her and she didn’t like to think about Viserys sitting safe in King’s Landing applauding it.

No, he would not be applauding it nor did she think it was his idea. She remembered the terrified look on his face the last time they spoke to one another. His ghastly features would be etched into her memory for as long as she still lived. He was doing all of this because he believed he had to not because he took any joy from it. She could tell he wrestled with the decision he made to leave her tent that night and never look back. Rhea wrestled with it too.

All through the night and over the next few days she still felt ill. Her mind tried to rationalize it as anxiety from the coming war. She knew her mother would be sent out with the Arbor fleet and at any moment everyone she ever loved could perish in a plume of dragon’s flame. Including herself. Something about her conclusion was off and she could not put her finger on what it was so she simply pushed it deep down so she wouldn’t have to think about it.

It was not until she was on her knees in her chambers, the muscles of her stomach clenching as she violently spewed the contents of her breakfast back onto the stone floor that she remembered something important. Rhea’s last moonblood ended only a few days before the great feast. It had been too long, far too long, but the events leading up to the start of the war between Claw and Thorn distracted her until now.

The sudden realization caused her to become nauseous all over again and she saw the pinpricks of stars in her vision. No. This could not be happening. And yet of course it was happening. The gods truly were twisted beings. Rhea let out a series of sounds that passed as an almost hysterical laughter. She was having a child with a man involved with the highest ranks of the opposing side of this war. And she had no idea if they would ever see one another again.

Rhea did not know whether to cry, laugh, throw up, or some combination of the three. What she did know is that once again her life had been thrown into chaos and whatever she did about her predicament, her life would be changed forever.

The Kingsroad, somewhere on the front lines

Smoke filled the air as the dragons danced overhead, their flames scorching men on both sides of the battle. Victaria had watched a column of fire tear across the field mere feet from her. She could still feel the heat across half her body beneath the plates of her armour. It ached to move, it would be worse when the fighting was done, when the urgency of battle didn’t dull her to half the pain.

The knight before her couldn’t have been more than half her age. He looked as likely to drop his sword as swing it when he charged toward her. Gods, were children fighting wars now? She was old. Maybe too old. Not slow, though, as he’d find out as the end of her blade sunk into his neck. She wouldn’t let anyone stand between her and her duty, to find vengeance for Aemon and to keep her daughters safe.

The blade caught her by surprise as it cut across her side. She swung angrily in return but the squire at the other end of the sword met the move with a desperate backstep. Too desperate, it turned out, and he lost his footing against the root of a tree as Victaria closed the distance. He didn’t get back up. The damage had been done, though, and the sharp pain above her hip forced her to her knee, rasping for breath.

She heard Wavecrasher fall before she saw it, the screech of one of the dragons almost ear-splitting even over the roar of the battle around her. When she looked up it was only in time to watch a wing rake through a whole column of men.

Was this the fate that awaited Viserra? Would her daughter fall from the sky in this godsforsaken war? What of Daenys? Would her fate be worse?

She didn’t get a chance to finish the thought. A blow across the side of her helmet sent her head spinning, her vision blurred for a moment as the force carried her to the ground. When she regained herself, she only barely had time to raise her shield between her and the warhammer descending on her. It splintered apart, but she lived to kick the soldier’s legs from beneath him. She rolled over to deliver blow after blow to his jaw, hearing the crack as he stopped moving.

Her hand came up to pull her helmet free as she stumbled back, checking the side of her head and finding blood flowing from her temple. Fuck. She took another step back, her back pressed to the tree. The soldier’s companions circled her, and she could barely stand. She could hold a sword though, and so long as that was true she could fight. Her free arm looped around a branch for support, her once-pale hair matted to her face with blood, she levelled her sword at the men before her.

She would not surrender, not before her daughters were safe.

Barely, she parried the first man’s blade in time to narrowly avoid the second’s, his axe sinking into the tree a hair’s breadth from her ear. She was not as inaccurate, and in a moment she kicked his limp body away. The third man was better than his companions, and his strike found its mark in her shoulder. She yelled in pain, but slashed across his side just before he delivered the finishing blow and he reeled back in pain.

When the first man again swung for her neck, she brought her blade up to parry him but caught his arm messily. His sword cut through the handle of his friend’s axe and across the side of Victaria’s jaw before he tried closing the distance only to find her own sword buried in his gut.

The last of her strength left her as she pushed his limp form aside. Her grip on the branch loosened and she slid down the tree, barely breathing through the blood in her mouth. She looked up, watched as Veraxes circled the battlefield, and coughed up crimson. She had failed. She wouldn’t be there to protect her daughters, to see their own families grow, to applaud their successes and comfort them in their losses. They would be left to find their own way, to forge their own paths and lives without her help.

She hoped they would be better than she had.

Her thoughts turned to Aemon, to her father, her mother, Mysaria, everyone she’d lost over so long. She’d be with them soon, she wanted to be. The last of her strength to fight had been sapped. She missed them all. For a moment she could’ve sworn she could see all their faces in the clouds. It looked warm, it looked right, it looked like home. She couldn’t watch over her family anymore, but she could be happy, at last.

“I’m… sorry, Aemon,” she muttered weakly. She couldn’t keep her vow to his memory. He didn’t seem to mind, in the end. He held a hand out to her, and at last she closed her eyes.

Forest north of Summerhall, the night before the battle

It was a beautiful night, one that seemed a shame to waste between the fire and chaos their lives had become since the war had been declared. Viserra had found a perfect place for the pair of them. She’d spotted it on a ride the morning before, a small glade among the trees, a small stream winding its way through the clearing, no doubt heading to join the Wendwater somewhere to the north.

It was somehow more beautiful at night, on the ground instead of dragonback. Any hint of clouds had disappeared, and the peaks of the pines were painted in pale moonlight and the twinkling light of the stars far above. The faint sound of lazily running water was punctuated only by the occasional sound of Solstice chirping in the distance as she hunted for her own meal.

She’d sought Aemon out late into the evening, once most of the castle had retired for the night, under a simple premise. A late night dragon ride, and a spot to watch the stars. It wasn’t wholly untrue, either, but she had her own motives and she’d never really been a good liar. She was yet worse when she was nervous, and gods she was nervous that night. Probably quite obviously so, as they sat under the stars.

The words, the actual words she’d wanted to say tonight, felt as if they were caught in her throat. It was as if she’d choke on them if she tried to say them aloud, if she made them real. Yet still she wanted to. She’d faced the same fear time and again, more than a few thanks to Aemon, and resolved it herself. Yet after the black fields she felt different somehow. She couldn’t say if she was more or less scared, but what she’d seen, what she’d spurred Solstice to do, she didn’t think it would ever leave her. If it was so easy to die, to be snuffed out in the blink of an eye and the breath of a dragon, maybe it wasn’t so daunting to leave something behind. To leave someone behind.

She didn’t know, she couldn’t answer any of that. All she knew was that Aemon made her happy, and that maybe she ought to listen to that, for once.

“They’re beautiful tonight, don’t you think?” She turned to him with a smile, her attention drawn more to him than their surroundings anyway. “I’m glad I could steal you away from all your important duties to see them.”

10th or 11th day, 12th moon

"This is Darry lands. You got no authority 'ere!"

Ser Florian Paege sat on horseback, leaning on his saddle with his visor raised, a corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smirk. Around him were a score of sworn knights and men-at-arms, his most trusted. Some bore torches against the dark of night. The light reflected off his eyes, lending a peculiar glint to their pale grey. Ser Willum Vyrwel was positioned at his side, apparently enjoying himself.

"Are they?" He looked around with theatrical interest. "I see no signposts. No fencing. Are you sure? Do you have Lady Darry present, there? It is Lady at the nonce, is it not? I fail to keep track." The last elicited sniggers from the gathered men.

"This 'ere's the fork!"
"Ah, indeed. Quite right. You have your bearings. Yet you committed banditry in our lands."

The leader of the bandit group licked his lips, sweating despite the chill. Behind him, around a dozen men and some women stood behind a hastily assembled wagon fort, their backs to the river. They bore an array of weapons in a state of ill-repair. He turned to look at them; their faces were a mixture of fear, defiance and resignation.

"Fuck you," came the reply, as the man turned back to face Florian. "Fuck you an' all you cunt lords and your justice. The law's blind, they says. Blind to anything you lot fuckin' do." He spat at the ground, his dry mouth managing only a light spray.

Ser Willum straightened in his saddle, glancing at Florian, who was still.

"You've missed your calling," he replied, in a voice barely audible to those present. With that, he snapped his visor shut and spurred his horse with a precise clip of the heels.

___

The party arrived back at Castle Fairmarket just before dawn. Stablehands and squires, hair mussed and blinking sleep from their eyes, rushed to attend them. The mood was jovial but without self-congratulation, as it was during most endeavors of this kind. Outlaws and bandits provided an outlet for the aggression of warriors without a war but rarely the test of which such men dreamed.

"Master Florian," came one voice, its quiet authority cutting through the chatter. The steward, with a hand outstretched, offered a small scroll with seal already broken. "Your father prayed you read this upon your arrival. It came late last night." His last words were inflected with mild reproach.

Florian was fond of the old man, and took the rebuke with stoic forbearance, offering only an innocent grin. Ser Willum had sauntered up to shamelessly peer over his shoulder and the other men gathered around with interest. What missive could hold such urgency that required its delivery at such an hour?

"Prince Maekar has been crowned King," Florian intoned after scanning the message, not bothering to hide his surprise. Silence descended like a blanket.

Despite it's crowded nature during the hours of daylight, streets packed with peddlers, travellers, sailors, daylaborers and more, there was something serene about the sight of Oldtown when night fell. A blanket of darkness to fell over the city and was only broken by the lights of lamps shining from houses and inns here and there, the daytime sounds replaced by a peaceful quiet, only broken by the faint whistling of cool winds from the Sunset Sea.

It was a perfect for Rhaegar, a time to focus the myriad of thoughts into something other than work. There on the balcony of his manse's solar, accompanied only by a bottle of apple cider, a pot of ink and his tomes of notes and sources, he could lose himself in his writing, and with pen in hand, he weaved his story bit by bit, piecing together disparate thoughts into into a concise chronicle of a princess and her travels on a dragon's back through the farthest corners of Westeros, embellished somewhat by the writer's colorful prose. By the time he finished the latest chapter, he nodded in approval of his own work. Perhaps, he thought with a sip of his cider, he would still have time to add to his other work, a chronicle of the reign.

A knock at his door interrupted his line of thought, his brow furrowing after a quick glance towards the night sky. What could be this matter, brought when the moon grew so close to it's zenith? As another slightly more urgent knock sounded, Rhaegar let out a frustrated sigh. Well, he thought, time would not be of great concern since it, his commerce and studies took up most of the prince's days as of late.

Making sure the book would be left open as to allow the ink to properly dry, Rhaegar fetched the candle on the table and made his way through the evening gloom of his room and towards the door. Seemingly notified of his approach by the sound of his steps, the person behind it spoke up, his hoarse voice muffled by the thick layer of birch separating them. "Your Grace, 'tis me."

"Ah." A light smile crossed Rhaegar's lips as he pulled the door open, revealing a familiar face behind it.

Ser Aladale Brownhill cast an intimidating sight to most even without the armor of dark, polished plates and mail he preferred to wear no matter the occasion, matching perfectly with his naturally serious expression, nearly as unbending as the metal he covered himself in. In his steel-clad hand, a parchment was held out towards the prince. "Apologies for th' disturbance, my liege. Message seemed urgent enough, though. Maester said so, at least. Very sorry." Aladale repeated, his gaze cast down.

Rhaegar could only chuckle at his demeanor, lightly shaking his head before reaching for the scroll."At ease, good Aladale. I have told you a thousand times, you needn't be so harsh on yourself for doing your duty. Now... Let's see about this." He inspected the message , simple in appearance for something so urgent: it was held tightly closed by cheap hemp rope, stamped with bland gray wax. The only thing that stood out was the symbol on it, one familiar to Rhaegar: a key. "That maester, I assume it was Maester Humphrey?"

Aladale nodded. "Couldn't mistake the old codger anywhere, my liege. Seemed worried, too."

The prince's eyebrow rose. 'Worried' was far from a word he'd use to describe the usually jolly librarian of the Citadel. "Then this is not our usual correspondence, then." With not another moment of delay, the broke the seal, letting the parchment roll open, the contents marked in black ink revealing themselves to him.

"It is with great sorrow..."

"His Majesty, Aegon..."

"...Under the light of the Seven..."

His curious and easy expression quickly eroded as his eyes moved from line to line. He turned to speak to Aladale, only to see the knight by his side, having taken his moment of quiet shock to peek at the contents and now standing as frozen with concern as Rhaegar.

"... What're we to do?" Aladale asked, breaking the silence.

Rhaegar did not answer immediately, his eyes shifting from side to side as he thought. That was a question he could not answer as swiftly as he usually would have, not as simple as a debate or a session of bartering. Much more was clearly at stake, and there seemed to be only one thing to do.

"A kingdom requires a king." He crumbled the message in his hand, moving it towards the candle's flame. "Prepare Stormsinger, we fly to Highgarden." He felt the paper begin to burn, warmth in his hand as words turned to cinder. "With the Seven are good, the one this kingdom needs will be there." And may they be good, indeed.

Vyrax was a green dot in the sky, growing larger and larger to the guards along the great Drum Tower that loomed over Shipbreaker Bay. Aegon gripped the reins tightly, eyes narrow against the rush of wind and droplets of water that had formed all along his face. The ride from Highgarden to Storm's End was not long, but the weather of the Stormlands was unpredictable, and a shower mid-flight was never an enjoyable experience.

Wet boots struck the ground just outside of the gates. Aegon would not land Vyrax within Baratheon's walls, not without invitation, and in truth, he had received none. He had not even been given orders to be here, not by mother, not by his brother who still lingered on Dragonstone, to the best of his knowledge. Did Jaehaerys even know?

'How odd. To be a king, and not even know of it while one's family scrambles to secure your place.'

Aegon the Young approached the gatehouse, waving a friendly hand up to the men who manned it. He'd hoped that the appearance of the Green Gale, and his own friendly demeanor might give them cause to accept him in without question, but even still, he called out. "Who holds the castle for Lord Baratheon? I must speak with them!"

'If the Seven are good, it is Ryon. I can talk to Ryon. If it's some doddering old steward or castellan though, will they have the will to do what needs to be done? Will they hear me out at all?'

Breathe in.

The Baratheons and Stormlanders were good men, and true. They had a strength of spine and conviction, and the wisdom to see the lies of the Claws. He had to believe that.

Breathe out.

​

7th day, 12th moon.

They were a few hours outside Planky Town. Callis on Edris on horseback, Zara and Aysha in a carriage. At times all were ahorse, or none, but Callis had felt a need to ride with his son as dusk approached.

"My lungs taste the air of time," Callis murmured after a long interval, gazing out at their dry surrounds. Edris looked at his father, brows furrowed. "What is that from?"

"Your grandfather used to say it, when I was a boy. Before that, I do not know."

They continued on in silence for some time. Only the sound of hoofed steps and nickering broke the stillness.

The news that greeted their arrival in Planky Town was surprising. Rumors and gossip of the King's failing health had by then been treated as fact, but as time went on had become mundane. The pall that settled on the final leg of their journey was noticeable, if light. It would have made little difference to the affairs of Godsgrace, were it not for the tension made so apparent in Highgarden.

For Callis, the seriousness of the succession--at least in the minds of their northern neighbors--had become real. He understood, in an abstract sense, why the issue mattered to those people. The depth of that feeling remained a mystery. In any case it now seemed likely that fire and blood would infect their quiet corner of the world.

"Perhaps it would be better," Callis murmured again, a thought concluded aloud.

"Father, are you well?" Edris was studying him now, alarmed by his uncharacteristic rambling. "What would be better?"

"If they killed one another, along with those thrice-damned creatures of theirs," came the blunt reply.

Edris was not shocked to hear such a sentiment. Though rarely spoken, his father's pointed avoidance of most topics related to the throne or its sitting dynasty was loud enough. His disdain for the simpering of the northern houses came as a secondary kind of rebuke. In truth, Edris could find little fault in those feelings. As he grew older, the sum of their reign had become more difficult to balance from the recountings.

"It may yet come to that," Edris offered.
"If ever you find yourself in such a position, you should allow it."
"This is dangerous."
"It is all dangerous. That is what they offer. Either side. Both. Impunity."

Edris sighed, not a little shame weighing in his chest. The Lord of Godsgrace was deft at rebuke-by-omission and from their past discussions, those patterns were beginning to form. Yes, Edris had wanted to test himself. The boy in him imagined leading lines of heavy horse with spear and shield. Now with war actually threatening, it all seemed so desperately foolish.

Red Keep

"Artos." A gold cloaked young man would shout at the top of his lungs. Before him was a never ending mass of men.

Hundreds of Gold Cloaks continued to rush from battlement to battlement, fortification the walls of the Red Keep and King's Landing. Gyles had thought himself the chief commander of this here usurpation but he was but a drop in the water. The army that held King's Landing was young, brazen and untamed, loyal to the dragon who'd turned pups to hounds.

"Tell the men I fly off for the bridge. Inform them to hold my city, let no man tell them to disarm nor permit any forces until I return to verify their loyalties. No King, No Lord Commander, No Dragon but me." He'd say as a young Captain, barely a boy of six and ten came to his side with Lamentation.

The ancient blade of the Royces not sworn to serve the Commander of the Golden Cloaks. It fit well against Maegor's hip, the blood of the First Men and that of Dragons meshed together to make the most fearsome of men, much like his father before him. The young Commander stood tall, he was built like a boar and had the glare of the man who'd sired him but none of that foolish fire of the woman who birthed him.

He believed himself to be some kind of God, and in the barracks, in the streets, the King's Landing....He was a God to the men of the Gold Cloaks.

Artos was a young man of seven and ten from the North, he prayed to unseen gods who talked to him through winds and leaves but when he wore that Cloak, when he'd dropped to his knees just as he had done now.

Maegor was his God.

"Yes, My Prince." He would say, his head bowed before the young Targaryen. "Your will is my command."

"Rise," Maegor would reply.

And so he rose. "Where shall you head to?"

"To the Bridge. It burns in tomorrow alongside every man, woman and child who do not surrender themselves to the Golden Menace."

They'd converse until Maegor arrived at teh Dragonpit and there the young man clad in black and gold, the armor of the Gold Cloaks would take flight upon his fathers dragon to start a war.

#Stokeworth

9th day of the 12th moon, 384

A single rider emerged from the early morning mist, his horse galloping forth - upon the small hill in the distance, Castle Stokeworth awaited. Her glass windows peppered with a dozen colors were most notable - the white walls and tiled roof fit perfectly with each other, making Castle Stokeworth a serene and unassuming keep.

She wouldn't survive the war.

An hour after the man's arrival, Septon Elwood began to ring his bell - leading many of the servants and maids to flood around his little sept. Little by little, the man in white robes would draw the crowds of stable boys, cleaners and cookers forth to him. In his hand lingered a simple piece of parchment - three words scribbled upon it.

King Aegon is dead

"His grace...Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, is dead."

The comment would immediately awake any half sleepers and doozers - even they, the smallfolk, had heard something about Aegon's coughs. Yet none had expected the king, the father of Westeros, to join the gods so soon. He was Jaehaerys Reborn - he was meant to rule for as long as that old and good king had. Some had even expected to pass into The Seven Heavens before he did.

Yet now the man whom had reforged the realm and conquered Essos lay dead. It was, to them, like seeing a powerful god fall - it was shocking and saddening, it mattered not whether he'd even batted an eye their way. Aegon had been king, a man closer to the gods than his fellow mortals.

"Let us make a moment of silence for him...pray for his safe passage into The Seven Heavens...and pray that wisdom will guide his successor, whomever it may be, forth into a new golden age for The Seven Kingdoms."

They did pray. Yet not for the Royal Family.

They prayed for peace. Peace is what they wanted, what they needed. Nothing more. Nothing less.

--•--

While her household staff gathered to recieve the news, Lady Amabel would simply settle into the main hall - flanked on both sides by those rainbow colored glass windows which filled her plain halls with a sea of light and a dozen types of color.

"So King Aegon is dead. What now?" She'd ask her cousin, Qarl, who had been busy practicing his bow. Yet if she expected her cousin to have some answer to her worries - Amabel would be proven wrong. Qarl was new to all this - to the rumors, to the uncertainty and the whispers of war.

"Raise some men, perhaps..." Her cousin finally muttered, having waited nearly a minute in silence. "It will not hurt to muster a hundred from your knightly retainers and the farmers."

"We do not know if war is certain. However, it will not hurt to have some more men to man the walls."

"In that you are right...and...to whom do we owe our loyalty? The king designated Jaehaerys as his heir, but the rider said that Maekar crowned himself? But shouldn't Jaehaerys-"

"Don't say anything further." Qarl murmured swiftly, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter whom the king chose. Maekar's dragons are closer, we have to bend the knee to him. To keep Stokeworth safe."

"Preferably we'd stay out of their war, if one is to happen...but things aren't that easy...we're too close to King's Landing to be ignored."

"So...we bend to Maekar?" Amabel's question was more self doubting than anything else.

Is that not treason? Jaehaerys is the rightful heir by all accounts...but Qarl is right is he not?

For Stokeworth's sake...I must bend to Maekar...

Still, will that not be treason to the late king?

#Starfall

"His grace is dead." The dreaded day had finally come for King Aegon 'The Conqueror Reborn'. It had been known for some time that the man was not in good health - sickness had grasped a once formidable warrior and transformed him into the hollow image of a great man. King Aegon's exploits had been great no doubt, but Gwyneth surmised that the man would have likely preferred a more worthy end than dying amidst bedsheets.

Nonetheless, as history had shown the people of Westeros, terrible successors followed great conquerors.

"Prince Maekar has crowned himself king, going against the wishes of his grace when he appointed Jaehaerys as his successor." Maester Arnold was plain and direct in his speech, though the bias was already showing. "That is all."

"That's most unfortunate." Lady Gwyneth simply muttered to herself, a hand holding up her reclining face and neck as she leaned over the table. "Father was summoned to King's Landing to serve as hand before Aegon passed..."

"I told him to reject the offer...and he didn't listen." She'd further add, groaning in defeat. "Send two letters. One to Storm's End, another to Sunspear."

"Maybe a third to Castle Wyl and Blackmont, our allies and vassals should be kept informed." It truly is a pain when the king dies, isn't it? Will we have a cycle of wars now when every king dies and their sons fight for the throne?

By the time she'd raised her head, her maester had set off to finish his task - three letters for three keeps.

Sending letters was the easy part - deciding on her loyalty was something entirely different. What would her family do? What would her liege do? What would she choose? She was no Lord Paramount, but she was a Stone Dornish and a Dayne.

What to do....what to do...

1st Day of 1st Moon of 385 A.C., Evening

The sun was setting, servants going around and lighting each torch with a careful application of fire to light the castle. Leona watched from the window of the lord's solar, which provided a grand view of the south of Highgarden. Manses of merchants and minor nobles, to the slight cottages of the smallfolk, their windows all lighting up as night fell. She could see the wide stretch of the Mander and the boats that lingered up the river, and beyond that, the houses on the other side. And then fog, wet with the coming winter. Leona Tyrell was born here, in this land of green and gold, and she hoped to die and be buried here, as were her forefathers before her. That was all one could hope for.

She turned from the window, facing the audience of people whom she had gathered.

Her brown eyes were shiny in the lamplight. The crackling of the fire in the nearby hearth like the snipping of broken bones as she stared into all their faces. There was the castellan and steward, Lords Benedar Redding and Loras Tyrell respectively, and then the septon and maester, Danwell and Greydon. And then her children, Daemon and Helaena and Aegon and Jacaerys and Aelora. Lady Redwyne and her daughter too, along with Leona's retinue of ladies in waiting, all trusted allies of houses close and beloved.

"Your Father is dead. Your puppet half brother and his masters have drawn his strings and saw him crowned." The news slipped from her mouth, the emotion sapped from her face like a leech applied to a wound. Her eyes darted to Daemon, then to Aegon. "He wasn't even cold-," her voice broke, grief seeping into the lines of her expression. When Lady Kidwell tried to reach for her, Leona shied away, putting one hand up to stop her approach. The weepiness was gone as soon as it had come, something stony settled in its place.

"Lady Crane has sent letters to Lord Rowan, asking them to turn cloak against us. She does this, presumably, because she allies herself with the usurpers. She expects their protection, and we must do well to disavow her of that." She looked to her children. "As to you, my children, and Jaehaerys - the Lannisters and their ilk will seek to destroy us. You are the trueborn children of the king conceived out of holy matrimony, and while Maekar sits that throne, none of you will ever be safe." Jacaerys' face was pink with burgeoning tears, his boyish mouth twisted into a muffled sob, but Leona pushed on. They had to hear this.

Leona placed her hands on the oaken desk, rubbing her thumb over the miniscule crack in the gloss. Her next words were hard as steel, a knife's edge as she stared at all of them. "This is a cause for war. But I was queen once, and a queen counts the cost of her people. We will not totter into war so quickly. It will not be us who spills first blood. We must send word to our allies at once, convince those who are hesitant that Jaehaerys is the true king."

"And Jaehaerys. He is on Dragonstone, along with Jaehaera. We must crown him, and soon. With what, I do not know, but-..." Leona sank down into her seat, covering her face with her hands. She could not think anymore. Dragonstone was well fortified, and was safe for the time being, but a king could not spend his war on an island. He had to leave.

This was what Aegon's actions had done to her. Doomed her children to war over a prize only one of them could have. Had Rhaenyra felt this way? Had Alicent?

Maester Greydon cleared his throat, and Leona looked up. "I will prepare the ravens at once, Your Grace? All I need is the where." She paused, biting her lip.

"To the North. The Westerlands, we will have no friends there - to Dorne then, and the Stormlands and to Summerhall. And to my Reach lords, to every vassal with a man to spare. They may try to bargain with us, the lions in the Red Keep, but I will have no negotiations while my son has his birthright stolen from under his nose, like a thief in the dark of night. There will be war. We will not naive. We must prepare ourselves, every man, woman and child."

'Father is dead.'

He'd been expecting this for years now, his illness had been plain to see for so long now, but even now, with the letter in his hand, he found himself struggling to believe it.

The letter had not been delivered by raven from King's Landing, but by hand, though courier and messenger, brought to Highgarden in secret. He tossed it to the wind after taking wing on Vyrax, riding higher and higher into the skies above Highgarden.

Maekar.

Viserys.

They had taken advantage of his father's death- if not having sped up the process themselves- and used it to usurp the crown. Damn them. Damn them all. Jaehaerys was King, and if the King had sought to move against his half-siblings? He himself would have spoken on their behalf.

Not a shred of honor. Not decency. None was to be found in King's Landing, nor among the Claws. The Lannisters and their puppet dragons.

The wind stung his eyes, almost as much as the tears did. And then he began to descend, down to Highgarden, to its famous gardens.

And then the Green Gale turned, he leaned forward. "Sōvegon Vyrax!" And the dragon pushed forward, barreling forward into the rolling hills of the Reach, on to the Marches. On to the Stormlands.

On to find allies, find friends.

On to war.

6th Day, 1st Moon, 385 AC

Hornvale

Gareth Brax had known for a long time that his time was coming to an end. He'd lived a full life with love, adventure, parenthood and grandparenthood. He was even soon going to be a great grand parent. But he was never going to be alive for that moment. He'd told no one but two years prior his maester warned him that he was coming down with the symptoms of cancer. A tumor in his stomach he said. And Gareth believed it. He'd had stomach troubles for long enough and a constant inability to keep any food down. He was paying the price for a life of luxury perhaps.

He knew that his passing wouldn't cause as many ripples as King Aegon's but there were people that were close to him that he needed to see one more time before he said goodbye and went into the arms of the Stranger. Things he needed to say.

The Lord of Hornvale was one of the few people outside of the circle of the conspiracy to know about the plot to put Maekar Targaryen on the throne but those were the perks of being in love with one of the most powerful women in the kingdom. They told each other everything. He worried asking them to come back in the middle of this madness was putting them in harm but he didn't care. He'd always been a little selfish. It was time to be selfish one last time.

He had his maester write the letters and send them off to King's Landing. It was up to the king or his lackeys whether they got to the intended destination.

Tyler,

Son, you must know that I am dying. I can no longer see much of anything at all, even out of my good eye, and I have been bedridden since you left for Highgarden. I have been trying to hold on as long as I can but it's my belief and the belief of Maester Tommen that I will not make it to the end of this moon. I understand if you cannot, but I want you to come home so I can see you one last time.

Love, Your Father

Addy, My Love

I've kept a secret from you and I feel terrible about it but I've had cancer these past few years. And now the Maester says it's finally catching up with me. I am dying. It's looking very likely that I wont make it until the end of this moon. I need you. I need to see your face one last time. I want it to be the last thing I see before I go.

Bring Rolland with you. I know neither of us know which of the girls are Jason's and which are mine but we both know the truth about him. I want him to know. I want to be the one to tell him. Please. I know it may not be safe to travel with everything going on but please. I need you.

Love, Gareth

12th Moon 384, two days following the coronation

The crown was an empty weight, but Genna would not bow to it. All of her life had been for this. The Lannister woman bounced her green eyed son on her hip. He was beautiful, truly, a prince. The little boy was her's, the way he gazed into her soul was both comforting and piercing. The love in his eyes could not touch the scarring over her heart.

"Shall we go for a walk, Aegon," she said softly. "Perhaps your sister will join us."

The politics had seeped deep into the castle walls. The hate in her husband's eyes was not mirrored in her son's. By now, little Vallar and Aenar would be training with wooden swords. She counted her blessings that the boys were blissfully unaware of the pieces that moved beyond the shadows. The little Princes had no notion of what was coming, what had come.

Genna wore red, a dress made of blood and garnets. The neckline was dramatic and fashionable, exposing the swell of her breasts and fitted with tight lacing. The lioness was done pretending that she was not a jewel of court. She was done allowing the weight of Maekar to bring her down. Her mother had made her a queen, and that was hollow and empty. Genna wanted more, power had tasted like blood and ash.

Her verdant gaze flicked to her daughter. Princess Shaera was a doll made real with eyes of amethyst and perfect rose cheeks. Her silver-gold hair was in tangles, and her face was quite serious.

"What is the matter, darling?" Genna asked as she approached the girl. With tender fingers, she brushed her hair away from her face. "Did you not let the maids brush your hair today?"

"They always pull!" The Princess pouted. "It hurts!"

Genna clicked her tongue as she worked her fingers gently through Shaera's hair. The knots were not so terrible, but the girl had a tender scalp. Carefully, she saw to combing out the mess of her daughter's hair and then knelt down to place a kiss upon the crown of her head.

"Why don't you come with me to the gardens, hm?" Genna spoke whisper soft. "My sweet girl, we can have a walk and have lunch brought out to us on the terrace."

Shaera eyed her mother with a look she imagined her namesake must have worn. 

"OK, but I want cake!"

Genna chuckled and took Shaera's hand. "You do know how to barter magnificently. It is a deal. Shall we seal it with a kiss?"

The lioness knelt down, readjusted her hold on Aegon, and placed a kiss upon her daughter's cheek. Shaera grabbed Genna's face in both of her small hands and kissed her back on the opposite cheek. For a moment, Genna felt light, like there was no pain in the world. Where no one would pay them mind, she let her regality slip and made a silly face at Shaera, who promptly began to have a fit of giggles. Aegon responded in kind with his own bursts of laughter. The little group was tender for a time before they made their trek to the gardens.

–

Gardens

Genna sat with her children at a well cared for table in the garden. The table was piled high with cakes, meats, cheese, fruit, and bread. She held a square of bread aloft in her fingers, the morsel had been generously buttered, and took small bites from it as she watched the wind catch the branches of the trees. Little birds flitted about, filling the air with song. Little birds did not yet know of the dangers that were to come.

Shaera delicately ate a slice of white cake that was piled high with whipped cream and berries. She had smeared icing on her cheek, but her mother allowed her to be a child. Aegon ate small bits of cheese and grapes happily. 

There was peace here. Genna could feel her shoulders loosening when she was here with her children. Perhaps all those years ago, she should have insisted Maekar come to Casterly Rock instead. Maybe they could have found something other than this. These were dangerous thoughts. 

"There is no fixing him," Genna whispered through gritted teeth. "There is no love to be gained there."

"Wassat?" Shaera asked messily. 

"Nothing, my love," Genna answered, smiling. The smile didn't reach her eyes as she lifted a goblet to her lips and drank. "Make sure to enunciate, Shaera. You are a princess, and the others will look to you for guidance."

"Yes, mama."

"Wipe your mouth too," Genna added with a laugh. "We should send for your brothers."

7th Day of the 12th Moon

Terrax was angry, she hissed as the wind blew, the cool breeze somehow both tending to and agitating her eye. Already the blood has begun to recede, but the irritation made her restless, angry, she’d already roasted some peasant boy who tried approaching her on some dare. Viserys had heard the mother of the youth weep and weep whilst the father demanded compensation of all things, as it turned out shit fathers were seemingly not exclusive to royalty.

Viserys had given them nothing in the end, but as he set down at Oldstones he did give the few in attendance who were tending to the dragons a warning to stay well away. They’d feed her with the greatest of caution, and be wise enough to keep any foolish boys well away unless they wanted to be part of the beast’s supper.

He thought of Jaehaerys most of the way, how the mongrel must’ve smiled when he heard. He was a stupid man, so he’d have relished that some temporary injury was done to Terrax rather than face the fact his allies had been turned to cinder. The thought set his blood to burning, but he’d deal with Jaehaerys later.

Instead as he dismounted, he thought of Vaelora strangely. He wondered if she’d taken moon tea like a smart girl, or if some bastard would grow inside her, and if she’d beg him to wed her when it was all done. It would be a cruel thing when he told her no, but Viserys would be a man wed by then, and he’d have his vows would he not?

Snow had begun to fall more commonly now, and as he walked towards the warmth of Oldstones a light dusting of white began to form upon his head and shoulders. He was happy when he finally stepped into the restored castle and the flicker of torchlight painted him in its glow as well as its warmth. He’d serve better then some raven to tell her of the war, and of Driftmark, and of course that which he intended to do. The latter could never have been done by a bird anyway.

And so, he waited for her amidst the stone walls and burning torches, quietly, all but alone. Orange flames danced in the pools of gray as he stared into them, the warmth sapping some of the moisture from his cloak as he planned out all that was to follow.

A loud, booming chuckle escaped Jaehaerys' throat. Dragonstone's candlelit great hall was filled with concerned faces, angry faces, lining the narrow passageways that flanked his throne. They stood in silence while Jaehaerys laughed.

Father was dead. Father was dead and Maekar was crowned. He wanted, no, he needed to kill them all— Maekar, Morrigen, Visenya, Alysanne, Maegor...

But Viserys had already been dealt with. That insolent cunt thought he was worthy of a true dragon, and was proven wrong by the sole fisherman that stood before Jaehaerys now. A spear through the eye sent Terrax flying and reeling.

Jaehaerys rose from his throne of stone, an uneasy smile persisting though he clenched his fists and shook. "Kneel, man," he commanded, and the would-be dragonslayer obeyed. The King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men withdrew a sword and placed it upon one shoulder, charging the kneeling man to be brave in the name of the Warrior. The sword moved to the other shoulder. He charged him to be just in the name of the Father. And the other shoulder, and the other, until the farce was done and Ser Rolland of the Bleeding Eye rose a knight.

And immediately, his expression darkened once more; Jaehaerys grit his teeth and beckoned for his servants. "Scales. Prepare Duskfyre. Issue orders to our fleets. The usurper will not live for another moon."

Father was dead. They would pay. They would pay. They will burn.

Cladding himself in armor of glittering amethyst scales, Jaehaerys left the castle with Jaehaera and to the kneels and oaths and drawn swords of all the knights and men-at-arms of Dragonstone. He ascended up Duskfyre, who let out a shrill roar to mirror her master's rage. They swore obeisance. He fastened the chains of his saddle. They swore vengeance. He gripped the reins. They swore blood. He uttered a command which sent Duskfyre into the sky. They swore war.

12th Moon of 314 AC, a day after Maekar's coronation.

The death of the old king had saddened but not surprised the young Hightower, it was no secret that Aegon was dying, a corruption that had been festering inside his lungs for years reminding the realm of the troubling times to come with each nerve wrecking cough. The old dragon had fallen and now his sons, her beloved princes, would tear each other apart until the line of thorns or claws perished. Powerful as they were there was probably no family more foolish than the Targaryans who had infected the entire realm with their folly.

She had seen Maekar from a distance during his coronation, surrounded by siblings thirsting for blood and Lannisters thirsting for power, she had wondered how he must have felt thrusted around like some puppet and placed on the world's most dangerous seat. Had he felt any joy knowing he had momentary beaten his younger brother? Had the cheers of the people filled his heart with confidence? Perhaps it was her company that could provide him with some semblance of warmth despite how cruelty he had treated her. She had not forgiven him but soon he would be forced to take flight and fight his siblings, she wouldn't deny herself the last days of his company over something like that.

Clothed with the elegant velvet dress on the colors of her mother's new sigil of black and red, she ordered her carriage to take her to the Red Keep. The guards were informed she was there to visit her mother, a common ruse she had used to get herself inside so many times before and that day was no different. Once inside she dismissed her guards and begun her investigation to find Maekar, she smiled remembering how simple things were last time she did that.

Through her usual sources she was able to surmise the king... Maekar, was in the throne room despite no court being held today, strange as it may have been it did not stop Olenna who confidently marched there the sound of her shoes stepping on the cold floor the only sound echoing in the quiet keep. "I am expected" she told the guard by the gate who opened the door for her, her tone and confidence left no room for arguing. Even from the entrance she could see him, sitting on that iron chair made of the swords of Westerosi resistance, he struck a miserable but royal image.

With her hands clasped together she begun walking towards him, not skipping a single beat even as the heavy door closed behind her. He had been cruel and rough before but he would never hurt her, not truly.

"The throne suits you, your grace." She said forcing a smile for his sake "And yet I don't believe there was a ever a king more gloomy than you" She didn't conceal her concern. "I'm truly sorry about your father Maekar, I wish I could offer you more than those words but it is all I have." She stopped near the steps raising her hand to meet his face.

He’d killed them all, and some half a thousand more, yet he felt more ashamed than proud. Already tongues were wagging, Laenor, Alyssa, Vaegon, and Joffrey all dead, if another or so had fallen Driftmark would’ve fallen to Haegon. But the pain, gods the pain, it had been for a fleeting moment as if the javelin had been in his own eye. It had been the beast’s impulses that drove them then, but he’d not protested. Now he stood before Terrax, glaring as he reached out and put a hand to her scales.

There was blood in her eye, a dark pool in a sea of gold. He worried the heat might’ve cooked the eye in its socket, but it seemed as though it had not done irreversible damage. She’d tried to wink it out, the thick javelin bolt that still hung in her cornea, and in doing so she’d only hurt herself more. Viserys want to scream at her, scream that they go back, but something made him stop.

Terrax was in some way part of him. Thus, when he wrapped his hands around the javelin’s shaft and yanked it free in a single motion, he cried out with her. It was a flash of pain, fleeting but intense in the moment before it vanished. The dragon cried out, the brief scream echoing out over King’s Landing for half a heartbeat as the dragon bore her teeth at him. Viserys didn’t flinch, she wouldn’t hurt him, they were one.

The day’s victory would be more significant than any of its humiliations, but it stung all the same. His mind went elsewhere, and Viserys decided he would fly once more. There was one more ally to bring into the fold fully, and he had a notion of how he’d do it too. That night, the stars, she’d felt it as much as he had, hadn’t she?

A runner went for Morrigen, but he’d address any who came as he ensured that Terrax was brought a meal.

^(The Red Keep, 12th Moon of 384 AC, hours before Maekar's coronation...)

A pitter-patter of footsteps echoed through the cavernous halls. The Red Keep was near empty now, save for two scions of rival houses moving in tandem. One in shining alabaster armor, the other in blacks and reds and webs of white. Already a corpse had been left in their wake. Unnoticed for now, but with each toll of the bells, an inevitable fate at the end of a noose grew closer. They had made off with their intended goal, now stuffed into a knapsack and threatening to tear its canvas.

Escape proved another challenge. Sentries could not question a knight of the Kingsguard, but a serjeant? An officer who knew too much?

They kept quiet. One hall after the other, with their destination hopefully at the end of the walls closing in on them. Willas could barely keep pace as his head swiveled around, checking every corner for foemen and traitors on patrol. The rising sun shone through the windows and shed ripples through the smoky air. None remained who could save them.

The bells were struck once more. From the undercurrent of their ringing bellow came other footsteps, then a snort and a laugh. Willas rushed to a wall, muttering a silent prayer while he crept to the side. A cautious peek was spared over the corner.

Goldcloaks. Three of them were heading their way, one obscured by the others. The callow boys seemed in awe of their surroundings, barely making note of what was in front of them. The knight of the webs exhaled in some relief and tilted his head to listen more closely to their conversation.

"Where are the others?" spoke the first voice, cracking and nervous. "We aren't supposed to be doing this ourselves, you know."

"Ease up, Addam!" the second exclaimed cheerily, "The rest are too busy rallying the peacocks. Maybe we'll get a chance to— levy some taxes, heh."

"And we have this thing, don't we?" declared the third. A rasp of steel against leather came then, followed by one boy's gasps and the other's chuckles.

"Put it away, Symon!" the first Goldcloak pleaded, sounding some scattered stomps as he staggered away. "Prince Maegor will have our heads!"

"Oh, looks like little Addam's scared of a blade! Hah! Y'hear that, Qyle? Addam's pissing his breeches!" Symon mocked. Metal cut through air in a series of hisses, all while Qyle snorted in laughter.

"What's the matter, Addam? Running off to mum, are you?" Qyle jested. Another stumble resounded through the hall. The sounds were getting ever closer. The two sworn swords remained vigilant, gesturing to one another, raising their weapons and skulking onward.

As they rounded the corner, the shadow of a pillar kept them well-concealed for half a moment. Addam widened his eyes. Qyle and the Goldcloak who bore the sword had their backs turned. Symon placed a blackened blade against his shoulder as he spoke, "Besides, the Commander won't find out unless you tell on us, eh? This shite blade's too light. Dunno why they call it the sword of—"

Thunk.

Symon's limp body fell to the tiles as Perwyn brought down his hammer. Willas' blade found its mark; Qyle's neck sprayed ribbons of crimson. Addam tucked tail and ran for his life, but his attempt came to a futile conclusion at the end of Osgrey's flying warpick.

Willas' deathly seriousness was broken when he spotted it. He shook his head and laughed. Blackfyre itself lay on the ground, grey and black ripples thirsting for the blood that pooled around its edges. The ruby on its pommel grew ever more luminescent while crimson swirled around it.

This was it. A sign from the gods above that they'd succeed. The chequy and webbed knights sheathed the sword once more, took it in hand, and made for the seaside wall. What followed was a blur; they donned drab cloaks, took horses, palmed coins to the right folk, and galloped through the gates onto the Roseroad.

1st Day, 1st Moon of 385 AC

Highgarden

It was nerve wracking having to lie to everyone about where she was going and why she was leaving the procession to go back to Highgarden after already coming this far. Every second she stayed behind until their tents and belongings were packed away into their carts was one where she worried someone would see through their ruse and order them seized. Desmera would not, could not let that happen. She was not going to let their story end that way.

The excuse for her return to Highgarden was believable enough. Everyone knew that her husband Valarr had died from the dreaadful Plague and that Lynesse had caught it too. She was sick for moons until suddenly she wasn't anymore. While she lived, the Plague had damaged her profusely and each winter she was always coming down with some kind of illness. When she faked a runner coming with news that she was seriously sick with fever, no one blinked twice. No one would dare tell her she couldn't be at her daughter's bedside. Especially not after losing her husband the same exact way.

She and her daughter Rhea made their slow and steady way back to Highgarden in a way that would surely not rouse any suspicions. The journey was very quiet. Neither of them knew what to say to each other. Desmera wanted to bring up the fact that her daughter had very likely laid with the heir to the Vale, a man who was now their enemy, but she didn't want to bring it up. Rhea looked so defeated already it made her heart hurt.

As soon as they were past the gates into the realm of the rose, Desmera did not waste any time. She knew there would be a lot of work to get done. Her heart hammered in her chest. What was she to make of all the information that was given to her? Clearly she wasn't going to be safe in King's Landing. That's where the King was. That's where the snakes were. She didn't consider Highgarden much safer but she didn't know what to do or where else to turn. The realm needed to know what was happening. This was her burden to bare.

"I demand an audience with the Queen," she requested as soon as she walked past the entrance of the hedge maze and came within sight of the guards at the front doors to the keep proper. There was no time to be wasted. They'd made it almost entirely to King's Landing before she was told to go back. Who knew what was happening now?

The 12th Moon of 384 AC, the Night of the King's Death

In the dreary shadows of the Red Keep, the King died.

In one of the finer brothels of the Street of Silk, so did his daughter - but Visenya Targaryen died the little death, her breath ragged, her feet curled, her fingers clutching at silken sheets. The Princess fell back upon the bed to lay there gasping, her body attempting to take in air just as her father Aegon VI, Lord Protector in the Realm, likewise had done within his own chambers. Fortunately for Visenya, the face that loomed over her own was not the grim and craggy visage of the Lord Commander - but rather the plump and beautiful face of Xoti, a Summer-Islander courtesan bearing a self-satisfied smirk.

"To your pleasing, your Grace?"

"To my pleasing indeed, Xochi. Fetch me my gown, will you? I've been gone too long."

The door to the private room snapped open as Visenya tumbled back through, Xoti trailing behind her - the Princess utterly ignorant of the courtesan's tight eyes and thinned lips as she became yet another used and ignored tonight by the Princess of the Realm. Visenya never bothered with payment in the moment - it was gauche. Instead she'd just see a box of gold sent over the next morning and leave the whores to squabble over who was owed what. It wasn't her fault if some of the more enterprising women made claims to have serviced Visenya - the others just shouldn't be pushovers.

To say that the Princess was 'dressed' now was pushing the usage of the word to its breaking point. Her silken slip had been straightened - mostly, still falling off of one pale shoulder. She'd lazily thrust arms into a long chiffonous robe of Myrish Lace, decorated with colourful flowers and delicate birds that cost more than what some of these courtesans would see in half a year and had at some point in the night been ruined by a spilled goblet of deep Dornish Red - rather similar to the one the Princess now clutched in one lazy hand. To top it all off was, of course, one of her ever-present gaudy eyepatches, the one tonight golden scales lapping one over the other like the hide of a dragon, set with rubies in the gaps to make the whole thing sparkle.

Forward she swayed, greeting the ironic cheers of her friends, 'friends' and other courtly sycophants with a mocking toast. The little soiree was as she had briefly left it, which was good to see. Wine a-plenty, groups of the young, the attractive, the dashing of station in this city gathered in groups to gossip, dance, play - and, of course, more than one following the Princess' lead to discreetly disappear into an adjoining room with one of the whores or even each other. Who has to judge? Well, everyone here - but this was the sly, bitchy judgement of the decadent elite rather than the unyielding and dangerous judgements of the law or faith, those oppressive and unfair pillars of righteous might.

Visenya collapsed into a long cushioned seat, skillfully spilling not a drop of her wine, reclining back with her own self-satisfied smirk. A moment taken, to listen to the laughter, the flirtations, the secrets whispered, all against the backdrop of the quick-paced minstrels who played in the corner. This was what court should be - fun and cruel, not the dour and cruel air of her father. If one was to embrace being mean, one might at least have fun doing it.

One of her heavily ringed hands shout out, a lazy gesture to a hawk-faced young man who was reluctantly drawn away from the giggling young noblewoman half sat upon his lap. Master Ayrmidon was many things, but most importantly was Visenya's... practical face into the seedier aspects of society, as well as importantly being a man well-versed in supplying...

"The tincture again, Grace? You've had-"

"Don't be a bore, Ayrmidon. You're fully aware of my hard limits - I don't need a morality lecture before that point."

A gracious nod that did a mostly-excellent job at hiding his deep hatred for Visenya, which the Princess saw right through regardless, and Ayrmidon drew forth a small bottle of brightly-polished blue glass, muddied by the mixture it held; a dangerous and wonderful combination of milk of the poppy and the sweet rum that was so popular with the sailors. Something some Goldborn had first whipped up by all accounts which proved that Ironborn had some use at least.

Lazily, Visenya swirled the small bottle, tilting her head up to catch the eye of her dear defender, Forrest Smallwood, stationed uncomfortably at the door. A wink to her Kingsguard, and Visenya threw the drink back, giving a deep sigh as the opiate and rum flared deep within her.

A wonderful night, with no tragedies at all to dampen in - at least, not within these four walls.

[Open if you are in KL and not trapped in some boring political bubble in the RK!]

Introduction

The Twelfth Moon of 384 AC has ended, and the First Moon of 385 AC begins!

Once every two weeks, we'll be posting a turn thread just like this one. Here you can do many things - make new skill learning attempts, post your economy actions, engage in court and anti-crime mechanics, recruit for your band of mercenaries, and various other activities. Make sure you check the Date Conversion Chart on our Game Resources Sheet to see when the current moon will end and the next one will begin.

• While you may post into a turn thread at any point during the month. The mechanics reliant on this thread - like the aforementioned - are adjusted only once, at the very end of the turn.
• Editing comments after the turn thread has been closed is a method of metagaming, and thus is prohibited. While we trust that each of you are working for the best of your story and the sub as a whole, in cases where edits create uncertainty, the decision will work in favor of the party who did not make the edit. If you wish to make changes, let a mod know, and they can be done in a separate, new comment.
• Turn threads are designed to keep everything in one easy place, and to provide news - both IC, and OOC - to the sub as a whole. Make sure to read them thoroughly, and to ask the mods or your fellow players if you have any questions or concerns. We all aim to make this sub a great and welcoming place - which means we must all work together to ensure it remains fair, functioning, and fun. With that, we're ready to begin!

[The turn thread will close on the 1st of January, at 2100/9 PM UTC].

King's Landing

Dragon Gate Barracks

The darkness of the night still held true. The young Gold Dragon, Maegor stood before a detachment of his finest knights. He'd found himself conducting an inspection at the oddest of hours, a means to ensure his men at the Gates were always at their top form and in well condition.

The fat ones had been removed, the lazy ones replaces, the idiots...killed. New Sergants and Captains ruled now, all young and dedicated to the son of the King. It was what he'd done to ensure the Arryns influence was limited after his father placed him in charge nearly two years ago.

But tonight was a different night. As he stood out in the rain, darkness overshadowing the city, torches light the formation as he looked over the men in two columns.

Just as he'd examined half of the men, a runner approach and quietly gave him a letter from the Red Keep.

As he'd opened it, Maegor felt his heart sink.

The Red Keep and the City were to be placed under lock and key. The ports were to be sealed and every ship in port told that they would not be permitted to leave until the men of the Gold Cloaks gave them permission.

It detailed why but Maegor refused to believe it.

Had his father had died. Aegon........

He'd crumpled the letter and stuffed into his pocket and moved to dismiss his men. They'd all soon return to their posts and seal the gate alongside the rest of the men on watch.

But the Prince found himself shocked. He couldn't fathom what had just transpired. It was impossible, he'd thought.

In the distance he could hear roars, the mighty Veraxes letting out her fearsome and earth rattling screech.

If Maekar was to be King. The letter said it was so but Maegor knew that couldn't have been true. Maekar was not bold enough to do such a thing like this on his own. But then he recalled the men of King's Landing. That Strong, the Tully, those Vile Arryns. The Whores Crane. Those Opportunistic Lannisters All of them. They all proclaimed themselves loyal to the King Aegon the Sixth, all feared his wrath and gaze but in death?

They grew bold because they believed the one Targaryen who could keep them from ultimate power was gone.

"Cravens." Maegor muttered under his breath as he moved towards his steed. "Artos, fetch me a dozen men. We make for the Dragonpit. My brother, the King shall need me in his war to come."

And Gods help any of those Cravens who dared to press their luck once he took what was rightfully his. They would gain only what the House of Dragons willed for them to. Just as his father before him taught them, Maegor too would make good pups out of those who sought to overindulge.

That mighty rattling called for him. Veraxes, daughter of the Warrior King Aegon. She was like him in so many ways and soon he'd claim her. Just as his father wished he one day would.

Goldengrove

​

The letter brought by Roslin Crane, broke Gerold into two pieces, with his heartbreaking realization of the death and murder of Garlan Rowan that left him in shambles, from the other side Jaehaerys' story of Lannister's plot of assassinating him and Crane's story of Leona's and Ulrick's assassination of the nobleman, the memories of his beloved brother broke him down, he knew the truth, Both of the sides are at fault, all of them will be destroyed, Leona Tyrell didn't guarantee his safety as a guest of Highgarden while Gyles Morrigen with the help of Lannisters murdered him with the story of Kingsguard of protecting the King, it is a sham to justify a cruel, bloody murder

Gerold threw the letter on the table, as he stood up thinking of his sons and daughters kept in captivity of Jaehaerys, "What if they find out that I've kept this letter away from them, My boys and daughter will be in trouble, I cannot risk their safety, under any circumstance, I can't lose them, I can..'t" Gerold punched the wall with his fury, bruising his knuckles with no comfort from his family felt shallow and empty,

He invited the Maester to chambers to ready the raven to carry the message to Highgarden, of placing its original letter of Roslin Crane and his additional letter to be carried within.

"Dear Cousin

A raven has arrived in Goldengrove with an interesting story speculated by Lady of Red Lake, she seems to be supporting usurper Prince Maekar, I'd want to suggest that we should be prepared for any armies that may be raised against House Tyrell as a result of this Treachery, your Grace, As a supporting and relentless, obedient vassal of House Tyrell, I wished to inform you of such treachery happening in your lands to keep my family well and safe of the hospitality of Highgarden that they've been given by Crown Prince Jaehaerys. I believe that the safety of my children will be kept under maximum security after revealing such information, your Grace."

The Letter of Roslin Crane's treachery will be attached as a sign of proof of my word, your Grace."(https://www.reddit.com/r/ARealmOfDragonsRP/comments/zq1kdq/comment/j0vqfhw/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3)

Yours Faithfully

Lord of Goldengrove

Gerold Rowan

​

12th Moon of 384 AC

Once the plan had been executed successfully and the crown rested on Maekar's brow Roslin Crane set in motion the second part of her scheme. One that would hopefully destabilize the Reach and end the war without the need of cruelty and bloodshed. Three letters were written in fine cyan dyed paper each set to a different destination. Goldengrove, Longtable, and Oldtown.

King's Landing, 12th Moon of 384 AC, the dawn after the death of His Grace

The bells.

Once, twice, thrice. Fifty-two times more to mark each year His Grace dared to draw breath. In the end, each of them was sharp and shallow. In the end, there were no more to be had. The Lord Commander vowed it was a painless affair in the sunken mattress of his chambers, dead beside the sheets of cloth and linen with one wife in the arms of the Seven and the other of a mind to tend to her own duties.

He wondered of what worth the word of the Lord Commander was now, to see a sacred oath torn in twain. To see himself ushered into an unwanted fate. Maekar heard them and their shuffles, mice and rats across the stone tiles while the rest of the castle found their slumber. He sat still, denied his rest with a rampant mind forced to race itself into the horrors. Beneath his own sheets, he tossed and turned. Dread did not allow for his tiredness to claim him. It churned his stomach til the sun rose and the dawn came, announced with the whistle of birds and a crack of a roar from beneath the domed home to such monstrous beasts.

His eyes, rimmed with dark circles, saw not so much of a hint from behind the wooden door then. He saw the masses now, filed in and compact beneath the stone so far overhead. He could not see their faces from the distance, from the shadows held on the sidelines, their voices became one, loud in their echo. He breathed, one after the other, as if it was to calm him. His stomach continued to churn, a foul sickness rose with all that awaited the Scorned Prince. The cart ride from the castle with his Lannister bride did little to ease his nerves, it served to boil his blood.

"It is with deep sadness," the Lord Commander cut across a newfound silence with none of the skills of a seasoned mummer. His stance made from stone and stoic. His years with the white cloak remained true. "That I do announce the death of King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name! The Conqueror Reborn!"

Maekar swallowed hard in his throat, the stone did not shift so much as an inch. In the colours of Fire and Blood, countless swordsmen stood across from one another; a clear route made towards the risen platform in which the Lord Commander stood. His Holiness stood beside him, with his brothers, sisters, and the kin of his Lannister wife. He could not see it in full, no, but there were two items laid about for them both.

A crown for a queen.

"With the Stranger upon him, he confessed the Prince Jaehaerys would not succeed him! It was to be his eldest son, Prince Maekar, renamed as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!" Ser Gyles declared with a voice that boomed across them all, "Hail Maekar, Second of His Name! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

Beneath a sea of risen swords, the newly named ruler marched with an uncertain step. His eyes could not focus forwards, sent to the floor beneath as the sound of steel to a scabbard sounded off behind him. It was a sudden and sharp shot of pain that tore into him with the declaration made in full. He wore is exhaustion well beneath the half-scowl and in clothes made to mourn the loss of his father. There was no blade on his hip, it was stolen. It was a march that Maekar wished to end and never wished to be, one he was stuck within, unable to be free of. The eyes of his mother met his brothers, his sisters, the Lord Commander, his wife and children. It held most on Genna. One step after the other, he ascended the stairs.

"May we pray to the Seven for his health! May we celebrate his ascension, his rise and all that is new for this realm! Yet may we mourn the loss of his father, His Grace, and see to it his wishes are upheld!" Maekar settled in beneath the voice, loud as it was, and cast a most hateful stare towards his wife. It was scorn he felt for Genna, for her mother, for her House. The lions swept beneath him and threw him towards the throne. It was a plea writ across his saddened face that met Viserys.

It did not last.

On his knees, the Faithful spoke his prayers and dashed the anointed oils across his forehead. Maekar did not care for the Seven before, and yet the heft of sin bore down upon him now more so than ever. The blackened steel crown of the Conqueror, adorned with rubies, mounted the silver strands of hair that fell to frame his face. He rose with another set of stares, tossed about to those unfortunate to stand upon the dais. Maekar turned to see the masses, see them all, to hear their silence. He could hear his own heart.

"Maekar the King!" The Lord Commander bellowed.

"Maekar the King!" A voice from the crowd cried.

"Maekar the King!" Another in the rear demanded with a raised fist.

"Maekar the King!" A young boy with a shrill voice shouted.

"Hail!" Ser Gyles Morrigen, years in waiting with a fulfilled promise to the late Queen Shaera, commanded of them all.

A clap followed, only one. It stood alone until another joined it, then a third. It was a chorus in no time at all, and then it was thunderous. The echo boomed about between their shouts, their hails, the cheers. Maekar tempted the slow and small twist of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the start of a chuckle rose in his throat until it erupted into a beam of contentment. He smiled broadly over them all, to soak it all in as each of them soaked him in, in turn.

Triumphant at last, a new King ruled King's Landing.

A shadow went over Driftmark, a seat of lords, heroes, even princes, all of it so pointlessly small from so far above. The Velaryons had sailed with the Conqueror, and at every turn had back the dragon they though was right, but the past was dead, perhaps they were too. Terrax cried out, her banshee’s call echoing over the open air as a single ship bearing the red dragon on a black sail came into port. She carried no soldiers, only a messenger with the simplest of demands, and the largest living dragon to enforce them, should they be refused.

It could’ve been more nuanced, there could’ve been more left to question, but actions of the past had made everything as clear as it needed to be. They were rebels who could not be trusted, who coveted something beyond themselves and might do anything to get it. It could not be left up to chance.

The runner would take the command to the gate of castle Driftmark, and hand it over to the first man who’d take it.

Lord Laenor Velaryon,

King Aegon is dead, his failure to address your debacle in the Vale is to be righted. You and your entire family are to board the ship waiting for you, most especially the pretender Joffery Velaryon. You are to relinquish command of your fleets immediately, and have a signed document with your seal affirming this in your hands when you board the waiting vessel. You will relinquish all claim to the Vale of Arryn before King Maekar Targaryen, Second of His Name.

Should you defy me, should ravens fly, should you or your fleets try to run, you will know the truth of the words ‘Fire and Blood’. You have until sunset, I am watching.

Prince Viserys Targaryen