The Doom in Our Blood Comes Back - ilreleonewikia13 - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter 1: INTRODUCTION TO THE MANUSCRIPT: THE AFTHERMATH OF THE DANCE OF THE DRAGONS

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Preface of the Author:

Numerous lunar cycles and seasonal changes have occurred since the events that I am about to narrate, yet the remembrance of these remarkable individuals persists even now.

In my role as Maester in the Citadel, my purpose is to document the ancient traditions and tales of the reign of the renowned Queen Rhaenyra, also known as The Great, and her esteemed spouse, The Rouge Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

Many were the great feats undertaken by her and many more were accomplished in her name, to speak of that, however, is not the mission of this manuscript; the pages that follow will recount the exploits of five other personages whose prestige and moral temperament distinguished them for the fundamental role they brought to the history of this kingdom.

Undoubtedly, some are already acquainted with these individuals and their accomplishments, however, for those students who may need a reminder, allow me to briefly introduce the five noble princes who have gone down in history as Aegon III, the Golden, Viserys the Clever, Rhaena the Charming, Visenya the Dreamer and the most important of all Baela the Glorious.

Before diving into detailing each one, it is appropriate to provide a brief overview of a significant moment in our kingdom's and House Targaryen's history.

On the third day of the seventh moon in the year 129 After the Conquest, King Viserys Targaryen, the first of his name, departed from this world under mysterious circ*mstances.

Officially, the lamented sovereign, aged two and fifty, bore the weight of health afflictions, born of a life and table ever abundant. Yet, speculations abound concerning an alternative cause. Over the ensuing decades, astute scholars began casting suspicion upon the premature demise of the unfortunate king. They postulated that someone, in the months preceding the tragedy, might have hastened the spread of the ailment.

Whispers among courtiers, uttered in hushed tones when ears were deaf, insinuated the involvement of his second consort, Alicent of House Hightower, the Green Queen. It was no clandestine matter that the love and warmth once harbored by the queen for her spouse had, in recent years, given way to a profound resentment fueled by the frustrations of her circ*mstance.

All endeavors to cast her stepdaughter in a negative light proved futile. As the progeny of the Crown Princess matured and strengthened with the passage of time, the queen's aspirations to elevate her beloved son to the Iron Throne waned. It is not beyond reason to entertain the notion that, in a desperate bid for retribution, the queen—with assistance from her allies—interfered with her husband's sustenance, veiling his demise in the guise of nature.

It is incumbent upon this narrative to underscore that no concrete proofs of this alleged machination have surfaced, or at least none that have reached our discerning hands. Nevertheless, even in the absence of tangible corroboration, this conjecture finds broad acceptance among scholars and laymen alike, precisely for the subsequent events.

Queen Alicent, in her machinations, withheld the announcement of the king's demise for more than seven days. She barred entry to his chambers, where the sovereign's corporeal vessel commenced the inexorable descent into decay before Septons could enact the customary rite of cremation. This stratagem, purposeful in its design, precluded any soul from apprising Princess Rhaenyra, the rightful heir, of the sombre transpirings.

Oblivious to the unfolding tragedy, the princess learned of her esteemed father's passing a fortnight hence, by which time the funereal rites had concluded, and her stepbrother Aegon's coronation unfolded in the eyes of the populace.

By fortuitous circ*mstance, the messenger conveyed not only the missive of her disinheritance but also the Crown that once adorned the late king.

On the twentieth day of the seventh month of the 129th year After the Conquest, in the company of her most devoted adherents, Princess Rhaenyra ascended to the throne, inaugurating the Civil War, remembered through the ages as the Dance of the Dragons.

The End of the Dance and the Start of the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s Reign

In the early months of 130 After the Conquest, before the transition of the conflict from " the war of ravens and envoys and marriage pacts " to " the war of fire and blood ", Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, assumed control of Kings Landing.

She effectively quelled her half-brother's attempt to seize power and compelled him to submit, recognizing her rightful status as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

The queen who was recently crowned emerged victorious in the War of the Dragons on account of her valour and proficiency.

The attainment of this triumph was accomplished without inflicting any injury upon her adherents or her cherished dragons. Rather, a significant number of her adversaries belonging to the Green were met with fatalities at her hands.

The deaths of Ser Otto of House Hightower and Ser Criston Cole, commonly referred to as the central architects of the civil war, were the most significant and unforgettable, as the way they had been killed.

The monarch personally publicly executed the self-proclamation King Maker, rendering the event a highly symbolic occurrence that served as inspiration for numerous songs and paintings in the ensuing years.

This crucial action was facilitated by an unforeseen intervention from someone of the antagonistic faction: individuals deemed heroic whose identities were shrouded in mystery for a considerable duration, until their revelation in the present moment.

As the years passed, additional details emerged and it became evident that Princess Helaena and her young brother Daeron, cooperated in a surreptitious act of treachery that expedited the cessation of the Civil War.

This reality has been corroborated subsequently by the passing of the primary figures involved in this narrative and the posthumous rediscovery of their past correspondence.

Extracting from the scant correspondence that has endured the ravages of time, letters exchanged between the royal siblings, transcribed years after the war's culmination, one may discern the profound emotional tribulations experienced by the princess, then elevated to the position of queen consort, during those harrowing months of conflict and heightened emotional tumult. It is plausible to surmise that the decisions she rendered during that pivotal moment were not made with levity.

In a letter addressed to her younger brother, recalling those moments of despair that had torn at her years before, Princess Helaena alludes to an extremely particular incident, which led her to make a difficult decision to ensure the safety and well-being of her children.

According to the princess, an unknown woman - who then she will discover to be Alys Rivers - whom she had never seen before, appeared to her in a dream and predicted the brutal death of her progeny and her entire family if hostilities did not cease immediately, and if her brother and husband prevailed over Rhaenyra. The specifics of the evidence the princess had to deem that dream a reality, rather than mere fantasy, and what Alys Rivers told her to agitate the woman are unknown. Still, what we can say is that whatever Helaena Targaryen had seen that night, in her dreams or reality, for sure was enough to prompt her to take a stand that would forever mark the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

But before we unfurl the chronicles of these events, maybe this scribe should dedicate a few lines to elucidate the enigma that is the aforementioned woman with an obscure past.

Result of a youthful passion of the deceased Lyonel Strong, Lord of Harrenhal, and a woman is still unknown today, Alys Rivers is one if not the greatest mystery of Westeros's history.

Not even her date of birth is known, nor is her exact birthplace and little to nothing is known about her life before the Civil War, and those who had known her in her youth seem to have left no testimony about the true identity of this character as if every trace of her past existence has been erased from this earth.

And maybe it was this uncertainty and scarcity of facts about her person that contributed to making Alys Rivers one of the most intriguing figures in the folklore and legends surrounding Harrenhal and the majestic lake it overlooks. As the sands of time slip away and those who bore witness to her mortal dwindling, her visage metamorphoses from the corporeal to the mystical, transcending temporal and spatial confines.

Numerous erudites have endeavoured to delineate a coherent portrayal of her being, yet their endeavours have borne no fruit in securing an unambiguous and gratifying resolution.

A myriad believed the rendition of Alys Rivers, as expounded by Princess Helaena, to be that of a sorceress who, in pursuit of the shadowed arts of black enchantment, relinquished her very soul to the Lord of the Seven Hells.

It is posited that this nefarious covenant bequeathed unto her supernatural faculties and an immunity to the inexorable passage of time. Indeed, fervent affirmations persist, contending that, ensconced within this malefic bond, the dame traversed the realm of dreams, unveiled prophecies, and even plumbed the recesses of cogitation.

Contrariwise, a multitude attributed these phenomena to nought but suggestion, purportedly spawned by the provincial prejudices and benighted cognizance of the agrarian denizens populating those hinterlands. In their view, these rustic folk, in their ignorance, embellished and enshrouded the visage of a woman whose sole knack lay in the concoction of elixirs and little more.

However, veering from these divergent musings, there exists a tertiary path, a course scarcely entwined with the tenets that the Septons have imparted to us.

If perchance any among you, esteemed readers, should journey northward, traversing the Twins, ascending the Green Fork, and attaining Greywater Watch, a revelation shall unfold: within those vast and untamed expanses, the teachings of the Seven hold little—if any—relevance to the denizens.

For centuries, even after the advent of the Andals, the populace has persisted in silently invoking the nameless entities of their primordial deities, entities that, in contrast to ours, elude worship within statues or enclosed chambers. Rather, homage is rendered amidst the wildest reaches of nature, in the woodlands, where their potency surges and where none, not even man, can ensnare them.

A sole authority commands their recognition and reverence—the mystical Green Men, a conclave of sages born of the union of Children of the Forest and humans, fashioned after the initial war with the First Men. Their sacred charge is to safeguard the Little People and their enigmas from impending calamities. Few are they who can attest to having glimpsed these enigmatic beings, and even fewer still have been granted entry to their sanctified isle, the Isle of Faces, nestled in the heart of the Gods Eye.

Yet, amid this ancient creed and its mystic rites, another figure graces the narrative: the Lady of Crows, or, as we know her, Alys Rivers.

For us, dwellers of the Southern Lands, the imagery of this persona is irrevocably intertwined with the refrains of myriad songs resounding in taverns and inns, narrated by the countless bards and minstrels hailing from the Riverlands, who, in their peregrinations, have unveiled to the entire Kingdom the peculiar and at times romantic love tale between her and Prince Aemond.

Nevertheless, for the stoic men and women of the North, to whom the Civil War bore scant significance, Alys Rivers assumes the semblance of a deity.

If for the pious followers of the Seven that woman was either a witch practising black magic or a charlatan with a mellifluous voice by many, for adherents of the Old Gods of the Forest, instead, she embodies nothing short of the High Priestess of the Sacred Isle—a being chosen by the Ancient Gods to serve as an intermediary between the realm of humans and theirs.

A woman of both human and Children of the Forest lineage, personally initiated into Ancient Knowledge by the Green Men, the custodians of the Weirwood trees gracing the mysterious Isle of Faces—the last bastion of the ancient creed in the South lands. Solely to her, possessing the power of a goddess yet clad in the mortal flesh, can the faithful of the Old Gods direct their prayers and their songs.

However, like every mortal, she too shall succumb to the inevitable passage of time; still, even when her corporeal form fades, her spirit persists until the birth of a new priestess.

Like the Green Men, a mere handful in this century can dare to encounter a High Priestess of the Sacred Isle in person and witness her arcane powers.

Yet, such restrictions did not apply to Alys Rivers.

Multitudes—commoners and nobles alike—attested to beholding firsthand the extraordinary abilities of this woman. According to their testimony, the powers professed by Alys Rivers were not merely authentic but surpassed all conceivable bounds.

To them, she transcended the epithets of witch or diabolic mistress, emerging as a sagacious woman whose gods divulged veracities—truths spanning the past, present, and future.

Bestowed with the ability to traverse the realm between dreams and reality, she assumed the form of a raven—the most sacrosanct of creatures. Nothing was beyond her grasp, and even the very fabric of nature and its dictates yielded to her will.

The veracity, however, remains elusive, and none can assert with certitude whether these narratives bear truth or stem solely from the impassioned minds of fervent adherents. What remains unequivocal, nonetheless, is that irrespective of her guise—witch, deceiver, or priestess—Alys Rivers played a pivotal, if not paramount, role in the events culminating in the ascent of the Blacks to power.

As mentioned earlier, before the start of the civil war, the name "Alys Rivers" was almost entirely unknown to the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms; however, the situation was different within the boundaries of Harrentown, where it was rumoured that the woman was a witch with extraordinary supernatural abilities, inclined to perform blood sacrifices to maintain her surprisingly youthful appearance. Moreover, she seemed to be the only one with the power to enter and exit the mysterious island within the Gods Eye without encountering any danger, an entirely impossible feat for everyone else.

However, things changed dramatically when, during the Green's occupation of Harrenhal, it was reported that Prince Aemond, after taking the woman—who was twenty years his senior—as a lover, secretly married her in a private ceremony that took place under a weirwood during a full moon night. This audacious act of complete imprudence, kept a secret for many months by the young prince, had the ability to unleash a sequence of consequences that would lead to the downfall of his king, as weeks before leaving for the Riverlands, the prince had agreed to marry Lady Cassandra Baratheon as part of an agreement with her father to secure support during the civil war.

The unfolding of events behind the walls of Harrenhal during those ensuing months remains shrouded in mystery. Almost all witnesses to the liaison between the prince and the woman met their demise in battle or succumbed to the tortures inflicted during captivity.

Thus, the real circ*mstances that brought the formidable Aemond Targaryen to contract matrimony with a woman of dubious lineage, whose sole familial tie lay with House Strong—a house sworn to their adversaries—remain elusive to us even now.

While it may not be an unwarranted assertion that Aegon II's younger brother was notorious for his impulsive and thoughtless nature—disregarding political ramifications and diplomatic nuances in favour of immediate gratification, even at the expense of those in his proximity—this purported impulsiveness sharply contrasts with the meticulous secrecy shrouding the event.

The prince's lucid stance and the precautions that he adopted in order to not make the news of his illicit affair public, refraining from contacting or apprising those nearest to him of this event, even in the ensuing months, suggests an acute awareness of the catastrophic repercussions his decisions would usher in and not a moment of madness, as many thoughts.

However, no precaution could have saved Prince Aemond from what came next.

Upon learning of this scandalous union, Queen Rhaenyra's forces wasted no time in disseminating the narrative to tarnish King Aegon's standing among his adherents, achieving a notable blow against the Greens.

Subsequent to Aemond's decision to wed a "common old hag" instead of one of his daughters—paragons of virtue—allies of House Baratheon, whose lord was esteemed for his greater irascibility than his stoic progenitor, withdrew their support from King Aegon. The demand for Prince Aemond's head as retribution for the egregious affront against his person and the proud House Baratheon underscored the gravity of the situation.

As she learned of the purportedly scandalous union between her son and that woman of contested notoriety, who purportedly coerced him into nuptial vows after conceiving a child by him, Alicent expeditiously dispatched a raven to Aemond, demanding that he comport himself rationally and without delay travelled to Oldtown, where she was waiting for him, to fortify the city against any possible assaults.

Upon discovering his pupil's actions and plan to stay in Harrenal until the arrival of Uncle Daemon and his troops, even Ser Criston, who had been mentoring the young prince for some time, issued a message expressing disbelief and disappointment in the prince's impulsive choice to break off his engagement to Lady Cassandra for marrying a woman like Alys: an illegitimate daughter, almost older than his own mother and who had none of the traits demanded in a prince’s bride.

With great urgency, he beseeched him to abandon his plans of creating a family with his wife and warned the prince that if he persisted with his rash decisions, they may have to resort to seeking assistance from the High Septon to dissolve the marriage.

Due to Aemond's lack of cooperation and resistance to their warnings, Sir Criston decided to go to the Riverlands himself to persuade Aemond, firmly convinced that Alys exerts a malign influence over him, effectively holding him captive with her magic.

It may come as a surprise, but in truth, Alys Rivers played a crucial part in the defeat of the Greens, which confirms the accuracy of his imagination. Nonetheless, this Maester, as many other scholars before him, finds it more logical to believe that it was his wish to witness the birth of his first son that convinced Prince Aemond to stay in the Riverlands rather than any maleficent enchantment.

The former leader of the King's Guards set out on a highly confidential mission, with a small group of guards and Otto Hightower, with the goal of eradicating the source of their issue and killing Alys along with the baby she was bearing. Regrettably, their enemies became aware of their route between King's Landing and Harrenal and managed to intercept their wagon with the assistance of Princess Helaena, who divulged their plans to the Blacks.

After being captured, Criston Cole and Otto Hightower were presented to Rhaenyra and ultimately met their demise by her hand. The sword she wielded was none other than Morningstar, which had previously belonged to her former sword shield.

As soon as he heard that his brother would remain in Harrenal, Prince Daeron Targaryen, the youngest son of the deceased King Viserys, decided to answer his mother's pleas and travel to the Reach to aid the Green forces overseen by his uncle Ormund.

In truth, there was nothing sincere behind the quiet prince’s decision except his will to conspire against his mother and her relatives: at present, there is evidence of an admission that the prince made to his confessor years after the fact, affirming his significant involvement in the attack on the city led by the Velaryon fleet.

Smartly, his participation was limited to helping and waiting in secret, while expecting Addam Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys to arrive and execute the extermination of every individual from House Hightower, in return for sparing Oldtown.

According to the story, the Dowager Queen witnessed the annihilation of her entire family while being kept locked up in the Tower by her son Daeron, who was trying to protect her from harm. This traumatic event drove her to insanity, as she was overcome with grief and even yanked out her hair in distress. Unaware of her younger son and daughter's betrayal, she blamed Prince Aemond and his disliked spouse and unborn child for the tragedy that had befallen her ancient and proud House.

Upon learning about what happened in Oldtwon and of the destiny of his dear mentor the prince immediately aimed for retribution and was determined to confront Daemon in combat.

Consumed by his loathing for his uncle and blinded by the confidence in his victory the young Aemond chose not to listen to Alys's plea to not clash with Daemon, even after the revelation of her complicity with his siblings, as he remained steadfast in his decision to persevere on his revenge and excluding any possibility to betray his brother Aegon by surrendering himself to the Balck Army.

On the 22nd day of the third month in the year 130 AC, close to the God's Eyes shores, the prophesied confrontation between two dragon riders, an uncle and a nephew, took place resulting in the latter's defeat, as the witch predicted to him.

However, in an unexpected turn of events, the Prince Consort chose to spare the life of his brother’s son, and Prince Aemond, was able to survive: yet, Vhagar, his dragon, flew away, leaving its owner's fate uncertain.

The victorious side captured the prince and his soldiers, bringing them in shackles to King's Landing where they were subjected to torture and extreme humiliation. The Protector of the Realm personally sought retribution against his own nephew, inflicting him the greatest punishment conceived by the Ancient Valyria law, by shaving off his hair and using a Valyrian knife to mark him on the word “ erntash ”, the High Valyrian term for "defeated.", on the back, where everyone could see it.

Many people over the years, even after Prince Daemon's death, have wondered about the reason for this senseless act, as the boundless hatred that the man in question felt for his nephew was well known: nonetheless, this Maester regrettably conveys that this issue will persist as an enigma.

However, amidst numerous theories pertaining to this occurrence, this academician has chosen to divulge a distinct one that has yet to be verified.

According to this tale, when Prince Rouge was questioned by one of his sons - either Prince Aegon or Prince Viserys - about his decision to spare their uncle’s life, during the famous Battle Upn the God’s Eye, he claimed that it was because of a dream that he acted as he did.

In this dream that the Rouge Prince had the night before the battle, he was apparently called by mystical voices who summoned him to the Isle of Faces. There, the Green Men, who were eagerly anticipating his arrival, implored him to spare Prince Aemond's life as it was deemed to be the divine will of the Gods, who apparently had alternate plans for him and had decided that it was not yet his time to perish.

There are differing opinions on the truthfulness of the account, with some contending that Daemon Targaryen was not one to give credence to seemingly pointless things like dreams or deities, while others find the idea plausible, citing past instances of prophetic dreams within the Targaryen lineage.

It is possible to confidently state that the prophecy believed to have been spoken by Prince Daemon has surprisingly proven to be accurate, regardless of whether or not it is actually true.

After months of civil war, Prince Daemon arrived at King's Landing on the 30th day of the third month. Accompanied by his wife, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and hostages, he was aware that his niece Helaena had made secret preparations, ensuring a warm welcome for her half-sister in the castle and the city.

Despite all the negative expectations and the desperate circ*mstances, the Half-year-King refused to back down and instead suggested attacking his half-sister's army, which would have put him at risk. Recognizing the danger of this idea, his brother Aemond stepped in to prevent him from making a fatal mistake that would endanger not only himself but also his children. Aemond thus made a final, desperate effort to salvage the situation.

In a sudden assault, the prince used his sword to injure his brother on the right side which led people to think that he intended to eliminate his brother and claim the throne. This was the accepted account until recently when Prince Daeron's testimony revealed that the supposed assassination attempt on King Aegon was actually orchestrated by Prince Aemond to keep his siblings' disloyalty hidden.

This decision bestowed upon Aemond the moniker of Kingslayer, a notorious title for any knight that could potentially result in capital punishment by decapitation for anyone convicted of such an offense.

Once more, the Gods showed compassion for the prince and chose not to subject him to this wicked fate.

Upon her arrival in the city, Queen Rhaenyra boldly announced her claim to the Seven Kingdoms, doing so in the presence of King's Landing's small folk and her half-siblings, whom she showed mercy to in front of the public eye. This act was perceived as a genuine demonstration of her capability to rule, and thus, it bolstered her worthiness for the throne. In comparison, her half-brother Aegon, who had managed to alienate his supporters in less than a year, appeared less deserving of the crown.

The story was once again inaccurate as the new queen's choice not to immediately execute her half-siblings was not due to her virtuousness, but rather because of an undisclosed agreement between her and her half-sister Helaena, who requested that her family be spared in exchange for her assistance.

It must be recognized that the new leader exhibited remarkable courage by honouring her promise and sparing the lives of those who attempted to overthrow her.

The four children of King Viserys and his widow, Queen Alicent, then miraculously managed to survive the Civil War and not perish under the executioner's blade: however, the fact that most of them were able to live long lives and die of old age doesn't negate the severity of their punishments during the period of peace, which were just as harsh as those who met their demise.

Those who schemed against the new Queen and offered no assistance were required to demonstrate their worthiness for freedom by exerting significant effort and making significant sacrifices.

Aegon the Elder, then renamed "The King who never Was" by the small folk in the later years, for example, had been left in his own misery, preferring to let him suffer, with the hope that the wound would die of a painful and slow death than giving him the mercy of a fast end.

For this reason, he had been given the chance to live with his family, in a lower wing of the Maegor's Holdfast, where he spent most of his days being drunk and complaining about his downfall.

Similar to her cherished son, Alicent Hightower, who was widely despised, was ultimately pardoned by Rhaenyra. Unfortunately, the lady's fate was not much gentler, as she succumbed to madness towards the latter part of the conflict, leading her to contemplate suicide in a state of hopelessness caused by her loss of everything.

According to historical accounts, upon witnessing Alicent's condition, Rhaenyra Targaryen expressed sympathy and granted her request to spend the remainder of her life in exile from the capital at the Citadel. It was here that Alicent entered into a religious calling, taking vows to become a Septa.

The prevailing notion posits that the decision was not motivated by pity, but rather by the new Queen's experience of boundless joy upon witnessing her stepmother's interminable torment. Consequently, she chose to renounce her initial inclination to bring about the stepmother's demise - a comprehensible deliberation considering the degree of malice inflicted by said stepmother upon her stepdaughter during her childhood.

Out of all those who were "pardoned," Prince Aemond had the most unfortunate outcome. Though he was spared from execution or death in combat, he suffered through numerous acts of torture and mistreatment before he was eventually granted a pardon and released.

After publicly prostrating and humiliating himself, his head shaved and ashamed to have been abandoned by the dragon he had boasted so much about throughout his youth, Aemond received a pardon and the opportunity to leave King's Landing and the Crownlands, but with the condition that he never return, on pain of death.

Destroyed in his pride and hated by all, the young prince had no choice but to head for the Riverlands, and although extremely bitter about the role Alys had played in the fall of the Greens, he found himself forced to swallow the bitter pill and to forget the past, as she was now his wife and therefore the only family he had left in the world.

The decision was made, and so the exiled prince, along with his expecting spouse decided to establish their permanent residence on the Isle of Faces, at the heart of God's Eye, with the profound desire to not be found, especially by his enemies.

In the sixth month of the year 130 After the Conquest, Prince Aemond's one and only son was born in the confines of a humble woodland dwelling: while the life his father had always known was about to end, Baelor Targaryen's, later sadly known as "the Wicked " was about to begin.

Unlike their siblings, the other two of King Visery's children were able to enjoy a tranquil and satisfactory existence under the reign of Queen Rhaenyra, reaping the rewards of their efforts.

Helaena's boldness in opposing her mother and husband led Rhaenyra to finally change the perception she had of her loving sister, ultimately granting her the respect she was due.

Princess Helaena received the promised privilege of residing at court with her children, who were raised as members of the royal family within the walls of the Red Keep. Although their rank was not as high as the Queen's heirs, they still held a notable position.

Even the young prince Daeron, who for years had long been overlooked and neglected by his older siblings, was fortunate enough to receive a stroke of good luck at the age of sixteen. Thanks to House Hightower's downfall, he was granted the esteemed title of Lord and thus became the progenitor of House Targaryen in Oldtown.

Although the new queen may have seemed grateful towards her half-brother, whom she had previously paid little attention to, likely, her decision to appoint him was not solely based on this sentiment. Rather, Rhaenyra and her Small Council likely saw the prince's youth and obedient demeanour as a convenient tool to manipulate and assert control over the powerful Faith, which was now firmly under the influence of the royal family.

Unfortunately for many those were the only kind concessions that the new Queen gave to the traitors, many other Lords who had been caught conspiring against her and breaking the oath given to her father found death by the blade of the Rouge Prince, along with every male member of their family in age of matrimony who had been executed by the fire of Syrax, leading some Houses to the extinction, like House Hightower, as they were left without grown men or protection and with substantial taxes to be paid to the crown each year.

Some others - as House Butterwell, House Crakehall, House Fossoway of Cider Hall, House Graceford, House Mooton, House Norcross, House Swyft, House Redwyne, House Rosby, and House Stokeworth - would eventually recover from the backlash of having sided with the wrong ruler, while others like House Swann, House Peake, House Wylde, even in the years after the war would still wear the stigma of “traitors” for the resentment they brooded for the new Queen.

House Tyrell, House Lannister, and House Baratheon were treated differently as the first decided to remain impartial and not join the conflict, while the last two after having initially shown support to the Greens, ended up abandoning their cause.

While the Lannisters’ reasons for changing sides were more based on the economic factor than of honor, as they didn’t feel sure anymore if continuing to support Aegon the Elder was a wise move for their finances, the Baratheon took their decision based on the resentment they felt for Prince Aemond’s decision of breaking his promise to marry Lady Cassandra. Their withdrawal then was due to their wounded honor and not because of some political reason: still, even if they, abandoned the Green’s cause, they never explicitly sided with the Blacks making their position quite shady.

Because of their higher status and their peculiar situations, each House was treated differently and with different severity: House Tyrell and House Lannister The two were hit at their weakest point, money.

The first, however, having decided to stay out of the conflict, was the least taxed of the two: nevertheless, the fact that the Tyrels had done nothing to prevent some of their sworn Lords from going against Rhaenyra was one of the principal factors that brought the Queen to downgrading Highgarden to a secondary castle, favoring instead Oldtown, which was now under the command of Prince Daeron, thus her family.

The Lannisters, on the other hand, for being one of the first families to support the coup hatched by Otto Hightower and his daughter were forced to pay an additional tax to the already prearranged treasonous cases and asked them to finance the rebuilding of the structures that went destroyed during the war: a punishment that cost dearly to the House, which lost much of its original power.

House Baratheon, instead, apart from the seizure of some property and the thinning of their army, was not particularly sanctioned by the new Queen and her Council; the real punishment, however, came when Lord Borros’s loudly demanded to have Aemond Targaryen's head on a platter after personally cutting it off, was refused and with it his chance to have his long-awaited vengeance.

Precisely because of the haughty and disrespectful manner of the Lord in question, the Queen, who most of all would have liked to kill her hated half-brother, decided at the last minute to spare the prince's life and allow him to live his own life, with the exact woman for whom he had disgraced Cassandra Baratheon, Alys Rivers, who was reportedly pregnant with his child.

It is said that out of the anger and wrath Borros Baratheon had felt at receiving such news, he choked on a piece of food and suffocated to death, leaving his house without a male lead: however, a few weeks after his death, his wife Lady Elenda Caron - who during his absence became regent of the House - gave birth to a male child, the future Lord Royce, the first after four daughters, whom her husband tragically never met.

Many took this moment as a reference to delineate the beginning of the hatred and resentment that House Baratheon and all of Stormlands began to have toward Queen Rhaenyra and the Targaryen family, regardless of faction.

A hatred that would play a quite important part in the tumults that followed the end of the Conquest of Dorne.

Nonetheless, despite her inflexible position towards her opponents, as previously mentioned, Rhaenyra the Great - as she would later be known during her reign - exhibited a profound appreciation for faithfulness and the people who embodied this trait.

One noteworthy demonstration of this principle was exemplified through her formal acknowledgement of her spouse's former squires, Addam and Alyn of Hull, the two illegitimate children of the late Lord Leanor Velaryon - or his father Corlys as per certain allegations.

The two boys, who reciprocally were ten and six and ten and five at the time, were bestowed with the noble titles of Ser and Lord of House Velaryon.

This finding showcases the profound respect Rhaenyra possessed toward individuals who stayed committed to her cause.

Among the supporters of the new Queen's claim to the throne, the tale of the Velaryon siblings stands out as exceptional and significant.

Many were initially surprised when the elder sibling, Addam, who had played a pivotal role in securing Oldtown while riding Seasmoke, renounced his inheritance of Driftmark to join the Queen's Guard, taking vows and donning the White Cloak.

Initially, most members of the new court, particularly his brothers in the Queen's Guard, viewed Addam's decision to forsake his birthright in favor of serving his queen with approval and pride. However, as the years passed, both their judgment and Addam's perspective began to change, leading to questioning the wisdom of this choice.

The turning point occurred in 132 AC when, after battling an unknown illness for months, the old Corlys Velaryon and his bride passed away in their bed, leaving the reins and the substantial wealth of House Velaryon in the hands of the merely seventeen years old Alyn, who went from being the bastard grandson of a humble fisherman to the richest Lord in all the Seven Kingdoms overnight.

Regrettably, despite his spirited and enterprising nature, Alyn was ill-prepared to manage a noble house of such importance.

His unexpected rise to Lordship of Driftmark, combined with a lack of specific upbringing due to his dark lineage, led to important challenges, as he found himself in possession of unparalleled wealth without proper guidance - and perhaps feeling the need to prove himself equal to other Lords despite his status as a bastard son - squandered a considerable sum on futile and reckless activities over the years.

Despite being a skilled navigator and ship captain, Alyn proved to be a terrible merchant with a poor sense of business. Numerous unfortunate investments led to substantial losses and debts with the banks.

To redeem these debts, the Lord was forced to accept the proposal of House Rogare, with whom the young Lord had contracted a large number of debts due to his great passion for the young women of Lys, who agreed to turn a blind eye as long as he married the young Lada, once a priestess of the Goddess Adera, and promised not to obstruct their commercial plans with Westeros. Of that day, those present at the event mainly remembered the beauty and elegance of the young bride, dressed in a precious silk stole, but above all, the gloomy and despondent expression of the Lord, who, as a bachelor, finally surrendered to becoming a married man. However, the tranquillity of married life seemed not to be for him, so as soon as he managed to impregnate the young Lady of Driftmark, Lord Alyn set sail with his ships on another expedition, and then another, and yet another, until the end of his long and tumultuous life. From his wife, he had 3 children, Leanor, Marirlda, and Corlys, but it is believed that countless others were born from the many lovers he encountered in his travels through the Known World.

Furthermore, Alyn couldn't resist the allure of women, having numerous lovers—official and presumed—resulting in several illegitimate children before and during his marriage.

If this wasn't enough to make the honest and honourable Addam Velaryon regret his choice to renounce his right of succession, fate presented him with another reason to rue opting for the white cloak over the golden one, when in the last months of 135 AC, after almost five years in service as a member of the Queen's Guard, his loyalty to his oath and his promise to serve no other woman but the Queen wavered in front the charm of Princess Rhaena.

Within the hallowed halls of the royal court, whispers of an alluring romance between the fair knight and one of the three princesses began to linger, as the once platonic relationship between them blossomed into something far more profound. For years, the young girl had been enamoured with the captivating knight. However, as the former squire of her father, Addam had always regarded the charming Rhaena as a cherished childhood friend—an innocent maiden to protect and respect and so, when concerned her or one of her sisters, the thought of something less honourable than a hand kiss had never crossed his mind.

However, as soon as the girl he once knew had become a woman, every time he saw her walking through the corridors of the castle, his eyes started to look at her and her blossomed body with the unyielding passion of a devoted lover. And so the fair knight decided to surrender himself to his princess, accepting the love that she had cherished for so long inside her.

The two began to spend a lot of time together, alone, riding their two dragons, escaping from the noise of King’s Landing for the more intimate shores of Driftmark, where they could walk side by side away from indiscreet eyes and when intimacy was not an option they could pursue, the two secret lovers spent their evenings reading poetry and dancing at feasts, dreaming about the day when they could finally be together as they wished.

However, righteous as he was, Addam would never have dared to take liberties with the daughter of Prince Daemon. The most daring thing he once did, when escorting her to her bedroom and knowing that no one was around to see them, was stealing a chaste kiss from the princess and sometimes holding her hand under the table.

However, their secret love story didn't remain unseen, as they thought.

Numerous were the individuals in the Queen's court who noticed the stares full of languid desire that the young princess cast upon her cherished knight, who, in the meantime, became her sworn shield.

Unfortunately, such romance seemed not meant to be. In 136 AC, during the wedding banquet of Prince Aegon and Lady Daenaera, the Queen decided to announce to the realm that her daughter would marry her half-brother, Prince Daeron, the current Lord of Oldtown. This unexpected union appeared to be the end of their love, yet it did not come to pass.

Contrary to everyone's expectations, the companionship between the new Lady of Oldtown and her loyal knight not only continued but was also fostered by her benevolent spouse. Prince Daeron permitted Ser Addam to come to Oldtown with them.

Although this unusual decision had disconcerted some nobles of Oldtown, unaccustomed to the strange libertine customs of the capital and unable to comprehend why their Lord had allowed such a thing, many others, aware of young Daeron's habit of bringing handsome young courtiers and squires into his bedchamber, did not find it strange that he would turn a blind eye to his young wife's illicit affair.

Indeed, a strong complicity was created between the three, strengthening over the years, even after the two spouses began to have children.

This strange symbiosis gave rise to multiple rumors, with some suggesting intimate relationships between the three, occasionally exchanging partners, while others involved all three joining together. Although not based on any reality, these rumors - although not openly, as no one, not even the High Septon himself, would have ever dreamed of accusing one of the queen's daughters of adultery aloud - led to the paternity of the couple's children being questioned more than once.

However, some speculations began to appear much more plausible when, in 143 BC, their third child came into the world with two beautiful blue eyes, instead of the expected purple.

As previously noted, the astute matrimonial strategy implemented to strengthen both internal and external alliances, as advised by her politically adept son Viserys, who despite his youth, constituted a crucial aspect of Queen Rhaenyra's initial years of governance.

But of him and his marriage we will talk later.

One of the prominent nuptials in this succession of matrimonial events, aside from the marriage of Princess Rhaena and Prince Daeron, was the significant union of the adored eldest children, Aegon, colloquially referred to as the Golden Prince - due to the colour of the cloak that he often wore when he was a child - with Lady Daenaera Velaryon, the daughter of the deceased Lady Laena, the dearest companion of the Queen.

This auspicious ceremony took place in the year 136 AC and held considerable significance.

To mark this extraordinary occasion, the Queen opted to arrange a grandiose Royal ceremony surpassing any previous ones, summoning Lords and nobility from Westeros and other regions to attend the extravagant affair that would span over a week. Amidst the grandeur of the feast, individuals couldn't help but admire the stunning appearance of the newly married couple, who spent the entire event gleefully dancing and smiling, forgetting their surroundings in blissful oblivion.

Several people attested to witnessing an unparalleled level of happiness and love between the Prince of Dragonstone and his newlywed spouse: after all, both had been fond of each other ever since their real first encounter, which happened when the two were children.

The Five Princes

The Golden

In stark contradistinction to his brother Viserys and companion Alyn Velaryon, famed for their assiduous patronage of the city's brothels, the Crown Prince, throughout the entire span of his engagement and subsequent marriage, steadfastly directed his gaze and affections solely towards his beloved wife. Yet, despite Aegon's well-documented devotion, several women dared to weave snares in an attempt to capture the Crown Prince's attention. Nursing ambitions to supplant Lady Daenaera or harboring dreams of bearing his illegitimate progeny, these enamored women, blinded by the prince’s beauty, clung to the hope that their offspring might inherit even a fraction of his charismatic essence.

This conduct may seem absurd to many, yet such extreme reactions find a peculiar understanding. Prince Aegon, with his striking and elegant features, eyes of a profound, near-black purple, and long and flowing silver hair—so pale it bordered on the pallor of white—was regarded by many as the most handsome and dashing man in all the Seven Kingdoms. Much like his father in his youth, every maiden of Westeros, irrespective of age, wealth, or marital status, melted in his passing, eliciting sighs of blissful excitement whenever his magnificent eyes met theirs.

However, any resemblance to his formidable progenitor ceased here. The eldest of Prince Daemon’s children, though his favorite, bore the least similarity to him among his siblings. Aegon, in stark contrast to Viserys and Baela, displayed scant semblance to the audacious and flamboyant traits that defined Daemon. His entire visage was but a vivid reflection of the renowned beauty of his mother, Rhaenyra, in her maidenly years. Despite being nicknamed the Golden Prince by the common folk, Aegon shunned ostentation, preferring silver over gold. Clad in soft, light hues or shades of grey, he harmonized with the resplendent scales of his dragon, Stormcloud, casting an aura of romantic dreaminess mirroring his sensible soul.

His temperament, too, diverged from the belligerent and impetuous personality of the notorious Rouge Prince, whose thirst for blood was infamous and feared.

The Crown Prince, though possessing an extraordinary aptitude for the sword and fighting, excelling as an exceptional knight and a consummate archer from a tender age, Unlike his father, who reveled in the tumult of war, sought not conflict or violence in his life.

Aegon leaned toward diplomacy over intimidation, opting for dialogue to settle disputes. Hence, he wielded his sword, Blackfire, sparingly and only if strictly needed.

Despite the facade that painted him as a joyful youth, his upbringing in the dark and somber Dragonstone left an indelible imprint on his soul.

Solitude became his confidante, sought within the comforting confines of his chambers rather than the lively, yet clamorous, castle corridors. When the burden of duty pressed upon him, he ascended the skies astride Stormcloud, winging his way from the capital to Dragonstone, sometimes accompanied by Baela. Inclement weather redirected him to the sanctuary of the Red Keep's library, where he delved into ancient scrolls chronicling the Valyrian Freehold and its history—a subject that had captivated him since his youth.

Conversely, his newly wedded wife, Daenaera Velaryon, embodied contrasting characteristics and stood as one of the happiest maidens ever to grace King's Landing. Her infectious, crystal-clear laughter brought joy to the palace, earning her the title of the Queen’s favorite among the noblewomen in her court. Her unique beauty, reminiscent of her noble House Velaryon's heritage, featured rebellious, white, wavy hair and sun-kissed skin that contrasted beautifully with her deep blue eyes, reminiscent of the deep waters that surrounded Driftmark's coast. Though distinct from Targaryen beauty, she and her two cousins exuded the elegance and charm of their Dragonlord ancestors, who arrived in Westeros centuries ago.

The future Queen appeared to relish courtly life and its social events, in stark contrast to her spouse. Unlike him, she made a concerted effort to attend as many parties as possible. Turquoise became her signature hue, and, as a testament to this, the Lady received a remarkable crown adorned with sapphires of the same color on her sixteenth birthday from her prince—an exceptional piece still worn by the Queens of House Targaryen even today, emerging as one of the most precious elements of the Crown's jewelry.

The Cleaver

If the Crown Prince and future King was famous for being reserved and introverted, this wasn’t the case for his younger brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen.

Emerged as a figure of undoubted charm and charisma, with his mane of silver-gold hair, the Maester of the Realam - that’s how they started to call him - diverged from his brother Aegon, almost in every aspect: unlike his brother, the future Hand of the King, was famous in his times for paying meticulous heed to his attire, draping himself in opulent fabrics and bedecking his person with the most exquisite of jewellery — golden rings adorned with rubies.

In a departure from the Crown Prince’s penchant for lighter hues, Viserys embraces the profound and dark tones, wrapping himself in regal purples, reds, and blacks and with the advent of his future wife, Larissa Roagre and her Lysene court, who introduces him to the practices of beauty fashionable in Lys, he’s gonna be one the first person in Westeros to adopt Togas, the distinctive garb of Lyseni, as indument, during the warm times.

Bearing a more prominent nose, bushy eyebrows, and a facial structure that boasts sharper contours than his siblings, the handsome and cunning prince, seemed to be the perfect copy of his formidable father, Daemon Targaryen, and not only for his appearance.

Prince Viserys, unlike his older brother, inherited the exact essence of Daemon Targaryen's complex character, as like him, he was ambitious and quick to take action. However, unlike his father, he possessed a certain savvy and cunningness that brought him to act with more caution.

A characteristic that he demonstrated to possess since he was a little kid; when he was young Viserys proved to be extremely clever and gallant for his tender age, as he started to read when he was only three years old, showing a strong desire for knowledge, particularly about the Valyrian Freehold, its intricate culture, and its formidable politicians, whose ideas - even through sporadic centuries-old scrolls - had a strong hold on his spirit, became - as he grew older - an increasingly important part of the young prince's life.

His childhood fantasies finally became reality when, at the tender age of twelve, he obtained permission to attend meetings of the Small Council with his mother, to further fuel his desire to understand the machinations of the kingdom.

Unlike his brother Aegon, who reveres books for their essence and poetry, Viserys emerges as a politically astute and at times ruthless individual.

Beyond his intellectual pursuits, Viserys was a man of many interests: he found solace and passion in hunting, falconry, horses, and the art of the sword.

However being born more fragile than his brother, as the years passed the young Viserys demonstrated a special inclination, other for the books even for the fight; insisting on training with Aegon and his father from a very young age the prince in a very short time developed a more athletic body and a great technique, becoming one of the greatest swordsmen in all castle at the age of seventeen; his prowess, however, always failed to eclipse his sister Baela.

This harmless rivalry between brother and sister would soon become a real antagonism with the passage of the years, as both the siblings possessed the stubbornness and the competitivity of their father; this feud brought some serious effects, when in the summer of the 136 AC, after being challenged to jump off Dragonstone's highest cliff by Baela, Viserys becomes off balance and falls badly, risking his life and breaking his left leg.

Although he saved himself by a miracle, avoiding serious and permanent injuries, the healing of his leg will be long and arduous, and for a long time, the prince will be forced to wear a brace and give up aspirations of becoming a great warrior, just like his father.

The forced renunciation of military life, however, although hard news for the young Viserys to digest, would eventually prove to be a great blessing for him: since he could no longer hope to become a soldier, the young prince had to find another way to serve the crown, and thus began to concentrate on his other great talent, politics.

The prince's personality, in any case, would change irrevocably after that event; while remaining charismatic and unflappable, from the sunny, open-minded, well-meaning boy he had always been since childhood, after coming into contact with the kingdom's political power and its workings, Viserys began to mature a more cynical and hermetic way of thinking, in contrast to Baela's bubbly and impetuous personality.

With the passage of the years and the arrival of adulthood, Viserys would eventually concentrate all his energies on managing the politics and the economy of Westeros, starting to have a principal role on the Small Council with the start of the fifth and last Dornish War, that then would be renamed as the Conquest of Dorne.

At the last stage of the conflict, at the death of the previous Hand of the Queen, Viserys would in fact take his role at the age of twenty-two, becoming one of the youngest men to wear the golden pin.

After his investiture, he will dedicate his entire life and efforts to serving his mother, then his brother, to make Westeros a great Releam, to give its people a great life and the same time maintain the Targaryens' prestige, and ensure House Targaryen was loved, or at least respected.

Prince Viserys made also a significant contribution to the dissemination of Valyrian texts as he drew inspiration from their architectural and urban planning treaties passed down by his forebears to initiate one of the most expansive urban renewal projects witnessed in King's Landing since the reign of Jaehaerys I.

Under his leadership, the capital underwent a significant expansion, encompassing the Blackwater Rush and the surrounding lands adjacent to the Tournament Arena, which necessitated the demolition of antiquated walls and the construction of new, more imposing fortifications.

Prince Viserys oversaw the construction of a public aqueduct, ensuring access to clean water for all citizens, regardless of their social standing. Furthermore, he undertook efforts to revitalize Flea Bottom, making it a safer and more reputable district.

The monumental urban renewal initiative spanned nearly a decade, from 143 AC to 153 AC, and provided gainful employment to the entirety of King's Landing's population for an extended period.

Prince Viserys also initiated another important reform, the rewriting and review of the late Law Codex, implementing and changing many laws, at the time, were obsolete and detrimental to the common life of the Seven Kingdoms.

In the complex web of Viserys Targaryen's roles as a political strategist, city planner, and legal reformer, he emerges as a steadfast force dedicated to shaping the destiny of Westeros.

However, amid all these impressive achievements reached by the young prince during his long and dedicated career, there is one that stands out above all in importance. It was indeed at the young age of thirteen that the future Hand of the Queen made his debut on the political stage, deciding that no one would have expected from a child of his age.

Going against everyone, even the wishes of his parents, the young prince decided to accept the proposal put forward by the Small Council and marry Larissa Rogare, one of the four legitimate daughters of Lysandro Rogare, the first Magister of Lys and the head of the Gold Bank of Lys, the most influential in the known world.

This seemingly bold decision would play a crucial role in the history of our Kingdom, earning the Crown one of the most important allies in all of Essos. In doing so, young Viserys threw himself headlong into the game of Westerosi marital politics, first as a pawn and then, in the subsequent years, as a strategist.

.While the prince showed commendable maturity in making such a significant choice, there were hints of lightheartedness in his decision. It appeared that, in his desire to prove himself to the elder statesmen or, perhaps, to satisfy his young ego, he might have approached the idea of marrying a noblewoman from Lys with a bit too much casualness.

There's a plausible belief that the young prince, thinking that the wedding was years away, didn't fully grasp the consequences of agreeing to such a binding commitment.

In a time where noble marriages followed a formal dance of traditions, such prenuptial unawareness was not uncommon. However, the usual opportunity for young betrothed individuals to get to know each other in a formal yet impersonal manner was absent in the engagement of Prince Viserys.

In contrast to the noblewomen of Westeros, who mostly lived near the capital, his promised bride lived away from his reach; a distance so vast that made it nearly impossible for the prince and his family to meet the future bride. Even the lady's family, bound by silence or some undisclosed motive, provided minimal details to the Small Council—keeping a veil over the intended bride until the day of the wedding.

If the Rogares had been any other family, such behaviour would have been considered unacceptable and sufficient to derail the entire negotiation. However, the dowry offered by the Lyseni was substantial enough to convince the Queen and her council to swallow their pride. It not only persuaded them to accept the deal but also prevented them from negotiating the terms of the contract.

While not possessing a prestigious lineage akin to that of the Targaryens, Arryns, or Velaryons, and having acquired their wealth not through conquest but rather through common trade—particularly prostitution, where they held undisputed dominion—House Rogare of Lys had little, if anything, to envy in comparison to other noble houses of Westeros.

Founded during the time of Old Valyria, when Lys was still a developing colony of the Freehold, House Rogare ruled the world's largest bank, surpassing both in wealth and prestige even the Iron Bank of Braavos. With its immense gold reserves, the Rogare family lent money and extended credit to thousands of individuals, both noble and common, always ensuring to reclaim what was given, often with interest.

By 132 AC, when Lysario Rogare still headed the bank, their wealth had reached heights surpassing the Crown's coffers, which were dangerously depleted at that time due to civil war and the extravagant spending of the late King Viserys and therefore, urgently needed replenishment.

Consequently, the sole recourse to avert an imminent state of crisis—unable to solicit further funds from the noble houses burdened with exorbitant taxes—appeared to be a substantial levy on the populace. Yet, apprehensive that such a move might kindle rebellion, the Queen sought an alternative avenue to secure funds, entreating a loan from the Bank of Lys.

However, because such loan was quite indigent and the debt that would result from it would have become extremely difficult for them to repay, the Lyseni tried another road and proffered a better solution, considerably more advantageous for all parties involved.

Their bank would wipe away the royal family's debts if, in return, the younger son of the Queen married one of Lysarro's daughters, thus cementing a bond between the two families, with the goal to favour the expansion of their business in Westeros.

Despite being extremely opposed to the idea of bonding with a family that dealt with slavery and the business of prostitution, given the advantageous nature of such proposal and the urgency to acquire funds, Rhaenyra Targaryen, driven by her advisers, deemed it worthy of consideration.

Hence, it was decided that the youthful Prince Viserys would wed, not a noblewoman from Westeros or one of his three sisters, but a girl unfamiliar to him and his kin. The sole known details about this maiden from across the sea were her seniority to her promised groom by three years, her undeniable acumen, and her tutelage under esteemed instructors hailing from all nine Free Cities, who imparted upon her diverse knowledge, that spanned from philosophy, to mathematic, and then to music. Other than that, according to her brothers, the girl seemed to be able to speak more than three languages and even five different kinds of Valyrian dialects.

These were commendable attributes expected of any reputable girl from a distinguished Essosi lineage, yet in the eyes of the Westerosi nobility, they held a value akin to nought, on par with virginity and the certainty of bearing numerous offspring for the royal family.

Fortuitously, the subject of this arrangement, although no longer in the bloom of youth, maintained her chastity, hailing from a family renowned for unwavering fertility, making her selection as the prospective royal bride seem more than justified to the young prince.

Though traits lauded in any noble maiden, these qualities bore scant significance in the eyes of the Westerosi nobility, whose sole benchmarks for assessing a young woman were virginity and the pledge to yield plentiful progeny for the royal lineage. Providentially, the chosen maiden, though no longer in the bloom of youth, maintained her chastity and hailed from a lineage of women celebrated for their fertility.

For many, such criteria might have appeared inadequate for selecting a royal bride, particularly given the gravity of such an alliance and its potential repercussions on the kingdom's well-being. However, during that era, both the young prince and the Small Council did not seem to perceive this lack of information as problematic. Despite his youth, the prince comprehended the sensitivity of the situation and the strategic significance of his impending marriage in the delicate equilibrium of power. He was cognizant that accepting such an offer would not only safeguard his family but also alleviate the burden of oppressive taxes that could debilitate the realm for years.

Furthermore, delving into the profound treatises of esteemed Valyrian philosophers, the young Viserys regarded himself as sufficiently enlightened to remain unperturbed by someone's appearance, even if that someone happened to be the woman with whom he would share the remainder of his days. In the mind of the young and idealistic prince, this sacrifice was not merely imperative but also a testament to his inherent superiority.

However, this idealistic perspective underwent a radical metamorphosis as the prince transitioned from boyhood to young manhood.

The more the comely prince immersed himself in courtly life and its intricate intrigues, the more he comprehended the pivotal role played by desire and sensual pleasure in the power dynamics of both the palace and the kingdom. No longer shackled by the constraints of childhood, what had once appeared unremarkable now unfolded in an entirely novel and markedly more captivating light.

And so, once again, Viserys Targaryen showed himself to be his father's son. As mentioned earlier, the sixteen-year-old prince did not disdain the lustful glances of courtesans as his older brother did, who would never dream of indulging in such vices, knowing it would be a disservice to his fiancée.

However, this restraint was not adopted by the young prince, who, despite being promised to Larissa Rogare for almost three years, never failed to visit the beds of noblewomen with absent husbands and those of young widows whose spouses had recently passed away, seeking someone to hold onto at night.

The allure of these noblewomen, however, failed to sate Viserys Targaryen, who, alongside his companion Alyn Velaryon, shared a fervor for the nocturnal pursuits of the capital and its women. The two nobles, increasingly ensnared by the allure of charm and youth, were frequent patrons not only of the most renowned pleasure houses in King's Landing but also the recently established Gardens of Pleasure, opulent brothels overseen by the family of the prince's intended bride.

The sentiments of young Viserys regarding betraying the woman destined to be his wife, right under the gaze of his family, remain concealed from our understanding. Nevertheless, it is reasonable to surmise that the prince's apparent absence of guilt did not stem from cruelty but, perhaps, from having an unknown fiancée for so long. Unlike Prince Aegon, who cultivated a tender affection for his betrothed from a tender age, Viserys Targaryen shared no previous interaction or connection with Larissa Rogare. The prince remained ignorant of her, except for the certainty that they would meet at the altar one fateful day. Hence, it is comprehensible that the prince could not harbor as profound a connection with her as the Crown Prince harbored for Lady Daenaera. Instead, he almost felt justified in engaging with other women, secure in the belief that his future wife, emerging from a culture and mindset distinct from his own, would overlook such transgressions.

However, despite harboring a relatively subdued sense of guilt about Larissa Rogare, young Viserys, possessing intelligence and conscientiousness, remained cognizant of the displeasure—and potential scandal—his recreational pursuits could incur upon his mother. She would not countenance such behavior from her beloved son. The public disgrace and harm that recklessness might inflict on his reputation, especially in the eyes of the Small Council members, were not lost on the prince.

The prince, recognizing the blemish on his family resulting from his uncle Aegon's excesses and unbridled appetites, comprehended the far-reaching consequences of a besmirched reputation. Hence, despite his youth, the prince endeavored to maintain discretion in his amorous escapades, eschewing entanglements with those of lower social status and refraining from impregnating any mistresses.

However, according to a famous tale of the time, it is possible that it was the young Prince Viserys who introduced his sister Baela, then just over five and ten, to the hidden beauty of the nightlife on the Street of Silk, taking her to visit those Gardens of Pleasure managed by the brothers of his future bride. Here, according to this famous gossip, the prince introduced her to the famous Lisappho Meleris, who at the time was considered the most desired Ruklon— that’s how they called a Lyseni high-class male prostitute—in the entire city, if not the most beautiful in the entire Rogare stables.

The prince's choice to introduce a character of such charm to the young princess would prove in the following years to be a risky move, causing more trouble than fortune for him.

Yet, despite the meticulous handling of his own, and not only his, covert affairs, it appears that the young prince's clarity of mind was not applied with the same fervor when it came to his betrothed.

It took until his seventeenth year for Prince Viserys to recall and truly grasp that, in the heart of the Summer Sea, miles away, there existed a girl who would one day—now rapidly approaching—sail to wed him.

With this newfound awareness, Viserys Targaryen, after years of shadowy engagement with an entirely unfamiliar girl, suddenly found himself deeply concerned about his impending married life. Like a sudden avalanche, the consequences of a decision made in his childhood all converged at once, overwhelming him and finally revealing the gravity of his commitment.

Realizing his predicament, the prince, in the two years preceding his approaching nuptials, marshaled every resource available to gather information about the woman destined to be his wife and gain a clearer vision of his future. Faced with the reluctance of the girl's kin to disclose more details, the young man resolved to employ a spy, dispatching her to Lys with the mission of observing the elusive Larissa Rogare and, if possible, procuring a pilfered portrait.

Regrettably, the eagerly awaited outcome remained elusive: a few months after the departure of the aforementioned spy, to whom the prince had advanced five gold dragons, a messenger from Lys personally delivered a letter, leaving him thunderstruck.

Not his emissary, but Larissa Rogare herself penned the missive to him, revealing not only the discovery of his spy weeks prior, the moment the infiltrator posed as a servant in her residence, but also the turncoat's allegiance to her cause after she doubled the promised payment for his silence.

In no uncertain terms, the maiden informed the young prince that any further attempts on his part to unveil her features through similar stratagems would be swiftly thwarted. With a tone tinged with resentment, the noblewoman decried the prince's descent to pilfer a mere depiction of her countenance, confirming her belief in the perceived barbarity of the West's denizens, lacking moral values, especially when it came to exploiting a woman.

According to the young Larissa, the men of Westeros harbored an unfair and erroneous notion of the women of Lys, valuing them solely for their appearance rather than their merits. Hence, she wrote to make it explicitly clear that she had no intention of revealing her face to him or anyone else, so as not to influence his perception until their eventual face-to-face meeting on the wedding day.

Despite her anger, the girl chose not to divulge the incident to anyone, understanding the prince's yearning to acquaint himself with his future bride. She forgave his unorthodox methods, attributing them to his youthful folly.

As a gesture of goodwill and a wish for an auspicious start to their impending union, she concluded her letter expressing her willingness to foster their acquaintance through private correspondence, circumventing bureaucratic intermediaries to address any concerns or uncertainties he might harbor about her.

It took the young prince several weeks to muster the courage for a response: one can easily envisage the embarrassment he must have endured, realizing his elaborate scheme had crumbled so effortlessly. Beyond this humiliation, he grappled with the shame of being caught in an act he acknowledged as beneath him, judged frivolous by the woman slated to be his wife.

However, his curiosity about the mysterious Larissa Rogare, who had taken the bold step of initiating contact after years of complete silence, evidently outweighed his pride, as evidenced by the response that has come down to us. In his reply, Prince Viserys conveyed his willingness to meet her.

Thus, in the most improbable of circ*mstances, their protracted and intense courtship commenced. From the middle of the year 135 AC to the early months of 137 AC, the betrothed couple, unbeknownst to their families, exchanged extensive and profound messages through covert messengers, laying bare their true selves without any facade or pretense. Few correspondences, at least those that have reached us, between individuals of such political stature, exhibit such intimate and private language, affording scholars insight into their minds and emotions. Reading these letters spanning many months, it becomes evident how robust and profound the relationship between the two betrothed became with each new missive, almost as if the absence of a physical encounter had become a secondary consideration for both.

It is not far-fetched to speculate that a genuine love affair between Prince Viserys and Larissa Rogare had blossomed long before the commencement of their life together. Initially, before any inkling of romantic feelings or attraction emerged, their protracted correspondences predominantly revolved around the academic and philosophical realms, delving for lines and lines into the works and teachings of the great politicians and philosophers of Ancient Valyria, a subject they both seemed to cherish deeply. Poetry and epic literature also captivated them, leading to endless debates brimming with intellectual depth, a clear indication of their profound affinity.

As time passed and the date of their first meeting approached, discussions about romantic poetry inevitably evolved. Hence, it is reasonable to infer, from the exceedingly impassioned manner in which Prince Viserys expressed his anticipation of finally being able to touch the hand and lips of his promised bride, that all doubts about the impending marriage had dissipated when Larissa Rogare and her retinue landed in King's Landing. The young prince's seductive prowess was undeniable; despite being only eighteen, he demonstrated a mastery of words, a testament to his deeply romantic nature beyond his pragmatic intellect. Between 135 and 137 AC, during the period of their secret correspondence, Viserys Targaryen and his future bride exchanged almost twenty letters in total, varying in length from three to even six sheets each, depending on the complexity of the topic. Almost all of these letters have come down to us, with only some potentially sensitive portions missing.

Many years later, the prince, reminiscing about how he and his wife had first encountered each other, would confess to his children, not without a blush, that even before laying eyes on her, the words Larissa wrote during those years were enough to make him fall completely in love with her. He almost dismissed the revelation of her true appearance as playing any significant role in his infatuation. According to Prince Viserys, it was the eloquence and magnetic personality of his then-fiancée that enchanted him to the extent that concerns about her beauty took a back seat.

Whether this is the whole truth remains uncertain; however, it is worth noting that the marriage between Prince Viserys and Larissa Rogare, though not initially under the most auspicious circ*mstances, evolved into a great love story that culminated in a long and happy union. If, before the arrival of his promised bride, the mind of the young prince was primarily occupied with the company of beautiful courtesans and high-born prostitutes, from the moment the stunning Lyseni maiden graced King's Landing, no other woman crossed the threshold of the young man's bedroom except her. This continued until her demise in 165 AC.

Every ounce of his energy, both physical and mental, from the day of their marriage, was devoted solely to his wife. She, no longer a girl, possessed not only extraordinary intelligence and culture but also breathtaking beauty, affirming the reality that the most beautiful women in the known world indeed hailed from Lys. Their union stood as a testament to the enduring power of love.

Still, even if, want to believe him for the sake of historical honesty, I must report the multiple testimonies of some members of the court, present at this marriage at the time, who claim that the newlywed groom, who had never seen his bride before the ceremony, remained anything but indifferent to her appearance.

According to them, during the grand entrance of the noblewoman, who arrived in the castle's Sept dressed in an exquisite and lightweight gown made entirely of golden silk that vividly revealed the perfect curves of her womanly form, accompanied by her fifteen ladies-in-waiting, the groom, was so dazzled by her dazzling beauty, that he needed to be supported by his brother Aegon to prevent himself from falling on the spot from sheer emotion.

The young prince, who had always been famous for being an easygoing lad, remained dumbfounded in front of her like a statue of salt throughout the ceremony, unable to find the words to express his wonder, to the point that, for a whole minute, he mistakenly recited the marriage formula almost three times before starting to recite his vows correctly.

It seems that the young prince was not the only one to be astonished by the entrance of the new princess. The same witnesses claim that even Prince Daemon was amazed by his new daughter-in-law, as evidenced by the widening of his eyes. During the celebration, he went so far as to congratulate his son conspiratorially, calling him "the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

Nevertheless, the attendees of the imminent Summer Wedding, distinct from the earlier Spring Wedding in Oldtown, would forever remember the festivities not only for the breathtaking bride but for a peculiar incident that unfolded during the bedding ceremony. As whispers circulated, the young prince, renowned for his uninhibited behavior in the boudoir, astonished everyone present, himself included, by suddenly succumbing to bashfulness upon laying eyes on his unclothed bride, seemingly overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

In the years that followed, numerous other unions within the royal family would take place. Yet, without a doubt, the most consequential of all were the marriages of Princess Visenya and Princess Baela. It is crucial to note that both of these marital unions are intricately connected, either directly or indirectly, to a historic event of great magnitude for the kingdom — a topic, unfortunately, we lack the time to delve into at present.

Notwithstanding, I posit that it is appropriate to formally present the remaining trio of the progeny of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, who despite their gender and age, emerged as prime protagonists in the political landscape of Westeros, garnering comparable, if not greater, significance than their elder brothers.

The Charming

Princess Rhaena Targaryen, a figure of prominence on the political scene of Westeros, had previously been introduced, having wed her mother's half-brother at the tender age of sixteen, elevating her to the esteemed position of Lady of Oldtown.

Despite the near-identical appearance she shared with her twin sister Baela during their youth, Rhaena's features evolved into a distinct manifestation of delicate feminine beauty, gifts of her mother. Her rounded and soft cheekbones, complemented by large, round eyes with lighter pupils, defined a countenance captured in numerous paintings adorning the Hightower. A small, upward nose and a tiny, pulpy mouth completed her exquisite profile, a testament to her captivating allure.

Her affinity for fashion, cultivated since a young age, manifested in her love for experimenting with her mother's jewels and dresses, envisioning herself adorned in such regalia one day. Painted in hues of pink and light blue, she preferred colours, she embraced a delicate and frivolous style, favouring pearls over gold, diamonds over rubies, with rings adorning her fingers. Despite initial attempts to conform to Oldtown's conservative fashion, Rhaena, upon becoming Lady of the city, rejected the austere style as antiquated. Instead, she championed lighter, sumptuous fabrics, encouraging a more revealing attire for herself and her ladies-in-waiting.

Her influence extended beyond attire, reshaping hairstyles and accessories. Rhaena embraced free-flowing hair adorned with precious tiaras and introduced the trend of embellishing gowns and hair with flowers, real or artificial. This departure from traditional styles garnered widespread appeal, prompting the denizens of Oldtown to adopt her fashion, establishing a new trend emulated by leading ladies in the Reach.

Intelligent and shrewd like her brother Viserys, Rhaena concealed her thoughtful nature with affability, recognizing societal biases against thoughtful women. Differing from her twin, she exhibited patience and conciliation, relying on charm rather than coercion. This adeptness in politics and scheming, combined with natural talents in diplomacy, surpassed even her brother's, who ascended to the role of Hand at twenty.

Known for her charm and kindness, Rhaena held a strong interest in the well-being of the smallfolk, frequently visiting orphanages in Oldtown and King's Landing atop her magnificent pink dragon, Morning. Her commitment to the arts and culture stood as a hallmark of her reign, inviting artists, poets, and philosophers from Essos to her court.

This patronage resulted in the establishment of a new cultural centre, independent of the Faith and the Citadel, the first of its kind in the Seven Kingdoms.

She was a well-renowned singer and musician, playing magnificently the harp; her husband himself gifted her with a marvellous high harp, made completely of gold, decorated with embossed floral inlays.

Despite initial doubts, stemming from their unprecedented status as the first rulers in centuries not belonging to House Hightower, Rhaena and her spouse Daeron found favour among the denizens of Oldtown with remarkable ease, establishing a sturdy foundation for a nascent house poised for historical endurance.

The vast and venerable seat of the extinguished Hightower clan underwent substantial transformations, transcending mere aesthetics. Following the fire that killed the entire family in 130 AC, the tower, over the passing years, morphed into a distinguished residence for House Targaryen, who assumed its complete ownership upon its Lord's union with the queen's daughter, which happened in the spring of 137 AC.

Under the guidance of Princess Rhaena and her consort, the city itself underwent a metamorphosis both in appearance and political significance, evolving into the prized gem of the Reach and casting a shadow over Highgarden as the most important beacon of the South.

The matrimonial union between Rhaena and Daeron Targaryen—offspring born from the loins of adversarial factions—defied all expectations, blossoming into an unexpectedly blissful alliance marked by authentic affection and an unyielding connection. Both niece and uncle seemed to share an innate understanding, their kindred spirits embodied in a shared jovial and amiable nature, coupled with an affinity for revelry and banquets.

Yet, irrespective of these familial bonds, as previously alluded, the paramount love in Rhaena's life appeared to be not her spouse but her sworn protector and enduring childhood confidant, Ser Addam Velaryon. Whispers of him being the actual progenitor of her youngest progeny, Rhaegal, circulated despite Prince Daeron's prompt disavowal, who officially recognized the child as his own and nurtured him accordingly.

Among the learned, there exists a belief that this gesture merely signified the man's cognizance of this forbidden love affair and, rather than censure, warmly endorsed it.

Before his marriage the queen's half-brother, while shrouding his inclinations in public decorum, garnered a reputation for favouring the company of youthful squires over that of his consort.

Many have been those who, from simple squires with seductive faces to Lords with unsuspected behavior, over the years, have been indicated as possible lovers of the prince.

Yet, it seems that none of them remotely had the grip and importance on the Prince's heart as Ser Lorent Tyrell did, to whom, according to the rumors, he remained faithful until the end of his days. This great influence of the young Tyrell on the Lord of Oldtown seems evident when one thinks that, despite being a mere cadet cousin of Highgarden, he managed to secure a highly advantageous marriage with one of Princess Rhaena's ladies-in-waiting, from which two boys and a girl were born. To everyone's surprise, the girl was promised in marriage almost from birth to the third child of the Prince, almost officially and publicly consolidating the bond between the two.

The Dreamer

As per her father Daemon's account, Princess Visenya stood out as the one who, among all his progeny alongside Aegon, most closely resembled his wife, Queen Rhaenyra. This remarkable similarity became increasingly apparent as the young princess blossomed into womanhood, earning her the moniker of Rhaenyra's long-lost twin among courtiers.

During that era, the prevailing belief among the Seven Kingdoms' nobility held that the young Visenya, with her sweet and flawless features, beautifully golden locks, soft rosy cheeks, and petite, fleshy allure, was indeed the most captivating maiden in all of Westeros. This sentiment persisted even in comparison to her two elder sisters, who also possessed a charm uncommon to everyone.

A distinctive feature setting the youngest of Queen Rhaenyra’s children apart was her eyes, showcasing two different colors; the right one a darker violet than the left. This rare characteristic, while not as uncommon as one might think, especially among the Royal family, had also been present in her late grandmother, Princess Alyssa, and her young cousin Baelor of Harrenhal.

During infancy, Visenya was described as a plump and robust child, but with the onset of puberty, her figure transformed into one more slender and graceful. Nevertheless, she remained notably petite compared to Baela and Rhaena, with a prosperous bosom, though not on par with her mother's.

Much like the Queen, Visenya harbored a fervent passion for fashion. Renowned in her youth for donning sumptuous skirts made of layers of lace and precious silks, paired with intricately embroidered bodices, and adorned with elaborate hairstyles. Like Rhaena, Visenya preferred leaving her hair loose, complemented by hairpins and ribbons. Among gems, pearls, especially golden and pale pink ones, were her favorites, though she did not disdain other precious stones. Diamonds held the top spot in her preferences, followed by amethysts, reminiscent of her dragon's scales.

Her penchant for light and warm colors, such as yellow, gold, orange, and white, added to the distinctive allure that characterized Princess Visenya's presence.

The young princess gained notoriety for her unusual fondness for crows and ravens, treating them with the care and attention typically reserved for more conventional pets, in stark contrast to her courtly companions who favored smaller dogs or stoats. Throughout her life, she kept only three crows – Maemarr, Virys, and Garaerys – housed in an elaborate gold cage within her chambers, each named after characters from her beloved Valyrian poem.

Owing to either her youth or the perilous circ*mstances surrounding her birth, which had nearly claimed her mother's life, Princess Visenya was sheltered and cherished by her family, shielded from the cutthroat political intrigues of court life. Despite this protective environment, she displayed a keen awareness of her surroundings, evident in her diaries where she chronicled her courtly experiences, revealing herself as a vigilant observer. Several details within this manuscript find their roots in her own words.

Numerous maesters, upon reading these writings, hypothesized that young Visenya possessed the peculiar ability to receive prophetic visions during her sleep. Indeed, many pages are filled with annotations that the princess, from late childhood to adulthood, filled with descriptions of these dreams, which contained vivid depictions of events yet to unfold—some beyond her direct knowledge, but ultimately proven true. A notable example was her intricate description of the fall of Sunspear, documented weeks before the actual event, suggesting a prophetic element in her visions.

Described as a vivacious and amiable girl, Visenya possessed a simple manner of speaking and a gentle, sweet voice. However, some accounts noted occasional displays of immature and childish behavior, potentially linked to her privileged upbringing. Nevertheless, on crucial occasions, she demonstrated the ability to adopt a serious and resolute demeanor.
Having encountered prejudice and occasional hostility due to her mismatched eyes, the young princess developed a deep sense of justice early on, detesting any form of bullying, particularly when directed at the vulnerable.
This aspect is particularly evident when considering how the young princess came to the aid of her poor cousin Jaehaera and how, among all the children of Queen Rhaenyra, Princess Visenya was the one who formed a true friendship with the children of Aegon the Usurper, who, though remaining at court after the war, were maligned by the other courtiers.
The one who paid the highest price for this thinly veiled disdain was poor Princess Jaehaera, who from a young age suffered from a particular mental slowness, which, although it lessened with time, allowing her to live an almost normal life, at the time earned her the derision and mockery of the other noblewomen at court.

Even now, many decades later, maesters are divided on the nature of her ailment, but many who knew her at the time could not help but compare poor Jaehaera to another Targaryen princess with an unfortunate existence.
Many indeed are the similarities between the daughter of Prince Aegon and Princess Daella:
Daella, like Jaehaera, was frail and of small stature until her death in childbirth. This particularity is even more evident in the latter, who, after a long and painful labor, was born weighing almost half of her twin brother, to the point that many feared for her life.
Because of this, both princesses appeared much younger than they actually were: their behavior during their youth was described as childish, as if they were unable to grow at the same speed and in the same way as their peers, making them seem like eternal maidens.

This intellectual slowness was precisely the reason for the jokes and mockery from the courtiers, who found the poor girl's inability to perform even the simplest activities, like reading or simply interacting with other girls her age without bursting into tears or trembling like a leaf, hilarious.
This strong discomfort in integrating among her peers caused great distress for the princess, who isolated herself more and more, preferring solitude to the malicious laughter.

It was young Visenya who saved her from this unfortunate condition. As a child, instead of joining in the mockery of her playmates, she chose to support her cousin and persuaded her mother to make Jaehaera one of her ladies-in-waiting, effectively making her the favorite among the many noble girls of the castle.
The subsequent years spent in the company of her little cousin proved beneficial for Jaehaera, who gradually became more sociable and serene, finally integrated into the world that had once disdained her.
The bond between the two girls, created over several years and growing stronger, was so deep and tenacious that not even adulthood and their duties could separate them: even after Princess Visenya's marriage to Prince Qyle of Dorne and her subsequent move from King's Landing to Sunspear, the friendship between the two cousins continued to thrive, as Princess Jaehaera followed her to the South as her sole lady-in-waiting, continuing to live closely together, just as they had done in the Red Keep.
Many sources close to the two, who had the opportunity to see firsthand how the girls behaved in each other's company, even insinuated that their relationship was much more than a close friendship, with some swearing to have seen them exchanging tender kisses on the lips when they thought they were unobserved.

There are no confirmations that this is true, yet, leafing through the pages of the diaries in which the Princess of Dorne wrote about her cousin, one gets the impression of reading the words of a girl in love rather than those of affectionate friendship.
Princess Jaehaera was also the favorite subject of Visenya's drawings: there are indeed hundreds, from charcoal and silverpoint sketches to paintings, the artistic reproductions by Princess Visenya featuring her cousin, in both formal attire and more everyday and domestic settings, culminating in sketches with a more intimate atmosphere, where the princess is depicted almost without veils, her hair loose over her upper body, which in this context is almost completely uncovered.

We do not know if this alleged relationship caused any jealousy or demonstrations from young Prince Qyle at the time, but from the many testimonies of Dornish and non-Dornish nobles who frequented the court of Sunspear, it seems that the princess's presumed affair—if it ever happened—did not affect their marriage or the strong love that bound them.
Indeed, even if their union was the result of a political move by the crown aimed at avoiding losing control over Dorne, which they had conquered after the war, the bond that developed between the two young people was far from formal and distant.
It is said that the two betrothed liked each other from their first meeting and that the young prince, slightly younger than his betrothed, fell in love with his fiancée at first sight, making the time spent together in King's Landing before their marriage one of the happiest periods of his life.
Qyle Martell was a caring and loving husband, full of attention for his wife, who in turn reciprocated his love ardently: yet this did not prevent the prince, according to the most famous and classic Dornish customs, from sharing his bed with other women.
In fact, unlike the rest of Westeros, in Dorne infidelity, even among nobles, is still considered a socially acceptable practice today, and few—whether men or women—do anything to hide or dissimulate it; on the contrary, they accept it.
Therefore, even though the names of these lovers are not known and even if these alleged affairs lasted only for a few years and then ceased, there is nothing to suggest that the prince's promiscuity was not well known at court and to his consort, who, according to these witnesses, preferred to turn a blind eye, perhaps also because she herself had other companions to share her bed with when the prince was not present.

Indeed, according to the gossip circulating through the corridors of Sunspear's palace, besides Princess Jaehaera and Qyle Martell, another person captured the love of the beautiful Visenya Targaryen, namely her cousin Maelor.
As with other conjectures of this kind, there is no concrete evidence to support such suppositions, yet many times the name of the young prince is mentioned in the girl's early diaries, where she describes her days in the Red Keep in the company of her cousins, and it is undeniable to find in her words some trace of affection for the boy, who was first her tireless playmate and later her close confidant.
From these pages, however, it is impossible to determine whether this friendship later became something else and whether, over the years, between one of the prince's travels and another, the two shared a bed.
Regardless of these enigmas, it is undeniable that Maelor Targaryen continued to hold a special place in the princess's heart, as until her death, at the venerable age of seventy, she continued to keep her cousin's portrait, who had died years earlier, hidden in her jewelry box, like a relic that only she could admire.

As we have often mentioned, while her brothers excelled in equestrian activities, hunting, and falconry, pursuits that failed to capture her interest, Visenya distinguished herself for her artistic inclinations. At the tender age of twelve, after marveling at the splendid collection of paintings and tapestries brought from Lys by her sister-in-law Larissa, she began an artistic journey, experimenting with pencil and wax colors, revealing a notable talent for drawing.

Besides art, young Visenya immersed herself in traditional feminine activities such as poetry and embroidery, sharing a mutual love for dance and music with her sisters, albeit without the same level of talent and grace.

Recognizing her potential, her sister-in-law summoned renowned painters from Essos, hailing from Lys and Myr, to King’s Landing, aiming to impart the art of oil painting and refine Visenya's technique. The young princess quickly mastered the techniques of the foremost Essosi painters, prompting her mother to commission portraits for her private chambers following the conclusion of the Dornish War. In addition to official paintings, Visenya cherished capturing unguarded moments of her family's daily life with charcoal on her sketchbook, immortalizing scenes unbeknownst to her subjects.

This penchant for candid artistry might elucidate the scarcity of portraits depicting the young princess compared to her siblings. Remarkably, Visenya is credited with the singular surviving depiction of Aegon the Elder, showcasing her artistic prowess. She also produced several portraits of her uncle Aemond, notable for the absence of his eye patch, a special request made by her sister Baela.

In a manner reminiscent of her mother at a similar age, Visenya found fascination in Valyrian songs and tales, reveling in stories of love, adventure, handsome princes, honorable knights, chivalry, and romance. Diverging from the preferences of Aegon and Baela, she openly favored sunlit locales like King's Landing and Oldtown over the somber Dragonstone.

This affinity served her well in her new abode, Sunspear, where the populace, despite the memories of the bloody war fought by her sister to reclaim the city, warmly welcomed her. Following the Conquest that unfolded from late 139 AC to early 142 AC and the subsequent period of reconstruction, Princess Visenya's resolute presence played a crucial role in revitalizing Dorne. She actively engaged in initiatives to benefit the Dornish people, countering the lingering animosity from nearby regions.

The Glorious

The last of the Queen's three daughters, and the elder by a few minutes, is the one we know the most about.

Numerous stories and ballads have been crafted about Princess Baela.Targaryen, both during and after her life, and a plethora of rumours—some true, others false—have circulated regarding her personality and demeanour. Despite the embellishments of poets, numerous portraits confirm the tales of her striking beauty.

Unlike her twin sister Rhaena, who predominantly inherited their mother's delicate features, Princess Baela possessed more defined and slightly angular features, reminiscent of her formidable father, Prince Daemon. While the two twins were initially indistinguishable as children, in adulthood, their features diverged.

Although both were uncommonly beautiful, the charm they radiated was distinctly different.

If Lady Rhaena's features were harmonious and sweet, resembling a flower, Princess Baela's were notably sharper and more defined—keen as knives, mirroring the magnetic and intense gaze that revealed her every intention, even the most violent. Another striking resemblance to her father Daemon—and occasionally her uncle Aemond—was the profile of her nose, subtly more prominent and sinuous than her sisters', resembling the profile of a dragon. This feature became even more pronounced after Uncle Aemond, during a tournament in 137 A.D., struck her with the hilt of his sword, breaking her nasal bridge, and leading to an uneven and irreparable alteration of its shape.

This alteration seemingly contributed to certain young nobles perceiving her as "less attractive and feminine," asserting that she lacked "the elegance of her sisters." Yet, her uncle Aemond stood as an exception, expressing surprise at Princess Baela's beauty, claiming that even Rhaenyra in her youth had never been as beautiful.

Nonetheless, it is crucial to bear in mind that Princess Baela, particularly following her return from Dorne, proved to be a challenging personality to handle. Hence, it is plausible, if not highly likely, that the purported 'aversion' towards her was merely a stratagem orchestrated by her suitors, who maybe humiliated by her rejections, chose to tarnish her reputation with false rumors.

It was widely known that, prior to her marriage, young Baela attracted numerous suitors who, captivated by her beauty, went to great lengths to capture her attention and share her bed. Unfortunately for them, unlike her brother Viserys, the princess appeared disinclined to yield to courtiers or any noble, possibly due to her strong pride preventing her from becoming someone's mistress.

Instead, her focus was entirely on the captivating—and expensive—Ruklons, the beautiful Lysene prostitutes of the renowned 'Spring Delights,' one of the most refined high-class brothels in all of King's Landing. It was within these walls that young Baela first encountered the enchanting Lysappho Melerys, who became one of her favorites, even though he never held the official title of her lover.

During the months they spent together, the young man composed many poems using Baela as his muse, even dedicating some songs to her. One of these is the famous 'Red Sleeve,' which the handsome Lysappho used to sing at gatherings accompanied by his lyre.

From his lyrical compositions, it’s possible to delineate a quite detailed description of Princess Baela's “anatomic appearance”, who the Lysnene describes as “slender and flexible like the cord of a harp”, while being at the same time “not deprived by the softness and the fullness of a perfect bosom, that although small, was firm, turgid and perfect as if it had been sculpted in marble and not on simple flesh”.

Princess Baela distinguished herself from her sisters with a complete disinterest in clothes and jewelry during childhood, deeming them boring and foolish. She harbored a strong aversion to traditional feminine pursuits such as sewing, riches, and sentimental love poems. Instead, she found solace in books, particularly those exploring the history of the Valyrian Freehold and tales of war.

Her interests went beyond literature, displaying a preference for activities traditionally associated with boys from a young age. As soon as she could walk, she frequently escaped to Dragonstone's outer courtyards to ride her pony or experiment with weapons. However, her disdain for traditional feminine pursuits seemed to wane as she reached an age of romantic exploration, when at the age of thirteen, as a joke between her and her sister Rhaena, she started to playfully kiss all the stable boys that she found attractive.

Realizing the power her beauty held over men, Baela began to pay more attention to her appearance, carefully tending to her body and attire. Despite her usual preference for pants and boots, especially during training, on formal occasions, she was known for donning beautiful and lavish dresses, always sleeveless, highlighting her elegant shoulders and figure with tight corsets.

While her usual attire leaned towards black, her signature colour was primarily red, earning her the moniker "the Red Princess" among courtesans. Baela, influenced by Leng merchants, started wearing their tunics and pants, causing a stir at court. This unconventional attire, especially for a princess, became a trendsetting style, albeit one that drew criticism from noble women.

Despite the scandals surrounding her unconventional choices, Princess Baela emerged as a trendsetter in the royal court, forging her unique style. Eventually, her fashion sense became systematically emulated even by the same women who initially criticized her, though their attempts didn't always yield satisfactory results.

Through her friendship with Larissa, Baela discovered the comfort and elegance of Lyseni fashion, adopting long, soft togas that were both opaque and revealing. She also embraced Lyseni beauty care, using multiple perfumes and creams for skin exfoliation and softening.

Despite her early aversion to long hair, Baela, unlike other girls her age, preferred intricate braids and compact buns to manage her long locks during her active days. She later became famous for a unique hairstyle with two long braids tied together and placed in the middle of her chest, similar to the style worn by Queen Visenya in battle.

Although she disliked the length of her hair, Baela only cut it twice in her life, and both instances were not for aesthetic reasons. The first famously recounted in songs, was a deliberate act to shock Northern Lords during the war against Dorne. She cut her hair with Dark Sister as a testament to her determination, vowing that not an inch would grow until she won her first battle. True to her word, after the first major defeat, she cut her hair again, allowing it to grow fully only upon her victorious return from the war, never touching it again until her death.

From that point on, Princess Baela proudly wore her hair almost completely loose, treating it as a war trophy, symbolizing her invincibility as a warrior.

Baela the Brave, later hailed as "the Glorious" in songs following the war, is still remembered today for her extraordinary combat skills, making her one of the greatest and most formidable warriors in Westerosi history, even surpassing her infamous father, the Rouge Prince.

While most of her siblings took a mix of traits from both parents, Princess Baela increasingly resembled her father as she grew into womanhood, to the point that her mother, not without some irritation, began to dub her "Daemon Targaryen reborn in a maiden's body."

Just like him, the warrior princess was remembered to be of belligerent nature, passionate, of reckless temperament, and unwilling to forgive.

Unfortunately, she also inherited from her formidable father a witty and cruel sense of humor, often making inappropriate and impertinent comments to make others uncomfortable.

During her adolescence, she took particular pleasure in teasing her older sibling, Viserys, considering him a favored target for her mischief. Engaging in fierce rivalry, they both sought their father's affection and recognition, having learned swordplay from the Rouge Prince himself. Ultimately, only one of them would prove worthy of wielding the legendary Dark Sister.

Initially, Viserys seemed to have the upper hand, but at the age of fifteen, Baela surprised everyone by triumphantly defeating her brother in a significant duel. This victory earned her the privilege of wielding Dark Sister and her father's admiration.

Contrary to her father's expectations, Baela emerged as a formidable leader among the children of the Rouge Prince. Her older brothers, though charismatic and well-prepared, lacked the necessary drive and determination compared to their vibrant sister, rendering them unsuitable for leading armies into battle.

This disparity became evident with Viserys, who, as we already mentioned, abandoned a warrior's career, immersed himself in politics, becoming one of the youngest and most accomplished Hands in the Seven Kingdoms' history.

Yet, aside of his many successes, he often found himself at odds with his younger sister's warlike personality.

However, when confronted with the suggestion that Baela might be vying for the position of Hand of the Queen, Viserys dismissed it, explaining, "My sweet sister excels with the sword, but ruling bores her terribly. And even if that happened, it would only take thirty minutes in the Small Council to convince her to return the golden pin to me."

Despite her combat skills, Princess Baela showed exceptional abilities in artistic activities. Known from a very young age for her rare elegance and grace on the dance floor, during her childhood years she often enjoyed dancing, particularly with her father, Prince Daemon, who was also a formidable dancer. However, as she grew and blossomed, she began to favor the company of other younger and more handsome knights over that of her father.

Nevertheless, it is undeniable that almost all these young men were eventually eclipsed by the one who would become her favorite partner, her husband, with whom she would often dance all evening, blissfully ignoring the hopeful gazes of other guests who eagerly awaited a moment of respite between dances to ask her to dance with them. Yet, more than for her dancing skills, the princess is remembered mainly for her love of music and her exceptional abilities as a musician: according to those who had met her and witnessed her talents, there were few instruments she could not play, and even fewer that she could not play sublimely.

During her childhood, Princess Baela learned to play the lute and then the high harp under the guidance of the renowned Vogarro from Volantis, who had served in the houses of many important Old Blood families, including the heirs of the famous triarchs, Horonno. Although Vogarro believed that the princess possessed a natural talent for music, her inconsistency and lack of discipline in studying technique caused her sister Rhaena to surpass her in playing the harp.

However, this observation, although it stung the young girl's pride, did not stop her from continuing to pursue her vocation as a musician, which did not stop at the harp and lute but expanded more and more over the years. She became a master of many other instruments, even those little known to the ears of the nobles of the Crownlands, such as the recorder of the Vale, the zither of the Riverlands, the guitar of the Reach, and she was one of the first musicians outside of the Westerlands to play the harpsichord, making it famous throughout the realm.

In addition to her skill in discovering and playing instruments, another talent in which Princess Baela had no rivals in the royal court and all of Westeros was singing. Gifted with a melodious and crystal-clear voice, the princess had the power to enchant an entire hall, as if casting a spell like that of a siren.

Ser Addam Velaryon, who during his youth had been sent to Dragonstone to become Prince Daemon's squire, was fortunate enough to attend one of her early singing performances. He described the young princess's voice as the sweetest and most harmonious sound his ears had ever heard, to the point that it could rival, if not surpass, the Maiden's voice herself. Yet, despite her sublime talent and the admiration she received for it, the princess did not like to flaunt it in public and rarely performed in public, reserving her singing for strictly special occasions.

The only one to whom she granted the pleasure of hearing her voice and for whom she loved to sing was her uncle Aemond, who was perhaps one of her greatest, if not the greatest, admirers of her singing talent. Many courtiers of the time saw him listening intently and always apart, almost as if not wanting to be seen, while his niece played her harpsichord. Many could not help but notice the rapt and admiring look he had when the princess sang one of his favorite songs and the sparkle that his glass eye emitted as he watched her.

While lacking the drawing talent of her sister Visenya, Baela was an influential patron of the arts. She summoned artists from Dorne and Myr to embellish her chambers with intricate frescoes, some depicting explicit and erotic scenes inspired by Lysene art. Furthermore, her stunning beauty attracted artists from far and wide, eager to paint her portrait and make her their muse.

It even appears that, driven by her love for art, the princess went to the extent of being immortalized completely unclothed, relying solely on her pearl necklaces for modesty. Although such depictions are not uncommon among noblewomen in Essos, particularly in the beautiful city of Lys, where such subjects are publicly displayed, the same cannot be said for Westeros.

In our realm, the act of a woman of such high status revealing herself in such a manner is an entirely unprecedented occurrence, especially for a member of the royal house. In reality, no one has ever laid eyes on this painting, and perhaps, if it ever existed, it might have been destroyed out of respect for the princess's memory.

According to the famous legend, within a sealed wooden case that can only be opened with a key, lies a concealed canvas portraying the sinuous figure of the princess, unveiled and in an extremely compromising pose. In this portrayal, the young woman is depicted in the act of pleasuring herself, casting a lascivious gaze at the observer.

The artwork was intended as a surprise for her husband on their wedding anniversary, perhaps meant to be hung in their bedroom for him to admire during the occasional separations. Yet, some of the princess's maids swore to have caught their mistress more than once pilfering the key from her husband's neck and secretly admiring the painting, which depicted her with a dreamy and pleased expression.

However, the existence of this painting remains shrouded in mystery, and if it ever existed, it may have been destroyed out of respect for the princess's memory.

Baela, among all her siblings, was renowned for spending the most time riding her dragon, expressing a deep love for the sky from a young age. However, her dragon, Moondancer, was initially smaller and more delicate than her siblings', requiring her to wait several years before it could bear the weight of a rider. Eager to soar the skies on her own, Baela started training Moondancer to become larger and more robust. Eventually, she succeeded, mounting Moondancer for the first time in secret during her stay at the Eyrie in the middle of the Civil War, soaring among the mountains of the Vale.

Even after her mother's settlement in King's Landing following her victory over the Greens, Baela continued to visit Dragonstone. She believed King's Landing was not suitable for training dragons, especially young ones like Moondancer, who needed to haunt for themselves and be free from chains. Baela's observations proved correct, as she noted that dragons left unchained and in the wild grew faster and stronger than those confined to the Dragonpit.

Inspired and interested in the subject, she created "Blood and Fire: The True Language of Dragons," a comprehensive guide for future dragon riders. This authoritative piece of literature became required reading for every Targaryen aspiring to become a dragon rider.

Recognizing the effectiveness of her experimental training, upon her return from Dorne, Baela insisted on freeing the dragons of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera from their chains. She volunteered to instruct them herself, believing that dragons should be treated with respect regardless of their riders. Thanks to her intervention, these dragons, deprived of flight for years, began to regain their strength and vitality.

Beyond dragons, Baela was known for her love of training other animals, often preferring their company over the courtiers inside the Red Keep, considering beasts smarter than most people. Her affinity for hunting led her to train dogs, particularly Dobermans, developing a certain sympathy for their scary appearance. She had seven Dobermans - Rhaemorys, Jaehaemar, Viseraenar, Vahaegar, Ragaemond, Daeragon and Vahaelyx - all named after heroes from Old Valyria's epic literature.

Introduced to the art of falconry by her aunt Jayne at the Eyrie, Baela received a black hawk named Qēloss as a gift. Her dedication to hawk hunting persisted, making her a skilled hawker within the Red Keep's court.

Baela's love for horses was also noteworthy. A skilled horsewoman like her father and brother Aegon, she enjoyed challenging her siblings to horse races when Moondancer was too tired to fly. During her time in Dorne, she discovered the beauty of Sand Steeds and brought some back with her, gifting members of her personal guard with these horses. Her most striking acquisition was a marvellous Black mare named Baerya, in honor of her favorite Valyrian Tragedy's main character.

Among her many animals, Rhae, the Little Valyrian gifted by Larissa, became Baela's most cherished and loyal companion.

Pages and pages could be written on Baela Targaryen, but this scholar prefers to leave these stories for the other chapters to come later. This long prelude has been provided to offer a worthy context to the story I am about to transcribe so that future Masters who will study this work can fully understand its content and context. The book in question is intended to be a faithful and truthful account of the life and adventures of one of the leading figures of our kingdom. In doing so, this Master has been inspired along the lines of the information that has come down to us from that period, making a selection of the most important and reliable data.

These sources include the aforementioned diaries of Princess Visenya, the personal correspondences of the protagonists of this story, and, last but not least, two great manuscripts that made the history of Westeros historiography, “The Children of the Dragons, History of the Targaryen Kings and Queens of Westeros” and "The Chronicles of the Glorious Princess and Her Seven Knights.”

The author of the first text is believed to be a certain Jessar Waters, a bastard son of the Lord of Duskandale, who worked as an emissary for the Crown and spent his time observing and studying the royal family from afar. The second is anonymous; all that is known is that, like the previous one, this text predates the death of Queen Rhaenyra, which occurred in the year 160 After the Conquest. This could suggest that the person who wrote it must have also lived in the capital or been part of the court during the period when the princess was still alive, and maybe have met Jessar Waters on some occasion.

However, the events described in this second book are way more personal and accurate for being from someone outside the family. For this reason, many scholars think it could be written by Visenya Targaryen, who was known to transcribe her thoughts, while others attribute it to Baelor Targaryen or Baelor of Harrenal, the son of Prince Aemond.

Whoever he was, there is no doubt that through his work, he provided posterity with important information to reconstruct one of the most crucial pieces of the history of the Targaryen dynasty.

Not wanting to bore you any more than necessary, this narrator has decided to conclude this first preamble by introducing our story with the same words used by the mysterious writer of the aforementioned manuscript.

"Sing, Oh Vhagar, goddess brave and bold,
Hear the tale of Baela, of anger untold.
Upon her dragon, she brought ills so vast,
Unleashing chaos on the land of Dornish, aghast.

Sing the song of Aemond, a prince in exile's plight,
With his sword, he brought darkness, endless night.
Thousands of men fell beneath his fearsome might,
Leaving trails of destruction, a grim, gruesome sight.

Oh, ancient deities, hear their loyal hearts,
The daughter and son, torn worlds apart.
With fire and blood, they took the city state,
Driven by revenge and glory, their fate.

Like their forefathers, they embraced the call,
Conquering with valor, standing tall.
What a glorious army, mighty and grand,
Led by a commander, with victory in hand.

The Red-Blood Orange, a symbol of might,
Shall tremble and fall, in the heat of the fight.
Sing, Oh Tessarion, and all gods of old,
Witness the triumph, as their story unfolds."

Chapter 2: Thriumps and Defeats - The Antefact

Chapter Text

Extract from the Manuscript “TheChildrens of the Dragons, History of the Targaryen Kingsand Queensof Westeros”

3rd Day of the 3rd month of the year 136 AC

It had been precisely 136 years since the Conquest of Aegon Targaryen when the Seven Kingdoms once again found themselves in the throes of turmoil, bracing for the arrival of another awe-inspiring tempest, bearing the same name as its predecessor.

The highly anticipated union between Prince Aegon Targaryen and Lady Daenaera Velaryon was a grand spectacle, unparalleled and captivating the hearts of all fortunate enough to bear witness. The Dragonpit, the sole edifice in the entire capital city capable of accommodating the nearly seventy thousand guests, overflowed with exuberance and anticipation as the two young lovers made their entrance.

The groom's parents, followed by their four resplendent children, graced the scene, sending ripples of awe throughout the colossal structure. The sight of their Queen, the magnificent Rhaenyra, and her royal consort, Daemon Targaryen, ascending the first tiers of steps elicited feverish cheers and jubilant shouts, symbolizing the immeasurable reverence bestowed upon her by her subjects.

Equally effusive were the accolades reserved for the four royal princes, their visages embodying the perfect blend of their parents' regality and beauty. To the humble eyes of the common folk, unaccustomed to such opulence, they appeared as ethereal visions, blessed with divine splendour.

The clamour was momentarily silenced by the resounding roar of a dragon, signifying the arrival of the bridegroom. The world seemed to hold its breath as Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen, adorned in a simple yet regal ensemble of dark blue velvet and golden filigree, strode into the Dragonpit.

Having dismounted from his dragon, Stormcloud, he took his place in the centre of the arena, where the High Septon of Oldtown awaited him.

Then, at long last, the moment everyone had been yearning for arrived.

The preceding hush swiftly gave way to an exuberant chorus of murmurs as the true guest of honor graced the colossal stone edifice.

Innumerable songs and artworks would emerge in the years that followed, all striving to immortalize that precise instant when every soul, from the foremost to the rearmost, pivoted to behold the entrance of the youthful and graceful bride.

Nevertheless, words alone proved feeble in capturing the awe-inspiring spectacle that unfolded within those grand walls on that spring morning.

The bride, the only child of the late Lady Laena, with her flawless visage adorned with clear, brilliant blue eyes and a cascade of the purest silver hair, appeared as if plucked from the pages of a tome, her very presence an embodiment of beauty.

Beside her stood her cousin, Alyn Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark who, as her only male relative, took the role of accompanying the girl to her husband.

Over 70,000 heads leaned in to catch a glimpse of her, escorted by her seven bridesmaids, all of House Velaryon, all donned in blue, progressing toward the epicentre of the vast Pit. The entire city's gaze fixed upon her, ensnared by the opulence and prosperity that marked her family's power, flaunted without reservation.

Yet, all eyes remained singularly affixed upon the maiden.

Amidst the splendour that enveloped her, she remained the focal point, her radiance eclipsing even the most illustrious of her kin; not even all the gemstones of the world could contend with the effulgence of her smile, an indisputable testament to the profound joy enveloping her.

But it was the magnificent gown she wore, concealed mostly beneath her house's sigil-adorned cloak, that attracted all the bulk of the attention, stirring deep envy and boundless admiration among many a lady and noblewoman.

It was clear to all, even the most unrefined, that the gown was an exemplar of craftsmanship and quality; a far cry from the pedestrian attire donned by noblewomen in the countryside, woven from fabrics procured from merchants of dubious repute, in their delusion of appearing as capital ladies.

This exquisite creation was hewn from genuine and precious white silk sourced from the distant isle of Leng, wich under the sun's gaze, gleamed with blue and silver hues, akin to summer sea waves.

The fabric, inherently precious, was adorned throughout with intricate undulating silver embroideries, reminiscent of the tranquil ebb and flow of ocean tides, a testament to the artistry of Myrish weavers; even the jewellery was of an exceptional nature, forged from the most precious shells, the whitest mother-of-pearl, and the most delicate corals, all procured from the shores of Driftmark, specially presented by her cousin, the Lord, for this momentous occasion.

When the young maiden finally stood before her betrothed, her radiant smile widened even further, and at that sight, not even the prince, known for his composed demeanor and reticence, could hold back his laughter, so immense was the happiness engulfing him in that moment. The lips of all the witnesses parted at the moment of the cloak exchange. Alyn Velaryon, with skillful hands, removed the long drape of blue silk that encircled the bride's back, allowing the groom to gently drape her with the black and red cloak, a symbol of his new allegiance to House Targaryen. With this gesture, the ceremony began.

Yet, despite being the focal point of the event, the young couple paid little heed to the words uttered by the High Septon. Throughout the lengthy ceremony, their gaze remained steadfastly locked upon each other, as if the world around them ceased to exist. Their love enveloped them, rendering them oblivious to the throngs of spectators within the packed arena.

The prince and his princess looked ethereal, as if they were celestial beings brought down to grace the mortal realm. The splendor of the late morning light, filtered through the large oval opening in the center of the colossal stone dome above them, bathed them in a radiant glow, making them shine like stars in the night sky. The mere sight of the kiss they exchanged sent the whole arena into raptures.

Even Queen Rhaenyra, known for her unattainable aura, was seen wiping away tears at the sight of her precious firstborn son and her best friend's only daughter becoming husband and wife. As the newlyweds emerged from the Dragonpit, bound for the castle, the sweet scent of flowers filled the air. The streets of King's Landing erupted with shouts of joy and petals as the Queen, her consort, and their four children crossed the Street of Sisters in their carriage. It was a testament to the love and adoration the people held for their royal family, from the highest noble to the lowliest commoner.

All the subjects of the kingdom greeted them, their hearts filled with pride and happiness at having witnessed such a majestic display of royalty. As soon as they arrived at the Red Keep the atmosphere reverberated with cheerful melodies and the captivating scent of the fragrant dishes prepared for the grand banquet. It was the first of many celebrations, each more grand than the last. The sumptuous decorations, intricate arrangements, and glittering gowns worn by the guests left everyone mesmerized. The prince felt grateful and fortunate to have such a magnificent celebration marking the beginning of his new journey with his beloved.

The grandeur of the festivities surpassed all measure, surpassing even the splendid wedding of the prince's beloved parents. The brilliance and magic of the occasion were so enchanting that those fortunate enough to witness them would carry the memories for a lifetime and beyond. The Queen, overwhelmed with joy, decided to commemorate this magical occasion by granting the jubilant people a great gift. For seven consecutive days, not only the palace but the entire town would be festively decorated, and bread, a humble yet precious commodity, would be delivered free of charge throughout Flea Bottom for the duration of the festivities.

While the people of the kingdom rejoiced at this splendid news, another surprise was announced. In honor of the old tradition of not declining hospitality to knights during a wedding celebration, a great tournament, the first since the end of the Civil War, would take place in the grand arena outside the city walls. Every warrior of the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of wealth or station, would have the opportunity to participate and prove their worth. The thrill of competition hung in the air, igniting a fire within each participant.

Such an ambitious undertaking had not been witnessed since the wedding day of Queen Alyssa Velaryon, mother of the Wise Jaehaerys. It required months of meticulous preparation to bring it to fruition. As the date of the grand event approached, the corridors of the Red Keep teemed with breathless servants and attendants scurrying throughout the castle, feverishly making arrangements for the momentous occasion. Like the rhythmic ticking of a clock, messengers bearing invitations departed from the capital, traversing Westeros and even beyond, a full month ahead of the wedding day. This ensured that all who received the coveted summons would have ample time to prepare for the extraordinary journey that awaited them, as they embarked on a pilgrimage to witness a royal union unlike any other.

Weeks of anticipation among the realm's nobility had bred impatience, with eyes anxiously fixed upon the gates of the castle, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the messengers bearing the precious envelopes. The allure of a sojourn within those opulent walls proved irresistible to all. Yet, to the astonishment of many, the grand castles and magnificent palaces of the noble guests were not the sole abodes to receive the honor of such illustrious visitors and their coveted letters.

Whispers soon permeated the royal court, carrying the news that the Queen herself had commanded her trusted Mistress of Whisperers, Lady Mysaria, to seek out a certain enigmatic character dwelling within a humble house of stone. This mysterious individual was to be extended an invitation befitting royalty. The prospect of an unexpected guest of such nature stirred a commotion among the denizens of the palace. With the wedding a mere week away, an atmosphere charged with excitement permeated the air, fueled by the knowledge that the Queen's enigmatic guests would soon grace the realm with their presence.

Even those closest to Her Majesty, including her own kin, were left to speculate about Rhaenyra's intentions.

The veil of mystery remained thick until the very day Lord Strong and his entourage, having traveled for two arduous days, finally passed through the formidable Gate of Gods, entering the city with their retinue. Alongside the Lord's carriages, there were also those belonging to House Blackwood and House Bracken, a sight that left the Crownlands' inhabitants astounded. They could not help but wonder what sorcery Harwin Strong had employed to forge peace between these two ancient rivals, compelling them to journey together.

In addition to this peculiar occurrence, other unsettling rumors began to circulate among the peasants and country gentry who bore witness to the parade of carriages and horses from House Strong, Blackwood, and Bracken. It was whispered that amidst the retinue of the Lord of Harrenhal, there was a young man with silver hair, his left eye concealed beneath a conspicuous patch. Furthermore, some claimed to have glimpsed him in the company of a dark-haired woman garbed in somber robes, accompanied by a child with hair as pale as winter's snow. These strange testimonies fueled a sense of foreboding among the denizens of King's Landing, leaving them uncertain of how to interpret these accounts from beyond the city walls.

Indeed, everything about the description of this enigmatic figure seemed to suggest that it might be "him." Yet, despite the constant and insistent chatter emanating from the Riverlands, confirming their initial fears, the populace of the capital—both rich and poor—found it unfathomable that "that man" could truly have received an invitation to the young prince's wedding.

Alas, they would soon be forced to revise their disbelief.

The entire city of King's Landing held its breath as the dozens of nobles and courtiers from the Riverlands paraded through its streets, making their way towards the towering walls of the palace. However, their gaze was not fixed upon the gleaming armor of the knights or the resplendent gowns of the noblewomen. Instead, they were captivated by a single strand of silvery hair, a stark contrast amidst the sea of darkness like a wolf's pelt amidst a flock of white sheep.

Dismay swiftly transformed into terror as, in addition to glimpses of his head, they caught sight of his face, partially concealed by a conspicuous black bandage over his left eye. His rugged and unmistakable features left no room for doubt. Silence gave way to panic, and every resident of the capital, from the wealthiest merchant to the most destitute soul in Flea Bottom, found themselves whispering his name and casting fearful glances in his direction. It was as if they had beheld a specter from the beyond, or worse, the embodiment of the Lord of the Seven Hells himself comes to claim their very souls.

"Behold," a voice cried out from the crowd, shattering the chilling murmur, "the Kingslayer has arrived!"

Chapter 3: The Annals of the Rivers

Chapter Text

Jesser I

3rd day of the 2nd month of the year 136 AC

On a frigid and hushed winter morning, much like countless others, the green hills that embraced the northern shores of Gods Eye awoke to a mist-laden atmosphere. Just a stone's throw away, the colossal walls of Harrenhal Castle stood tall and imposing, casting an ominous shadow over the land.

It was the third day of the second month when the denizens of the humble Harrentown were startled from their slumber by the arrival of two distinguished envoys from the capital. These emissaries, astride their elegant white steeds, bore with them two coveted invitations to the forthcoming royal nuptials of the cherished crown prince. Such a visitation from distant lands was a rare occurrence in their secluded village, but the peculiarity of the situation did not end there.

As the villagers observed these two young men, adorned in resplendent garments and possessing a fairer complexion than their own, they soon realized that although they had arrived from the same direction, the strangers promptly diverged, each taking a separate path.

The first envoy, akin to many passersby, paid no heed to the village and instead directed his course towards the foreboding obsidian walls of Harrenhal. It was there, within the fortress's austere confines, that Lord Harwin Strong resided with his third wife and their brood of four children. Known as 'Breakbones' during his time in the capital, the lord remained a formidable figure, his handsomeness, though weathered by the passage of time, still undeniable. Aged sixty-four, he defied the ravages of years, surpassing many young warriors half his age in skill and strength. Having fought valiantly for his queen during the war, he had forged a close and profound bond with her. Thus, it came as no surprise when news spread that Lord Harwin and his kin had received an invitation to attend Prince Aegon's matrimonial festivities.

Meanwhile, the second messenger ventured deeper into the labyrinthine alleys of Harrentown. He eventually halted before the weathered facade of the 'Green Fish,' one of the few inns that graced the village. Seeking shelter for the night, he inquired if he might find respite within its timeworn walls, while entrusting his prized steed to the inn's care.

Thus, the stage was set, and the wheels of fate began to turn, as these two emissaries embarked on their respective journeys, their paths intertwining with the destinies of Harrenhal and Harrentown. Little did they know, the arrival of these enigmatic figures heralded the advent of a series of events that would forever alter the course of their kingdom lives.

The innkeeper, a woman of middle age who had not seen such esteemed guests in her establishment for decades, happily welcomed the young man on her inns, maybe hoping to glean some information about his purpose in visiting their remote village. However, it quickly became apparent that he had no intention of sharing his reasons.

And so, after settling into his room and paying his dues, he abruptly inquired about the availability of rafts.

The innkeeper was taken aback by this unexpected request; she couldn't fathom why a man of such stature would need a raft: however, despite her burning curiosity, she wisely chose not to pry further and instead accepted the silver coins he offered in exchange for assistance.

Determined to fulfill the young man's peculiar request, the innkeeper sought the help of her husband, a fisherman who possessed a small boat and asked him to accompany their guest and guide him to the lake.

However, the Gods Eye was no ordinary lake. It was a vast water basin, stretching from fifty miles at its narrowest point to over eighty miles at its widest. Legends whispered that no one had ever successfully crossed it entirely, and much of its unexplored depths remained shrouded in mystery. Yet, amidst these tales, another whispered secret persisted—a hidden island nestled within the heart of the lake, a place where time itself danced to a different tune.

None had laid eyes upon this mysterious island, for those who dared venture towards it were met with a dreadful fate.

This was common knowledge among the people who dwelled amidst the green and misty hills surrounding the lake. But for Jesser Waters, a forester hailing from the capital, such cautionary tales seemed to hold no sway.

Jesser possessed the audacity of a crownlander who had never ventured beyond the confines of Sow's Horn and oblivious to the perils that awaited him, he remained undeterred, driven by a resolute purpose burning within his heart. He had a mission to fulfill, and the cost mattered naught to him.

As soon the young Jesser revealed his intentions to his companion, the fisherman whitened in horror and started to look at him as if he went completely mad: he even attempted to dissuade him from his perilous plan, but with no success.

To convince the hesitant man, Jesser produced a pouch brimming with gold dragons, a fortune beyond the wildest dreams of a simple fisherman.

The sweet melody of those coins, dancing through the air, enticed the fisherman to cast aside his reservations and so agreed to accompany Jesser on his quest. However, even as he accepted the task, the man felt compelled to caution the young emissary. The fisherman knew all too well the dangers that lurked ahead, warning Jesser of the potential perils that awaited them.

"I pray that this mission of yours is worth the risk, my lord," he spoke as the small boat set sail. "For it would be a grave sin to gamble your life for naught."

Jesser was left in a state of perplexity by the statement, for he knew little about the mission that lay before him. All he had been told was that he must seek out a person residing on the enigmatic island on behalf of his queen and deliver an invitation. Lady Misarya, the Mistress of Whispers, had provided no further guidance, withholding the name of the individual he sought and the reason for such secrecy. In fact, she had warned him against divulging any information, urging him to keep his purpose hidden from all, especially the locals. It was of utmost importance that no one knew his destination.

Armed with only a handful of cryptic clues, the audacious Jesser Waters set forth on his perilous journey to the Riverlands. Recommended for the task by his uncle, Ser Steffon Darklyn, the commander of the Queen's Guard, Jesser had never embarked on such a venture before.

Despite his good intentions, the increasingly tense expression of the fisherman disturbed the young man., who, born in Duskendale, found the waters of the lake to be eerily calm, devoid of the tumultuous waves of Blackwater Bay that he was accustomed to observing from a distance. Nonetheless, his confidence began to waver as an immense wall of fog, thick and towering as a mountain, materialized before them, seemingly reaching the heavens.

This sight nearly caused his companion to faint from terror, and even Jesser, who had never beheld such a dense, gray fog, questioned whether it was a natural occurrence or the result of some dark sorcery. Yet, driven by the hope of the rich reward promised to him, the fisherman did not attempt to turn the boat around. And so, slowly but resolutely, their small vessel penetrated the shrouded veil, vanishing into thin air.

For several minutes, neither Jesser nor his companion could perceive anything beyond the encompassing fog, so dense was its presence. Then, as if cleaved by a sharp blade, the gray cloud dissipated, unveiling the path to their destination. The Isle of Faces lay before them, its deserted shores beckoning them to dock.

As the boat touched the solid ground, the fisherman regarded young Jesser with eyes filled with wonder, as if disbelieving that the soil beneath their feet was truly real. Enchanted though he may have been, the man showed no inclination to step ashore, not even to stretch his weary legs after the arduous voyage. Instead, he requested half of the promised coins as security for his services, should he fail to return before sunset.

Jesser was stunned by this request, unable to fathom why the fisherman harbored such concern for his own return. Nevertheless, he refrained from arguing, fearing that the man would indeed abandon him if provoked. Thus, he handed over three of the six gold coins and set off into the forest, seeking a path or someone who could offer him guidance.

Unfortunately for him, even after what felt like an eternity - or perhaps a lifetime - the tangle of branches and foliage refused to yield, leaving Jesser disoriented and doubting his progress.

It was as if he had been trapped in an endless loop, forever circling back to the same spot.,the vegetation grew denser with each step, the towering trees obscuring the sky above, casting an eerie darkness that made it impossible to discern his location.

Just when Jesser thought he couldn't bear it any longer, the landscape shifted dramatically.

The familiar greens and shadows gave way to a haunting sight: a multitude of colossal Weirwoods, their white bark gleaming like freshly fallen snow, their roots snaking out like ancient serpents, and their leaves a vibrant crimson, reminiscent of spilled blood. The eyes carved into their trunks seemed to glare at him, filled with a menacing intensity.

Though Jesser had encountered Heart Trees before, none compared to the spectacle before him. In the South, the Weirwoods had become scarce, nearly extinct and so to witness so many of them gathered in one place was a sight that few Southerners could claim.

He stood there, transfixed by the multitude of vermilion leaves and the meticulous craftsmanship of the carved eyes, as if the gods themselves had breathed life into these ageless beings, immortalizing them in wood.

For a fleeting moment, Jesser dared not disturb the sanctity of the place. He stood in silent awe, instinctively aware that he had stumbled upon a sacred ground untouched by humanity for countless generations. A strange sensation washed over him, the feeling that unseen eyes were watching him from the depths of the forest, their gaze piercing through the dim light.

The sound of snapping branches echoed in his ears, as if someone - or something - moved stealthily through the undergrowth. A wave of disorientation swept over Jesser as he realized how much time had slipped away in this ethereal realm. The sky above had transformed, a cruel reminder that he had lingered for far too long. Fatigue turned to panic as the fisherman's words echoed in his mind, a chilling warning of the consequences if he failed to return before nightfall. Fear gnawed at his core as he grasped the urgency of his situation, propelling him forward with renewed determination.

The young emissary, Jesser, desperately scanned the forest, hoping to find some sign or clue to guide him. Suddenly, a voice pierced through the eerie silence.

"Are you lost?" The words were spoken with a crystalline clarity that sent shivers down Jesser's spine.

Startled, Jesser spun around, his heart pounding in his chest and to his astonishment, he found himself face-to-face with a small, frail child.

The child observed him with curious eyes, as though waiting for a response.

Relief washed over Jesser at the sight of another human presence after enduring such desolation; however that relief quickly gave way to a surge of fear as he studied the peculiar child before him.

There was something uncanny about the boy: he seemed far too young to be wandering alone in a such wild and scary forest, and his appearance was strange, to say the least. His face was swollen, his cheeks rosy, but there was an unhealthy pallor to his overall frame. His body was thin and angular, as if he could be carried away by the slightest gust of wind. His long, straight hair matched the color of the ancient trees' bark and he wore no shoes, as if it were customary for him to tread the forest floor barefoot, like a wildling.

Yet, what truly captivated Jesser were the child's eyes: his pupils were an otherworldly sight, one eye a vibrant violet, the other a shimmering gold.

The man had never seen such colors in a person's eyes before.

For a timeless moment, Jesser and the child locked eyes, their silence hanging heavy in the air. Then, with a mischievous grin, the child, no older than three or four, beckoned Jesser to follow him, claiming that his mother awaited their arrival. Jesser's mind raced, trying to comprehend the child's words. What did he mean by his mother waiting? Uncertainty gnawed at Jesser's thoughts, but he knew this might be his only chance to escape the forest, and so with a mixture of caution and determination, he made the decision to trust the enigmatic child, fully aware of the risks that lay ahead.

Together, they ventured deeper into the forest, the vegetation growing denser and the shadows growing darker, where only slivers of sunlight managed to penetrate the thick canopy above, casting an eerie glow that illuminated their path.

Jesser, who prided himself on his athleticism, found himself struggling to keep up with the nimble child, whose bare feet danced effortlessly through the maze of branches and roots, while Jesser's weary legs faltered with each step.

The emissary's tired eyes strained to catch even the faintest glimpse of their destination through the endless corridor of trees; yet, the forest seemed to mock his efforts, concealing their path with its labyrinthine design. Just as Jesser's confidence wavered and thoughts of turning back crept into his mind, a sight halted him in his tracks.

Before him lay an immense green clearing, bathed in the gentle light of the sun.

However, the thing that shocked him more, was that, despite the hours that had passed, there was still time before the sun would set.

"That's it! We've arrived!" the nameless child exclaimed, his small finger pointing towards a speck in the distance. The stone house, though tiny, nestled amongst the trees and bushes, emanating a cozy aura.

Jesser's heart swelled with joy at the sight of the building as it was the only sign of habitation on the entire island. As they drew closer, he noticed a young woman dressed in dark attire standing by the door, perhaps she was the mother of his guide.

In fact, as soon he spotted her, the child lit up and dashed towards her, completely forgetting about Jesser. The emissary, unperturbed, strolled towards the house at a leisurely pace, his labored breathing finally easing.

But then, Jesser's eyes met the face of the woman who awaited him, and his heart quickened once more.

Never in his short life had he beheld such a breathtaking creature: her midnight black hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her pale face as if she were a noblewoman of the court. Yet, what truly captivated him were her eyes: they shimmered with a vibrant, emerald green, a hue unseen in all the known world. Jesser stood before her, momentarily struck by her presence, unable to find words.

The woman, accustomed to such reactions, paid it no mind.

Instead, she spoke in a voice so soft and melodious, it seemed to him as if she were singing, "Welcome, Jesser Waters. I have been awaiting your arrival. I feared you were lost. Thankfully, my little Baelor was nearby to guide you."

The young man's mind whirled with questions, but his tongue remained paralyzed by the overwhelming dismay and confusion that gripped him. How did this woman know his name? Could she be the one he was meant to deliver the message to?

Before he could voice his doubts, the door swung open, revealing a tall, gaunt figure with hair as pale as moonlight. The man's angular face contorted with irritation, as if he had emerged from the house with the intention of reprimanding the woman. However, as his gaze fell upon Jesser, his features transformed into a mask of pure astonishment.

Now that the messenger had a chance to study him closely, he noticed that the man's left side was concealed by bandages, suggesting a recent injury to one of his eyes. But such details were overshadowed by the man's menacing presence, as he seemed poised to draw the dagger hanging from his belt. Yet, his intentions were thwarted by his wife, who pleaded with him, "My dear, can't you see we have guests? Please be kind and make this nice young man comfortable in our home. He has traveled far to be here and must be weary."

The husband's one unbandaged eye stared at his wife in disbelief, as if struggling to comprehend her words. However, despite his resistance, he relented and abandoned his violent thoughts. With a curt nod, he motioned for Jesser to enter the house.

Not wanting to provoke him any further, the page silently stepped through the threshold and settled into a seat in what appeared to be their modest dining room. As he observed the couple's humble yet dignified abode, he couldn't help but ponder the mysterious circ*mstances that had led to their personal summons by the queen for the prince's wedding.

The tension in the air grew thicker as Jesser finished his meager meal and drained the last drops of their scarce wine. The husband, growing impatient with the presence of a stranger in his home, demanded in a brusque tone, "Explain your purpose for this visit."

Jesser took a deep breath, his eyes flickering between the husband's one unbandaged eye and the wife's imploring gaze. With a voice laced with caution, he began to recount the reason for his arrival.

Feeling an unwelcome chill within those somber walls, the emissary hastily withdrew the precious envelope from his pocket and presented it to the man. Every syllable of Lady Mysaria's instructions spilled from his lips, leaving no room for omission. This was his first significant mission, and Jesser believed he had executed it with precision, basking in a newfound sense of pride.

But his satisfaction shattered like a fragile glass when the host's reaction proved to be far from expected. The mention of Queen Rhaenyra's name tore through the air, causing the man to spring from his seat with such force that the chair toppled to the floor. Jesser observed the man's youthful countenance twist into a grotesque mask of terror and fury, as if the summons to King's Landing for the crown prince's wedding was a personal affront.

Jesser stood there, utterly astonished by the man's inappropriate outburst, his mind racing with thoughts of self-preservation. Before the enraged landlord could lay a hand on him, the woman who had silently observed the scene intervened, swiftly extinguishing the flames of her husband's frenzy and saving Jesser from harm.

Though the woman stood at an equal height to her groom, her slender frame somehow possessed an uncanny power to subdue him. With astonishing ease, she coaxed him back into his seat, taming him as one would a wild and overzealous guard dog.

However, the man, now less wrathful but still unsociable, abruptly left the premises, taking with him their young son who had been lurking in the shadows, drinking in every word exchanged by the adults.

Left alone in the confines of the modest dwelling, the woman offered her sincere apologies to the young emissary, beseeching him to forgive her husband's outburst. She pleaded that he was unaccustomed to receiving visitors and had been under great stress. Jesser could hardly be surprised by this explanation, for he had already begun to suspect that their abode was the sole habitation on this desolate island.

With his mission finally accomplished, the emissary bid them farewell, his impatience to depart the house and set foot upon the beach growing palpable. It was there that the raft awaited him, ready to carry him back to the civilized world. As if she had divined his yearning, the landlady, before parting ways, offered a suggestion—another path to his destination, promising him a swift arrival.

Initially hesitant to deviate from the familiar route, Jesser's trepidation over losing his way again weighed heavily. Yet, as he approached the forest from which he had emerged earlier, he noticed a new path had materialized alongside the one he had previously traversed. The young man couldn't shake the feeling that this path had not existed before. Intrigued by the prospect of saving time and effort, he ventured into the thicket, following the trail the enigmatic woman had recommended.

As his feet carried him through unfamiliar landscapes, Jesser's mind spun tales of the raven-haired enchantress who dwelled in such a place. Who was she, and why had she chosen to reside in such isolation? The events of the day, from the shroud of mist he had traversed in the morning to the haunting faces etched into the Weirwoods, to the enigmatic family—mother, father, and son—who seemed to harbor a sinister secret, left him bewildered and unnerved.

The taste of the woman's food and wine still lingered on his tongue when, to his utter amazement, he emerged from the thicket and found himself standing on the beach, precisely where he had left the innkeeper's husband only hours before.

Jesser's eyes darted around in confusion and astonishment as he found himself back at the starting point in what seemed like an instant. He couldn't fathom how he had reached the beach so quickly, after hours of walking to reach that humble abode. Doubt crept into his mind, wondering if he had taken the wrong path and ended up on the opposite shore, but when he looked up, he caught sight of the fisherman, his gnarled hands writhing with anxiety, frozen in the same position Jesser had left him in hours ago.

The fisherman's bewildered gaze met Jesser's, clearly not expecting to see him there.

Rising to his feet, the fisherman blurted out, "But how...you came back already? It's been barely five minutes! Don't tell me you've already delivered your message..."

Jesser stared at the fisherman in utter shock, his mind unable to comprehend the man's words.

Was this fisherman mad? How could he believe that only a few minutes had passed since Jesser's departure, when he had traversed the forest and returned in what felt like six or seven hours? Frustration welled up within Jesser, ready to snap at his companion, but then he looked up at the sky and horror gripped his heart.

The sun remained fixed in the same position as when he had left the beach that morning, as if those hours spent in the forest were mere figments of his imagination. A chilling doubt slithered into Jesser's mind. What if it was the Island? Could it be possible that this forsaken place held something far more sinister than his initial impression?

Jesser yearned to voice his thoughts, but the fisherman's agitation was palpable, and he too wished to escape the island's clutches. Hastily untying the rope that held their little boat in place, the two men pushed it northward, back to where they believed they had come from. Their hearts skipped a beat as they began rowing towards Harrentown, the unsettling presence of the island looming behind them.

It took young Jesser a while to gather the courage to break the heavy silence that hung between him and his traveling companion as he was still confused about what he had experienced: however, as soon the oppressive wall of fog had finally dissipated, and they found themselves outside its bewitching grasp, the young emissary - against the advice of Lady Mysaria -finally found the words to express the turmoil that churned within him.

Jesser knew he was treading dangerous ground by telling the man about his mission, but his mind was too clouded with disbelief to contemplate the consequences of a possible treason and so, with a deep breath, he began recounting what he had witnessed.

He told to the fisherman about the child, the woman, and the enigmatic house hidden within the forest and as his tale unfolded, Jesser's voice trembled with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

By the time his words ceased, they had reached the quay, and the innkeeper's husband still hadn't uttered a single syllable.

As the two crossed the path for the town, Jesser couldn't help but wonder if the man's silence meant he believed him to be mad, when suddenly, in a hushed whisper, the fisherman revealed the true reason for his reticence.

According to him discussing such “matters” in broad daylight was dangerous and so he suggested meeting at his wife's inn for dinner, a place where they could freely discuss the secrets that weighed heavily on Jesser's soul.

The young man remained all afternoon in the room he had paid for, waiting anxiously - and a bit of terror - for dinner time: when the sun finally set, Jesser went down the stairs of the "Greed Fish", where on the ground floor there was the man waiting for him, as they had agreed.

However the fisherman was not alone: he had gathered his fellow drinking and fishing companions, both young and old, to satisfy Jesser's insatiable curiosity. At first, Jesser hesitated, fearing the repercussions of sharing confidential information with strangers. Yet, the allure of knowledge proved too strong, and after a mug of beer to fortify his resolve, he divulged all.

To his astonishment, his comrades did not accuse him of falsehood or madness. They, too, were captivated by his tale, their eyes wide with wonder. Intrigued by Jesser's foreign accent and attire, other patrons approached the table, drawn in by his mesmerizing words. When Jesser finally concluded, the room erupted with conversation, each revelation more unbelievable than the last. The words exchanged that night, and the knowledge Jesser gained from these men, would forever alter the course of his life, unveiling a world previously unknown to him.

Jesser II

Listening to the tales spun by those weathered sea dogs — or rather, as Jesser Waters thought, "lake dogs" — understood the reason Lady Mysaria had concealed him the true nature of hiswon mission.

If anyone possessed even a modicum of understanding about the perilous journey through the treacherous Riverlands, they would have promptly declined the offer, regardless of the consequences. Exile or even a fate as dire as the Wall would have been far more preferable than the unimaginable horrors that awaited them on that cursed path.

Perhaps it was his ignorance that had spared him, Jesser mused, as he took a fortifying sip from his second tankard of ale.

The island he had ventured to was no ordinary place.

The fishermen and villagers who had gathered to hear his tale regaled him with stories of the Isle of Faces, a mystical and enchanted realm. It held a sacred significance as the hallowed ground where the ancient alliance between the fabled Children of the Forest and the First Men, known as the 'Pact,' had been forged. This accord had forever etched its mark upon the annals of the kingdom, making that remote strip of land encircled by frigid waters the stuff of legends.

As one might surmise, the isle's name derived from the presence of the last vestiges of the indomitable Weirwoods, the last bastions in the Southlands. Upon their ancient alabaster trunks, the mythical beings who revered these arboreal deities had carved visages, imbuing them with an ethereal aura.

Whispers persisted that these sacred trees were safeguarded by enigmatic immortals, ethereal beings of half-human, half-demonic nature who christened themselves the Green Men.

Their emerald-hued skin bore testament to their otherworldly powers, and their formidable enchantments ensured the island remained impervious to human intrusion for countless ages. Legend held that no soul had ever dared set foot upon its shores, with many courageous souls losing their lives in futile attempts.

Even the most seasoned navigators quivered at the thought of venturing into the heart of that lake, perpetually at the mercy of inhospitable gales and malevolent flocks of crows.

But above all, they feared the impenetrable shroud of fog that enshrouded the islet, akin to a protective cloak. It was whispered that this ethereal mist possessed the power to ensnare any foolhardy enough to breach its boundaries.

Countless fishermen had tried and failed, never returning to recount their experiences. According to ancient Riverlands lore, only beings of magic — such as the Children of the Forest and their chosen successors — could transcend that daunting wall. They, and those deemed worthy by the Green Men, were the sole individuals permitted to set foot upon the sacred isle.

Someone like Alys Rivers.

Jesser, like every inhabitant of Westeros, had already heard of Alys Rivers, the enigmatic woman who, amidst the chaos of the civil war for the Iron Throne, had managed to sway the bloodthirsty Aemond Targaryen into forsaking his betrothed, the esteemed Lady Cassandra Baratheon. Tales of this scandalous affair had spread far and wide, with bards attempting to immortalize it in song, though their efforts often fell short. Yet, despite the numerous musical compositions dedicated to her, little was known about Alys Rivers, save for the fact that she was the bastard sister of Harwin Strong, the Lord of Harrenhal, and that she was significantly older than her husband, Prince Aemond, now known as "the Kingslayer."

In the minds of the common folk, Alys Rivers was imagined as an aged woman, her hair tangled and gray, her feet large and stubby, and her skin plagued by boils. Such a description starkly contrasted the captivating creature Jesser had encountered that morning. As an emissary, a bastard son of the late Lord Gunthor Darklyn, he had spent most of his time near Duskendale, far from the bustling capital, and had seen few noblewomen. Yet, he was certain that none of them could rival the beauty he had beheld in Alys Rivers.

Her emerald eyes, so piercing they appeared almost otherworldly, had ensnared his every thought. The more he pondered upon her, the more the young emissary felt an insatiable desire to uncover the secrets of her past. It was this longing that led him to the decision of buying drinks for everyone in the tavern, in exchange for any information they might possess about the mysterious Alys Rivers.

If, when sober, the inhabitants of the Riverlands might have seemed a little reserved and not very open with strangers, when drunk it was quite the opposite: as soon as some of them guzzled their second mug of beer, they started talking non-stop, inundating poor Jesser with long, endless stories. It seemed as if every person sitting in that tavern had something to say and add about Alys Rivers, as if they knew her personally or had spoken to her thousands of times.

"What's your name, lad?" a grizzled old man slurred, gripping Jesser's arm tightly.

"Jesser," he replied, trying to loosen the man's grip.

"Ah, Jesser, you have no idea the power that woman holds," another drunkard chimed in, waving his mug around wildly.

The tavern reverberated with a medley of voices, each individual eager to share their own rendition of the enigmatic Alys Rivers. Jesser found himself entangled in a web of conflicting tales and embellishments, struggling to discern the truth amidst the haze of confusion.

"Listen well, lad," a woman with a raspy voice leaned in, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of trepidation and fascination. "Alys Rivers is no ordinary woman. She is a sorceress, a witch who converses with demons and revels in the embrace of the Lord of the Hells himself! 'Tis through such unholy communion that she has attained powers beyond the realm of mortal understanding, mark my words."

A fisherman, his laughter echoing through the air, interjected, "Ah, but I wager that this witch, with her otherworldly abilities, knows how to keep the Dark Lord awake!" His companions, equally inebriated, erupted in gleeful laughter, one of them adding with a sly wink, "Indeed, I am certain she possesses a most adept mouth... and not solely for incantations."

The tavern patrons, mostly men, exchanged nudges and pats on the back, their gestures laden with lascivious implications that required no further explanation. Yet, amidst this sea of ribaldry, many others, including Jesser - who held a profound gratitude towards Alys for her unwavering support - refrained from joining in the laughter, their silence a testament to their disdain for such lewd insinuations waiting for them to end, but not all, unfortunately, took those insinuations so well.

"How dare you speak about Our Lady so blasphemously?!" a young man, clearly intoxicated, shouted, nearly falling off his stool. "Wash your mouth when you talk about her mate! She ain't no witch and no whor*!. She's the High Priestess of the Sacred Isle, chosen by the Gods themselves!"

“He’s right!” said a young woman from the other side of the table, her eyes shining with reverence, "She's a creature of the Old Gods, chosen to commune with them. I've heard tales of her speaking to the trees, of the Gods whispering secrets in her ears. The Gods themselves have bestowed upon her the gift of visions and dreams!"

Jesser's eyes widened, his curiosity piqued. The notion of a deity-like figure in a world that seemed devoid of such hierarchy intrigued him.

"The Lady of Ravens," a weathered old woman whispered reverently, her voice barely audible above the clamor.

Jesser struggled to process this revelation. The few followers of the Old Gods he had encountered during his travels had never mentioned such a powerful figure. How had he missed something so significant?

"Why have I never heard of her before?" Jesser finally dared to ask, his voice filled with genuine wonder.

The tavern fell silent, the patrons exchanging uncertain glances. It was as if they were grappling with the weight of this secret, unsure of how to explain it.

"Secrecy and mystery, lad. The Lady of Ravens is a figure shrouded in both. That's the secret to her power. " said a wise old man, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom. "The Old Gods work in ways we mortals can scarcely comprehend. They keep their chosen ones hidden, revealing them only to those who seek the truth."

Jesser nodded, his mind buzzing with newfound knowledge. The tales of Alys Rivers had taken on a whole new meaning, and he couldn't help but feel a mixture of trepidation and awe. The Riverlands held more secrets than he had ever imagined, and he was determined to uncover them all.

The wise man who spoke bore the name of Farlen Fenn, though he was more commonly known as Froggy Fenn, because of his appearance, reminiscent of a frog.

From his accent and his remarkable resistance to alcohol, Jesser discerned that Froggy Fenn was not a Riverman like the others and as the young emissary listened to him speak about the Gods and Alys, he began to suspect that this peculiar man might be the source he had been searching for.

Jesser's intuition didn’t fail him: Froggy Fenn, in fact,wasn’t from the foggy and green lands of Harrenhal, but from a village near Greywater Watch, in the North.

Nestled amidst the swamps of the Neck, southwest of Moat Cailin, Greywater Watch, the enigmatic seat of House Reed, held its secrets close, as it was said that those who dwelled those swampy lands were not ordinary beings.

Legends whispered of the Crannogmen's origin, their peculiar appearance resembling snakes and their diminutive stature. Some believed it was a result of ancient unions between the First Men and the legendary Children of the Forest, forged centuries ago.

In these swamps, where the ancient faith of the Old Gods endured, untainted by the influence of the New Gods and their frigid, lifeless structures, the tales of the First Men and the ethereal Children of the Forest thrived, resisting even at the Andals and their attempts to erase their Godsin place of their zealous Faith.

However, in the Riverlands, the tale took a darker turn: there, where the Faith held sway and sacred groves smoldered as mere remnants, the memory of these hallowed enigmas teetered on the precipice of oblivion. Frog Fenn, in his wisdom, expounded to Jesser the dire necessity of safeguarding Ancient Knowledge, entrusting it solely to a chosen few, so that it may endure through the ages, rather than dissipating like ash on the wind.

Countless were the creatures who sought to extinguish the Little People before the arrival of the Andals, and though the tragedy was averted, the Children suffered grievous losses in their initial encounters with mankind. Thus, a council of sages emerged, forged from the union of Children and humans, their purpose to shield these mysteries from future calamities and provide sanctuary for the forlorn denizens of the Forest, the sole intermediaries to the Ancient Gods, who possessed the ability to commune with them and unravel their enigmatic secrets.

Thus, the priestly order of the Green Men was birthed and aided by the Gods themselves, they crafted a majestic lake and an isle within, preserving the last remaining Weirwoods and sheltering the survivors of the Little People. As the centuries wore on and adversaries multiplied, the Green Men raised a colossal wall of mist, a shroud to deter any who would disturb their tranquillity.

There they remained, ensconced beyond the realms of time and the machinations of kings and their wars for the power:yet, they also understood the perils of isolation.

The faithful of the Ancient Gods endured, requiring guidance and a conduit between mortal and divine, beseeching aid in their choices and seeking counsel.

Thus, the first Priestess was born, a being of both human and Forest Children lineage, imbued with unimaginable powers and wholly devoted to the Gods who had chosen her, who received personal instruction in the Ancient Knowledge from the Green Men themselves.

Every few centuries, a new "Bride of the Gods" was anointed, her preparation cloaked in utmost secrecy until the moment arrived for her to unveil herself to the world. The precise instant of this fateful selection remained shrouded in myth and legend, passed down through generations as an enigma of the ages.

It had become a myth, a tale of old, as time relentlessly marched forward. Yet, six years prior, during the final throes of the Civil War, the newly anointed Lady of Ravens emerged from the shadows, unveiling her true might before the awestruck onlookers.

Little was known of the fateful night when the Black troops breached the walls of Harrenhal, victorious in their capture of Prince Aemond and his forces. The events that unfolded within those ancient walls were shrouded in secrecy, known only to the commanders and their most trusted men. Nevertheless, even in the distant lands of the North, where the people anxiously awaited the return of their Lady of Ravens, whispers of the incident began to spread like wildfire.

One such whisper reached the ears of Froggy Fenn through a fish merchant from Riverrun.

The news that the Sacred Priestess had been chosen and was now in the Riverlands compelled him to abandon everything and journey south to Harrenhal. Intrigued by the tale that had captured the old man's imagination, the patrons of the tavern, now inebriated and eager for entertainment, implored Froggy Fenn to share the story with them.

"Attend closely, for I have heard a tale that will send shivers down your spine," Froggy Fenn began, his voice low and commanding, drawing the rapt attention of all who had gathered in the dimly lit tavern.

"According to the few fortunate souls who bore witness to the retaking of Harrenhal on that fateful night, after the Battle Above the Gods Eye, the Blacks, upon learning that the Prince's mistress still drew breath, sought to capture her and deliver her to the executioner's block. But just as they moved to seize her, Lord Harwin Strong, a man of formidable stature, stepped forth to shield the woman, revealing to all that she was none other than his own sister, innocent of any treachery."

A voice laced with skepticism and distrust rose from the crowd, challenging the old man's words.

"How can this be, old man? Was she not present when the One-Eyed brat seized our castle? Did she not aid him in the burning of our homes and the torment of our friends? Did she not willingly spread her legs for him?"

The accusations hung heavy in the air, difficult to refute, and a chorus of voices rose in agreement, lending support to the skeptic's claims. But the Northman, undeterred, silenced them all with a single, chilling statement.

"You speak true, my friend. She did commit those acts, and her brother did not deny it. But he claimed, he swore, that it was all a ruse, a twisted game orchestrated by his sister to ensnare the cruel prince in her web, so that she might destroy him when the time was ripe. The Lady, you see, was not just a pawn, but a spy, conspiring with her brother to bring the Greens to their knees from within."

The revelation hung in the air, leaving the entire tavern gasping in disbelief. "Yes! It is the truth! These two siblings, bound by blood and vengeance, conspired together to avenge their father, the long-dead Lyonel Strong, who we now know was slain by the Greens!"

A voice, filled with incredulity, rose from the crowd. "And did the Lords believe this madness?"

"No, they did not," Froggy Fenn replied, his voice dripping with intrigue. "And that is where the true tale begins. Many Lords, doubting Harwin Strong's words, sought to apprehend his sister by force. But before they could lay a hand on her, an unseen power took hold of Alys Rivers, causing her to grow larger and larger, while the very elements of nature seemed to respond to her command. Her voice changed, as if possessed by a divine entity, and the halls of Harrenhal itself trembled in awe."

The tavern fell silent, the patrons on the edge of their seats, captivated by the continuation of the extraordinary tale.

"In that moment, the woman known as Alys Rivers revealed herself as the Lady of Ravens, the Priestess of the Sacred Isle. She stood before the Lords of the Riverlands and their men, a figure of both dread and awe, defying their beliefs and leaving them frozen with fear."

A roar of excited and stunned voices erupted in the room, and the patrons of the tavern huddled closer to the Northman, their eyes wide with anticipation and trepidation.

"Among those who rose to defend Alys Rivers, as soon as she revealed her true identity, were Samwell and Alysanne Blackwood, steadfast in their loyalty to the Lady of Ravens," the Northman revealed, his voice tinged with a deep admiration for the Blackwoods. "Their ancestral ties intertwined their fates with that of the Lady herself, as all well know."

A murmur of approval swept through the faithful followers of the Old Gods, for they were well aware of the unyielding bond between House Blackwood and the Gods of the Forest, the only family south of the Neck who had not forsaken their ancient beliefs for the Faith of the Seven.

"The Black troops, torn between their desire to exact vengeance upon the wife of the man who had brought terror to their lands, and their sacred duty to protect a Priestess of the Old Gods, found themselves divided," the man continued, his voice filled with tension. "Discord festered within their ranks, threatening to unravel their unity, until the arrival of Prince Daemon himself silenced their quarrels."

"But I have heard whispers that it was not the prince who brought an end to the dispute," a young woman interjected, her voice barely above a whisper, drawing the listeners in closer, eager for more.

"You speak true, my dear," Froggy Fenn replied, a smile playing upon his lips. "It was none other than Alysanne Blackwood herself, a woman unyielding in the face of the prince's formidable power, who rose to defend our Lady and spared no effort to protect her and the life she carried within. Her devotion to the Lady of Ravens burned with a ferocity that even dared to threaten the mighty Tullys and their forces, sending a dire warning to Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North, about their unholy intentions."

The tavern fell silent once more, the weight of Alysanne's actions hanging heavy in the air, mingling with the awe and wonder that permeated the room.

"And so those threatring words, dripping with conviction, started to reverberate through the cavernous Great Hall of Harrenhal," the man's voice echoed with a sinister undertone. "Amidst the frozen silence, a chilling truth hung heavy in the air – the fear for North's fury had been awakened!"

The listeners exchanged uneasy glances, their minds grappling with the weight of the impending storm.

"Everybody there were very aware how the Starks and their men were ferreal in their worship of the Old Gods and so they immediately understood the wrath that would befall those who dared threaten their sacred priestess," the man whispered, his voice laced with caution. "Alysanne Blackwood knew this all too well. She knew that her defiance of Prince Daemon and her treacherous words would ignite a bloody war, with the North at its helm."

A low murmur swept through the tavern, whispers of fear and trepidation intermingling with the smoke-filled air.

"Even Daemon Targaryen, faced with the prospect of twenty thousand warriors from the North, had no choice but to desist in his plans of personal revenge," the man concluded, his voice a mix of awe and resignation. "The sweet vegenance on his nephew, whom he had so ardently desired, slid through his fingers, taken away by Black Aly and the hands of fate. But the woman paid her courage at a heavy price, for her punishment was as swift as it was severe: for her who had dared to defy the will of the dragon, she was banished from King’s Landing and prevented from celebrating the long-awaited victory that she, with so much blood, sweat and tears, he had conquered. ."

The crowd leaned in, captivated by the storyteller's words, their eyes fixed upon him in rapt attention, while others were burning with indignation at what had happened to their beloved Alysanne Blackwood.

"I know, some may see this as a harsh and unjust treatment from the Prince Consort," the man acknowledged, his voice tinged with sympathy. "Especially for a skilled warrior like Lady Alysanne, who had fought valiantly in the war. However, we must consider Prince Daemon's perspective. Lady Blackwood not only defied him openly but also threatened to plunge the realm into chaos. As the General of the Blacks, he had no choice but to mete out punishment."

As the man's words slithered into their minds, the grumbles of discontent were swallowed by the shadows of understanding. But the tale was far from over, for Froggy Frenn, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, interjected with a mischievous grin.

"Fear not, for our brave Lady's journey continues," he declared. "Whispers abound that Alys Rivers, touched by the woman's unwavering devotion, bestowed upon her a gift - a bow and arrows crafted from the sacred Weirwoods of the Isle of Faces. Forged by the enigmatic Green Men, these weapons befit a warrior of unmatched valor!"

The tavern erupted in a symphony of gasps and hushed whispers, the crowd now ensnared by the promise of Alysanne Blackwood's unyielding path. The tale had taken an unexpected turn, weaving a tapestry of intrigue and redemption, leaving the listeners ravenous for more.

"In the weeks that followed the defeat of the Greens in the Battle above the Gods Eye and the subsequent seizure of King's Landing by the Blacks, great events unfolded in the dark heart of Harrenhal," the old man proclaimed, casting the entire tavern into a feverish frenzy.

"Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, still in the Neck, heard the news decided to return to Winterfell" he continued. "But fate, it seemed, had other designs for him."

"Designs?" a young girl with eyes brimming with excitement piped up. "What designs?"

"One fateful night, as Cregan slumbered in his tent, poised to depart for Winterfell, a vision invaded his dreams," Froggy Frenn revealed, his voice dripping with intrigue. "A raven-haired enchantress appeared, her eyes shimmering with a mysterious allure. 'Come to the shores of the Gods Eye,' she beckoned, her voice a seductive whisper. 'There, you shall meet the woman the gods have chosen to be your future wife’ .

When Cregan awoke, the vision clung to his mind, its call echoing through his veins.

Within the hallowed walls of Harrenhal Castle, Cregan finally encountered Alysanne Blackwood. She stood before him, a vision of captivating beauty, and in that moment, he knew his search had reached its zenith. The Lady of Ravens had foreseen his arrival, and Alysanne perceived it as a sign of their shared destiny.”

Intrigued and consumed by a sense of destiny, he set forth to Harrenhal, where the raven-haired enchantress awaited.

Gasps of astonishment resounded throughout the tavern, as the tale took an unexpected twist.

"Well...the rest, my friends, is history," the old man continued, his voice laced with a hint of reverence. "Alysanne Blackwood, her name now echoes not only through these lands where she was born and raised but also in the far North, where she reigns as Lady of Winterfell, wedded to the mighty Cregan Stark. Their love, renowned throughout the realm, is a tale oft told.

However very few are aware that their wedding ceremony, did not unfold in the grandeur of a lord's hall, but it transpired within the sacred Godswood of Harrenhal, in the presence of a colossal Weirwood. The Lady of Ravens herself, an enigmatic figure, officiated the union and bestowed her blessing upon the couple.”

The tavern collectively gasped in astonishment, for this revelation lent new depths of meaning to the well-known love story between the Warden of the North and his Lady wife. The romance they shared now bore the imprint of a mystical bond, enchanting hearts far and wide.

"The proud Blackwoods, forever honoring their Priestess and her connection to Harrenhal, continue to make pilgrimage to the castle each year, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who has become a legend," the old man continued. "Even the valiant Alysanne, now Stark, pays homage to her Lady protector. When her first daughter was born, a year after the war's end, she named her Alys, in honor of her cherished Lady."

"Beautiful tale, old man," remarked one of the skeptics with a perpetual sardonic grin, his disbelief etched upon his face. "Almost moving, if it weren't for the fact that it's all hogwash! That witch may have fooled the gullible with her tricks, but we, with nerves of steel, aren't so easily duped! Alys Rivers is nothing but a sorceress, and I care not if my tongue pays the price!"

The room fell into a hushed stillness, the weight of those words hanging heavy in the air and stealing the voices of all who heard them.

The man, undeterred by the stunned silence and maybe annoyed by the looks of blame that some of his friends were casting on him, wasted no time in waiting for the wrath of the tavern mistress to descend upon him. Instead, he chose to depart of his own accord, his steps echoing with a resolute determination.

Even Froggy Frenn, known for his boisterous nature, remained uncharacteristically quiet. He knew that the outburst was not aimed at him, but rather at the lingering memories of those dreadful months of war. Despite the passage of six years and the illusion of peace, it was clear that some wounds ran too deep to be forgotten or healed.

Jesser, too, found himself gripped by silence in the face of the man's outburst. He understood the source of his rage and could not bring himself to contradict him.

However, - because of what he had witnessed firsthand the enchanting aura that surrounded the infamous Alys Rivers – the young emissarywas sure that the stories told by Froggy Fenn, albeit very imaginative, were far from being mere lies. The encounter had left an indelible mark on his soul, challenging his perception of reality and blurring the line between truth and deception.

In a land as vast and treacherous as Harrenhal, Jesser could not dismiss the possibility that the woman he had conversed with that fateful morning was more than a mere charlatan. He believed that she possessed a divine presence, a force that defied explanation and evoked a sense of wonder and fear within him.

Driven by his unwavering faith in the enigmatic Alys, Jesser embarked on a quest for answers.

With old Fenn's departure, who retreated to the solace of his home, the young emissary seeking out anyone who could shed light on the mysterious origins of the woman who had ignited his fantasies. He yearned for confirmation, a glimmer of truth that would validate his belief in the divine presence that had graced his path that day.

After countless hours spent in the dimly lit tavern, drowning his confusion in an endless stream of ale, the young man found himself entangled in a web of contradictory tales about the enigmatic Alys Rivers. Each patron, fueled by liquid courage, spun their own version of her existence, leaving him more bewildered than ever before. It was a maddening game of truth and deception, where even the most discerning minds were left doubting their own judgment.

Yet amidst the chaos of rumors and whispers, one thing remained certain: Alys Rivers was no ordinary woman. She was a figure shrouded in magic, her powers extending far beyond the realm of mere love potions. The air crackled with an undeniable mystique whenever her name was uttered, as if the very fabric of reality trembled in her presence.

But separating truth from illusion proved to be an arduous task. The lines blurred between those who genuinely believed her to be a witch or a priestess and those who harbored ulterior motives. Few had the privilege of meeting her before the ravages of the Civil War, and fewer still possessed intimate knowledge of her youth. It seemed as though the sands of time had swallowed the witnesses, leaving behind only whispers and faded memories.

Yet, within the crowded confines of the tavern, two weathered souls stood apart from the rest. Jop and Weel Reyd, brothers well into their twilight years, were the only ones who could claim a connection to Alys Rivers in her prime. As the innkeeper's husband recounted, the siblings had served as stable boys in the grand Harrenhal Castle during their youth. They had witnessed the rise and fall of Lyonel Strong's father, Lord Harmen, and continued to toil under the new lord until fate called him to King's Landing.

Their wrinkled faces held the secrets of a bygone era, their memories etched with the weight of time. In their hands lay the potential to unravel the enigma that was Alys Rivers.

Upon hearing of their connection to Alys, Jesser's interest piqued, and he quickly befriended the brothers, offering them beer and dinner in exchange for their knowledge. It didn't take long for the mouthwatering aroma of roast chicken to loosen their tongues and prompt them to speak.

"Listen, boy," Jop began, placing a weathered hand on Jesser's shoulder, "That woman may be beautiful and graceful, but she is far from an unblemished maiden."

Weel, his brother, nodded in agreement, gulping down a pint of beer before continuing, "We saw her grow into a woman with our own eyes. And what a woman she became!" A wide smile revealed the gaps in his teeth, remnants of years gone by.

"We were there when Lyonel Strong, her father, returned to Harrenhal with her in his arms," Weel reminisced, his words laced with the weight of time. "I can swear on our dear mother's grave that this was at least fifty years ago."

Jesser's eyes widened at the revelation. Fifty years ago? That meant the beautiful young woman he had encountered that morning was older than his own mother. Shock momentarily consumed him, but he quickly composed himself. If their words held true, then it confirmed that Lyonel Strong was indeed Alys Rivers' father.

Jop leaned in, his voice filled with reminiscence, "I still remember old Lord Harmen's face when he discovered that his son, fresh out of the Citadel, had not only impregnated a mysterious woman but had also brought his bastard daughter to the castle. It caused quite a scandal."

Curiosity burned within Jesser, and he couldn't help but inquire further. "And the mother? Does anyone know who she was?"

The brothers exchanged knowing glances. "No one ever truly knew who this phantom maiden was," Jop replied. "Lord Harmen tried to extract the truth from his son, but Lyonel remained tight-lipped. Even after Lord Harmen's passing, Lyonel never revealed the identity of the woman he had become a man with. To this day, it remains a mystery whether she was a noblewoman or a peasant girl."

Jesser's curiosity grew stronger, his mind eager to uncover the truth. "Surely, someone has come forward to claim the child? A woman who seeks riches by pretending to be the mother, or perhaps someone who boasts of proximity to High Heart when Lyonel Strong paid a visit?" he inquired, his voice filled with anticipation.

Weel's weathered hand slammed down on the worn wooden table, frustration etched on his face.

"Oh, indeed! Once Lyonel had made himself the lord of Harrenhal, a swarm of opportunists, merchants, and bards descended upon us like vultures, each claiming to know the true lineage of Lyonel Strong's bastard mother!"

Jop waved his arms dismissively, his skepticism evident in his voice. "Each one spun more fantastical tales than the last, declaring that the renowned girl was their sister, cousin, or niece. One audacious soul even had the gall to swear that she had been his wife, who had betrayed him with the Lord!"

"And the Lord himself?" Jesser inquired, his curiosity piqued. "What was his response to these... allegations?"

"He did the only sensible thing in such situations," Weel replied. "He denied the claims and threatened to silence those deceitful charlatans by cutting out their tongues should they persist in spreading their lies."

"But, young man, those were not the most absurd tales," Jop interjected, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "The truly interesting ones began to emerge a few years later, when the girl had blossomed into a woman and began to display... let's say, unusual talents."

At the mention of these mysterious abilities, Jesser's ears perked up like a startled rabbit, urging the elderly brothers to continue their tale.

"You wouldn't know, lad, being an outsider," Weel began, adopting the condescending tone one might use with an ignorant child. "High Heart is not like any other place. Legends speak of this hill and the surrounding forest as a dwelling for magical creatures and devilish beings. Ancient entities, older than humanity itself."

"Beings like the Children of the Forest?" Jesser ventured, quoting the knowledge he had gleaned from the tales of Froggy Fenn, attempting to project an air of enlightenment beyond his years.

The two brothers looked at him, stunned yet pleased, as if they found it commendable that this sophisticated young man, hailing mostly from the capital, possessed knowledge of their homeland's stories.

"You hit the mark, boy," Jop exclaimed, patting Jesser's shoulder approvingly. "Many began to believe, and spread the rumor, that young Alys' peculiar behavior was a result of her mother being a woodland witch, and that her extraordinary powers were inherited from her. Some even insinuated that the phantom witch had enchanted the resolute Lyonel Strong, clouding his judgment and leading him to conceive a child with her."

"Others, as you mentioned," Weel added, "went to extremes, speculating that the woman in question wasn't even human, but rather one of the few remaining Children of the Forest who still lingered on those slopes. They believed that the hill, once deemed sacred by these ancient beings before the arrival of the First Men, held a profound connection to her."

Jesser's heart trembled with excitement at this unexpected revelation. "If this were true," he began, his voice barely containing his anticipation, "then it is possible that Alys Rivers truly is the Holy Priestess of the Isle of Faces, isn't it? Perhaps she is not merely a witch..."

A wry smile crept onto Jop's lips as he remarked, "Ah, it seems old Froggy Fenn's tales have left their mark on you.”.

At this comment Jesser face went red for the embarrassment, however he didn’t denied it.

"Her mother's identity remains shrouded in mystery," Weel began, his voice dripping with intrigue. "Yet, what we do know is that Alys Rivers' mother was the forbidden love of the late Lord Lyonel Strong."

Jesser, skeptical yet enthralled, inquired, "And how can you be so sure?"

Weel leaned in, his eyes gleaming with the weight of long-held secrets. "The esteemed Hand of the King, Lord Lyonel Strong, may have been a stoic and grizzled figure in his later years, but in his youth, he possessed a charm and allure that rivaled his son Harwin's. It was evident to all who beheld him that he carried the memory of that woman in his heart until his dying breath. And he showered his daughter, the fruit of their forbidden love, with an affection that knew no bounds."

Jop nodded knowingly. "Indeed, from the moment little Alys Rivers was brought to the ancient halls of Harrenhal, her father lavished her with love and devotion. A love that persisted even after his firstborn son, the renowned Harwin Strong, was born from his marriage to Lady Careleen Smallwood, who tragically perished in childbirth."

The brothers exchanged a knowing glance before Weel continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Unfortunately, not all within the castle walls appreciated the presence of this singular maiden, nor the care her father bestowed upon her. Throughout the passing decades and subsequent marriages, Lyonel Strong faced relentless pressure from his wives to banish the bastard girl, whose very existence was an unpardonable affront to their delicate sensibilities."

Jesser's curiosity deepened, his gaze fixed on Weel. "Why did they despise her so? Did she possess some...peculiar power?"

Weel reclined, his eyes distant as he recounted the tales. "In truth, even as a mere child, Alys Rivers exuded an enigmatic aura that hinted at her otherworldly gifts. The women who served within Harrenhal at that time whispered of her prophetic visions, visions that defied the boundaries of reality."

Jop nodded with reverence. "According to these women, who bore witness to the event, it was young Alys, a mere five years old, who foretold to Lady Corenna Butterwell, Lord Lyonel's second wife, that her unborn child would be born crippled. The woman, consumed by rage, lashed out and struck the innocent girl, causing her to crumple to the floor in tears."

Jesser's eyes widened in disbelief. "And what came of it all?"

Weel sighed, his voice heavy with regret. "When Lady Corenna's husband learned of the incident, he, to the astonishment of all, chastised his wife rather than their daughter. This only further enraged the woman. Tragically, Alys's prophecy came to pass, and Lord Lyonel's second son, Larys Strong, was born with a crippling affliction."

Jesser was stunned by this revelation. The name Larys Strong, the former Master of Whisperers who aligned with the Greens during the Civil War, was known throughout Westeros. But he had never fathomed the tragedy behind his birth.

"Lady Corenna Butterwell never recovered from the shock, blaming her stepdaughter as if she were the architect of her son's misfortune," the old man continued. "Yet, Lyonel Strong, a man known for his reason and understanding, refused to allow his wife's wrath to be unleashed upon young Alys. He remained resolute in his decision to raise her within the castle walls alongside her two half-brothers, rather than casting her aside as Lady Corenna desired."

"And perhaps," added the other brother, "it was this final blow that shattered their fragile bond, preventing them from bearing any more children together."

The revelation left Jesser reeling. He had known of Larys Strong's existence, but the depths of his tragic origin had remained hidden from him.

"Alas," Weel lamented, his voice taking on a somber and mournful tone, "that steadfastness did falter with his third wife."

Jesser leaned in, his curiosity piqued, and asked in a voice filled with intrigue, "And who was this woman?"

"Lady Emphyria Vence," Weel revealed, a touch of bitterness seeping into his words. "That woman not only hailed from a much higher and more influential family than her husband, but she possessed an ethereal beauty that could turn the heads of even the most steadfast men. Among all of Lyonel Strong's wives, she was the youngest, but also the most dangerous. Unlike Lady Corenna, whose blind pride led to her downfall, Lady Emphyria was a woman of cunning and deceit, well-versed in the art of patience."

Jesser's eyes widened, a sense of foreboding settling over him, as he asked, "And what did she do exactly?"

Weel's voice dropped to a hushed tone, filled with disdain, as he explained, "Knowing the significance of the child to her husband, Lady Emphyria moved with caution, biding her time. Over the years, she planted seeds of doubt in Lord Lyonel's mind, suggesting that it was unfitting to raise an illegitimate daughter in such a manner."

Jesser shook his head, struggling to comprehend the depths of Lady Emphyria's manipulation, and asked, "And Lord Lyonel listened to her?"

Weel's eyes narrowed, his voice laced with contempt, as he replied, "She put forth seemingly reasonable options, disguising her true intentions with a veneer of motherly love. She proposed that, for Alys's sake, it would be more fitting to find a role befitting her station, away from prying eyes."

Jesser's fists clenched, anger bubbling within him, as he exclaimed, "So she tried to pass her wicked intentions as maternal love?"

Weel nodded solemnly, a grim expression on his face, and continued in a voice heavy with sorrow, "This perverse game unfolded gradually. As the years wore on, Lady Emphyria's plan came to fruition. She convinced her husband to relegate young Alys to the shadows, shielding her from the courtly life, hidden from the prying gaze."

Jesser's eyes narrowed, a fire burning in his gaze, as he demanded, his voice filled with determination, "And what became of Alys?"

Weel's voice took on a somber tone as he revealed, his words dripping with bitterness, "As soon as she turned sixteen, the stepmother confined her to the kitchens, reducing her to serving as a high-ranking servant rather than the daughter of a lord."

Jesser's fists tightened, his voice filled with anger, as he spat, "How could Lady Emphyria be so cruel?"

"You're right, lad," said one of the brothers, his voice filled with agreement. "What Lady Strong did to her stepdaughter was cruel indeed, but if you think of her position, her actions are somewhat understandable. After all, she birthed two legitimate daughters, and the presence of the beautiful Alys risked overshadowing the two young girls."

"Even if this was the reason, it doesn't make what she did any less cruel," Jesser stated firmly, his voice filled with contempt. As a bastard son himself, he couldn't help but side with Alys Rivers.

Weel's eyes met Jesser's, a glimmer of admiration shining through, as he said, his voice filled with a mix of admiration and frustration, "Don't worry. Despite being forced into the role of a scullery maid, the young girl, blossoming into her beauty, defied Lady Emphyria's expectations. She continued to present herself as the lady of the castle, refusing to bow to her stepmother'"

Jesser's eyes widened, a sense of awe washing over him, as he asked, his voice filled with admiration, "She dared to challenge Lady Emphyria's authority?"

Weel nodded, a proud smile tugging at his lips, as he confirmed, "Indeed. Even the courtiers of Harrenhal, oblivious to her humble attire, treated her with deference, as if she were a noblewoman in her own right."

"In truth," began Jop, his voice dripping with darkness, "Lady Emphyria, her noble blood boiling with pride, couldn't bear the thought of remaining silent in the face of such a prospect. She categorically refused to allow her husband to dishonor their family and their two precious daughters before the entire royal court."

Jop's brother, his eyes filled with fear as he recalled the memory of that fateful argument, interjected, "I still remember her exact words. She said something along the lines of, 'I will not allow you to bring shame upon our name and subject our daughters to ridicule. It is one thing to keep the evidence of my youthful indiscretions hidden within these castle walls, but to display it for all of Westeros to witness? No, I will not allow it!'"

"What? She actually said that?" Jesser exclaimed, completely taken aback by what he was hearing.

"Oh, she most certainly did," confirmed Weel. "However, at the time, some doubted the validity of her excuse. They believed Lady Emphyria's reluctance to include her young stepdaughter in their journey stemmed from something far more sinister, something darker."

"What do you mean?" Jesser asked, his confusion evident in his voice.

The two brothers fell into a contemplative silence, weighing the decision of whether to share a particular piece of information with the young man. Eventually, Jop took a deep breath and began, his voice now hushed as if fearing eavesdroppers, "Listen, lad, what we're about to tell you must remain between us, understood?"

Jesser nodded, his confusion deepening.

"Nothing we're about to reveal has ever been proven, but..." Weel paused, choosing his words carefully, "there were strange rumors circulating about Alys Rivers before the Strong family departed for King's Landing. By that time, she was already a married woman, but these rumors hinted at a peculiar type of... affection her two half-brothers harbored for her."

Jesser's confusion transformed into utter bewilderment, struggling to comprehend the implications of such a statement.

“To put it plainly," Jop continued, attempting to provide clarity, "these rumors, without concrete evidence, suggested that Harwin and Larys Strong had become infatuated with their eldest half-sister. And Alys, it seemed, did nothing to dissuade them from these impure feelings, the kind that should not exist between siblings, unless they were Targaryens."

"What?!" Jesser exclaimed, his shock palpable. "This... this is madness! A sister and... a brother!"

"We understand your disbelief, boy," Weel reassured him, "but remember, these are mere rumors, nothing more."

"And what do these... rumors have to do with Lady Emphyria?" Jesser asked, attempting to steady his racing thoughts.

"Well, it appears that Lady Emphyria took these rumors quite seriously," the old man explained, trying to make sense of the madness. "As soon as she heard of them, she took drastic precautions to prevent a scandal from engulfing House Strong. This could explain her vehement opposition to bringing her stepdaughter with them to King's Landing."

"Some even suggest that the beginning of the feud between the Strong brothers can be traced back to those years," Weel interjected. "They claim, without any substantiated evidence, that it was the fight for Alys' affection, not the title of Lord of Harrenhal, that ignited the enmity between Harwin and Larys."

"And some even insinuate that Larys Strong's refusal to marry stemmed from his 'unrequited love' for his half-sister, rather than his well-known inability to connect with women," added Jop, his skepticism apparent. "The girl, if you recall Weel , never made a secret of favoring her other brother over Clubfoot, a fact that drove him into madness..”

The rumors of forbidden desires and twisted family ties seemed to seep into the very stones of Harrenhal, darkening its already ominous halls.

As the young emissary grappled with the implications of such sinister secrets, he couldn’t help himself from going back with his mind to another tale he had heard years ago.

It was a story whispered by an elderly guard who had served during the Civil War, a man who had witnessed the castle's hidden intrigues firsthand.

This particular story seemed to align with the village elders' portrait of the late Clubfoot's childhood, a stark contrast to the calculating politician known to all.

Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, was renowned for his unwavering control, a man who concealed his emotions with practiced ease. His reputation for deception and secrecy was well-deserved, leaving nothing to chance. Yet, during the final months of the Civil War, a crack appeared in his facade. The guard recounted how Larys had learned of Prince Aemond's secret marriage to Alys Rivers, with whom it was rumored to be expecting a child with. The normally composed Master of Whispers at hearing the woman’s name had erupted in a fit of rage, cursing the her name with a violence that required two guards to restrain him.

At the time, the guard had attributed Larys' anger to the prince's foolishness, that in the following day would have caused Lord Borros Baratheon’s betrayal and the end of their chances of victory.

But now, armed with the whispers of the taverns, Jesser couldn't help but view the story through a different lens: the rumors of Larys' supposed unrequited love for Alys Rivers cast a new light on his outburst. Perhaps it wasn't just political frustration that fueled his rage, but a personal betrayal by the woman he had always loved.

Yet, as quickly as these thoughts took hold, Jesser pushed them away, admonishing himself for entertaining such scandalous notions. Surely, the village gossip was nothing more than the wild imaginings of idle minds, a creation of bored peasants and drunken old men seeking to uncover the hidden lives of their lords.

Even the seasoned Jop and Weel admitted that after so many years, it was difficult to discern the truth behind the rumors that had plagued Larys Strong. Were they the twisted fantasies of a delusional servant girl, or did they hold a kernel of truth, a dark secret hidden behind the walls of Harrenhal?

Jesser, perplexed and torn between belief and skepticism, sought answers. "And what did Lyone Strong, may the gods rest his soul, do when he heard these... rumors?" he inquired, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Did he lend credence to such insinuations?"

Weel shook his head. "Not at all," he replied, his voice heavy with memories. "But if my memory serves me right, when these whispers first emerged, our Lord was away from the castle. By the time he returned, the rumors had already dissipated into thin air. There's a chance he never even heard of them."

"But in the end, he acquiesced to his wife's desires, didn't he?" Jesser persisted, his curiosity unyielding. "He left Harrenhal for King's Landing, leaving his daughter behind."

Jop's eyes clouded with sorrow. "Yes, he did," he confirmed, his voice tinged with melancholy.

"I remember that day vividly. Our Lord cast one last longing gaze at his daughter's window, hoping against hope for a glimpse of her. Alas, she did not appear, and the family departed without bidding her farewell."

"But if I recall correctly," interjected Weel, breaking the somber silence, "it was the girl herself who refused to accompany them to the capital. From what I gathered, she had no desire to leave the sanctuary of Harrenhal."

Shocked, Jesser couldn't fathom such a decision. "Why would she do that?" he exclaimed, his voice betraying his disbelief.

The old man sighed, his voice filled with understanding.

"Think about it," he began, his words heavy with wisdom. "Here, at Harrenhal, she was the daughter of the Lord, respected and feared by all. But in King's Landing, she would have been reduced to a mere pawn, a nobody at the mercy of the treacherous court."

"But she could have had a better life, a brighter future," Jesser argued, his own ambitions and dreams coloring his perspective. As someone who once lived in a tiny village himself, the young man found it hard to fathom why Alys Rivers would choose to remain in a place like Harrenhal instead of venturing to the exhilarating realm of King's Landing.

Jop's voice turned grave. "Her stepmother would never have allowed it," he replied, his words dripping with disdain. "Emphyria Vence knew how to navigate the treacherous waters of the court, and she would have relished in making Alys's life a living hell. She would have used her influence to marginalize the poor girl, leaving her at the mercy of the vipers that slithered through the capital."

Jesser was left speechless, his own experiences within the royal palace resonating with the tale. He, as a bastard himself, knew all too well what it meant to be judged and treated differently because of his birth. Yet, none of his own family, not even the legal wife of his father, had treated him as harshly as Lady Emphyria Vence had treated Alys Rivers.

Seeking solace in the wisdom of the older men before him, Jesser posed his final question.

"And what say you, lads?" Jesser inquired, his gaze piercing theirs. "Do you lend any credence to these rumors?"

At that moment, Jop and Weel exchanged a knowing look, laden with unspoken truths and hidden thoughts.

"We watched those three youngsters grow up, Alys Rivers and the two young lords, Harwin and Larys," Jop began, his voice deep and weighty, signaling the importance of his forthcoming revelation.

"They were always seen together, her in the middle with the two boys flanking her, trailing after her like eager pups."

"But that doesn't mean there was anything more to it," Weel interjected, quick to clarify. "Sure, the brothers often vied for her attention, as brothers are wont to do. But that's all it was... or so it seemed."

"What do you mean? Jesser pressed, his curiosity ablaze.

"I cannot vouch for Lord Harwin's sentiments, but Larys held a festering grudge against his elder brother, one that stretched far beyond his physical infirmity," Weel elucidated, delving into the swirling rumors surrounding Croobfoot.

"However, in all my recollections, that lad has forever dwelled in solitude, shunned by all who, as one might imagine, preferred the company of his more charismatic sibling. Even his own father, though he held affection for the boy, could not help but relegate him to the shadows. Only his elder sister, in her limited capacity, bestowed upon him a modicum of kindness and warmth. Yet, such isolated existence, coupled with the dearth of attention, must have taken its toll on the lad, for his attachment to the girl began to assume a macabre hue. He could not bear to witness her engaging in conversation with other men, particularly Harwin. She was very aware of that and still she never tried to hide how much she loved and cherished her other brother, even in front at the poor Larys"

"Are you suggesting that Alys deliberately pitted the brothers against each other?" Jesser asked, taken aback.

"Perhaps," Jop responded enigmatically. "That woman was always a peculiar sort, delighting in sowing discord wherever she could. It's not unreasonable to think she enjoyed toying with the two brothers."

"In town and castle, some even believed she set the fire that claimed Lord Lyonel's life, and then blamed her crippled brother, all to divide the brothers forever," Weel interjected. "But personally, I find that tale far-fetched. The girl loved her father and would never have dreamt of harming him."

"On the contrary," Jop chimed in, seizing upon his brother's words. "Rumor has it that it was thanks to the woman's prophetic abilities that Harwin escaped the inferno that engulfed the castle sixteen years ago. It was a miracle that our lord had ventured into the village that fateful evening, else who knows what might have befallen him had he been in his chambers."

"Could that be why Lord Strong defended his sister when the Blacks seized Harrenhal?" Jesser pondered aloud, more to himself than to his companions.

"It's highly possible, if not probable," Weel confirmed. "Many other nobles who were found guilty of aiding or sympathizing with the Greens after the Black victory met their demise, their lands seized. Yet for some reason, this fate did not befall Harwin Strong's sister."

"Not only that, thanks to her brother's protection, she was not even brought before the new Queen or subjected to trial. The woman remained confined within the walls of Harrenhal for weeks, under constant guard to shield her from any harm."

"And what of the prince?" Jesser queried. "How is it that he escaped execution?"

"That, lad, remains a mystery even to us," one of the brothers replied. "He may have slipped away or, perchance, his stepsister extended a merciful pardon. All we know for certain is that shortly before Harwin Strong returned to Harrenhal, the woman had vanished from the castle. And when she returned to assist to her brother’s wedding, four months later, the child she had been carrying was gone."

"And what of the locals?" Jesser inquired, his voice a low murmur that carried the weight of curiosity. "How did they react to the news of Alys Rivers' survival?"

Weel, the seasoned informant, leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with secrets. "Many of the folk in these lands, before the greens claimed dominion over the castle, had fled, escaping the horrors that woman had helped unleash. But there were those, the less fortunate souls, who instead assisted to those massacres and because of it couldn't stomach the fact that she, simply because of her connection to a lord, had been spared."

A flicker of anger danced in Jesser's eyes. "And did they voice their discontent? Did they seek justice from Elmo Tully, the Paramount of the Trident?"

Weel's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Oh, they did. They dared to raise their voices, demanding the heads of the prince and his bride, pouring their grievances into the ears of their lord."

Jesser's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. "And what did Lord Tully do? Did he heed their pleas?"

Weel's gaze held a mix of pity and admiration. "Alas, even the mighty Lord of Riverrun knew better than to challenge Harwin Strong. He understood the wrath that would befall anyone who dared to cross swords with the fearsome warrior. You see, boy, despite his jovial nature, Lord Strong commands respect. Back in his youth, they called him Breakbones. A name earned through blood and bone."

A wry smile tugged at Jesser's lips. "I had heard he was a jovial man, amiable and easy-going."

Jop, another elder who had been listening intently, chuckled. "Oh, he is, young emissary. He knows how to win the hearts of his people. But don't mistake his laxity for weakness. Harwin Strong does not tolerate challenges to his judgments, especially when it concerns his kin."

Jesser's voice dripped with sarcasm as he recalled the ignoble fate of Larys Strong. "But that brotherly affection, it wasn't extended to his other sibling, was it?"

The two old men exchanged a knowing glance, their eyes speaking volumes. "No, it wasn't," Jop replied, his voice tinged with a hint of darkness. "When the Clubfoot, captured by the Blacks after being caught trying to flee the city with other noble traitors, had been brought before the Queen and her council, he confessed not only his long-standing alliance with the Greens but also his hand in the fire that claimed his father's life. For that, he was condemned to die."

"Yet," Weel interjected, his tone heavy with the weight of the past, "instead of trying to save his own flesh and blood, as everyone expected, it was Harwin himself who interrogated and tortured him. A was a grim reminder that even family loyalty had its cruel limits."

Jesser absorbed the words, his mind visualizing the scene. "And what of his execution? It is true that it was it was always his brother that executed him?"

A shiver ran down Jop's spine, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and horror. "Indeed, he did. Harwin Strong himself offered to wield the blade that killed Clubfoot. The thud of Larys' head hitting the wooden stage echoed through Harrenhal. They say that, before the final blow, Harwin whispered something in his brother's ear. A secret forever lost."

"It was a spectacle to be remembered," Jop added, his voice filled with a haunting recollection. "No one expected them to take him all the way to Harrenhal for the execution. But when it happened, the whole of Harrentown rejoiced. They forgot, in their jubilation, that Aemond Targaryen, who had committed far greater atrocities, was spared the same fate. Such is the way of the world."

Jesser's eyes widened, his mind reeling with the dark tales of House Strong's inner turmoil. The shadows of Harrenhal seemed to grow deeper, as if the ancient fortress itself held the secrets and the sins of those who dwelled within its walls.

Alas, the tranquility and silence that had settled upon the village lasted but a few short months,"

Jop lamented, his voice dripping with foreboding. "And despite the palpable fear that grips these people, as you have witnessed firsthand, young man, the tongues of this village cannot resist the temptation of gossip."

Jesser's brother nodded in agreement, his face etched with concern. "Indeed," he affirmed. "The peculiar actions of our Lord have only served to ignite the twisted imaginations of certain individuals. Dark tales from the past, once believed to be mere fables, have resurfaced like poisonous mushrooms in the seedy corners of taverns, where our Lord's watchful eyes cannot penetrate."

"And neither can his sword," Jop added, his voice heavy with implication. Jesser couldn't help but glance around the dimly lit tavern, his mind swirling with curiosity.

"What manner of rumors plague these tongues?" the young emissary inquired, though he already possessed a somber inkling of what would be revealed.

Weel, attempting to navigate the treacherous path of his impending discourse, began, "Many a morning, as the women gather by the lake to wash their garments, they have borne witness to Alys Rivers, leaving her secluded island on a raft and venturing to her brother's castle. There, she remains for weeks on end before returning to her abode."

Jesser's heart quickened with anticipation, for he knew where this unsettling narrative was leading.

"This is indeed a curious occurrence," he mused aloud, "especially considering our Lord's purported desire to distance himself from the woman in question. It seems that some of the gossiping women, well-acquainted with the ancient whispers of Harwin Strong's unrequited love for his half-sister, have begun to insinuate that his decision to let Alys Rivers reside within his lands, rather than exile her, was driven by a darker motive. They suggest that he keeps her close, so he may have her in his bed whenever his twisted desires beckon, just as he had fantasized during his youth."

"And not merely to exert control over her husband, as Lord Strong himself has claimed," added the other, his words laced with veiled implications, "a husband who is undoubtedly oblivious to these insidious rumors."

"What?" Jesser exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief. "Does this mean that everyone in this village is aware of Prince Aemond Targaryen's exile on the Isle of Faces?"

Jop's response was swift and resolute. "Of course! While lacking concrete evidence, the people here have long suspected that the queen's half-brother sought refuge on that very island."

Jesser's mind reeled, struggling to fathom the implications. "So, while aware - or at least suspicious - that Alys Rivers resides with her husband, the people believe she betrays him with her own half-brother? But why? I had thought their relationship to be one of forbidden love..."

Old Jop chuckled, his voice tinged with wry amusem*nt. "You, my lad, have been captivated by too many romantic ballads..."

Weel interjected, his tone laced with a hint of mockery. "This village is populated by idle minds, yearning for scandalous tales with dark and prurient plots. Moreover, the castle itself employs maids and servants from neighboring lands, not just Harrenhal, who have borne witness to the atrocities committed by Prince Aemond. It is not difficult to imagine that, fueled by anger rather than boredom, they seek to shame his wife."

Jesser nodded solemnly, his thoughts consumed by the horrors that had befallen the Riverlands. The Crownlands had not endured such brutal sackings, but they were not ignorant of the devastation.

"But if these rumors were merely concocted by the castle's staff," Jesser began cautiously, "then why does Alys Rivers visit her brother so frequently? And why does Lord Strong summon her, despite her status as an exile's wife?"

Jop leaned in, his eyes gleaming with wisdom. "Son, there are reasons. A brother need not indulge in incestuous desires to yearn for the company of his sister, especially if she possesses talents that can aid him."

"You speak of her ability to glimpse the future?" ventured Jesser.

Weel's response was swift. "Not solely that! You may be unaware, but Alys Rivers is renowned for more than her prophetic gifts in these parts. She is an extraordinary midwife! I can attest to this, for it was she who aided my daughter during her first childbirth. I swear upon the gods, old and new, not a single scream escaped my daughter's lips. Her skills are prodigious, and many nobles have sought her assistance in delivering their wives."

Jesser's confusion deepened, his brow furrowing. "But what does this have to do with Harwin Strong?"

The two old men exchanged knowing glances, their eyes brimming with secrets. "Son, our Lord has not only taken three wives in these past six years - a staggering number in such a short span - but he has also fathered numerous children," one of them revealed, his voice heavy with significance. "It is only natural that he entrusts his half-sister with the care of his wives during their pregnancies."

Jesser's mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of this intricate puzzle. "But if Alys Rivers possesses such remarkable skill as a midwife," he began hesitantly, "how is it conceivable that his first two wives met their untimely end?"

Weel scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain for Jesser's ignorance. "Boy, we never claimed they perished during childbirth."

"On the contrary," Jop interjected, "thanks to her, all four of Lord Strong's offspring entered this world hale and hearty, just like their sire, leaving the noblewomen unscathed by the birthing process. The first two wives - Jeyne Mallister and Lynten Piper - met their demise months after giving birth, victims of causes unrelated to their labor."

"What?! Then, if she didn't dispatch those women, from whence does the belief in Alys Rivers being a sorceress and dabbling in the black arts stem?" the young emissary inquired, still nursing a hint of embarrassment from earlier.

"This lad, it is born from peculiar events that unfolded years ago, long before the war," one of the aging elders responded, his voice steeped in darkness.

"What peculiar events?" the other pressed.

"It is whispered that some twenty years past, young maidens hailing from neighboring hamlets, who toiled within the walls of Harrenhal Castle, vanished without a trace, never to be seen again. Some newborn babes also disappeared, the timing of which coincided with Alys Rivers' return to the castle after years spent as a refugee on the Isle of Faces," Weel revealed, his words carrying an eerie weight. "Not only that, people began to observe that this woman, though now well into her thirties, remained untouched by the passage of time! Even I, upon gazing upon her countenance, could scarce believe that she retained the visage of her maidenhood, unaltered by the years!"

"Thus did folk begin to whisper that Alys, who had already cultivated a reputation for her divinatory powers, murdered those young maidens and innocent infants, draining their lifeblood to preserve her perpetual youth," Jop continued, modulating his voice as if weaving a ghostly tale. "Yet, in truth, some of those missing maidens were spotted years later, alive and well, with their progeny having grown alongside them. It is plausible, therefore, that these women sought Alys' aid in terminating unwanted pregnancies, then beseeched her to help them conceal the children's true parentage from their fathers or families. Many others, however, sought her assistance in disposing of already-born bastards, offspring of influential lords or nobles with whom these girls served, conceived under duress."

"But if these women yet live, and their children with them, then how can a woman of her age maintain such a youthful appearance?" poor Jesser queried, his awe and confusion mounting. "Only enchantment can account for such a marvel!"

"You speak true, lad," the two brothers concurred, weariness seeping into their voices after their protracted discourse. "But that answer lies solely within the grasp of Alys Rivers."

The emissary, if given the choice, would have gladly whiled away the entire night regaling the old Jop and Weel with tales of Alys Rivers. Alas, the two brothers, now weathered and somewhat inebriated, opted to bid farewell to the charming stranger who had entertained them and treated them to a meal.

Jesser, too, recognized the weight of exhaustion bearing down upon him. Instead of beckoning for another tankard of ale, he retired to his chamber to seek respite. On the morrow, he and his companion would reunite, setting forth upon the Kingsroad toward the capital. Rest, therefore, was of utmost importance before embarking on such an arduous journey.

Only when he surrendered to the embrace of slumber did Jesser come to realize the weariness that had enveloped him throughout the day. His mind swiftly plunged into a realm of darkness, wherein he found himself ensnared by a dream of Alys Rivers and her emerald eyes.

They stood alone amidst the obsidian night, swallowed whole by swirling mists. Both were adrift in a rowboat, the same vessel that had ferried them to and from the Isle of Faces earlier that morn. Now, it seemed, it guided them toward an unknown destination. Alys Rivers loomed before him, her locks enshrouded in a veil of verdant hue. Clad in the garb of a priestess, she bore a peculiar blue moon upon her brow and a raven perched upon her shoulder. Yet, she paid him no heed, as if his presence went wholly unnoticed.

Suddenly, in the midst of unbroken silence, she rose, stretching her slender arms toward the heavens, a beckoning gesture to summon the moon back to her side. And in an instant, as if by some arcane magic, moonlight pierced through the shroud of fog, cleaving it as though it were naught but a fragile veil. The woman, now bathed in that silvery glow, appeared even more regal than before. Her eyes, now aglow in the night, gleamed like twin emeralds, their brilliance unyielding.

The intensity of that vivid and profound hue etched itself upon Jesser's consciousness, stirring him to the core, wrenching him from his slumber. As his eyes fluttered open, the dawn's light already embraced the world, yet within him, he struggled to grasp the notion that what he had experienced was a mere dream. It felt as though he had not truly slumbered, but rather had been transported to a realm where reality and fantasy intertwined, his presence an actual witness to the events that had unfolded. And for a fleeting moment, he was convinced that this was indeed the truth.

Yet, as much as Jesser cherished the allure of fairy tales and legends, his rational nature sought to anchor him to reality. Perhaps all he had witnessed was naught more than a tapestry woven from the tales he had imbibed the night prior. Yet even that explanation failed to fully appease his questioning mind.

Before departing Harrenhal and the Riverlands for good, alongside his traveling companion, Jesser Waters cast one final gaze upon the vast lake that stretched before him. He strained his eyes, desperate to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic Isle he had ventured to a mere day before. Alas, the fog that shrouded the morning refused to yield, obscuring his view entirely.

Yet his thoughts lingered upon the murky shores and the enigmatic family that dwelled there. Above all, his mind fixated upon the man he had encountered, the one with the patch over his left eye. The mere contemplation of the man's identity and the risks Jesser had taken in their meeting sent shivers of terror cascading down his spine.

Chapter 4: The Reocking of Time

Chapter Text

Aemond I

The Fourth Day of the Second Month, 136 AC

The eastern horizon had just begun to yield to the encroaching dawn when Prince Aemond's right eye stirred from slumber.

Despite the imminent arrival of spring, a chill wind swept through the room, causing a shiver to ripple across his bare torso. Beside him, a child nestled under the blankets protested the abrupt shift in temperature by burrowing deeper and clutching his father, perhaps in search of warmth.

The mattress, modest in size, could scarcely accommodate two bodies comfortably.

He had long racked his brains about the inconceivability of having once owned a bed so large that it occupied a room and a bedroom as wide as the entire small house in which they lived, if not wider; but those thoughts, the more years passed, the more they began to seem like fantasies, than memories, as if that life had never existed.

Aemond harboured no surprise when his questing hand, reaching out to the vacant space on the other side of the bed, encountered cool sheets; a telltale sign that, again, his wife had not shared his sleep that night.

However, after six years of marriage, that was not a surprise to him.

Indeed, more often than not, he found himself alone—or in the company of Baelor – than with his wife.

When, the previous evening, Alys had departed their home, he hadn't deemed it necessary to offer his farewells or inquire about the expected duration of her absence, as her typical return spanned two or three days, though sometimes she would vanish for weeks.

However, her wanderings did not always draw her to the mainland, into the imposing walls of Harrenhal.

Instead, at times, his lady chose the solitude of the island, embracing a rigid contemplation, yearning for her deities to grace her with their presence, or perhaps bestow visions upon her.

In these bouts of what she termed "mystical ecstasy," her concentration was unassailable.

The act of approaching her became nearly impossible, as any touch upon her person was expressly forbidden; Alys's devotion during these times led her to shun, not only connection but even her own flesh and blood, including her own son.

To an extent of self-imposed isolation, sometimes, she would venture for days to the "Hill of the Gods”, situated at the island's summit, the most secluded point to be found, where at its top was situated the "Great Tree," a Weirwood of unparalleled size and age, surrounded by an array of stone monoliths, positioned in an extensive spiral formation, that was believed to be the closest point on the known world where to talk to the Gods.

In a pursuit to facilitate this contact, it was not uncommon that his lady refrained from consuming any meat, sustaining herself on plants and herbs exclusively for weeks on end.

Even water appeared to be off-limits to her, and its consumption was deemed acceptable only if it originated from the Sacred Spring, a mystical stream concealed in the southernmost regions of the island, inhabited by the enigmatic Green Men.

These ethereal entities, embodying both humanity and the enigmatic Children of the Forest, whose existence spanned millennia, were also the only ones to possess the power to craft Doom Mist, a thick substance derived from the sap and seeds of the Weirwoods and according to Alys, its magical proprietary was so powerful, that whoever assumed it could be able to insight into the future, the present, and the past and potentially forge a link to the realm of the deceased.

Nonetheless, only a select few, the initiates of the "Ancient Knowledge" who possessed the necessary preparation to harness such power, could partake in this odyssey of the senses and survive to share their experiences. For others, like him and other ordinary mortals, coming into contact with this mysterious elixir might have driven them to madness or ensnared them between the realms, a torment that would lead to a protracted and agonizing demise.

For this very reason, the prince had never encountered or witnessed these “manifestations” firsthand, becoming aware of such information about these mystical events through his lady's descriptions, who never wasted the occasion to lecture him about her powers and what she could with them.

Indeed, upon each of his returns, Alys, who had spent weeks treating him coldly and with condescension, would undergo a remarkable transformation, as if she were a different person entirely.

She would inexplicably become talkative and, most importantly, receptive to his caresses, allowing herself to be touched after days of detachment, managing, almost disarmingly effortlessly, to make him forget the resentment he harboured towards her, softening him with kisses and affectionate caresses, as if he was some kind of wounded dog.

In fact, despite his strong aversion to the peculiar behaviours and habits of this strange woman, it took very little to calm Aemond's spirit, a realization that did not sit well with him, and for what he berated himself for this perceived weakness.

Once, he said to himself, such a thing would have been inconceivable; if anyone had dared to disregard or even show disrespect to him, he would have made them taste the edge of his sword or worse.

But that was no longer possible, especially with Alys.

From the very first moment his gaze fell upon her, a decade or more in the past, Aemond knew that Alys Rivers was no ordinary woman.

She possessed a certain wildness, a feral allure that set her apart from the women he had known before.

It was as though she hailed from another world, a world brimming with forbidden knowledge and secrets.

Her gaze, intense and hypnotic, captured him that fateful night at Harrenhal, filled with a hunger and desire that ensnared his very soul. No other woman, be she noble or common, had ever looked at him in such a way.

However, the reality was that even before meeting Alys, he had shown very little interest in women beyond their physical attributes, finding them lacking in intelligence or moral substance to hold his attention.

To him, they were useless creatures, good only to make children and nothing more; in fact, their existence, in his eyes, was more a danger than an asset, as he had witnessed firsthand what desire could do to a man's mind. His brother Aegon was living proof of this, as he mostly made a fool of himself chasing after maids and serving girls, impregnating them and sowing bastards throughout the realm. Not to mention his uncle Daemon, an old fool reduced to being a doormat for his degenerate sister Rhaenyra, whose moral fiber could only be compared to the lowest-class strumpet. No, for Aemond, women were not to be courted but avoided as much as possible.

Of course, one day he would marry and have children, but his wife would be the epitome of righteousness, and he would only feel a faint tolerance for her. They would certainly share a marital bed when necessary or when he felt the need, but he had no intention of harboring any wild desire for her. However, he was certain of one thing: he would never betray her, especially not with some harlot, risking the birth of bastards. A true man, he always told himself, is not blinded by carnal desires, and above all, he does everything to maintain a certain level of dignity.

Yet, those verdant eyes, so unnatural in their emerald hue and so intense in their allure, had the power to steal his breath away with a single glance.

That seemingly casual and harmless look exchanged in a fleeting moment marked the beginning of a tumultuous journey that would forever alter the course of his life.

Suddenly, Aemond's thoughts, previously consumed by tourneys and battles, became haunted by the image of that enigmatic woman. He scoured every hall and corner of Harrenhal in search of her, finding every other woman he encountered more vapid and uninteresting in comparison.

This intense desire unsettled the young Aemond and continued to weigh upon him even years after leaving the castle. The memory of those days and the night he had spent with Alys, a night that marked his transition into manhood, lingered in his mind, long before she revealed her true self.

At that time, Aemond knew next to nothing about Alys Rivers, and no one seemed inclined to unveil the mystery of her presence in the castle.

The sense of something concealed from him only deepened his intrigue.

In truth, the young Aemond was well aware that the wall of silence before him was a barrier easily surmountable for one of his rank.

A simple inquiry directed at a servant, or even at Larys Strong himself, could have dissipated his ignorance, and maybe, if he had taken this step at the time, his fate, as well as that of the entire realm, might have unfolded differently.

Regrettably, this scenario did not come to pass.

His pride won the day, and perhaps, justifiably so, he harboured concerns; the prince feared that if he were to pose these questions, the Master of Whispers would report them to his grandfather, or worse, to his mother.

Such an inquiry would reveal his interest in this enigmatic woman to all, which was a possibility that he had no intention to face, especially with his older brother Aegon and his dull friends.

Thus, the young prince decided to keep Harrenhal in the dark regarding the true identity of Alys Rivers and the role her deities played in his life.

This blissful ignorance concerning the woman to whom he had surrendered his innocence persisted for many moon turns until destiny decreed that their paths would intersect once more.

In that fated moment, the veil obscuring the enigma of Alys was destined to be lifted at last.

Prince Aemond, much like the common folk in the heart of the realm, never bore a flicker of curiosity about the peculiar faith in the Old Gods of the Forest. In the eyes of the educated elite, this mystical belief system remained a primitive and unruly doctrine, far removed from the civility of The Faith of The Seven, in which sacred texts were hailed as bastions of perfection, safeguarding unassailable truths, leaving no room for the investigation of other mystical enigmas.

Throughout his formative years, the young prince gleaned little, if any, knowledge about the worship of the Old Gods or the arcane energies that coursed through their ancient woods.

That was the state of affairs until his reunion with Alys in the closing days of 129 AC.

As time passed, the memory of their encounter faded, casting a blurred shadow over the night they shared, however, Aemond could never quite cast her from his thoughts, as if an unspoken chapter of their story remained unfulfilled.

The true awakening arrived with the advent of the war. Despite being the instigators who secretly crowned Aegon king of the Greens, the later months following the disastrous negotiations, marked by the premature loss of Meraxes in battle over the skies of Storm's End, the Greens had maintained a somewhat low profile. It was as if they feared being perceived as the aggressors, waiting for the Blacks to make the first move that would plunge the realm into a full-blown conflict. Such a cautious stance did not sit well with the fiery-tempered young prince Aemond.

Aemond Targaryen had long yearned for his baptism of fire, an opportunity to kill his first foe on the battlefield and emulate the legendary Vahaegar the Bloody, the hero of his favourite Valyrian war poems - the only ones that he actually enjoyed reading.

Now that the chance had presented itself, he couldn't bear the thought of letting political considerations stand in his way. Inside, he could almost hear the mockery from his uncle Daemon and the Blacks, ridiculing their perceived inaction, casting aspersions on their courage, and laughing at their hesitancy while plotting their own strategies to vanquish the Greens.

The very idea drove Aemond to the brink of madness. If it were up to him, his sister and her supporters would have been vanquished weeks ago, her vile progeny as well. He envisioned casting them into the gaping maw of Vhagar, relishing their shrill screams as the beast's razor-sharp teeth tore into their flesh. He was determined to teach them a lesson, a demonstration of the authenticity of his threats, unlike the empty words of his grandfather and his brother.

In the midst of his bloodlust and the frustration that consumed him, Aemond's thoughts turned to Alys. Once she appeared to him in his dreams, more enchanting than their initial meeting, beckoning him to Harrenhal, where his destiny would culminate, promising glory and success. Her sweet and enticing words whispered amidst caresses foretold a shared future, their destinies intertwined as she vowed to make him the greatest warrior Westeros had ever witnessed.

Initially, he dismissed these dreams as mere suggestions, attributing them to his own desires. However, as weeks passed and the conflict reached an impasse, Alys's siren call became irresistible. Aemond's longing for bloodshed and vengeance became insatiable, pushing him towards action.

Thus, Prince Aemond devised a prudent strategy, compelling his grandfather Otto, with determined insistence, to allow him to depart for Harrenhal. He would seize the castle by force if Lord Strong did not bend the knee to Aegon and his faction. Little did the council and his mother know that he had no intention of following through with these plans.

In his dreams, Alys had assured him that upon his arrival, no one, not even Harwin Strong, would oppose his will. The castle would fall into his hands the moment his feet touched its ground. Alys had prophesied the region's submission to his rule, and those who resisted would face his wrath. To ensure success, he needed to undertake this endeavour alone, with no obstructions.

As a result, he vehemently rejected every proposal from Ser Criston to accompany him. He could not afford the presence of a mentor tempering his resolve or diverting his focus. The mounting frustration from being kept away from the battlefield as a perceived threat to his older brother had pushed him to the edge, demanding release.

Aemond knew he could share his thoughts with no one; they would surely brand him mad. Yet, these were not mere dreams, he felt deep within. Every vision and touch, every word from Alys, transcended the realm of dreams. Unwavering in his belief, he was certain she would be waiting when he and his forces arrived at Harrenhal.

And indeed, she was.

Not only did Alys await them within the castle walls, but the residents of Harrenhal and its environs vanished as if by magic, allowing their passage without resistance. While someone more seasoned might have viewed this with suspicion, Aemond saw it as a testament to his might and proof that Alys was more than a mere mortal.

That night, and many nights to follow, he and Alys shared an immense bed in the Kingspear Tower, the place that once belonged to Harwin Strong. It was there, amidst the shadows and covers of that place, that Alys revealed the crescent moon on her forehead, marking the end of Aemond's blissful ignorance about the enigmatic beings she reverently referred to as the Gods of the Forest and his entrance on the dominion over those mystic arts, shrouded in darkness yet pulsating with formidable potency.

A privilege, according to the woman, that was bestowed upon only a select few.

That veil of mystery, into which Alys initiated him at the time, thrust him into a narrative unforeseen.

In his youthful reverie, he had fancied himself the central figure of this unfolding tale.

However, he would come to the bitter realization, albeit too late to evade the cruel twist of fate, that these capricious Gods had duped him, relegating him once more to the periphery of history's stage.

All, from the first to the last of the men Aemond Targaryen encountered during the harrowing days that followed the end of the war - and his capture - did nothing but repeat to him, almost with a sense of condescension, how fortunate he was to have been chosen, despite what had befallen him.

Harwin Strong, initially, and later the men of House Blackwood, all made it clear that it was a privilege to be the chosen one, the betrothed of the Lady of the Ravens, the High Priestess of the Isle of Faces, and the man with whom she would sire a child, the child of the Gods.

These words, though not meant as insults, had struck the ears of Prince Aemond like spittle upon his visage. Still, even wounded and embittered with the world - and with Alys - for the initial period, he tried to convince himself that it was indeed the truth and that, in some way, he was truly fortunate.

At least, that's what he repeated daily to avoid succumbing to madness.

Initially, the prospect of being chosen as the betrothed of a Priestess had been greeted with immense euphoria and self-satisfaction by the young prince.

Starving as he was for glory and power, the mere idea of having been selected by such dark and potent Gods to join with their earthly counterparts and sire a child, rendering him invincible in the process, had intoxicated him like wine. It had rendered him blind to everything else.

To be able to lie with such a dark and lethal creature, to possess her every night as if he could master her, had been an indescribable sensation. It was so intoxicating and intense that it made him forget the true reason he had come to the Riverlands. During those months spent within the walls of Harrenhal, while the verdant plains around them were set ablaze by his men, he remained entwined in the arms of his Alys, who whispered promises that intoxicated him further.

The zenith of that idyll arrived when his beloved led him to the Isle of Faces for the first time, revealing to him the mysteries of the Old Gods of the Forest. On that night, beneath the full moon, overcome by the thrill of excitement, the two united within the stone circle, atop the island's highest point, and conceived their first and only child, Baelor.

During that mystical evening, as their bodies entwined, the man felt prodigious energy enveloping him. It was as if the Fourteen Flames of Valyria itself were setting his limbs ablaze, granting him the power to set the entire world afire with the snap of his fingers.

That singular moment had been enough to make him understand that what Alys had revealed was true and that he was destined for something greater, something beyond being a younger brother to a king.

Everyone believed, after all, that his decision to marry Alys - a woman of low birth and an inconsequential social class - had been driven by the unexpected pregnancy. But they couldn't be more wrong.

Baelor had not been a mishap, an oversight of his youth, but a choice. He had decided that if it were ever his princely duty to father heirs, those children would be the fruit of his union with someone extraordinary, like his Alys, not a mere mortal woman.

The mere notion of being bound in matrimony to a Priestess, a magical creature with the power to command the winds and read the minds of people at will, had been enough to make Aemond completely forget the reason he had been sent to the Riverlands and any prior marriage arrangements he had made.

Politics and any other underhanded machinations paled in comparison to the mystical abilities of his Alys. She could see the past and the future, peer into the minds of individuals, and wrest souls from death.

She could hear the voices of her Gods and one day, she had foretold his destiny and described the grand feats he would achieve, assuring him that the Gods had a radiant future in store for him, brighter than anything Aegon could ever aspire to in his lifetime.

Aemond believed her, as his Alys whispered those promises to him. He, a man who had always known he deserved far more than the world had given him, began to imagine himself atop his dragon, setting the Seven Kingdoms ablaze, seizing the ruby-studded crown that now adorned Aegon's brow.

With Alys by his side, he thought, even Dorne and Sunspear would fall before him, completing the Conqueror's unfinished design. With her occult powers, she could discern his deepest desires and make him believe that he was controlling her, not the other way around. Perhaps, for this reason, Aemond had convinced himself that he and Alys were on the same side, that she was not a threat but an ally. Although aware of her powers, he had chosen to underestimate her and let his guard down, thus playing right into her hands.

Yet, despite sensing that something was amiss, the young Aemond had never, not for a moment, suspected that his beautiful wife had plotted to betray him from the very beginning. All his life, the prince had been raised to believe that women were merely docile and graceful ornaments, whose sole purpose was to bear children and please their husbands, remaining in the background, perhaps embroidering as they did so.

For this reason, he never even entertained the idea that perhaps his bride's unspoken words held something darker and more devious.

He had assumed that Alys, once married and pregnant with their child, would make the effort to set aside her somber priestess garb and become, like any other high-ranking noblewoman in her position, perhaps even envisioning herself as his mother Alicent or Helaena one day.

But that hadn’t been the case at all.

Alys Rivers, though she had initially pretended otherwise, had proved herself anything but accommodating and docile once she realized she had him in her grasp. Although she did not openly oppose him or his views, his wife, with her condescending and unflappable demeanour over the months, never failed to make it clear how little she intended to submit to him.

Had it not been for her unique manner, which perfectly masked her untamable and audacious nature, Aemond might have dared to slap her for her impertinence. Under the pretext of being a mystical creature, Alys had taken many liberties with the young groom in the early months of their marriage, liberties he did not even grant to his own family.

Yet, even though the signs heralding catastrophe had been quite clear, Aemond had not perceived them.

Or perhaps he had deliberately chosen not to because he was too infatuated with her or the power she had promised to grant him once their child was born, to try to open his eyes to the evidence.

Not even the letter from Ser Criston Cole, his mentor, the man whose judgment he had always considered valid, had served to open his only good eye. It was only when he heard the news that Lord Borros Baratheon had demanded his head and had turned against them that the "enchantment" of Alys began, bit by bit, to unravel.

However, by the time he had realized the deception to which he had been subjected, it was too late.

Oldtown had fallen, House Hightower had been destroyed, and Criston Cole, along with his grandfather Otto, had been killed. In less than three weeks, any prospect of victory had been swept away like dry leaves in the wind, and Aemond found himself with a handful of flies in his hands and the awareness that he had caused all of this.

Even now, nearly six long years after that fateful night, Prince Aemond Targaryen could still vividly recollect the seething wrath that had consumed him when Alys unveiled her intricate scheme and how cunningly she had beguiled him.

The words they'd exchanged remained etched in his mind, much like Alys's unflinching demeanour in the face of his unbridled fury. Never before had Aemond felt so betrayed, so utterly humiliated, nor had he ever harboured such a vehement desire to end a life—though that life happened to be the woman he believed he loved, and the bearer of his child. He distinctly recalled threatening to feed her to Vhagar and watch her incinerate in Dragonfire, yet she had remained unperturbed by even that gruesome promise.

Her composed posture before him, her own husband, only served to stoke the fires of his anger.

She had endeavoured to pacify him, to guide his reasoning toward an understanding that there was nought left for him and the Greens.

But at that moment, he had stopped listening, consumed by rage.

Aemond could still replay the scene in his mind: how he'd raised his arm with furious determination, poised to strike his pregnant wife's face, to make her cease her words, and how she had effortlessly thwarted his assault, leaving his arm suspended in mid-air, paralyzed by her deceptively robust grip.

The young prince had been left flabbergasted, but his bewilderment was short-lived.

As his lone lilac eye locked with Alys's unnatural, emerald-green gaze, which blazed with indignation, a primal fear began to course through his veins. The sight of Alys's beautiful visage contorted into a mask of unadulterated rage made him instinctively step back, convinced that she had grown taller, nearly scraping the ceiling, looming over him with an imposing presence. Her silhouette, despite her five-month pregnancy, seemed to radiate an eerie glow, bestowing upon her an aura of solemnity that left Aemond feeling perplexed and at a loss for words.

That moment marked the first instance in which Alys had wielded her powers as a priestess against him, a fact that left Aemond reeling. He had witnessed Alys employ her mystical abilities before, but she had never sought to employ them against him, nor had she ever glared at him with such ire. At that moment, Aemond came to realize the nature of his wife and the position he had unwittingly placed himself in.

Though he could no longer recall the precise words Alys had uttered, he could never forget the terror he felt while hearing them. Even after all these years, the memory of that night, when Alys, his wife, the sole woman with whom he had shared his soul and body, had exposed his vulnerabilities in such a cruel fashion, remained unforgivable.

That night marked the turning point when Aemond finally comprehended the true nature of their relationship and the role he played within it. He was no longer the master, but rather the puppet, with Alys holding the strings.

Yet, even if his own name had started to sound increasingly like a cruel jest in his own ears, the outside world told a different story.

Thanks to the pact forged between Alys and Harwin Strong, he was forbidden from leaving the island, but his wife, free from such restrictions, never failed to inform him of the happenings in the outside world upon her return to his embrace.

According to her accounts, despite his disastrous defeat and subsequent exile, the name Aemond One-Eye, the "almost" Kingslayer, seemed to still inspire fear in the hearts of the denizens of the Seven Kingdoms. It appeared that everyone, although most believed him dead or in exile beyond the Narrow Sea, had not forgotten Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar. The tales of his past atrocities had taken on an almost mythical quality, shrouding the region where they dwelled in an aura of intimidation and terror. The stories of his cruelties had morphed into legends told to children to coax them into good behaviour.

In the past, this awareness would have filled Aemond with a sense of triumph. However, now, as much as he tried to take satisfaction in it, the echoes of those voices only served to heighten his distress. Much had changed since he was a young prince thirsty for blood and glory. Now, bereft of Vhagar and Criston Cole as his mentor, the realization that his enemies had not forgotten him, even after all those years, haunted his nights.

Despite the clemency personally extended to him by Rhaenyra, Aemond understood that in the eyes of many, his debt to justice remained unpaid, and his destiny was still shrouded in uncertainty and danger. He began to suspect that Alys recounted these tales not to lift his spirits but to plunge him further into despair and insecurity.

He had no concrete evidence or reason to doubt her, especially since, since their arrival on the island, Alys had shown him nothing but affection and kindness.

Yet, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that Alys reciprocated his love, these voices in his head made him doubt.

When Alys departed at night to reach the mainland, leaving him alone in their bed, three figures haunted him. Sometimes he could convince himself it was just his imagination, but often his feeble mind could not reason clearly, and he saw these figures as real entities rather than as phantoms of long-dead men.

They didn't always appear together; most of the time, one of the three figures visited him individually.

The first was the embodiment of Criston Cole. The sight of Cole's severe face seemed to pursue him almost every day, and even when he was silent, Aemond knew he was there, watching him with disappointed eyes. Only when Aemond was in the company of Alys did this presence seem to disappear, as if intimidated by her. But when Aemond found himself alone or in the company of Baelor, his mentor returned, filling his mind with venomous words about his wife and the child they had brought into the world.

The second presence was that of his grandfather, Otto Hightower. This spectre didn't speak much and seemed almost bored to have to waste his breath on reprimands. But though rare, whenever he spoke, his words were even more devastating than Cole's endless comments. He reminded Aemond that everything that had happened to him was the sum of his wrong choices in his youth, sinking him deeper into frustration.

However, the third figure was the most fearsome. This spectre, though speaking rarely, had the power to send Aemond into a blind rage with his mere presence.

Aemond had never had a good relationship with his father, King Viserys.

The few conversations between father and son always ended in shouts and reproaches. However, the man he saw in the shadows of his room seemed to be a different person. He had a relaxed expression, almost a smile. The kind words and compliments seemed so out of place, so hypocritical, so alien to the father he had known in life. Yet, even if rare, these words infuriated him.

The syrupy and pathetic compassion from a father who had never acknowledged him in life was almost more difficult to bear.

Moreover, something was unsettling about this ghost. He seemed strangely similar to his older brother, Aegon. Looking into his face, even for just a moment, was like a double punch to Aemond's heart. Fortunately, of all the apparitions, his father's was the most silent. Nevertheless, it seemed that his son Baelor could perceive his presence, almost as if he could see him too, not just a product of Aemond's vivid imagination. These family scenes between grandfather and grandson, however, did not soften Aemond's heart but seemed to harden it even more with each passing day on this haunted island.

The Isle of Faces was an inhospitable place, not meant for the likes of ordinary mortals such as himself. On that narrow piece of land surrounded by the frigid waters of the Gods Eye, time seemed to flow to a different cadence than on the mainland.

Though he had arrived there some six years ago, Aemond would sometimes experience the strange and inexplicable sensation of having penetrated the island's magical shroud only a few months past. On other occasions, his mind would convincingly argue that he had dwelt there for years, perhaps decades, often blurring the line between day and night, summer and winter.

This peculiarity might be attributed to the fact that in the Riverlands, and especially on the Isle of Faces, the sun was often concealed by thick rain-laden clouds for most of the year, creating an eternal autumn where months seemed to blend seamlessly.

Yet, deep within himself, Aemond recognized that such temporal disorientation couldn't be solely attributed to the island's weather patterns. By his calculations, he should have been approaching his twenty-sixth year, and consequently, his countenance should have begun to bear the marks of maturity, of manhood, or at the very least, a divergence from the visage of the twenty-year-old prince he once had been.

However, this transformation failed to materialize. His face, akin to his physique, remained unaltered over time as if not a single day had ticked by in this forsaken place. Only the length of his hair and the gradual fading of his wounds served as tangible indicators of the ebbing months and years.

Following his capture at the hands of his uncle and the Blacks, Aemond's once-flowing locks had been summarily shorn, leaving his scalp nearly bereft, a calculated act of derision. The purpose had been to unveil the mark Daemon had branded upon the nape of his neck, showcasing it as a grim war trophy upon their arrival in the capital. This was the reason why Aemond still bore a partially bald pate when Alys transported him to this secluded island.

Since his initial arrival on the island, his hair had managed to grow at an agonizingly sluggish pace, now reaching a length that cascaded halfway down his back. It stood as the unequivocal testimony to the passage of time, a tangible reminder that the world had not remained stagnant since his advent.

Hence, the prince had resolved to never shear his silvered mane, allowing it to flourish unchecked.

For, in its flowing strands, he found the only concrete evidence that years had indeed traversed him and imbued meaning into the tableau that encircled him.

It was as if the enigmatic mists cloaking the island had seeped into the core of his being, asserting dominion over his mind and soul. They seemed to thrive on the very essence of his existence. Over time, as days turned into years, Aemond found himself less and less resembling the man he once was and more akin to a ghost, reminiscent of the ghosts he occasionally glimpsed during his solitary moments.

Even the memories of his former life, the era before his exile, began to fade, becoming less vivid, akin to dreams rather than tangible experiences. One of the many recollections that had begun to decay in his mind, haunting him through long, sleepless nights, was the day of his release.

In reality, only six years had passed since that fateful evening when he had been spirited away from King's Landing by Harwin Strong and Samwell Blackwood's men, escorted to the shores of the Gods Eye. It was a relatively short period when compared to the memories of his youth within the palace.

On the night of his release, Aemond's mind was still clouded by the effects of the poppy milk administered to ease the torment's pain in the preceding days.

Consequently, his memories of that journey appeared as faded shadows without distinct contours.

Too preoccupied with fighting off sleep and fatigue to gather coherent thoughts or sentences, the prince remained silent throughout the journey, allowing events to unfold without protest. His catatonic state prevented him from staying awake for more than a few seconds and the men escorting him under Harwin Strong's orders decided to secure his hands to the horse's reins, while another guided his steed with a rope in his place.

Under different circ*mstances, this situation would have been mortifying to him. However, amid his dire predicament, it was the least of his concerns. Nobody, not even Lord Harrenhal, had deigned to inform him of their precise destination. One moment he had been confined in his cell, chained to the wall, and the next he had been unceremoniously mounted on a horse and thrust into the unknown, akin to a fugitive on the run.

Even his companions had offered no assistance. Though they dared not lay a hand on him, it was evident from the beginning that they held no respect or esteem for him. Throughout the journey, they did nothing but sneer and hurl irreverent comments, displaying no regard for his royal status.

At that time, Aemond had overestimated himself, believing that weeks as a prisoner would have rendered him immune to insults and mockery. But he discovered otherwise. The violence he had endured, both physical and otherwise, had shattered his already fragile self-esteem, making him even more intolerant of insults.

Beyond the anger and indignation he felt at the hands of these ruffians – which was immense – it was the sensation of complete powerlessness that nearly drove him to madness. Under different circ*mstances, none of them would have lived long enough to utter their first jest. Armed, he would have unsheathed his sword and carved through all six of them, savoring the perverse pleasure of their pain as his blade struck non-lethal points before the final blow.

Even though, in his current condition – bound, disarmed, and weakened by hunger – such an act was impossible, the mere thought of it sustained him. He vowed that once he dismounted and reunited with his wife, he would transform those fantasies into reality and teach those six contemptible individuals, born of nobody, a lesson. Unfortunately, this was not to be.

The final and perhaps decisive blow came at the end of that gruelling journey, the moment his beloved Alys materialized before them. After hours of travel, on the morning of the second day, Aemond and his escort arrived near the Gods Eye, where his wife, more enchanting than ever, awaited them on the misty shores of the lake.

She wore a dark blue linen gown that accentuated her swollen belly, while a veil of the same colour covered her raven hair, imparting an otherworldly regality to her appearance. As soon as the six men laid eyes on her, all the bravado that had accompanied them from their departure in King's Landing dissolved like snow in the sun. In its place, expressions of fear mingled with deference emerged, sentiments they had never once displayed in his presence during their time together.

For a moment, the prince even had the impression that some of them were restraining themselves from falling at Alys's feet and kissing her hands, so intense was the ardour that emanated from their eyes. Among them, it was the men of House Blackwood, who only a few hours earlier had been most prone to deride him openly, who began to address his wife first, speaking to her as if they were addressing a deity rather than a flesh-and-blood woman, affording her the same reverence one might show a queen.

Alys, for her part, said nothing, but her benevolent expression made it clear that she took a certain pleasure in such treatment. Each of those men hung on her every word, like moths drawn to a flame, and this did not sit well with Aemond. This wasn't the first time he had witnessed his wife adopting the role of the High Priestess, yet, until that moment, he had not fully realized the extent of the power her presence held over those who revered her.

Only then, as all those men beseeched her blessings upon their families, did the prince fully grasp that he was tethered not to a mere woman he could bend to his will but to a being with almost divine powers, one who could crush him with the flick of her fingers if she so wished. For a moment, a part of him pleaded not to go to her and instead to flee as far away as possible.

Truly, that woman was the wellspring of all his sorrows, and the fact that she now sought to save him, reducing him to a defeated man bereft of honour, should have made her even more abhorrent in his eyes.

If any vestiges of his own dignity had remained, Aemond reflected bitterly, he would have endeavoured to end her life and that of the child growing within her, rather than accepting this humiliating arrangement, forged without his consent.

If the choice had been his, Aemond would never have contemplated exile. If he had his way, he would have met his end in the heat of battle, a valiant hero, astride Vhagar, striving to vanquish his uncle Daemon. But fate had played a different hand; instead of meeting his demise, the unthinkable had occurred.

He survived and fell into the clutches of the one man he despised more than any other.

Throughout those long days, enduring the weight of chains, tormented and mistreated by enemy soldiers, the prince had beseeched the Gods - his own Gods, not those of his wife - to grant him the release of death, so he could depart this world with a modicum of dignity befitting a man of his standing.

His desire for death had been so profound that he had played his part in the charade orchestrated by Rhaenyra to neutralize Aegon, holding out hope that being accused of both kinslaying and kingslaying, the two most egregious crimes imaginable, would lead to his execution. He believed that at that juncture, not even his stepsister, harlot as she may be, would dare deny him this wish, if only out of respect for their misguided father, whom she purported to love so dearly.

In his mind, committing this abhorrent crime, even if it were only in the realm of appearance, would facilitate his swift exit from the stage, as he envisioned a public execution worthy of his deeds, ensuring his remembrance through the annals of history.

This glimmer in the darkness was the sole thread preventing him from utter collapse.

However intense his desire to end his own existence had become, a part of him resisted relinquishing life now that he knew a child was forthcoming. Faced with the prospect of an end to his suffering, the prince's heart yearned to glimpse the child's visage at least once and to hold the babe in his arms before bidding his final farewell.

In moments of feverish delirium, induced by hunger and torture, he believed he saw glimpses of the child and called out its name. In other moments, his dreams were graced by the presence of Alys, who offered him solace and tender caresses. Only in these moments did Aemond's tormented soul find the strength to entreat the Gods, whether his own or Alys's, for a second chance.

Yet, despite his fervent pleas, even after nearly a decade had passed since the war's conclusion and his subsequent captivity, no one - save for his tormentors - had appeared at the threshold of his cell to relieve his suffering.

As the second week began, Aemond had all but resigned himself to the prospect of never leaving that cell under his own power, envisioning himself succumbing to starvation or the inevitable maladies festering within his wounded body.

However, one of his prayers was eventually answered. At sunset on his fourteenth day of imprisonment, someone came to visit. Unfortunately, it was not the executioner but rather Harwin Strong who stood at the door of his cell, there to inform him that his wish for a swift and dignified death would never come to pass.

It appeared that the new Council, under the strong insistence of the Lord of Harrenhal, had decided that there would be no execution. Instead, his fate was to be exile, to vanish into obscurity, as though he had never existed, effectively condemning him to a life of infamy and misery - the last thing he desired.

Aemond remembered little of the exact words Harwin Strong had uttered in that dark and damp cell.

In truth, what stood out most in his memory about that bewildering conversation was the profound confusion that began to cloud his thoughts, mingled with stark dismay at the unexpected proclamation.

Aemond simply couldn't fathom how Rhaenyra and her detestable husband, of all people, had agreed to let him go in this manner, particularly after what he had done to his brother, Aegon.

Furthermore, it struck him as preposterous that Harwin Strong, with whom he had never shared a favourable rapport, had risked himself to save Aemond from the gallows, placing his own head on the chopping block in the process.

Moreover, it was unbearable that once again, he was denied the right to die with dignity, being ordered instead to vanish from society like a pariah, a mere insect. Internally, the prince wanted to protest, but he decided to restrain himself.

The tone of voice employed by his interlocutor during that one-sided exchange was anything but friendly and reassuring.

Quite the opposite, it was confrontational, and it left Aemond dumbstruck.

It was only when their eyes locked that Aemond realized how much the man before him somehow resembled the woman he had wed. Even though their eyes bore completely different hues, the intensity with which Harwin Strong scrutinized him was akin to the way Alys looked at him when she was angry.

Not even his uncle Daemon had ever looked at him in such a manner, and he, Aemond mused, had far more reason to despise him than the Lord of Harrenhal.

However, it must be said that the man, if he ever had the impulse to strike him, tried his best to maintain his composure.

He refrained from hurling gratuitous insults or denigrating remarks. Yet, it was clear from his deeply contrite expression that he did not wish to be there. It was as if he had been compelled to visit and speak to Aemond, making it evident that the idea of saving him from the gallows was not his own.

Due to his discomfort, Harwin Strong seemed resolute in concluding that conversation as swiftly as possible, explaining to him most concisely what had been decided and what fate awaited him. In reality, the man divulged very little about the secret plan to extricate him from the city, and he refused even to disclose the destination of his exile.

The sole certainty was that upon his arrival, his wife would be waiting for him.

Upon hearing his spouse's name mentioned, the prince's gaze was suddenly filled with astonishment and hope as if he had not anticipated spending his exile in the company of the woman. Impulsively, without considering his words, Aemond inquired about his wife and the child she carried in her womb. He was seized by a sudden panic, remembering that Alys was at Harrenhal when the Blacks had triumphed.

Perhaps due to his haste, and the lingering effects of the poppy milk, the prince might have posed that question somewhat brusquely, almost impertinently.

At the sound of Alys's name coming from his mouth, Harwin Strong became visibly agitated and without any apparent reason, he grabbed the prince by the collar and slammed him against the wall with such force that it nearly shook the prison walls.

This wholly unexpected and disproportionate reaction left Aemond bewildered, offering him no opportunity to grasp what had transpired or to offer a retort. However, what was most disconcerting was not the act itself but the words that the man uttered immediately afterwards.

In an almost growling tone, Lord Harrenhal warned him, as if threatening him, that if he learned during his exile that Aemond had dared to seek retribution against Alys or the child she carried, he would kill him with his own hands. He made it clear, without any ambiguity, that this death would be prolonged and agonizing.

"You should count yourself fortunate solely because she chose to take you back with her! If it were not for her, your head would be rolling through the streets of this city by now, and the children would be kicking it about in the gutters. You are alive solely because of her, you wretched, ungrateful wretch!"

These words, coupled with the impact on his head during the altercation, left him dazed as if a hundred blows had rained upon him, casting him into a state of bewildering disarray.

However, what confounded him most was not merely the force behind the words but the unexpected regard Harwin held for Alys.

Within the labyrinth of Aemond's thoughts, this situation seemed utterly illogical; it was inconceivable to him that someone like Alys could have forged any kind of connection with Harwin Strong, one of their father's legitimate offspring.

It was beyond his grasp how she could have exerted such substantial influence over him, enough to persuade him to publicly champion Aemond's cause.

For the Lord in question, that gesture -to publicly defend someone like the prince, who had, in his relatively short life, committed unspeakable transgressions - bore considerable risk, almost akin to political self-immolation.

It was true that Harwin Strong was not renowned for his astuteness, but it should have been evident to anyone that such an act would inevitably estrange most of his fellow Lords, not to mention Rhaenyra herself, who had previously held a special place in his heart. The more Aemond pondered it, the more this situation appeared utterly nonsensical.

To undertake such an action, Lord Strong must have harboured a deeper affection for his wife than Aemond could fathom. An affection that, in his perspective, stepsiblings should not hold for one another. How was it feasible that he, Alys's husband, the man who had shared months with her, had never been apprised of such a bond?

From their very first encounter in his chambers during the tournament held to celebrate his parents' twentieth wedding anniversary, Aemond Targaryen believed he had unravelled the enigma of Alys Rivers' life.

Even before exchanging words or learning her name, the prince had already painted a vivid picture of the kind of existence she might lead under her circ*mstances. The revelation of her supernatural abilities, though it necessitated some adjustments, did little to sway his preconceptions.

Truth be told, Alys hadn't made any overt attempts to challenge his presumptions, as if she preferred not to shatter the illusion he had crafted around her.

Indeed, for all her seemingly candid nature, she displayed an unexpected reluctance to share details of her childhood or past. This particular reticence to open up to him initially vexed the young prince, who, in contrast, had laid bare his soul to his wife. Her silence was the very thing that fueled a multitude of conjectures about Alys's existence and the life she had led before their fateful meeting.

Even though she was a truly unique individual, it appeared that, before the civil war, the name Alys Rivers remained a well-guarded secret beyond the confines of Harrenhal.

Indeed, it seemed that, throughout the realm, none were aware of the existence of Lyonel Strong's illegitimate daughter.

Aemond, well-acquainted with the intricacies of concealing such information among the nobility, surmised that Alys's father had gone to great lengths to ensure his scandalous secret remained hidden, perhaps even harbouring a sense of shame.

Aware of the norms governing such matters, the prince speculated that Alys's mother was likely not of noble birth. For a man of Lyonel Strong's stature, known for his strict adherence to legal and social propriety, it would have constituted a grave stain on his reputation if it were ever exposed. The notion of the late King's Hand, driven by passion – of any kind – particularly for a serving girl or scullery maid, struck him as somewhat absurd. He found it rather ironic that a man as principled and law-abiding as Lyonel Strong would father an illegitimate child.

This particular trait of his might have explained why he chose not to abandon the girl but instead raised her alongside his legitimate offspring. Harrenhal, with its immense and labyrinthine structure, offered a perfect hiding place for a bastard child, without any pressing need to worry about it afterwards.

Aemond also pondered whether the silence surrounding Alys's name within the royal court – in addition to her origins – was due to the extraordinary powers she wielded.

He remained unsure when exactly she had begun hearing the voices of the gods or glimpsing the future in the flames; however, if these abilities manifested during her formative years, he hypothesized that her father may have been disconcerted to hear his daughter speak in such a manner, possibly branding her as insane.

This notion felt so right and sensible that the more he dwelled on it, the more it solidified.

From that moment, Aemond's imagination wove a vivid tale, painting a portrait of Alys as a fragile and slight child, clad in meagre attire, disdained and neglected by her own father, who would be condemned to toil in the kitchens while her brothers revelled in lives of abundance and opulence.

In Aemond's mind, all these pieces seemed to slot perfectly into place, to the point where he deemed it inconsequential to confront Alys on the matter.

To him, her actions and her fervent desire to help him claim Harrenhal, coupled with the exhilaration in her eyes as she regaled him with her gruesome deeds, resonated perfectly with the resentment she might have harbored for her own family and upbringing.

Never had the prince contemplated the possibility that he had so grievously misconstrued the woman he believed he loved and for whom he had forsaken his own family. Yet, as Harwin Strong clutched his throat, directing him to behave with his sister, with whom he seemed to share a profound fraternal bond, Aemond found his once-unshakable certainties waver.

In the end, a voice inside his mind whispered that this woman had managed to deceive him, leading him to ruin. So, he wondered what else she had concealed and what she was truly capable of. It seemed that no boundaries existed for Alys when it came to obtaining her desires – and the price others paid didn't seem to deter her.

In fact, Aemond thought, as Lord Strong released him and guided him through the dark passages of the dungeons, this woman, of obscure parentage, had successfully coerced a queen into releasing him.

While a part of him felt a measure of relief, knowing that she had spared him from death, that same voice returned, reminding him that Alys had yet again denied him the right to a dignified end.

It was as if, once more, she sought to assert her dominion over his life. Now that he knew she had spared him, snatching him from the clutches of death, he would remain beholden to her for the remainder of his days, a fate even more dire than death itself.

Yet, the thing that troubled him the most was the visceral awareness that perhaps this was not the first time the priestess had come between him and the Seven Hells.

The prince had never forgotten the feeling of pure terror when his uncle Daemon kicked him down, causing him to teeter from the saddle where he was seated and fall from meters and meters above onto the lake below.

Those who witnessed the scene from the solid ground said they saw a figure fall from a dragon and then crash into the water with such a powerful and violent thud that its roar was heard all the way to Whitewalls, while the jet caused by the impact was so massive that it could be seen from the walls of Harrenhal.

None of them had the slightest doubt in declaring him dead, as it would have been impossible for anyone to survive such a fall.

And even if he had, his body would have been lost in the depths of the lake, with no possibility of emerging from there.

In reality, the prince had no idea what happened after his back violently struck the frigid surface of the Gods Eye, as everything happened in less than a few seconds, leaving him only moments to realize he was about to die.

The only thing he remembered with extreme vividness was the pain he felt when his bones shattered against the water, which was so strong and brutal that it took his breath away.

Although he was no longer completely himself, the prince was sure he was still alive when the lake claimed him, as he could still hear the beating of his heart pounding in his ears, and the skin being torn from him by an icy cold. Yet, even that minimal awareness gradually began to fade as soon as the river water began to fill his lungs and mouth, slowly killing him.

The worst, and also the most terrifying thing of all, was that as much as the prince struggled and fought to stay alive, his armor, with its weight, was inexorably pushing him towards the bottom, nullifying every effort to save himself. After only a few minutes underwater, all strength left the prince's body, and he began to feel the cruel breath of death brush his cheek, teasing him with its cold embrace, urging him to stop fighting and surrender to it.

And Aemond would have done so if something had not held him back.

Just at the moment when his soul had accepted the cold touch of the Stranger, something mystical intervened, altering his fate, saving him from the watery grave that awaited him.

Suddenly, that force was pulling him out of the water, filling him with an eerie sensation of life, and he gasped to return to the world of the living.

It was as if the gods themselves had decided at the last moment that Aemond was not yet destined to die.

Or rather, it seemed that Alys had decided that his time had not yet come.

The prince had no proof to assert this, but deep down, he had always known that the reason he did not die that day in that lake was due to the intervention of that woman and not to his uncle's mercy.

As Aemond dismounted his steed, compelled by one of those soldiers, he felt like a mere pawn in the delicate yet frigid hands of Alys, who stood awaiting him by the raft destined to ferry them to their new abode. In that very moment, he became acutely aware that, despite drawing breath, something within him had perished.

This sense of profound incompleteness had in fact haunted him throughout his weeks of captivity, ever since the instance when, after being hauled from the lake by his uncle, Prince Daemon, he regained consciousness upon solid ground, locking eyes with his kinsman.

At that precise juncture, when the realization of his survival dawned upon him, a hollowness had gripped the prince's core, stripping away the essence that had defined him throughout his existence. It was as if a part of him lay submerged in the murky depths of the lake, never to resurface in tandem with his corporeal form.

From that precise instant, antedating even the chains that would soon bind him, Aemond Targaryen had yearned for an end to his existence.

Not even Alys's embrace could shake him from his abyss of despair and resignation. Although he begrudgingly acknowledged a semblance of contentment at the return of her touch, the resentment for the travails she had wrought showed no inclination to depart.

And so, the two spouses, finally reunited after weeks of separation, departed in silence, without so much as a backward glance, their paces deliberate as they made their way to the awaiting raft. Only once, when they had ventured considerably offshore, did Aemond feel the urge to cast a final gaze toward the mainland. It was as if he had just then comprehended that he was bound for exile, a departure irreversible.

There would be no more battles, no more reckonings, and, above all, no more flights astride Vhagar. The life of Prince Aemond Targaryen, as he had known it, had irrevocably concluded.

Almost as if she had glimpsed his thoughts—or perhaps because she had—Alys ceased her rowing and brought her visage close to his. The kiss she bestowed upon him—the first in quite some time—was fleeting yet fervent, and it yielded the desired effect.

The mere taste of her lips and the scent of her skin sufficed to banish his contemplations as if her mouth possessed the power to expunge all tribulations. This, indeed, marked the initial occurrence of many when his spouse, discerning his sombre disposition, would employ her allure to divert his mind from its torments. Thus, she would maintain him pliant and tractable, feeding the gradual enfeeblement of his spirit.

After all, in that world, there remained nothing and no one but her.

In that manner, all the wrath and rancour that had festered in him over those weeks for his spouse dissipated abruptly.

And when the two disembarked upon the muddy shores of the sacred isle, the prince accepted his wife's hand without protest, submitting silently as she led him through the rugged forest paths.

On that initial sojourn toward their newfound dwelling, one which he had not witnessed during their prior visit, Aemond came to a disconcerting realization.

The island was far from uninhabited.

Although he never beheld their countenances, he could sense the presence of creatures observing them, glimpsing the gleam of their enormous red eyes and occasionally detecting sounds akin to squeaks emanating from the thickets and underbrush that enveloped them.

At one point, the prince even entertained the notion that the very trees themselves were in motion, with eyes and mouths, laughing at his passage.

This peculiarity, however, did not appear to perturb his wife in the least; she seemed entirely at ease in this place, infested by who knows what.

Fortuitously for him, the foray into the woods proved to be rather brief. After only a few minutes of traversing deeper, the two arrived at a small clearing. Nestled amidst the lofty, densely populated pines at its heart stood a diminutive, dark stone abode, clad in wild moss.

The domicile was modestly proportioned and sparsely appointed, in stark contrast to the luxury and opulence to which he had grown accustomed at the palace.

Yet, after weeks spent languishing in a dim cell and nearly two days bereft of sustenance and drink, Aemond regarded that cavern as the most splendid castle in all the Seven Kingdoms.

For seven days and seven nights, the prince did not rise from his pallet. He slumbered continuously, awakening solely to partake in nourishment and answer nature's call. During this interlude, Alys tended to him, caring for his wounds and permitting him to convalesce, tending to him as a mother would her ailing child.

Nevertheless, even after he had mended and commenced regaining his strength, the prince's days underwent little alteration. It seemed there was nought to occupy him on the island, and after their recent excursion, he harboured no inclination to wander through the thickets.

The sole diversion worthy of the appellation was the moments of intimacy with his wife. Despite being notably pregnant at the time, she readily yielded to her husband, never evading his desires.

Alys, with her voluptuous form, sensual demeanor, and lascivious voice, seemed to be the sole escape from the drudgery of his monotony, inebriating him to the point where he believed that this realm of the Seven Hells upon Earth was, in truth, one of the many clouds comprising the grand hall of the Seven Heavens.

Each time Aemond's dry lips rested on his wife's full, soft breasts and he began to lick and suck her perfect nipples, his mind believed he was drinking the sweet milk of the merciful Mother who had the power to wash away all sins, and each time his tongue penetrated her moist, warm sex, savouring its sweet, succulent taste, he believed he had finally found peace of senses.

In the arms of his wife Aemond could even imagine that the island was not a place of exile, but a heaven, where he could live out his days with Alys by his side.

Every time the two of them reached org*sm, the prince believed he was savouring pure bliss.

However, like any liquor, its intoxicating effect had an end and as soon as the pleasure of the senses left him, the knowledge that he would never be able to leave the island overwhelmed Aemond again, causing him to fall back into his apathy.

Only a singular event managed to rouse some sort of reaction in the prince - the birth of his first and only child.

Deep within that enchanted forest, on an unusually warm midsummer evening, amidst a sudden tempest, the prince found himself an unexpected witness and participant in the miracle of life.

The child's arrival was abrupt and unanticipated, catching the soon-to-be father entirely off guard. His wife's labour began a full month ahead of schedule, weeks before Alys had planned to journey to Harrenhal, where she had intended to give birth, as arranged with the Lord of the castle. Harwin Strong had insisted that his sister bring her child into the world within the castle's safety, under the care of skilled attendants, given the potential complications associated with her advanced pregnancy. The intention was to ensure she wouldn't have to go through this experience on that remote island all alone.

Alas, the infant appeared to have different intentions. Impatient to greet the world, the babe chose a tempestuous night for his grand entrance, rendering Alys's journey to her brother's domain inconceivable. Consequently, she had no choice but to give birth in the confines of their modest stone house, with only her husband to assist her—a husband who, by all accounts, was ill-suited for the task.

Despite having encountered numerous swaddled infants throughout his life, Aemond Targaryen was utterly unfamiliar with pregnant women and the process of childbirth. He had never been present at such an event before this very moment. As a prince, he had assumed that when the time came for him to become a father, his wife would be cared for in a separate chamber, tended to by a host of maids and experienced midwives. He would only appear later, once both mother and child had been cleansed and refreshed.

However, life had other plans; when the hour of his first child's birth arrived, Alys had no other women around, and no Maester skilled in midwifery by her side.

Only he was there, leaving him no choice but to offer whatever assistance he could muster.

The birth was an intense experience for both, but especially for Aemond, who found himself unexpectedly participating in the most gruesome and violent spectacle he had ever witnessed.

He bore the horrific awareness that the lives of both his wife and child rested in his hands.

Paradoxically, Alys, who had been a renowned midwife for a long time, having delivered numerous children, was the calmer of the two. She sought to remain lucid for as long as possible, guiding her young husband through the process.

It took nearly three hours for the contractions to transform and for Alys's body to finally be ready to deliver the child.

It was a monstrous period, during which the woman, despite her efforts to remain composed, began to scream and wail in pain, to the point where the prince could not tell if the sounds were indeed emanating from her or from a slaughtered animal.

Aemond had never heard such a sound, not even in the dark cells of the Red Keep where prisoners were subjected to unimaginable tortures. Not even the torrential rain pouring outside their small house could drown out her cries; it seemed that the more the woman screamed, the more violent the storm became, as if Alys herself were controlling it.

After a while, blood began to flow. As he had been instructed, he tried to staunch it using sheets and water, but the red tide showed no signs of stopping.

After another two hours, the prince truly began to fear the worst.

He had been a warrior, a fighter, a swordsman with a quick blade who had spared his enemies no cruelty and violence of all sorts, sometimes opening them up to admire their entrails like animals in a slaughterhouse, simply for the pleasure the spectacle brought him. Yet, in the face of legs soaked in blood and the limbs of his Alys, the prince felt for the first time in his life the urge to turn away.

Furthermore, beyond disgust and revulsion, with each passing minute, he began to feel a certain terror.

It was as if only at that moment Aemond realized that there was a possibility that neither she nor the child would survive the birth, that there was a possibility he could be left entirely alone in that spectral place.

With that dreadful thought chilling his soul and bones, Aemond forced himself to look into his wife's eyes again - she was now fainting from exhaustion and pain - and encouraged her to keep pushing, doing everything in his power to bring that child into the world, not even wanting to imagine what would happen if he were left without his wife in that ghostly place.

The night had come to an end when the prince's right eye finally discerned what must have been the small head of the infant.

Upon hearing that the moment had arrived, Alys, with her last remaining strength, contracted her abdominal muscles to give birth to the little one. She briefly lost consciousness when the baby's head emerged entirely, revealing their child's face.

Seeing that his wife was exhausted, Aemond took charge and assisted in delivering the baby from his mother's worn-out womb.

With care but unwavering determination, the prince's hands grasped the baby's abdomen, pulling him gently until his tiny feet emerged from the birth canal, finally revealing the small, wrinkled form they had awaited for so long.

Once he held the child in his arms, the young man took the nearest available knife and, with some awkwardness stemming from excitement, severed the fleshy cord that connected the baby to his mother, setting him free.

The prince didn't even pause to clean the child of the blood and fluids, so great was his relief and joy at having him in his arms.

It was only many years later that Aemond realized that the emotions he felt in that precise moment were the most joyful of his entire life and that not even his first flight on Vhagar had filled him with as much happiness as holding the warm, slippery little body of the child he had helped bring into the world on that stormy midsummer evening.

However, the euphoria quickly faded once the prince realized just how tiny and delicate the baby truly was. The child was trembling all over, and his tiny body could not even fill his father's hands completely, not to mention the most alarming fact of all: he had not yet cried.

Fortunately, this last concern did not last long. As soon as the mother - completely overcome by exhaustion - took the child into her arms, almost tearing him from her husband in her urgency to see him, the baby began to cry loudly, despite his tiny constitution, prompting a sigh of relief from the prince.

Aemond had seen smiling mothers with their newborns before, including his sister Helaena with her strange twins, and then his mother Alicent when his younger brother Daeron was born.

The prince was not unfamiliar with the tearful outpourings of affection that these women showered upon their infants shortly after birth.

Still, he was taken aback by Alys's behaviour.

Indeed, the bride was looking at the baby in her arms with tear-filled eyes, something he had never seen her do before, nor had he believed she was capable of it. She had begun to kiss the child all over, heedless of the blood and viscera that covered his tiny body, whispering incoherent and almost feverish phrases.

"My baby, " he heard her say with a trembling voice, as she continued to cry. "I have waited for you for so long."

Yet, even though it was strange, Aemond could not divert his gaze from this spectacle. Alys, despite being exhausted and sweaty, had green eyes that sparkled with ecstasy and a mouth stretched into a wide smile, making her appear - if possible - even younger and more beautiful than she was.

As he watched her, the young man struggled to recognize the bride; it was as if this woman were a stranger and not the woman he had married. For most of the time, she did everything to remain impassive, almost aloof from the world around her. Now, exhausted and breathless, lying in a bed soaked with blood and sweat, this mythical, almost otherworldly being appeared human to him for the first time, almost within his reach.

It took the two new parents a few minutes to recover from the fervour of the moment and realize that night had given way to morning, and that even the furious storm had abated, almost in time to witness the birth of their baby, and more importantly, they had forgotten to give him a name.

Before they could discuss it, however, a strong gust of wind blew open the door of their small house, and suddenly the atmosphere changed drastically.

Before they could discuss it, a strong gust of wind blew open the door of their small house, and suddenly the atmosphere changed drastically.

Three figures, as tall as the ceiling and with spectral gazes, appeared on the threshold. In the six years that followed, Aemond never saw those three creatures again, and at times, he had even begun to doubt whether that encounter had really happened, almost believing he had dreamed it.

Yet he knew that wasn't the case. Even after all that time, the prince could never banish the images of those inhuman creatures from his mind.

Creatures that existed, just like magic.

Aemond had only heard of the Green Men once before, actually, he had read about them absentmindedly in one of the many books his tutors had made him study as a boy, and he, in turn, had never really made an effort to remember.

According to the book, the Green Men were a kind of sacred order composed of wizards or similar individuals tasked with guarding the Isle of Faces. From the illustrations, it seemed that these grotesque creatures had green skin, hands covered in leaves like trees, and they moved astride giant elks; all things his tutors, devout followers of the Faith of the Seven, considered utter nonsense, the product of overactive imaginations of superstitious commoners.

However, it didn't seem that way at all.

The three Green Men in front of him were thin and emaciated, with eyes of an unsettling red, just as described in that book. Their skin, if you could call it that, seemed to have the same texture as wood, as if they were living trees. Most notably, the thing that struck the prince the most and sent shivers down his spine was the two enormous antlers protruding from their heads, almost like real deer.

As soon as Alys's green eyes landed on them - and theirs on her - all the joy and happiness from a moment ago extinguished like a flame in the wind. The expression on the woman's face turned dark, serious, almost fearful, casting a shadow over her. Yet, as stunned as Aemond was, he noticed that there was no trace of surprise in her; it was as if she had predicted their visit.

" The moment has arrived, Lady of Ravens," spoke the one on the left, addressing the woman resting in the bed. His voice, though soothing and deep, was as gentle as a morning breeze, a stark contrast to his unsettling appearance. Yet, what unnerved Aemond most wasn't the sound of the voice but the peculiar way it reached his ears, as if the creature whispered directly into his mind, a voice that seemed to exist solely within his thoughts, ethereal and otherworldly.

"The child is born, the divine will has been fulfilled," the one on the right continued, his tone mirroring his companion's, as if they shared a single voice.

" Now, the Isle must acknowledge him as one of its own. Let the Son of the Gods be presented before our revered brethren!" declared the figure in the centre, this time bearing a far more solemn note, akin to thunder rumbling after a lightning flash. With this pronouncement, he approached the bedside where Alys lay, beckoning for her to surrender the bundle she cradled in her arms.

“No!" she protested loudly, with a tone so grave and resolute that it caused the creature in front of her to pause. "If someone must do it, I will! He is my child, and I will be the one to take him there, and I will not leave until the ritual is complete."

The three guests looked at her perplexed as if they were undecided about what to do. But before they could make a decision, Alys, still worn out and exhausted from the long and painful labour, stood up to her full height and fixed her stern gaze on the intruders.

She made sure to hold the newborn tightly in her arms, who was beginning to wriggle due to the commotion.

The child, still confused by having just emerged from his mother's womb, seemed to sense the presence of these unwanted guests. He began to clutch Alys's robes with his small fingers, as if to make it clear that he did not want, under any circ*mstances, to be separated from her.

All of this, shrouded in absolute incomprehensibility, unfurled before Aemond's bewildered eyes. Strangely, the three intruders seemed to neither see nor acknowledge him, as though his existence held no significance. Despite his lack of understanding of their archaic words, it didn't take the prince long to discern their intent – to take his child. The very child he had fought so hard to usher into the world, to bear witness to the strange rituals of a distant island inhabited by enigmatic creatures.

The mere thought of that fragile, emaciated infant, barely fitting in his arms, nestled amidst the untamed foliage with wild beasts lurking, their sharp fangs poised, ready to claim him as their prey, gripped Aemond's heart – if it indeed existed – in an unforgiving vice, leaving him breathless. Fear for the child's fate would remain a constant companion, growing as he watched the child's development over the years, moulding him into an overprotective and suffocating father, a stark contrast to the impetuous young man he once was.

However, this time, something more than fear coursed through him, something primal, an instinct that had awakened the moment he had delivered the tiny being from Alys's womb and now felt intertwined with his very being.

For that reason, the prince, perhaps rekindled with the ardour of youth, pushed himself up from the floor and without hesitation exclaimed, "What in the Seven Hells is going on?! I demand an explanation at once!"

At those words, spoken in one breath, the three antlered heads finally swivelled to face him.

Even Alys regarded him with bewilderment as if she had momentarily forgotten his presence amidst the others.

"Aemond," began the woman, attempting to mediate as she positioned herself between her husband and the three visitors, seeking to prevent him from saying something rash. "This... this is not your concern. It's a matter between me and the High Priests, something you cannot possibly comprehend..."

"Not my concern?!" thundered the prince at his wife, his fury mounting. "Strangers have intruded into our home, Alys, demanding our child for some barbaric ritual. And according to you, I should simply stand idly by as all of this unfolds? Allow our child to be placed in peril?!"

"Your firstborn will not meet an untimely demise, Prince Aemond," one of them spoke slowly and deliberately, enunciating each word as though time were of no concern. "For it is his destiny, as decreed by the Gods. The child, conceived from the seed of the Chosen Groom and brought forth by his own hands, shall mature into adulthood."

"And so, we have summoned you here, Prince Aemond," continued another, bearing the same air of condescension, as though imparting the most self-evident of truths. " To fulfil your destined role – to deliver the child into our care."

"The Gods have woven a tapestry of destiny for you, Aemond Targaryen," the last one concluded, his gaze piercing into the prince's crimson eyes as though he could discern the depths of his very soul. "It was imperative that you be present at the birth of your only son."

These words, uttered with unsettling indifference, left the young prince in a state of profound bewilderment. His rage had given way to confusion, and he glanced from the antlered man to Alys, seeking clarification.

" You appear taken aback, Prince," the man in the middle continued, almost mockingly. "Perhaps your wife hasn't shared with you the reasons for preserving your life, even after the atrocities you've committed?"

"I merely acted as necessity demanded," the other retorted brusquely and arrogantly, deflecting the question. "I was a soldier, fighting for my cause. The Gods are aware of it, and I trust in their capacity for forgiveness."

"What could a coddled prince like you comprehend about the divine will?" one of the others interjected with an amused grin, in his demoniac face a glimpse of irony appeared, as if he found it funny that someone like Aemond dared to speak.

" Men like you are so quick to blame the gods or to assert, with misplaced confidence, to know their will: you say that you did nothing wrong…then why are you here?

If your heart is innocent, then why did they decide to punish you?

Or are you implying that the Gods judged you wrongly and that you, among all, are a victim?

Throughout all your life, all you've done is affront them, committing acts of bloodshed, and torment, harbouring impure and violent thoughts, and sometimes even deriving pleasure from them.

Never, not even once, you have single thought that wasn’t been stained with violence and evilness and no one, not even your own siblings ever felt anything for you but fear and despise.

And still, you deny to think of yourself to be in the wrong…"

"Ha!" exclaimed the young man irreverently, letting out a bitter laugh. "I've done nothing that my uncle, the 'brave' Daemon Targaryen, hasn't already done. He and that whor* he married did even worse..."

"Are you sure of your words, oh brave prince? " asked the man on the right, using the same mocking tone as his companion. "Certainly, your uncle has his faults, but even Daemon Targaryen knows when to stop and that there are limits that should not be crossed."

"You, on the other hand, have shown no respect or decency towards others," his left-hand companion continued, concluding his speech. "You've committed treason, you've tried to seize the throne that rightfully belonged to your sister, even threatening to rape and torture her and her daughters, your own blood, defenseless children, without guilt."

"Who? Those three little brats?" Aemond asked with a scornful grimace. " They're nothing more than whor*s, and if they're not already, they'll become them soon enough. So why should I feel guilty for them? "

A heavy silence descended upon the modest dwelling, an oppressive quietude that even discomfited the prince. He struggled to grasp why he was met with these reproachful gazes, particularly when he believed he was merely speaking plain truth.

However, as Aemond turned to his wife for a nod of affirmation, expecting to find a kindred spirit in Alys who had forgiven him for an array of atrocities, he was met instead with her thinly veiled disapproval, a gaze akin to repulsion, as though she were aghast and unable to bear the sight of him.

"It appears that your words have disquieted your wife, dear prince," the antlered man in the middle remarked calmly and patiently, akin to a teacher reproving a child. "You ought to exercise more care in your choice of words, especially in the presence of a Priestess. Our Lady, you see, is not lenient with those who mistreat women, particularly young girls. Many have met their demise at her hands, sacrificed to our sacred Gods."

"Thankfully, my prince, the Lady of Ravens is merciful and pardons those who ultimately come to terms with their transgressions. But, alas, not everyone is so fortunate. What if, someday, your uncle seeks retribution for your attempted harm to his son, the young crown prince Aegon?

The same lad you endeavoured to snuff out when he was scarcely older than the babe cradled in your wife's arms now?

What if someone were to treat your newborn child in the same ruthless manner"

Upon hearing this question, Aemond's countenance turned as ashen as snow, as though all life had fled from him. An eerie, creeping coldness invaded him, seeping into his very bones and causing inexplicable tremors.

Inexplicably, a vision arose in his mind – his towering uncle Daemon, cruel and overpowering, brutalizing his own son, the frail and quivering youth, much as Aegon had suffered years before. The notion horrified him to the core, an emotional response he had never before experienced when contemplating that particular incident. It now distressed him to the point of madness.

"It seems you're beginning to comprehend," the other said with a self-satisfied grin. "Now, young prince, you're learning what it feels like when someone dares to harm your own flesh and blood. Perhaps this lesson will foster your understanding that violence against others always carries consequences. You're fortunate that here, on this isle, the retribution of your kin cannot reach you, providing an opportunity for introspection upon the malevolence you've wrought."

With these words, the trio appeared prepared to depart. To Aemond's astonishment, Alys, still barefoot with her gown stained in blood, joined them, cradling their child in her arms.

Once again, the young prince sought to dissuade his wife, even gripping her arm to prevent her from venturing forth, dreading for her safety in her weakened state.

Yet, Alys remained resolute.

"There's no avoiding this," she whispered, her tone resolute and almost stern, trying to keep her words from the green-clad men's ears . "This child belongs not just to us, Aemond, but to the Gods. If I don't comply, they'll take him into their presence, and I'll not permit that."

"At least let me bid him farewell before you take him from me," the young father entreated, his tone a departure from anything he had ever used before, not with her or anyone else, as he beseeched for one last glimpse of their child's face.

His request went unchallenged, and Alys surrendered the small bundle to Aemond. As he cradled his son once more, he marveled at how tiny and defenseless the infant appeared.

It was only in that moment, with father and son meeting eye to eye, the babe's small yawn as they locked gazes, that Aemond realized he had not yet chosen a name for his firstborn.

"Baelor," Aemond whispered into the child's tiny ears, "your name shall be Baelor, akin to my grandfather, the man who once soared the skies atop my dragon."

With this tender gesture, the young prince, uncharacteristically gentle, pressed a kiss upon the tiny, blood-streaked forehead of little Baelor, then relinquished him into his mother's care.

She closed the door behind her and followed the three men without uttering a word.

Left alone in the small stone cottage, Aemond sank upon the bed where, a mere hour prior, Alys had given birth to their son.

Unfazed by the soiled sheets, he surrendered to a dreamless sleep, his weariness compounded by the incomprehensible conversation of the night.

The prince's slumber, a duration impenetrable to his understanding, yielded to a sense of timelessness. Yet, when he stirred from that profound rest, Alys and Baelor stood before him, their absence an ephemeral illusion. Alys occupied a chair beside a crackling hearth, nursing their child with the care of a mother cat tending to her kittens.

The young prince was captivated by this tableau, an eternity unfurling in silence. He remained entranced, unwilling to shift his gaze or announce his reawakening. It marked his maiden encounter with the act of breastfeeding, an intimate maternal task obscured by the confines of his palace upbringing. The first time he witnessed a mother nurturing her offspring, a practice usually delegated to servants among nobility to preserve the unsullied perfection of noblewomen's bosoms.

Nonetheless, Alys's breasts seemed divinely suited for the role, their allure heightened, rendering them even more enticing and sensual. Baelor, the infant, reveled in his mother's milk, savoring the elixir with unbridled delight, his eyes gleaming with fascination.

"For the Seven, his eyes... " Aemond whispered, his voice filled with emotion, straining to scrutinize his son's features in the gentle firelight. Only then did the prince discern the distinctive heterochromia of Baelor's irises—one a vivid purple, the other a glistening gold.

"Are they not remarkable?" Alys inquired of her husband, her gaze unwavering from their child's visage, as if she had perceived his disquiet. "An eye of gold... this signifies the Gods' favour, love, and protection. There is no greater blessing."

Aemond, however, harboured a bitter muse. Baelor's dual-hued eyes might be a harbinger of future mockery or discomfort. Yet, he found solace in their remote island sanctuary, where his son would grow unburdened by judgmental gazes, a comforting thought.

A darker notion overshadowed his reverie. Many held grievances against him, and some might vent their wrath on his innocent child, regardless of the babe's tender age. Foremost among these adversaries was his uncle, Daemon, harboring deep-seated resentment. Aemond feared that Daemon might forsake his thirst for vengeance even at the cost of an innocent babe's life. This grim contemplation sent shivers down his spine, persistently haunting his thoughts.

"I am weary," Alys interjected with a yawn, dispersing her contemplations. "Could you hold him until he sleeps? I need some rest."

And thus, the prince found himself cradling a swaddled bundle of wool in his arms, tiny pink hands and a red, wrinkled head peeking out, crowned with large, sparkling eyes that regarded him with a mix of curiosity and confusion, as if the child couldn't recognize the man before him.

For his part, Aemond remained silent as he gazed at the infant. The birth's tension and potential tragedy had now past, he recognized that he had never truly contemplated his role as a father. He was aware that his father and brother, Aegon, had spent little time with their own offspring. The men he had known, soldiers and mercenaries, had not been present fathers. Men of his station rarely concerned themselves with infants, glimpsing them only briefly, perhaps during meals.

In this unique situation, however, Aemond recognized that he would inevitably spend time with his son. Their abode, a compact cottage, allowed for little escape, and he anticipated that Alys, in her way, would not bear the sole burden of childcare.

So, Prince Aemond assumed the peculiar position of acting as his own child's caregiver.

The evening had fallen, Baelor had been fed, and Aemond, uncertain how to amuse a newborn, sought the most practical course of action: lulling the child to sleep.

He approached the hearth, occupying the chair his wife had vacated moments before. Rocking back and forth with uncertain, bewildered movements, he held the swaddled infant, wishing for the child's eyelids to close and those peculiar, oversized irises to cease their contemplation.

To his astonishment, and growing exasperation, that motion only served to awaken the child further. Baelor showed no inclination toward slumber; instead, he appeared intensely curious about the man with the sapphire eye.

In a fit of annoyance, Aemond even commanded the child, in a general's authoritative tone, to close his eyes, but it elicited laughter from Baelor.

Unexpectedly, the little one extended a tiny limb, reaching out to touch Aemond's nose with his fingers, irresistibly drawn to the novel object.

That unsolicited act further ruffled Aemond, who despised being disobeyed in such a manner.

Yet the child displayed no fear in the face of his father's furrowed brows, continuing to laugh as if the disapproval were the most entertaining spectacle.

Not even Mushroom, Aemond mused, would have provoked such a response if placed in his situation. After nearly five minutes of boisterous amusem*nt, Aemond's patience waned. He resorted to placing the swaddled bundle in a basket by the table, distancing the child as if enacting a timeout for the grave offence.

Initially, Baelor appeared perplexed by the change of surroundings, gazing at the ceiling and waving his tiny hands in apparent bewilderment, as though seeking to return to his former resting place. With the passing minutes, the child realized he had been left alone, without the comforting warmth of the man's cradling hands.

Suddenly, the baby began to whimper and eventually cried with unbridled intensity, as if abandoned for all eternity.

He wriggled and strained, determined to make his presence known to his unresponsive parent, his face growing increasingly crimson.

Aemond tried to ignore his child's pleas for a while, nursing his resentment over the earlier defiance. He remained indifferent, believing the infant would eventually tire of screaming and fall asleep.

But as minutes dragged on and the cries grew louder, he began to fear that Alys might awaken due to the commotion and become furious with him for leaving their baby in such a state.

Exhausted and defeated, Aemond had to concede. He approached the straw basket where he had placed the child, and when he gazed at his son's face, he was nearly shocked.

The infant's face had turned a deep shade of crimson, with a runny nose and swollen, reddened eyes, enhancing his already heart-wrenching expression. Worse still, the effort of crying had left the baby even weaker, trembling violently in his father's arms.

Appalled by the consequences of his ill-conceived actions, Aemond panicked, expecting the child's heart to burst at any moment. He returned to the hearth, attempting to soothe the baby with continuous, rhythmic movements in his arms, hoping to quell the tears and laboured breathing.

Seeing that did not affect the child, he started to despair, feeling like a failure for being unable to console his own son.

Overwhelmed by distress and frustration, the prince felt an urgent need to comfort the baby, to hold him close and assure him of his safety.

Instinctively, he gently touched the child's tear-stained, crimson face with his fingertips, hesitantly caressing the forehead and nose, aiming to provide reassurance that he hadn't been abandoned.

To Aemond's relief, that gesture appeared to calm Baelor, bringing an end to the ceaseless crying that had assailed his ears for nearly an hour and restoring serenity to the cottage.

Yet, it was still too early to claim victory.

The child's lower lip, while sealed, trembled, signalling a renewed bout of fussiness. In response, the young man did the only thing that made sense at the moment: he placed his finger in the baby's mouth to prevent further cries.

Surprisingly, Baelor began to nibble on the unfamiliar object, perhaps gauging if it posed any danger. After a few moments of confusion, he seemed to enjoy nibbling on his father's index finger, his frown evolving into a blissful smile, forgetting the cause of his earlier distress.

Aemond found himself smiling at the sight of the two-toned eyes gleaming with joy, releasing a sigh of relief when the baby's chest resumed its normal rhythm.

It took another hour before Aemond's efforts to lull little Baelor to sleep finally took effect. Having abandoned the notion of a crib, he had to attempt every possible position and swaying motion. He even resorted to walking in circles around the cottage in hopes of coaxing the baby to slumber.

When he finally succeeded, Aemond, wary of waking the child, found himself obligated to hold the swaddled bundle close to his chest. He settled in a chair by the fire instead of the bed next to Alys.

This wouldn't be the last instance of Aemond staying up late to comfort his son during the night. Just weeks after giving birth, Alys began spending less time in the small stone cottage in the midst of the forest. Sometimes she would be absent for hours, wandering the island, leaving Aemond alone with the baby. She never shared the details of her activities, but the prince suspected her visits to the three men in green attire or the performance of her mystical rituals.

The most distressing aspect, aside from the vexation of being left to his own devices with nought to occupy him but the care of the infant, was the profound sense of emptiness and tedium that pervaded his days within the confines of those four stone walls.

That sensation became insufferable when Alys began to venture to the mainland. Despite her efforts to conceal it while in his presence, she often proved susceptible to Lord Harwin’s ceaseless entreaties, beckoning her to his castle to assist with a laboring woman or unveil profound visions of the future.

As the months elapsed, her sojourns at Harrenhal extended, testing Aemond's patience to its limits. On more than one occasion, he endeavoured to persuade her to stay with him, not heeding every missive Lord Harwin dispatched via raven.

Yet, he could not make her heed his counsel. It appeared that there was invariably something deemed more significant than him, supplanting their conjugal life.

Only Baelor seemed to sway her, if only slightly.

When the little one fell ill or yearned for her, she might choose to linger at home a while longer, but not more.

In addition to these, as expected, their intimacy was never the same after the child's birth.

As Baelor grew and began to roam the house independently, it grew progressively challenging to secure a private moment without interruption from the incessant crawling of the infant.

Furthermore, if the myriad constraints and Alys's intransigence weren't vexing enough, she adamantly declared her unwillingness to risk another pregnancy, obliging Aemond to seek release far from his wife's inviting embrace.

However, amid countless constraints and Alys's inflexibility, the passion was intense.

In the wake of their lovemaking, Aemond sometimes found himself momentarily forgetting his discontent with his secluded exile.

He could even forget the life he had led before his arrival on that island, as if his existence as a prince had been naught but a dismal daydream.

Only occasionally did he find himself gazing at the ceiling and contemplating his dragon, Vhagar, whether she lived or perished, or the fate of his siblings before slipping back into slumber, dismissing those concerns.

Only one thing could rouse him from that forced sensory slumber, and that was Baelor.

Paradoxically, the presence of young Baelor, the sole human presence that offered a semblance of solace amid the monotonous existence slowly gnawing at him over months and then years, became, in a strange twist of fate, the origin of his nightmares.

As his only son matured, his temperament and disposition diverged markedly from his father's.

While Aemond had always been a sombre child of few words, Baelor seemed to carry laughter with ease.

As the child grasped more about the world, he found everything intriguing, often laughing at the slightest novelty he encountered, perpetually wearing a smile and rarely in a foul mood—a demeanour Aemond could not fathom.

To young Baelor, everything seemed delightful and fascinating, and every object beckoned experimentation. When the boy eventually mastered walking on his own two feet, it became nearly impossible for Aemond to keep up and prevent him from attempting to consume anything that appeared edible, such as berries or poisonous herbs, or from stumbling into treacherous puddles.

A demanding task for a single parent, particularly in their residence amidst an uncharted, dense forest harbouring potential dangers or wild creatures.

The child harboured a fondness for touching creatures with four legs, particularly wild rabbits, hares, and squirrels.

Another trait that the prince failed to appreciate in his scrawny, underdeveloped son for his age was the constant appetite, especially for meat. On multiple occasions, Aemond found himself hunting and killing the very animals his son had petted just the day before, serving them as dinner fare.

Naturally, the prince refrained from revealing this truth to his son, who, aside from his unrelenting cheerfulness, remained exceptionally sensitive and prone to tears—a trait he assuredly did not inherit from his father.

Aemond, in contrast, had always relished hunting and considered it an enjoyable activity. He bore no qualms for the animals he dispatched, primarily indulging in the pursuit for pleasure rather than necessity.

Thus, when faced with idle days, he took solace in making use of his time productively and with pleasure. Lamentably, lacking proper weaponry and unable to import any from the mainland, the prince was obliged to craft his bow and arrows from wood, whittling them with a small knife.

Aemond had nurtured a hope that, as his son matured, he would instruct him in the ways of hunting, allowing them to venture into the woods together. That hope, however, waned swiftly, witnessing the ease with which the boy grew attached to animals he was expected to skin.

To Aemond's great dismay, his beloved Baelor exhibited no inclination to follow in his martial footsteps, preferring the company of birds or lengthy naps to physical activity, unless it involved chasing butterflies or crows for hours or scaling tree branches.

At times, his frustration mounted to such an extent that, upon observing his son slumbering in the adjacent bed, his countenance undisturbed and serene, anger surged within him, inundating him with doubts and questions.

During these moments, Ser Criston's sinister insinuations whispered, suggesting suspicions of his son's authenticity and conjecturing whether Alys, perhaps with the aid of the three Green Men, had substituted her child with another on the day of his birth.

These were unfounded notions, rooted in paranoia, as a single glance at his son's long silver hair and his solitary violet eye would irrefutably confirm that Baelor was indeed blood of his blood, a genuine Targaryen.

The true quandary—the very reason that Aemond could scarcely meet his son's gaze without quivering—lay in the fact that his son bore a resemblance to the wrongTargaryen.

The prince had ever been aware of his absence of charming or graceful features, instead marked by distinct, gaunt physical attributes from a tender age that set him apart from his kin and even his father.

Amongst his kith and kin, the one to whom he bore the closest likeness was the one he held in deepest aversion—his uncle Daemon.

Certain malevolent tongues had ventured to jest that he was Daemon's progeny, rather than the king's, a nonsensical canard propagated by Rhaenyra's adherents in an attempt to sully his virtuous mother's name.

Regrettably, the same could not be said for his son, Baelor. The child did not inherit Aemond's high cheekbones, slender lips, nor, most notably, his lengthy and hooked nose, reminiscent of a dragon's profile. When the prince beheld his only son, it was the visage of his nephew Aegon that he perceived.

Indeed, a disconcerting resemblance emerged between Baelor and the youthful prince, offspring of his uncle Daemon and his sister Rhaenyra—an almost eerie likeness, if not malevolent.

This similarity began to manifest itself before Aemond's eyes during Baelor's inaugural year of life, as the baby fat typical for his age adorned the boy's once-wrinkled countenance, transforming it into a fuller, cherubic visage that bore features entirely alien to his father but mirrored those of his sister, Rhaenyra.

The little Baelor, with his innocent, cherubic face, a petite and unassuming nose, and an eternal smile, stood as a living reminder of the individual he loathed most in his existence.

Above all, it was a constant, harrowing testament to the nefarious act he had endeavored to perpetrate against him.

Each time the prince gazed into his son's unspoiled eyes, the horrific recollection of Aegon's terror-stricken and fearful countenance when he had attempted to slay him resurfaced, and Aemond's own visage involuntarily imposed itself upon his thoughts, reducing him to trembling with dread, rendering him unable to meet his son's gaze without quaking.

Aemond discovered it nearly unbearable to be in proximity to the child without the haunting replay of that fateful day incessantly consuming his mind.

On that day, in addition to claiming Vhagar, he had also lost his left eye.

The sensation of his scar's constant pulsation persisted, akin to a wound that refused to heal. It was a torment that clung to him even in slumber. His dreams were tainted with agony and turmoil, rendering peaceful rest elusive, inundating his thoughts with nightmarish visions of the dragon's lair.

In these dreams, it was not Aegon but Baelor who cried and pled for mercy, subjected to brutal assaults by his uncle Daemon, a remorseless parallel to Aemond's own actions from a decade past.

These nightmares surpassed any terror Aemond had encountered in his life, even eclipsing the fall from Vhagar and the specter of death.

He, who had long boasted of being fearless and immune to the concept of fear, who had proclaimed his unwavering desire to confront his uncle on the battlefield, now quivered at the prospect of his nightmares materializing.

He fervently prayed never to witness the visage of Daemon Targaryen again in his waking hours.

Despite Alys's repeated assurances, Aemond's faith in the impregnability of the Isle of Faces had never been unwavering during his six-year sojourn there.

He remained ever watchful, half-expecting to discern the silhouette of that man closing in on his child from behind, ending the boy's life before his very eyes, akin to a lion seizing its quarry.

Or a dragon.

The dread of Rhaenyra and her adherents seeking retribution for his transgressions even led him to suppress thoughts of them, as if the mere invocation of their names might break the ancient enchantment safeguarding the Isle of Faces from intruders.

Aemond had scrupulously avoided any mention of his past life, refraining from even inadvertent slips that could unveil his history prior to his exile on Baelor's isle.

The defeat and the loathsome prospect of the Blacks seizing power had always been abhorrent to him, driving him to the brink of madness.

Yet, not once did he allow a word to escape about his sister or the kingdom beyond the enigmatic shroud of mist.

As Baelor matured and grew cognizant of the world beyond the lake, he slowly began to comprehend that something lay beyond its confines.

However, the boy remained blissfully ignorant of castles, knights, ladies, kings, princes, and the dragons that once graced the skies. Baelor remained unaware of his father's princely heritage or its significance.

In his younger years, he revelled in proudly declaring his connection to one of the most potent bloodlines in all of Westeros, believing it his right and duty to emphasize his prestigious lineage.

Now, however, the young prince chose to ignore the luxuries forcibly relinquished and the throne usurped by pretenders.

He had no inclination to elucidate for his son the defeat and captivity suffered by his father.

He would sooner meet his end than witness a hint of disappointment or reproach in his son's eyes directed at him, his disillusioned father, whom he saw more like a nursemaid than a parent.

This stood in stark contrast to his wife, who, as the Lady of the Ravens and the High Priestess of the island, was entitled to unreserved respect and admiration and the little Baelor never missed an opportunity to demonstrate how much he cherished and admired his mother.

He treasured her presence, an infrequent occurrence and so each instance was a precious gift to the young lad.

She indulged him, caressed him, sang him lullabies, and regaled him with tales of the ancient Children of the Forest.

In contrast, Aemond steadfastly refused his son's appeals to explore the forest, meet its inhabitants, or swim along the lake's shores.

He considered it his duty to quell and contain his son's boundless energies and desires, a stark difference from Alys's approach, which was far more indulgent. She seemed to lack even a fragment of the anxiety that plagued her husband whenever their slender Baelor stepped beyond the threshold of their abode.

Most significantly, she remained blissfully unaware of the agony that engulfed him whenever he beheld his child's countenance—a face bearing an unsettling resemblance to another child, one nearly beaten to death. It was this similarity that made it impossible for him to extend the love he wished to bestow upon his son.

For this reason, the arrival of the emissary, dispatched directly by Rhaenyra herself, was a blow that proved insurmountable for Aemond. To him, the unannounced visitor's presence at his doorstep was akin to his darkest nightmares materializing. The worst aspect was that Alys appeared oblivious to his distress. The visitor's arrival marked the unequivocal end of their tranquil existence.

News of a royal emissary's voyage to the enigmatic Isle of Faces quickly spread through the Riverlands, unveiling the secret of Aemond Targaryen's presence on the island to the world.

It was reasonable to assume that from that day, the residents of Harrentown and its environs, feigning indifference but known for their penchant for gossip, had already commenced loudly proclaiming Aemond Targaryen's proximity to their castle.

His old adversaries, convinced of his death, were jolted to high alert, contemplating renewed searches for him.

What confounded him the most was how this seemingly inconspicuous man had circumvented the magical defenses that rendered the island impervious to outsiders.

It was almost as if the island had accorded him permission to enter, a fact that perplexed and infuriated Aemond.

Further exacerbating his disquiet was Alys's apparent lack of astonishment, suggesting she had foreseen this turn of events and had chosen to keep it from him, perhaps even out of spite.

Moreover, she appeared unusually delighted that Rhaenyra, whom she held in disdain, had extended an invitation to her son's wedding.

It was as though the usurper, who deemed herself a queen, was an esteemed friend, rather than the woman with the potential to harm her son and husband.

Alys contended that the "unexpected" arrival of the emissary signaled the will of the Old Gods for them to accept the invitation and journey to King's Landing.

In her humble opinion, her sister would never transgress the sacred "guest right" in her own abode, especially when one of the guests was the Lady of Ravens and the Sacred Priestess of the Isle of Faces.

Aemond held a different perspective.

Despite reluctantly beginning to trust his wife's words, given her extraordinary capabilities on various occasions, he couldn't shake the belief that Alys had made a grave error this time.

Though she had grown up within Harrenhal's walls and was familiar with the nobility's world and its workings, she had never ventured beyond the Riverlands and remained oblivious to the wiles of King's Landing's elite, particularly those of the royal court.

In the Red Keep, sanctity was an unfamiliar concept, especially to figures like his stepsister, Rhaenyra, and her dissolute court.

Furthermore, despite being beloved and revered as a priestess of the Old Gods by many faithful, the same could not be said for the adherents of the Faith of the Seven, who constituted the majority of King's Landing's populace.

Nonetheless, Aemond had to grudgingly acknowledge that Alys's Gods, despite their untamed nature, had always watched over him and his family, shielding them from those who sought to harm them for years. It left him to wonder why they had permitted a stranger from the capital to approach their doorstep at this particular juncture.

Such an occurrence could not be mere happenstance.

This realization, however, did little to soothe his anxiety about leaving the life he had grown accustomed to and reentering the tangible world.

The adjustment to this existence had consumed years of his life, and now the prospect of rejoining the world he had left behind appeared insurmountable.

This was especially true for Baelor, who had never laid eyes on anything beyond the island and remained oblivious to the perils of the world outside, including the family members he had never met.

While the queen's invitation did not contravene the agreement struck with Harwin Strong, Aemond remained haunted by the notion that it might be a trap, and it would have been better for all of them to remain on the Isle.

Yet, it was too late for second thoughts, he bitterly ruminated, staring at the ceiling.

By now, the emissary had likely returned to King's Landing, informing Rhaenyra of the success of his mission.

She would not hesitate to dispatch additional envoys to his doorstep unless he furnished a favorable response to her summons.

If the Gods willed it, he told himself, then he would accept his destiny. He had already experienced the consequences of defying his fate and felt it was time to cease living in dread of the past and confront the man who haunted his nightmares.

And so, fueled by this determination, Aemond made the resolute choice to accept his sister's summons.

To set their plans in motion, on the evening when the royal messenger arrived, he dispatched Alys to confer with Lord Strong, apprising him of the developments; their intention was to prepare for their impending journey to King's Landing, which was scheduled for the following month.

Given the perils of such a venture, it was prudent to take precautions and ensure all arrangements were meticulously organized.

It was inconceivable for the Lord of Harrenhal to permit his sister to embark on this perilous journey alone, exposed to potential threats from highwaymen, so Aemond held every confidence that Lord Strong would, with little reluctance, agree to accompany them on this expedition and offer assistance in various ways.

Arriving at the royal court in a state of disrepair was unthinkable, especially on an occasion as significant as the wedding of the self-proclaimed heir to the Iron Throne; Harwin Strong, as the sole male relative of Alys and her self-declared protector, bore the duty and responsibility to supply everything essential to ensure their impeccable appearance and prevent them from being overshadowed.

True to their agreement, Alys returned the following day, and the joy evident on her lovely countenance conveyed that their requests had been favorably received.

Thus, at dawn's first light on the initial day of the third month in the year 136, Prince Aemond Targaryen—almost six years to the day from the commencement of his lengthy, imposed exile—prepared to leave the murky, mist-laden shores of the Isle of Faces for the lusher and more rugged terrain of Harrenhal. They embarked on the very raft that had accompanied him on his initial journey.

Seated with him were his unflustered wife, Alys, and their youthful Baelor, whose spirit contrasted with his father’s, brimming with enthusiasm.

Baelor's fervour had ignited a week earlier upon learning of their voyage to the "Lands Beyond the Mist.", as he started to call it; he had leapt for joy and continued to display the same excitement in the ensuing days, culminating in the morning of their departure.

Even as the raft, seemingly propelled by enchantment, drifted along the current without requiring oars, distancing them from the island that had nurtured him, Baelor's eyes, vibrant with violet and gold, radiated delight and bliss.

The child's sense of wonder intensified as their vessel entered the dense, imposing veil of fog, especially when, as his mother raised her arms to the Seven Heavens, the mist started to obediently dissipate as if it cleaved in twain by the power of her mind.

Aemond, too, though he had already witnessed this spectacle years before, found himself breathless as the thick, grey shroud enveloping them, obscuring vision to nought but a hand's breadth, suddenly waned; before him it loomed the somber, colossal silhouette of Harrenhal's walls, unfurling in its imposing grandeur.

Baelor seemed profoundly affected by this extraordinary sight, for when his gaze fell upon the towering, almost molten-looking towers of the castle, the child startled and sought refuge in his father's arms, burying his face in Aemond's chest.

Initially perplexed by this reaction, Aemond soon realized it was the first time his son, accustomed to their woodland stone cottage, had ever beheld a structure so vast and formidable.

Part of him wished to chide the boy, deeming it irrational to fear a castle, however, in the end, maybe amused by the fact that in a moment of terror, he preferred to search for help from him than from his mother, the prince decided to refrain himself from scold his son, choosing instead to gently stroke the child's silver hair as they drew nearer to the lakeshore.

Nonetheless, further surprises lay in store for them. The moment their raft made landfall, an unexpected occurrence unfolded. Suddenly, a contingent of heavily armed men emerged from the morning's obscurity, encircling Aemond and his family with an air that hinted at potential confinement.

Instinctively, the prince tensed, perhaps haunted by memories of his past, and, without conscious thought, reached for the place where his sword's scabbard used to rest, only to be reminded that he stood unarmed.

Fortuitously, as the faint sunlight illuminated the uniforms of these men, it became apparent that these would-be captors bore the colors of House Strong.

A confirmation of this revealed itself as a figure of imposing stature, splendidly attired and sporting the type of elegance the prince had long been without, moved toward them with an authoritative yet non-threatening demeanor, as though he had been anticipating their arrival.

Despite the almost six-year interval since their last encounter, Aemond readily recognized the visage of Harwin Strong; apart from a sprinkling of grey at his curly brown hair's roots, the subtle wrinkles etching his brow, and a hint of a paunch beneath his dark blue waistcoat, Lord Harrenhal remained the same man who had visited him in his prison cell on that fateful night to convey the news of his survival.

The gravity of his gaze, as it settled upon Aemond, mirrored their previous meetings, save for the knowledge that this time, the prince was not at risk of being seized by the collar and forcibly thrust against a wall.

Certainly, although aware that his brother-in-law harbored no goodwill toward him, Aemond was equally certain that, as long as Alys remained at his side, the Lord of Harrenhal would dare no harm to him.

To validate this assumption, the nobleman's stern countenance swiftly softened as his dark eyes shifted from Aemond to Alys.

Upon spotting her, Alys stepped forward, embracing Harwin Strong with genuine affection and warmth, holding him close.

The prince observed this unusual display of sibling tenderness unfold before him, coming to realize that it marked the first occasion he had seen Lyonel Strong's two children together.

Now, presented with the opportunity to observe them side by side, Aemond felt quite foolish for failing to recognize their familial resemblance during their initial encounter.

Although not identical, the siblings seemed to share an indescribable affinity, as if they were entirely in sync.

Such a profound connection was a rarity among blood siblings, let alone step-siblings, particularly when one was not of legitimate birth.

It was indeed disconcerting to witness Alys, who typically maintained her stoic demeanor, exhibit such warmth and attentiveness toward someone not of their own flesh.

Not even toward Aemond himself, her husband, had she ever allowed herself to be so open. It was as if, even after six years of marriage, she regarded him as a boy rather than a man deserving of her affection.

Unwittingly, an unsettling pang of jealousy began to stir within the prince.

He felt an inexplicable urge to insert himself between the brother and sister, curtailing their excessive affection and reaffirming his presence.

Fortunately for him and his pride, it wasn't necessary because Baelor took it upon himself to stand between Lord Strong and his mother, demanding that she explain who this unfamiliar man was and why she was treating him with such familiarity. As soon as Harwin Strong's smiling eyes fell on the child's chubby face, his expression changed to one of shock, as if he had seen a ghost.

From this reaction, Aemond recognized that the striking resemblance between his son and Prince Aegon was not a mere figment of his imagination. If even Lord Strong, who had never previously encountered the child, immediately noted the likeness, then there must indeed be substance to his anxieties.

What particularly vexed the prince was how the man's gaze lingered upon Baelor's eyes, gazing at them with palpable astonishment and wonder, as though he could scarcely believe his own eyes.

Since Aemond had agreed to undertake the journey to King's Landing and depart from the island, he had been aware that the outside world might react unpredictably to his son's eyes of differing colors, especially given the unique hues and Alys's reputation.

Most of Westeros's inhabitants would regard Alys as a sorceress dabbling in questionable potions and concoctions, or even worse, accuse her of consorting with the Lord of the Seven Hells and producing a cursed child as a result, deeming the golden shade of Baelor's left eye a sign of this unholy union.

With this in mind, the prince had been prepared for a disparaging comment from Harwin Strong concerning his son's appearance—a comment that, to his surprise, never came.

The Lord of Harrenhal uttered not a single mocking remark.

Instead, he extended a respectful introduction to young Baelor, even shaking the child's hand in the manner reserved for adults. Baelor, dwarfed by the towering, burly figure, regarded Lord Strong with incredulous eyes, as if he could scarcely fathom the existence of such towering, powerful beings in the world.

Upon their hands touching, the boy sought refuge behind his mother's skirts, his expression one of timidity.

Lord Strong appeared unperturbed and even appeared amused by Baelor's shyness, which, in his eyes, likely resembled a timid puppy in need of reassurance.

He endeavored to comfort the child with a pat on the head, adopting a rather paternal demeanor.

As he had earlier observed with Alys, Aemond began to experience a tinge of vexation at how Harwin Strong, a stranger to the child until this moment, so effortlessly endeared himself to his son. It was a feat Aemond himself had struggled to achieve over the years.

His rather somber thoughts were interrupted by the emergence of more figures, who discreetly stepped forth from the wall of guards forming a backdrop to the Lord.

They presented themselves to the prince and his family.

The newcomers comprised a woman with dark brown hair, leading two children by the hand—a boy and a girl.

Following her was a nurse who, in turn, cradled two children, both just over a year old, possibly twins.

Before Harwin Strong could pronounce their names, Aemond had already deduced the newcomers' identities.

He had never considered himself a lover of gossip, viewing such morbid, seemingly feminine fascination with others' affairs as puerile and frivolous.

However, the rigours of his life in exile had gradually led him to depend on Alys's accounts of court life in Harrenhal.

Though it paled in comparison to the court in the capital, it sounded remarkably thrilling and engrossing to a prince whose days were often dominated by little more than hunting and caring for his son.

As a result, upon glimpsing the children's faces, Aemond had little trouble identifying them.

The first child, the one with light brown hair who appeared the eldest, was undoubtedly Lyonel Strong, the firstborn of the Lord of Harrenhal, born of his first wife, Jeyne Mallister, wich union had taken place just a few weeks after the conclusion of the civil war.

Concerning Jorah Mallister's only daughter, Aemond had heard very little apart from her possession of blonde hair and her reticence, however, according to Alys, who had assisted in her childbirth, the lady had been disenchanted with her life as the Lady of Harrenhal, deeming it eerie and sinister, eventually succumbing to madness.

Several weeks following her son's birth, she had thrown herself from the stone walkway connecting the Kingspyre tower to the Widow's Tower, meeting an instant demise. Although Alys had been away at the time, the prince was certain that certain gossips had insinuated his involvement in her suicide.

The little girl, adorned with her striking red locks, a rather unconventional trait within House Strong's lineage, could only be the second child—Lyonora.

She was born of the Lord's union with his second wife, the daughter of Lord Piper, whose name likely commenced with an 'L' or 'S'—perhaps Lynten, wich fiery hair, when was alive, made a pronounced statement, a trait not even the dominant Strong genes could subdue.

This Lady Strong assumed the role of Harrenhal's mistress for a duration surpassing her predecessor's tenure, sufficient time for her to incur the displeasure of the castle's servants and residents, according to Alys.

In fact, Lady Lynten stood as the antithesis of the fragile Jayne Mallister. She remained consistently courteous and composed, yet she displayed an unsettling tendency for immediate gratification and concealed a formidable temper beneath her veneer.

If Alys's accounts were to be believed—and she had assisted in the childbirth as well—the new Lady of Harrenhal had not displayed much kindness toward her year-old stepson, even making her husband's life less pleasant.

Consequently, when the amiable noblewoman succumbed to a peculiar ailment a few months after her daughter's birth, her demise did not elicit great mourning, rendering Lord Strong a widower for the second time and entrusting him with two young children.

The prince, still bearing resentment for the manner in which his brother-in-law had treated him during their prior meeting, had secretly reveled in the knowledge of Harwin Strong's misfortunes. Over time, he had become morbidly interested in his marital mishaps, eagerly anticipating the day when the Lord would decide upon a third marriage, eager to see how this one would meet her end.

To the astonishment of all, that day had arrived sooner than expected when Harwin Strong abruptly announced his intention to wed Lady Cordelia Bracken, his current wife, while the period of mourning for Lady Lynten was still in full force, stirring considerable scandal.

Aemond learned this directly from Alys, who had suggested to her younger brother that he marry the daughter of the late Lord Amos, recently widowed and in search of a husband.

According to her, uniting House Strong with House Bracken would help quell the hostilities between the latter and House Blackwood, staunch allies.

The feud had been escalating since the civil war's conclusion.

However, not everyone held confidence in the union's success, particularly those who recalled that the bride's father had fallen victim to an attack launched by Lord Harwin before the Battle Above the Gods Eye.

Thankfully, Alys's involvement led to a successful and even advantageous outcome, convincing Lord Samwell of House Blackwood to attend the ceremony and declare a temporary truce between the two houses.

This move was well-received by Lord Tully and the other Riverlands lords, who regarded Alys with diminishing hostility.

Aemond found this strategy remarkably shrewd and was not surprised that the Lord of Harrenhal had heeded her counsel.

Nevertheless, he remained perplexed and somewhat concerned about the haste with which the Lord remarried, breaking the mourning period nearly three months early.

Yet perhaps the most perplexing aspect of the tale, one that left him particularly mystified, was that a lady would accept a marriage proposal from someone whose wives had met such untimely demises.

Hence, Aemond had theorized that the prospective bride must have been desperate or faced limited prospects in finding a husband.

Yet, with Lady Cordelia before him, he realized that she possessed no discernible flaws. The woman, somewhat younger than the prince, with her dark hair, porcelain skin, and intensely black eyes, appeared to possess qualities that would readily attract numerous suitors.

Perhaps, Aemond pondered, it was her youth and beauty rather than political advantages that had compelled Harwin Strong to take her as his wife and swiftly impregnate her.

Indeed, less than a month after their initial nuptial night, the new Lady of Harrenhal was already expecting, not one, but two children—a fact more peculiar than ordinary and also perilous.

Consequently, the expectant father insisted that his sister oversee his wife's entire pregnancy, causing Alys to remain within the castle walls for nearly four weeks, marking her lengthiest absence to date.

Hence, it became evident that the two dark-haired children with near-identical features, presently cradled in the nurse's arms, were none other than Harren and Lymond, the twin siblings born the previous winter. Aemond remained awestruck by their robust health and appearance.

He couldn't help but recall how differently his sister Helaena's twins had fared at birth, with the firstborn seemingly sapping the vitality of the second, stunting his growth.

Yet it was evident that this situation did not apply to the young Strongs, who appeared larger than their tender years, boasting a luxurious mane of dark hair.

The Lady of Harrenhal executed a flawless curtsey upon her arrival in the company of the Lady of the Ravens and her family, her gaze respectfully lowered.

Her two stepsons mirrored the gesture, each approaching their aunt in turn to receive the customary forehead kisses—a Riverlands tradition.

Both children accepted the light kisses with grace, suggesting familiarity and comfort in their aunt's presence; even the twins received the customary greetings, though their preoccupied nibbling on their sleeves seemed to distract them.

However, a different atmosphere prevailed when their gazes landed on Prince Aemond, who stood slightly apart, seemingly uninterested in drawing their attention.

Even at their tender age, the boy and girl widened their eyes in fear as they beheld his prominently displayed sapphire eye, indicating an understanding beyond their years regarding his identity and deeds.

Even Lady Cordelia, upon noticing his scar, lost a degree of her composure, though she managed to veil her apprehension, offering a curtsey no different from the one she had bestowed upon his wife.

After the exchange of pleasantries, Harwin Strong and his guards led them to the eastern edge of Harrenhal's forest, where carriages and the rest of their retinue awaited them for their journey.

Aemond had been initially surprised by the sizable procession, consisting of at least fifty horses and an equal number of carriages, resembling a military encampment.

At first, he attributed this fanfare to the extraordinary news of his return from exile.

However, it soon became clear that the actual cause of such mobilization was a rivalry between the Blackwoods and the Brackens to gain his wife's favor.

Learning of Alys's impending journey to the capital, the Blackwoods had insisted on accompanying them, and the Brackens were not to be outdone by their rivals. This led to significant commotion, and Aemond couldn't help but ponder whether the real reason for this display was that none of them had been informed of his presence.

Upon his arrival in the camp, Aemond witnessed a crowd of people who had gathered to pay their respects to the Lady of the Ravens, but their expressions shifted to horror at the sight of him.

Some ladies even fainted upon seeing his scar, while many others invoked the Gods fervently, as if their prayers could drive him away.

Only Samwell Blackwood and Cornelis Bracken, perhaps forewarned of his arrival, remained composed.

Yet even as he passed them, he detected beads of sweat on their brows, suggesting discomfort caused by his presence.

As promised, Harwin Strong arranged carriages and trunks filled with attire suitable for their stay within the opulent confines of the Red Keep. Recognized as high-risk individuals, the Lord also provided an impressive escort, handpicked from his most trusted men and augmented by soldiers from House Blackwood, who insisted on accompanying the Lady of the Ravens on this remarkable journey. Among them were the six men who had escorted Aemond from King's Landing to Harrenhal six years earlier, and their tone and demeanor had notably changed from their past encounters.

It took some time for the turmoil and confusion generated by his arrival to subside.

Eventually, the substantial group, led by the Lord of Harrenhal and his entourage, embarked on their journey southward, oblivious to the unfolding consequences of this expedition.

Thus, the intricate game of the Gods commenced.

Chapter 5: Conjectures

Chapter Text

Before you start the chapter, I wanted to spend some instants to give a shoutout to two amazing artists who recently gifted me of their talents:

The first one is my dear friend and moot @kiraliaart (follow her on insta and x) who drew for me this amazing portrait of Cordelia Bracken, our new Lady Strong ❤️

The second one instead is a part of an art trade that I did with the sweet @deftoniesarts who illustrated Harwin and Cordelia together, in a very intimate and adorable moment 🥰 .

"Years have passed since I started keeping this diary, and now it seems I have reached the last pages. The first time the tip of my pen touched the immaculate surface of these papers was on the day of a wedding, and I scribbled a few confused and meaningless words, unaware that the events of those days, now so distant—at the time seen through my young girl's eyes—would lead the woman I am now to witness another great union.

Of the reactions caused by the unexpected arrival of my uncle Aemond among the family, I remember little, so great was my joy in dancing and flaunting my dazzling clothes, that perhaps, at the time, I paid them little attention; yet even then, in my tender childhood ignorance, I understood that his presence was something extraordinary, something that would leave an indelible mark.

This would later prove true, especially concerning my sister Baela, who, from the day our uncle left after the wedding, seemed to become a completely different person: I do not know if the seed of love had already taken root in her tumultuous soul, but with the wisdom of now, I am sure that the sight of our uncle, returned after so many years of exile, had caused in her a very violent turmoil.

What my uncle's impressions of her were, however, I was never told, and in truth, I do not think I want to know: whatever his state of mind was at the time, it is easy to guess, yet inside me, I am sure that no matter how much he said he detested and despised us, I am sure Baela must have impressed him, and quite a bit. Whether positively or negatively, I cannot say.

Yet, whatever that impression was, it is undeniable that it must have been intense, something that ultimately, many years later, led him to join her and never leave her again.

Perhaps all these are just my musings, or perhaps the Gods truly had a plan for them from the beginning that we did not understand; whatever the truth is, I am happy to be able to write that in the end, everything ended in the best of auspices."

- From the Diary of Princess Visenya, on the 3rd day of the 3rd month of the year 143 AC

Jaehaera I

3rd day of the 3nd month of the year 136 AC

When Princess Jaehaera woke up that morning, it was just two hours after the first nightingale's song. It was not a sudden awakening, as that night, like many others, had been a dreamless sleep.

Because of the early hour, her bedroom was still dark, and she couldn't see much of her surroundings. However, through the thick blue felt curtains, a timid sliver of sunlight gradually appeared, signaling that the sun was rising. The princess remained still, staring at the thin beam of light as it widened for a while, almost entranced, before deciding what she actually wanted to do.

Jaehaera knew that despite the early hour, most of the servants were already awake and had begun their chores, unlike the palace nobles who slept until midday. She realized that she could easily find someone to wash and dress her, even at that hour, if she wanted, but decided against it. It wasn't that the bell cord was too far away, but she saw no reason to disturb those already busy with their tasks. After all, her personal maids would arrive to wake her in a couple of hours anyway, so she thought it best to wait for them in peaceful silence.

The young princess then lay with her head resting on the large feather pillow, the thick cotton and wool blankets pulled up to her chin. Her eyes, now free from their usual veil of fatigue, began to intently fix on the wooden ceiling of her bedroom until the intricate carvings and floral inlays of the wood led her to daydream, as she often did when she was bored.

Jaehaera's mind, unlike her manner of acting, was very lively and, like frogs in a pond, sometimes jumped from one thought to another in no time at all, if stimulated in the right way. At that precise moment, all her thoughts were focused on what was going to happen that morning and the strange excitement that the arrival of House Strong had stirred among the people of the castle, which seemed to be equal to, if not greater than, the excitement caused by the appearance of the red and gold banners of House Lannister, who had arrived two days earlier along with the other Lords of the Westerlands, their vassals. Jaehaera couldn’t t understand the cause of this fervor; after all, House Strong was merely a minor vassal of the Tullys, and its main attraction, besides being led by a former commander of the City Watch, was the possession of Harrenhal, a castle that many would consider more of a disadvantage than a boast.

Yet, the Queen seemed to be waiting for nothing else: during the rare occasions that the young princess had seen her throughout that frantic week—spent welcoming and greeting guests and overseeing the final preparations before the big day—she noticed that the imminent arrival of Harwin Strong and his family had put her in extreme agitation, even more so than usual, constantly asking for news and updates about their arrival at every opportunity.

Jaehaera, though finding this a bit strange, told herself that such concern was due to the need to ensure everything was going smoothly and to avoid any unforeseen issues just days before the celebrations began. However, she couldn’t shake the impression that there was another reason for such anxiety.

House Strong would indeed be the last among the noble houses of Westeros to reach the castle before the festivities began, deciding to wait until the last moment to depart for the Crownlands instead of joining Lord Tully and the other Houses of the Riverlands, who were among the first to arrive at the gates of the Red Keep.

No one knew for certain why Harwin Strong and his entourage had decided to act this way, not even the Lord's sisters, who had expected to see their family banner alongside the Tullys' silver trout. Yet theirs was not the only significant absence.

Many houses from the North, including the Starks, would not be present at the ceremony. This news was delivered with some regret, after all, the marriage of the future king of the realm was a rare event. However, few in the court believed that their disappointment was genuine.

Sure, their justification was reasonable enough; it wasn’t the Lord of Winterfell’s fault that heavy snowfalls in recent months had made any travel south impossible. He thus preferred to delegate the responsibility to other nobles from the North who could travel to South to represent him on this occasion.

However, the coldness and detachment with which he had dismissed the messenger who came to his castle had not gone unnoticed.

Many attributed such behaviour to the temperament of the Northmen, who did not concern themselves with good manners or appearances and could seem rude to the nobles of the capital. Others hinted at supposed friction between Cregan Stark and the Queen’s groom, arising sometime after the war ended. But these rumours quickly died out, and since few at court seemed distressed by their absence, the attention of the gossipy courtiers shifted to another notable absentee, the Dornish.

Not even the great red sun pierced by a golden lance had, in fact, made its appearance amidst the crowds of colorful sails filling the Capital's harbor.

No one seemed to know for sure what had happened to the Martell family; the only news came from the messenger who had been sent to Sunspear to deliver the invitation, who had returned days ahead of schedule from his mission with a rather disheartening response.

It seemed that at that time a serious epidemic was infesting the corridors of the Old Palace, an unknown and vile disease that had struck the health of the beautiful and kind Princess Aliandra, forcing her to bed, hovering between life and death, thus making the absence of her family in the capital more than acceptable.

In their place, just as had happened with the Starks, ambassadors were sent, coming from House Dayne and Manwoody, who brought lavish gifts and well-wishes from their prince and the reassurance that the poor princess would recover.

These few words were enough to calm the waters and restore the festive atmosphere of the approaching celebrations, bringing the castle back to the usual frenzy of those last days.

From what Jaehaera remembered, the Red Keep had never been a tranquil place, yet in those last days, it seemed to have become even more chaotic and unmanageable than ever. It had almost become entirely impossible to walk the corridors without risking bumping into one of the servants or pages, who always had something in hand to carry and were too busy running around like mad to pay attention to the castle's inhabitants, so overwhelmed they were with work.

The same went beyond the tall and thick red walls of the fortress, where rows of men - young and old - were paid a pittance to ensure that nothing and no one obstructed the passage of the long and splendid processions of nobles arriving from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms to pay homage to the heir to the throne and his promised bride.

Hundreds and hundreds of soldiers in golden cloaks had been stationed at every corner and alley with the task of maintaining order and decorum and containing the degradation of Flea Bottom, at least until the end of the celebrations. It was indeed unthinkable that the illustrious guests of the royal house, especially those who had come from beyond the sea, would see - and smell - the result of decades of overpopulation and urban mismanagement precisely on an occasion like this, which had been created with the purpose of showing how the new reign of Rhaenyra the First would change the history of the Realm for the better.

However, the reality was that most nobles, even the most reckless ones, would never dream of trading a night in the muddy and malodorous streets of King’s Landing when they could stay within the luxurious and clean walls of the castle, indulging in the most extravagant revelries. Not even the ladies who had been living in the Red Keep for years ventured out into the city, so little was their curiosity to see the world around them with their own eyes and soil the hems of their beautiful dresses. Not that they were permitted to, of course, but even if they were, Jaehaera would bet her life that few would come to see a ragged child eat his stale bread on the roadside.

Jaehaera was one of them: from a young age, she had preferred to seek refuge within the high and secure walls of the Red Keep, avoiding as much as possible crossing the great iron gates that separated her from the outside world. She had never felt the urgent desire to venture out: the few times she had done so were to visit the Great Sept during the grand procession in honor of the Maiden’s Day or when, on her birthday, Queen Rhaenyra granted her and her brother permission to go to the Dragon Pit to meet their two dragons.

In any case, the large dome of dark stone was situated atop Visenya Hill, which was far removed from the dirty and foul-smelling alleys of Flea Bottom. Only ten times in her entire short life did the young princess recall smelling the pungent odor of feces and spoiled beer, and that was when she was allowed to go to the Dragonpit to visit her dragon, Morghoul, on the day of her nameday.

When this happened, however, the excitement and happiness that engulfed her were such that she completely forgot where she was or where she was going, to the extent that never, not even once, did Jaehaera bother to pull back the curtains of the litter and take a look at the miserable and dirty inns that lined the Street of the Sisters. For her, who was born and raised within the solid and splendid walls of the castle, that world, filled with hunger and hardship, was as real as the stories her mother used to read to her as a child before falling asleep.

Of course, as a devout believer and follower of the Faith, the princess preached good manners and kindness of heart, and she had learned from a young age that the less fortunate should be pitied and helped, not shunned. Yet deep down, Jaehaera couldn't help but completely disregard those who were less fortunate than her. Many times she had wondered if her own lazy nature was something to be ashamed of, or at least corrected, but looking around and observing how even other members of her family seemed indifferent to the needs and pains of the most destitute people, with a few exceptions.

Yet even those in the royal family who seemed to endeavor to alleviate the sufferings of orphans and the hungry seemed to do so for pure self-gratification rather than mere kindness of heart. At least, that was what Jaehaera perceived during the many hours spent in the company of the noblewomen of the castle, who, if the Queen did not need them and there was no banquet to attend, spent most of their time gossiping and talking about the great and noble deeds in which they were engaged.

For the most part, these conversations took place outdoors, among the shaded porticoes of the Gods’ Wood or the expansive terraces of the Maidenvault, but during the cold months, the Queen decided to open her apartments to the young ladies, who, more than for the fires or the peach brandy, seemed to participate purely to be able to dreamily admire the Queen's two sons, Aegon and Viserys.

Despite living in the same palace, the young woman had had few opportunities to interact with her older cousins. Yet, despite this subtle distance caused by circ*mstances, Jaehaera had always found herself quite akin to the two boys, now grown young men. Even though it annoyed her a bit, she couldn't help but understand the delirious sparkle of pure admiration in the eyes of all the women in the castle, noble and common alike - even the older ones, who quite rightfully could be the mothers, if not the grandmothers, of the two young men - every time they entered a room.

Jaehaera was convinced that there couldn't exist two men as beautiful and captivating as them in all the Seven Kingdoms, and that the goddess Maraxes herself must have kissed them at birth. The girl knew she would risk a scolding from one of her Septas if they knew of her thoughts, but she didn't care. Such beauty as theirs could only come from their Valyrian ancestors, originating from the tumultuous and magnificent peaks of the Valyrian mountain, where it was said that the Old Gods had mated with some of their followers, producing celestial and extraordinary-looking creatures.

Yet, despite both being extremely charming, the two brothers could not be more different from each other, almost like day and night, winter and summer. If Jaehaera were to find an analogy with Valyrian mythology, she would say that her cousin Aegon resembled Tessarion, God of music, arts, knowledge, healing, plague, prophecy, poetry, and beauty, while Viserys resembled her sister, Syrax, Goddess of wine, fertility, parties, festivals, madness, chaos, drunkenness, vegetation, and ecstasy; two sides of the same coin, in short.

Indeed, while the elder was discreet and gentle, always soft-spoken in the way he modulated his voice, never too over the top, and always pleasant and amiable, like that of a nightingale or the sound of a gentle morning drizzle; even his attire reflected his cordial and reserved personality, rarely adorned with necklaces or jewelry, and never ostentatious or too heavy, a detail that only served to highlight his mysterious charm even more.

Viserys, on the other hand, was on a different tone: while not noisy or obnoxious, the queen's second son knew how to make his presence felt when he entered a room. It was as if a ray of golden light flooded the environment and suddenly the sun had made a stop in front of everyone, such was his personality and the magnetism it emanated. His features, while not as regular and delicate as those of his brother, appeared so splendidly captivating on his face that every time he was looked at, women - of every age and status - couldn't help but blush and laugh like maidens. Even Jaehara, sometimes, found herself in the situation of hiding her flushed face when her cousin had made a flattering comment about a very well-done hairstyle she had done for Visenya, which had flattered her not a little.

Yet, as enchanting as Viserys was, with his golden locks, refined and flashy attire, and his quick wit, deep down she knew that nothing and no one could match the understated elegance of the heir to the throne.

More than once during those years spent playing chase with Visenya through the corridors and gardens, Jaehaera had stopped to observe the tall and slender figure of Aegon, bewitched by the regalness of his demeanor and the perpetual air of melancholy, as if he remembered a moment of infinite sadness that did not belong to him, unable to look away so intense was the beauty he radiated at that moment.

In remembering this, the girl's face flushed a vivid red, and even though she was aware that no one could see her there, she had the instinct to cover herself entirely with the heavy sheet and slip into bed, almost to prevent those thoughts from escaping and wandering away.

Jaehaera didn't know how long she remained in that position, yet, while in the darkness, with the warmth of the blanket covering her face, her mind drifted off and for what seemed like only a few moments, her eyes closed, now heavy with the sweet and inviting oblivion she had sought refuge in; when she opened them again, the previous silence was replaced by loud chatter and impatient footsteps, as if her room had been invaded by a herd of horses.

Before she could react to all this, an invisible force roughly pulled the heavy blanket covering her away, exposing her to the intense golden light of the sun, which now shone in all its brilliance unlike before, a sign that someone must have opened the curtains.

"Your Highness, it's time to wake up! Princess Visenya is already awake and asking for you," said a shrill voice as two hands helped her sit up from the high mattress and stand, "I thought Iris and Rose had already dressed and washed you, instead, poor dear, they let you sleep until this hour..."

It took Jaehaera a few seconds to grasp the meaning of those words, confused by sleep and the light that blinded her still bleary eyes.

"But what time is it?" she asked confusedly, "I woke up a little while ago and it was just dawn..."

"Oh, my dear, you must have dozed off then," replied the woman in front of her, whom she now recognized as Lady Prudence Stockworth, one of her mother's three ladies-in-waiting, "the nightingale has sung a while ago, the sun is high in the sky, and it's almost time for the arrival of the last carriages, and here you are still in your robe! This castle has become a circus!"

As the woman continued to express her disbelief at the inefficiency of the servants, her hands began to efficiently and quickly remove the nightshirt from Jaehaera's body, leaving the young girl naked as the day she was born and guiding her with decisive care towards the tub filled with water in the adjacent bath.

Jaehaera had to force herself to hold back a scream when her still warm skin came into contact with the icy surface of the liquid, which, however, helped her to wake up definitively from her unplanned little nap, giving her time to think about what to do: if what Lady Stokeworth said was true, then all her family members, her father included, had already eaten, and she wouldn't have time for breakfast after getting dressed.

That, she told herself, wouldn't be a problem. After all, she was sure that in her cousin Visenya's room there would be sweets in abundance, so it was unlikely that she would starve. Moreover, today more than ever, she couldn't afford to waste any more time. By now, she was sure, all the other ladies of her cousin must already be there, and perhaps they were wondering where she was and why she was late. Of course, in Visenya's presence, none of them would have dared to say anything malicious, but surely among themselves, they would have exchanged laughs and malicious glances, full of scorn towards her.

At that thought, the girl's heart clenched a little, but that feeling was quickly pushed away when she remembered that as spiteful and malicious as those girls were, they were nothing more than ladies, while she was a princess, and therefore above them in rank and prestige.

Of course, she was still the daughter of a traitor, one of the gravest and vilest crimes a man could commit in his life, but that didn't change the fact that her grandfather had been a king, and that the woman who now sat on that same throne was her mother's sister, an undeniable fact that even Lysa Celtigar and Jayne Darklyn couldn't ignore.

When the two servants had washed and perfumed her, Jaehaera pulled herself up from the bathtub, and in a hurry, the two covered her with warm towels and vigorously dried her long silvery hair, hoping to dry it as quickly as possible and let the golden rays of the sun do the rest.

Meanwhile, Lady Stokeworth had begun to choose the outfits for the day, carefully laying them out on the bed, waiting for her to be ready. After fifteen minutes, her hair was combed and styled with simple, unpretentious braids, and the two maids hurriedly began to dress her, helping her put on the slip and the dark earthy green dress, almost leaning towards brown - one of the few shades of green allowed at court after the end of the war - which like many of her clothes was devoid of any excessive ornamentation and had a neckline that was practically non-existent.

Indeed, both her back and her collarbones were covered, while only a small portion of her fair skin on her neck was visible, adorned with a simple gold necklace, given to her by her mother for her twelfth birthday. As she looked at herself in the mirror, Jaehaera couldn't help but, with a hint of resignation and bitterness, note that dressed in that way, she seemed more like a novice ready to take vows than the lady-in-waiting of a princess.

When the lady ensured that her appearance was in order, she escorted her to the small dining room located in her parents' quarters, just a few steps from her own rooms, so that she could greet her family before heading towards the opposite wing of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Like all members of the royal family, Jaehaera, her parents, and her siblings had their own lodgings and gathering spaces within the massive square fortress built by King Maegor, a stronghold within the Red Keep, impossible to breach or assail, surrounded by a layer of iron spikes and a moat traversable only by a drawbridge. In truth, the young princess had heard rumors of secret passages and underground shortcuts that could neutralize such precautions, but she was skeptical.

However, unlike Queen Rhaenyra and her family, who had taken possession of the East and North wings of the fortress and had the largest and most splendid accommodations, her mother and father had been confined to the smaller ones in the South wing. Although visibly more limited in terms of space compared to those of the Queen and her consort, their quarters were undeniably fitting for members of the royal family. Moreover, the scarcity of people coming and going from one corridor to another and the smaller size of the common areas connecting their bedrooms allowed them to spend their time together in intimacy, without any interruptions.

Jaehaera didn't mind all of this; in fact, she liked being in quiet and secluded places, away from the probing and judgmental gazes of the courtiers of the castle, and she never missed her old quarters, the ones she had occupied before the war. In reality, she remembered little, if anything at all, from those days, just a few confused fragments of her grandfather's and grandmother's faces, but nothing more. The only thing she remembered about the day they were evicted was the trunks full of clothes being moved around, and their maids helping her mother gather their belongings.

Simply overnight, the size of their bed had shrunk, and instead of the sea from the window of her room, she began to see the red roofs of the houses. The intrigues and conspiracies that had been discussed and carried out that led to all this, she and her siblings had been kept in the dark about, at least until recently.

As months and then years passed, Jaehaera began to notice how the courtiers stared at her and her family, how people whispered every time they walked through the castle corridors, and especially how everyone seemed to avoid her father. While her mother was often invited to the queen's apartments or banquets, the same didn't happen with him, and as she grew older, the girl discovered why.

The more time she spent with her cousins, who were better dressed, more respected, and especially more well-liked by courtiers and nobles, the more she and her siblings learned what it meant to be the children of a traitor. Yet neither the queen nor her children had ever behaved rudely towards them, nor had they ever excluded them. But, Jaehaera told herself, this was perhaps due to the affection the sovereign harbored for her sister and nothing else.

However, Jaehaera couldn't help but perceive that what existed between the queen and her mother was more than mere sisterly love, as if there were some kind of secret between them, an agreement of which only they knew the meaning and which bound them closely.

When the young princess entered the dining room, everyone present had already finished their meal and seemed about to get up; on the table, there were still crumbs from the various cakes that had been served, while on the fruit tray, there were some peaches and grapes, now withered. As soon as she saw her, her mother Helaena came forward, smiling, and embraced her with her arms in a light but warm hug, as she usually did. Normally, Jaehaera wouldn't allow anyone to touch her in that way and would stiffen at someone's touch, but her mother's hugs were so gentle and soft, and her skin smelled of honey and strawberries that when her arms encircled her, she did nothing to stop her and even allowed her to plant a light kiss on her cheek.

Her two brothers also greeted her when they saw her, but only Jaehaerys, her twin, stood up to greet her, while Maelor remained seated, too busy eating his slice of plum cake to pay attention to her. The more he grew, the more it seemed to her that her little sweet brother became sullen and irritating, a troublemaker who loved to pull hair and tease others, a real torment in short; her twin, on the other hand, was his complete opposite.

Jaehaerys matured and emerged from childhood, he showed himself to be a sociable young man with gentle and polite manners, a true prince worthy of the name; just like their mother, he smiled often and had a pleasant comment for everyone, thus winning the goodwill of all the boys in the castle and at court. Being with him was so pleasant that most of the time people forgot about his "peculiarity," as their mother called it: few noticed it because of the long sleeves of the jackets he wore to hide it, but his left hand, unlike the right, had six fingers instead of five, and the same with his feet. Jaehaerys seemed not to mind at all, and every time someone brought up the issue, he laughed it off as if it were nothing, but Jaehaera knew that he suffered greatly from the way people changed their attitude when they saw his "defective" hand, as if he were a monster or a crippled jester and when this happened, she couldn't help but suffer along with him.

"Why isn't Father here with you, Mother?" asked the girl when she couldn't find her father's gaze anywhere. "He should be awake by now."

"Oh, my dear..." her mother exclaimed in her usual calm and sweet tone, caressing her cheek and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a caring gesture. "Today your father isn't feeling too well and preferred to stay in bed. It would be better if you didn't disturb him and let him rest."

At this explanation, Jaehaera nodded silently, unsure whether to add something or remain silent. It wasn't the first time her father hadn't shown up at the breakfast table; in fact, it happened quite often. Prince Aegon was used to waking up very late, even later than what was acceptable for a nobleman, skipping breakfast altogether and only appearing at lunchtime, but only if he decided to leave his room.

Usually, there were few occasions when her father decided to step outside Maegor’s Holdfast, except for extremely formal events where his presence was specifically required, leaving him no choice but to attend. By now, it seemed everyone at court had forgotten him, effectively making him a ghost, avoided by everyone, even his own family.

The only one who seemed genuinely happy to be around him was Jaehaera, who wished she could spend more time with her father instead of having to be content with those few stolen moments between meals. Although she had grown used to it, deep down, the young princess hoped for a change.

More than fine clothes, new toys, and luxurious rooms, what Jaehaera envied most about Visenya was having a united and happy family, one that always dined together, free from awkward silences and unnecessary tensions.

The girl knew it was pointless to disturb him and that she should let him sleep, just as her mother had suggested. But she didn't.

To the young princess, it seemed cowardly to leave without even saying hello to her father, almost as if she were avoiding him. So, driven by an unusual burst of bravery, instead of heading towards the East Wing where Visenya’s apartments were located, she decided to walk quickly but silently towards her father's bedroom door.

She was just about to knock and announce herself when a sound made her stop, leaving her arm suspended. From the heavy, dark wooden door, which had been left ajar, came the sound of two voices, indicating that her father was not alone. From the agitated and brusque tones used, the princess deduced that the conversation was not a pleasant one.

Jaehaera knew she shouldn't stay there eavesdropping, that whatever the topic of that discussion was, it was none of her business. However, her curiosity got the better of her, and although she was running late, her feet remained firmly planted.

Without making a sound, she pressed her ear against the cold surface of the wood and gently pushed the door forward with her fingertip, not enough to make it creak, but just enough to catch a glimpse of her father, who was angrily confronting his poor interlocutor, who seemed to be trembling with fear.

“What do you mean he’s coming here?!” she heard her father shout. “Have you lost your mind?! Are you telling me that after all these years in that cursed place, that wretch is still alive?!”

“I-I, your highness…” the other man stammered, who must have been a valet or one of the many servants tasked with attending to her father. “My prince, I only told you what I heard from Lady Mysaria's maids, just as you asked me to…”

“Ah!” her father exclaimed mockingly. “Lady? What lady! That woman is nothing more than one of the many whor*s my uncle Daemon bedded before marrying my sister, nothing more. Anything that comes out of that woman’s mouth is nothing but trash!”

“Y-yes, of course, it must be exactly as you say, my prince,” the servant quickly agreed, eager to escape the situation. “And why would our Queen ever invite Prince Aem-”

“Don’t say his name!” the prince thundered with a rage and strength Jaehaera had never seen him use. “Don’t you dare speak of him in my presence! Neither his name nor that of the witch he married! If you…”

But before he could continue, the faint creak of the door made him turn towards the entrance, and as soon as the young princess realized that her father’s furious eyes had seen her, her feet began to run down the corridor.

Jaehaera didn’t know if her father had tried to chase after her, but with his injured leg, she doubted he could ever catch up to her. Nevertheless, she didn’t slow down, too shaken by the scene she had just witnessed to calm down and think clearly. She had caught only a few phrases from the conversation she had overheard, yet the way her father had gotten angry and the things he had said stayed etched in her mind, and she couldn’t stop thinking about them. She was so distracted by her thoughts that she fell when she ran into Baela, who was calmly walking down the corridor leading to Visenya’s apartments with her twin sister Rhaena, and hadn’t noticed the breathless thirteen-year-old running in her direction.

The collision wasn’t violent, but due to Jaehaera’s lack of balance and the long hem of her dress, the girl couldn’t help but trip and fall hard onto the floor right in front of the astonished eyes of the two older princesses. Seeing her on the ground, they wasted no time and hurried to help her, perhaps to spare her the embarrassment of being seen by others in such an undignified state.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you hurt?” exclaimed Rhaena, grabbing her arm and helping her back up while her eyes checked for any scratches or injuries on her hands or legs, or any damage to her dress.

“What happened?” asked the other sister, bewildered. “Why were you running like that? Were you being chased by hellhounds?”

Jaehaera froze at their questions and stared at them, embarrassed. Her face burned with mortification, and for a moment that seemed to last forever, she stood there, dumbfounded, unable to say anything.

Ever since she was a little girl, Jaehaera couldn't help but be in awe of the two twins, who, despite being anything but scary or hostile, and only a few years older than her, exuded an aura of respectability and splendor that she couldn't help but admire and fear at the same time. Many in the castle, even after years of their presence at court, still had trouble telling them apart, but not Jaehaera. Whether because she also had a twin or simply had a sharper sense of observation than others, she had never confused them.

That day, more than ever, the difference between Baela and Rhaena was even more pronounced, and even a blind person would have found it difficult to mistake one for the other. One wore a light, elegant blue dress with an overskirt of the finest satin, which fluttered in the air whenever she moved, making her look like a butterfly in flight, while the other wore a tight, dark leather outfit, perhaps boarhide, that fit her like a glove, suggesting she had just returned from a flight session with her dragon, Moondancer. Close as they were, the young girl could smell the pungent odor of ash and smoke typical of the Dragon Pit's cells, clinging to Baela's riding gear and disheveled hair, braided in a now completely undone plait, making her nose itch with its intensity.

Their faces, seen up close, also showed substantial differences. While both were undeniably beautiful, it was evident that Rhaena possessed an elegance and grace in her features that Baela lacked. Every detail of the younger twin's face seemed to have been sculpted and polished by the expert hands of an artist, making her visage delicate and smooth, free of any flaws: her forehead was broad, her nose small and straight, and her cheeks, always tinged with a slight blush, were soft and rounded, the epitome of what a princess should look like. Her sister, on the other hand, more and more resembled their father in character and appearance, with her once-round face elongating, her cheekbones becoming high and sharp, and her nose slightly curving, like a dragon's neck: all minor and almost imperceptible differences, but ones that had helped others distinguish her from her twin.

This didn't mean the elder sister lacked attractiveness and charm—far from it. Yet, there were few ladies who openly admired Baela's features; on the contrary, Jaehaera had seen a few even look at her cousin with envy and jealousy. It was no secret that many young nobles—and not only nobles—had a soft spot for the elder daughter of the queen, who, unlike her twin, was far from shy in accepting their compliments. Perhaps it was this nonchalance, mixed with a certain impertinence and mischief, that made Baela, in the eyes of the shy and awkward Jaehaera, an almost mythical and unattainable figure, someone to be admired with wonder and aspired to become.

While mulling over these details, Jaehaera realized she had been staring at them for too long without saying anything, making the silence awkward. So she tried to say:

“I-I’m sorry, it’s just that I woke up late and was afraid of being late… I didn’t realize I was running so fast… I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

At these softly whispered words, the two twins exchanged a meaningful glance, one only twins could understand, and then, very calmly, smiled at her.

“Oh well, if that’s the case,” said Rhaena with a sweet and soothing voice, “we won’t keep you any longer.”

“Just,” continued Baela, placing a hand on her shoulder in her usual melodious and captivating tone, “next time, try not to run through the corridors like that and avoid crashing into anyone else.”

The young girl felt a bit dazed, and before she could nod, the two of them slipped away with extreme grace, their hair being gently tousled by the wind.

As soon as Jaehaera recovered from that unexpected encounter, her mind returned to its usual clarity. Without waiting another moment, she headed towards Visenya’s bedroom, this time not running and being careful of whom she passed by.

When the young princess crossed the threshold of the opulent chambers of the Queen's younger daughter, she noticed with a hint of bitterness that her cousin was not alone as she had feared. In fact, Visenya was already surrounded by four cheerful girls dressed in bright and sumptuous clothes, in line with the current fashion and therefore completely different from her own dress, which was poor in details and precious gems.

As soon as the guards at the door announced her arrival to the entire company, the four young ladies sitting around Visenya stopped laughing and turned in her direction, staring at her in silence, without saying anything. Just as she expected, neither Lysa Celtigar nor Jayne Darklyn deigned to greet her. In fact, Jaehaera even thought she saw them exchange a rather meaningful glance, perhaps about her dress, now rumpled from her earlier fall.

Celia Tully and Betha Dustin, who were a few years younger than her and had been at court for only a few months, on the other hand, gave her a polite nod before returning to their embroidery.

The only one who stood up to welcome her and seemed genuinely happy to see her was her cousin Visenya, who came skipping towards her and hugged her warmly.

Although she was now accustomed to such displays of affection from her, Jaehaera couldn't help but stiffen a little before returning the hug and apologizing for her delay.

"I was starting to worry," exclaimed Visenya, looking at her with her big, round eyes, one so dark violet it seemed black and the other so light it was lilac. "I thought you were sick or something. It would have been a real tragedy if you had gotten ill just the day before the wedding, right Jayne? You told me Jaehaera had caught a cold, and I almost started crying!"

At these words, Lady Jayne Darklyn, the younger daughter of Lord Gunthor Darklyn, couldn't help but finally look up and blush with embarrassment: it was clear that the girl had not spoken those words out of kindness towards Jaehaera, but that it was a clear reference to her desire for her to get sick.

The only one who didn't seem to understand was sweet Visenya, who, so accustomed to receiving love and deference from others, perhaps couldn't conceive that some people, at times, might wish harm upon others.

In fact, a few moments later, her young child’s mind instantly forgot about the matter, and without giving more weight to what had been said, she took Jaehaera's hands in hers and announced, “Oh Jaehaera, look! The seamstress delivered the dress for the wedding today!”

The girl glanced towards the enormous canopy bed, where a magnificent purple silk dress adorned with golden embroidery and white pearls was laid out, looking like it came straight from the illustrations of the fairy tale books she loved to read.

“Is that what you’ll wear to the ceremony tomorrow?” she asked, enchanted, her eyes still shining with wonder.

“Yes! Isn’t it beautiful? It’s the same color as Viserrax, and the beads are golden like his eyes! I can’t wait for Muña and Kepa to see it!” exclaimed the young princess, full of excitement, “and then there are the ones for the banquets and the tournament! One for every occasion, and Mother promised I could stay and dance until after the eel hour on the last day! Aren’t you excited for tomorrow too?”

“Well, yes...very much,” admitted the other with a shy smile, then turning towards the large window, she said, “it seems they’re excited for tomorrow too.”

A loud noise was coming from the large golden cage near the balcony, indicating that the Queen's daughter's three young ravens were awake and ready to play with each other. They had been named Maemarr, Virys, and Garaerys in honor of the three characters from Visenya's favorite poem, which told the story of a princess who fell in love with both of her brothers. In her despair at not being able to decide whom to marry, she threw herself off a cliff. However, the goddess Maraxes, moved by her anguish, decided to save her and transform the girl and her two brothers into birds so they could live together forever.

When they first heard that story, the two girls had cried, and for an entire month, they hadn't asked to hear any other stories but that one, staying awake for hours imagining whether the three birds, after centuries, were still flying together or if, at some point, like all animals, they had perished under the force of time, and if so, whether they had died together or not.

Then, the previous year, when the castellan had found three abandoned raven eggs on one of the reconnaissance towers' spires, Visenya had begged him to give them to her instead of throwing them away. With patience and much love, the two cousins had waited for them to hatch: the tiny chicks were born a few months later, squawking and without a single feather to cover them.

Even before they could start flying, the young Visenya had decided what their names would be and that they would be hers forever.

Many at court had found it "peculiar" to keep three ravens as pets, thinking it would have been more appropriate to adopt a less lugubrious and cuter creature. However, the princess had been adamant, and nothing could change her mind. Many were unaware of the immense fascination the girl had for those black-feathered birds and didn’t know how much she had longed to have one as a pet.

Even the other ladies, who usually tried to do everything Visenya desired, had felt a bit uncomfortable feeding the ravens, preferring to stay away from them, fearing they might peck at them.

Only Jaehaera seemed happy to take care of them, another fact that only increased the child's affection for her cousin, thus putting her in a privileged position and unintentionally earning her the envy and disdain of the other ladies-in-waiting.

At that moment, for no apparent reason, one of the three birds—perhaps Vyris—began to caw incessantly, causing the other two to get agitated in response: it was as if they were excited about something, something that was supposed to happen that day.

“Maybe they’re hungry…” murmured the older girl absentmindedly.

“Or maybe they’re excited for the wedding...and the tournament!” exclaimed Visenya, taking her hand, “I heard that every house will have a knight participating and that Ser Addam will compete for House Velaryon! Imagine if he won and crowned Rhaena Queen of Love and Beauty…”

“Shhh!” her cousin admonished her, signaling for her to put a finger to her lips, “You shouldn’t say such things, you know…”

As if she remembered something important, the young princess put her hands to her mouth, almost to prevent herself from saying more.

Seeing that the other ladies were watching them curiously, the two cousins decided to sit near them and start embroidering their handkerchiefs while maids served them apple juice and honey cakes.

Almost an hour had passed since she started working, and the design she had imagined was slowly taking shape. Jaehaera, who among all the girls present was the most advanced, decided to put down her needle and thread to let her aching fingers rest. As her gaze wandered among the decorations in her young cousin's room, her mind began to dwell on the words she had overheard her father and the servant say, causing her to fall into a kind of daydream where she analyzed every phrase from that mysterious conversation.

What were they talking about? And why did her father seem so angry?

Jaehaera told herself that it wasn't unusual to see him in a bad mood; more often than not, it seemed like he was mad at the entire world, and it was rare to see him laugh. Yet, she had never seen him as furious as he was earlier. Could the reason for his discontent be related to the arrival of the last guests for the wedding?

Still, as far as she could remember, her father had no reason to harbor such hatred toward Lord Strong, and moreover, it wasn't the first time that he and his family had visited the queen in the capital. Everything suggested that there was no reason to suspect that his anger was directed towards the Lord of Harrenhal.

Yet Jaehaera was sure that the answer to her doubts lay in that direction: faded and discolored portions of a conversation between her parents began to resurface, and information that had remained buried in her mind for a long time now seemed to come to the surface like pieces of wood thrown into the water.

With all the concentration she could muster, the girl tried to grasp and then piece together those twigs that had just reappeared, but just when it seemed everything was about to fit together, a light touch on her shoulder made it all collapse.

Lost in her thoughts, Jaehaera had completely forgotten where she was and who was around her. So she was startled when she saw Visenya’s face close to hers, her big eyes—one violet, the other dark purple—fixed on the embroidery hoop in her hand with a dreamy expression on her face.

“But… but it’s so beautiful!” the little girl exclaimed in awe, “Jaehaera, your little bird is so lovely… and the flowers around it are so tiny and detailed! They look real!”

Those words drew the attention of everyone present, who left their work and gathered around to see what she was talking about. Even Lady Elinda Massey, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, who was there to supervise them that day, was intrigued and made a pleasantly surprised face as she admired the young princess’s embroidery, which showed a certain skill, especially considering the girl’s young age.

Upon hearing those compliments, Jaehaera's pale cheeks turned red, and she almost didn't notice the envious looks the other girls were casting at her over their shoulders. She simply smiled with satisfaction and accepted their perfunctory compliments.

The gardens of the Red Keep were located next to the southeast wing of the Holdfast and stretched for several acres, making them as large, if not larger, than the throne room. This made them appear more like a piece of woodland than a proper garden. According to her uncle Daeron, the gardens in the Reach were very different from those of the castles in the Crownlands, where everything was left much to itself and almost nothing was altered except for the bare minimum.

Jaehaera had never visited Oldtown nor Highgarden, but admiring the illustrations her uncle had shown her of the beautiful and meticulously maintained rose gardens decorating the walls of the Hightower and the intricate hedge mazes surrounding the ancient home of House Tyrell, the girl understood what he meant when he said that in the southern regions, gardens were considered a work of art in their own right.

The six young noblewomen and Lady Elinda settled among the grass, where cushions and blankets had been laid out by the servants, under the refreshing shade of the many fruit trees that made up the God’s Wood. This allowed them to enjoy the warm and sweet rays of the sun without risking burning their fair and sensitive skin.

Accompanied by the soothing sound of the harp being played nearby by a minstrel, Lady Elinda, positioned at the center of the six young women, began to read passages from well-known poems. The girls around her listened, enraptured and dreamy, completely immersed in the fairytale-like and bucolic atmosphere, forgetting where they actually were.

Jaehaera also couldn’t help but relax as she listened to Lady Elinda’s calm and gentle voice, while the sweet chirping of sparrows mingled with the sound of the harp. Before she realized it, her mind once again wandered to imaginary and distant seas. Without noticing, the princess rested her head on one of the cushions and closed her eyes, beginning to imagine the words and characters Lady Elinda mentioned, making her believe for a moment that she was there with them.

Shortly after, Jaehaera felt small fingers gently stroking her head. It wasn't too bothersome to be unpleasant, but just enough to make her open her eyes and wake from that blissful drowsiness. Once her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she realized that the person stroking her hair was Visenya, who had separated from the circle and was now sitting beside her, her right hand on Jaehaera’s head.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, blushing, perhaps fearing she had wronged her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your sleep, but your hair looks like silver threads in the sunlight, and I wanted to touch it. Were you dreaming?”

At those words, said so casually, Jaehaera didn’t know how to respond and after a few moments of silence, she mumbled something like:

“No-don’t worry, I wasn’t dreaming. It’s just that the sweets earlier made me sleepy.”

“Good, I’m glad. I hate when I wake up before finishing a dream. Just this morning, I had a very strange one. Do you want to hear it?”

The older cousin hesitated for a moment, still too drowsy to fully understand what had been asked, but seeing the excitement in Visenya’s big eyes, she eventually nodded.

“Normally, I don’t remember much about my dreams, but this one impressed me a lot, and I’ve been thinking about it all morning,” the girl began, squeezing Jaehaera’s hand as if to gain strength.

“I don’t even know if it was a dream or rather a nightmare, as strange and dark as it was… I was on the shore of a lake, and it was night. Everything around me was dark, and there was so much fog that I couldn’t distinguish anything, neither land nor water. Then suddenly, a moonbeam dispersed the fog, and everything became as clear as day. At that moment, I saw a wooden boat coming from the lake, and on the boat was a beautiful woman with dark, straight hair, pale as the moon. The strangest thing was that perched on her shoulders were two enormous ravens, the largest I had ever seen, and both had very strange eyes, very yellow and bright, as if made of gold. The boat then reached the shore, and the woman disembarked and walked towards me, but very slowly. However, when she finally stood before me and seemed about to speak, I woke up, and now I can’t stop thinking about what she wanted to tell me…”

Hearing this, Jaehaera sat up from her bed and began to stare at her little cousin with an even more confused and bewildered look than before, uncertain whether what she had just heard was real or if she was simply joking. She wanted to ask for clarification about her story when someone’s arrival interrupted her.

Suddenly, a slender figure, so tall that it shielded them from the blinding late morning sun, appeared before the two girls, who were still seated on the grass and couldn’t tell who it was.

After a moment of confusion, Jaehaera's violet eyes finally recognized, framed by the golden aura of the sunlight behind him, the handsome and enchanting face of her uncle Daeron. With his usual amiability that distinguished him, he flashed a broad smile and said, "Good morning, my princesses. Is there room for a humble knight in your enchanted castle?"

Seeing him there before her, the young maiden was overcome with an excitement that was quite unlike her usual temperament. Caught up in the moment, she leaped like a rabbit and threw herself into her uncle's open arms, who was ready to welcome her in a long and warm embrace.

The exchange did not last long, but it was so unusual and surprising, especially from a girl so shy and reserved like her, that almost all the maidens behind them stared with open mouths, a mix of astonishment and envy. As if this wasn't already impressive, the girl even gave the prince a light kiss on the cheek, a completely unexpected gesture that indicated a certain degree of intimacy and affection between her and Prince Daeron.

All things that the four ladies sitting there desired and yearned for passionately.

The awareness of being the object of their envy and jealousy, after weeks of being their favorite subject of mockery, caused the young maiden a sensation of pleasure and satisfaction she had never experienced before; above all, what gave her the most contentment were the fierce expressions on the faces of Lysa Celtigar and Jeyne Darklyn, who had finally stopped pretending to be so modest and composed and instead showed their true nature.

After all, it was understandable that they were envious of her: every lady in Westeros would give anything to be noticed by Prince Daeron Targaryen, Lord of Oldtown and dragonrider of Tessarion, known as the Blue Queen.

Moreover, he was also one of the most charming men in the Seven Kingdoms after the Queen's sons and one of the wealthiest, which made him one of the most sought-after and desired marriage prospects by every matron in Westeros who had at least one daughter of marriageable age. Unfortunately for them, her uncle wouldn’t remain on the market for too long.

Yet for Jaehaera, those gestures, which all of them watched with such longing and envy and which would have seemed even scandalous to others, were nothing more than a demonstration of the affection she felt for a very dear relative. Prince Daeron, in fact, was one of the few people who had treated her and her brothers with genuine affection and care, not just with courteous indifference. Since she was little, he showered them with gifts and presents, played with them, and showed concern for their well-being, and this sentiment was deeply reciprocated by them, who were always happy to see him, the rare times he came to the capital.

Due to his position, the young Prince had been forced to stay in the South for a long time during the years immediately following the end of the war, to rebuild what the great fire had destroyed, and for months he had not returned to King’s Landing. Besides the physical damage that the flames had caused to the majestic and ancient home of House Hightower, the people were greatly grieved to learn that none of their lords had survived the fire. In a single night, one of the oldest houses in Westeros had ceased to exist, and the city, which for centuries had considered itself an inviolable jewel, found itself surrounded and besieged by the Velaryon fleet, forcing it to declare defeat even before the real war could begin.

At that time, she and her brothers were little more than children, completely unaware of what was happening around them and the serious events occurring beyond—and within—the Red Keep. But as time passed, Jaehaera too began to gradually understand the great forces that moved the world.

Recently, she had learned that many nobles and commoners alike, after the great fire, cried conspiracy, convinced that the invaders had something to do with that unprecedented massacre. For this reason, many lords loyal to the Hightowers threatened to rise against the new Queen and her council in the months following the Blacks' victory. Yet every threat ended in nothing, as none of them had any proof that someone had started the fire.

Many commissions of inquiry followed over the years, yet none managed to provide concrete answers about what happened that fateful night. As with all things that could not be explained logically, the people decided to give the event their own meaning. Many began to say that the flames were started by a careless maid, others that the alchemists hidden in the tower’s foundations, perhaps too engrossed in their experiments, had played too much with wildfire and that a single spark had ignited a fire so powerful it engulfed the entire tower.

Others, perhaps prompted by some septons loyal to the new queen, began to circulate the rumor that the fire that had overwhelmed and killed the entire Hightower family, on the very day of one of the lord’s sons' wedding, when all the members had gathered to celebrate the joyous event, was nothing but a sign from the gods, who had punished the family of the Green Queen for the offense of allying with a usurper.

To the surprise of many, this version began to spread like wildfire among the common folk, gaining unexpected traction and dispelling any doubts about the Blacks' responsibility in the Hightower massacre, just like ashes in the wind.

Yet, even though she was apparently cleared of all charges of murder, some lords of the Reach continued to look unfavorably upon Queen Rhaenyra and the men of the capital with whom she surrounded herself. Some of the honest and modest nobles of the South, bound to their traditions and their code of honor, could not help but despise the conduct of the sovereign and her consort, who was infamous for his unscrupulousness and brutality.

In their eyes, full of prejudice and resentment, the capital and its court resembled an anthill, and its inhabitants insects without gods. Yet it was precisely their precious honor that prevented them from openly accusing the victors and rebelling against them. It would have been unforgivable to wage war against a legitimate sovereign, who had been crowned by the High Septon himself in front of a crowd of cheering subjects, without any concrete proof in hand, only unfounded gossip.

Moreover, Highgarden would never have allowed any of this to happen: the Lady Regent had already expressed her opposition to some of her vassals' decision to support the usurper king at the start of the war, so she would never have permitted her subjects to dishonor her and her house with a rebellion based solely on unfounded rumors, going against everything sacred.

Thus, the revolt was thwarted before it even began, yet, even so, peace seemed like a mirage.

Only two of the three houses vassal to the Hightowers were willing to accept a new Lord chosen from among the loyalists of the new Queen. Meanwhile, House Bulwer, House Cuy, and House Mullendore, perhaps blinded by the thirst for power and the urge to fill the enormous void caused by the extinction of that ancient family, who had sided with the Greens in the civil war, preferred to start an internal conflict and take possession of the title of Lord of Oldtown on their own terms and conditions.

What one of her septas called the "Ant War"—so named because of the analogy between the power-hungry contenders and the small insects famous for feeding on leftover crumbs—would last less than a few weeks and caused only a few casualties, aside from the dignity of the nobles who took part.

The dispute ended when, returning from the capital where he had been taken in chains as a prisoner after the war, Prince Daeron appeared. Mounted on his magnificent dragon Tessarion, he landed atop the towering white tower, making his intentions clear to all of Oldtown.

One day, driven by curiosity about how her uncle had managed to become Lord of Oldtown, Jaehaera asked her mother for clarification on the events. Her mother explained—in the simplest and most appropriate terms possible—the summary of the entire affair.

From her, she learned that after being brought before the Queen, her uncle, after moments of hesitation and reluctance, had publicly knelt before her and acknowledged her authority. This act earned him her pardon and grace, but more importantly, the permission to return to Oldtown to claim the title that was rightfully his, being the closest thing to the only true heir of House Hightower and thus the only one capable of ending that miserable contention.

Indeed, it mattered little that the Prince had publicly surrendered to the Queen and had effectively become her subordinate. To the eyes of the old and proud nobility of the Reach, the young and amiable Daeron, thanks to his many years spent in Oldtown and his gallant manners, seemed the perfect candidate to occupy that coveted position and restore order. According to her mother, this was why no one seemed to object when, less than a month after the great tragedy that had struck Oldtown, the prince settled in the great tower and hung his seal in place of that of the Hightowers, founding the House of Targaryen of Oldtown.

Unfortunately, however, the road to change was long and slow, and not without suffering. Her young uncle had not yet turned sixteen when he took the place of Lord Hightower as the ruler of the city and its surrounding territories, and in fact, knew absolutely nothing about governing a castle. Despite being a royal prince, Daeron was the youngest of five brothers, and like any youngest child, ruling had never been an option for him.

During his childhood, he had been sent to serve as a cupbearer and then a squire at the old court of his mother's uncle, perhaps with the hope that one day, in the near future, he might become a great knight. But no one had ever imagined that little and sweet Daeron would one day administer in his name a territory as vast and influential as that of Oldtown, one of the most important and richest ports in the Seven Kingdoms.

Having learned all this, Jaehaera was not surprised when she heard that many had, more than once, during those early years of his rule, questioned her uncle's abilities as Lord and underestimated him, believing that his youth and lack of experience were synonymous with vulnerability and incapacity.

The fears that, as soon as trade and harvests, instead of diminishing, increased, proved to be totally unfounded: indeed, rather than emptying, the pockets of the young prince became richer, and all those who had doubted had to, in the end, reconsider their stance.

Reflecting on it, Jaehaera thought it was at least surprising that among all the children of the late King Viserys—excluding perhaps the Queen—the one who had ultimately proved to be the most capable of adapting and staying afloat was none other than the young Daeron, the one to whom no one had ever paid attention.

Although he had not adopted any significant policies, neither in trade nor in taxes, and instead tried as much as possible not to upset the well-established balances within the city he now governed, the prince and now new Lord had built a reputation as an innovative and enlightened ruler, different from his predecessors who were so rigid and uncompromising, but at the same time, he was seen as someone who cared about the well-being of his subjects and the inhabitants he governed.

It was as if the people of Oldtown almost did not realize—or did not want to realize—that every decision he made was actually the product of the elaborate reasoning of the minds of the Queen's advisors, who ordered him what he could or could not do.

The only real decision he had seen himself forced to face alone, and perhaps also the most painful and heartbreaking, was regarding his mother.

Poor Queen Alicent was indeed the sole survivor of the fire that had decimated her family, and understandably she had remained irreparably shaken, to the point of being bedridden for months on end. Uncertain where to place her during those months of convalescence and unable to have her travel, he had decided to entrust her to the care of the Silent Sisters, who nursed and watched over her until she regained enough strength to walk on her own.

At the end of her long convalescence, she, who had once been one of the most beloved Queen Consorts of Westeros, expressed only the desire to be allowed to take the vows and spend her days as a Septa, far away from civilization and the machinations of men that had reduced her to that state.

From the day she crossed the huge gates of the Starry Sept to begin her new life of silence and fasting, no one saw Alicent Hightower anymore, not even her children, who themselves seemed to want to forget their mother and her condition, perhaps too painful to dwell upon.

It had been almost six years since Jaehaera had seen her grandmother and her deep blue eyes, framed by her beautiful cascade of dark hair, and she was beginning to wonder if that woman had ever truly existed or if she was simply a figment of her vivid imagination.

As soon as Jaehaera broke away from her uncle's strong and warm embrace, she realized that the beautiful sun from moments ago had disappeared, hidden behind a veil of strange dark clouds, whose color was anything but reassuring.

Suddenly, a gust of icy wind swept over them, dissipating all the sweet spring warmth that had accompanied her nap, making her shiver from the cold. Even Visenya and the other ladies must have begun to feel the change in atmosphere, as they started to huddle inside their light-colored coats, perhaps hoping to warm up a bit.

"What a misfortune!" exclaimed her uncle Daeron, looking up at the sky with a saddened expression. "Just when I stepped out to enjoy some fresh air, the weather throws a tantrum. It seems that the Gods waited for my arrival to make it rain!"

The girls laughed at his playful words, while Lady Elinda, to whom the prospect of getting wet and ruining her dress did not seem very appealing, rose from the mound of cushions and blankets where she had been sitting and declared that it was time for them to head back.

However, as swollen and menacing as those clouds appeared, to Jaehaera, they didn't seem to herald rain, at least not in the immediate future. Nevertheless, even though not a single drop had fallen yet, the spring atmosphere had already dissipated like a soap bubble.

So, she didn't protest when her uncle, the prince, offered to accompany her, Visenya, and the other girls inside the castle and keep them company on the journey to the sheltered arches of the middle bailey. Thus, the line of young noblewomen, led by the impatient Lady Elinda and with Prince Daeron in the center, who walked arm in arm with the two princesses, briskly crossed the vast Gods Wood, passing between the immense apple and cherry orchards almost in bloom, the willows with their flexible and verdant branches, and the old beech trees planted during the reign of Jaehaerys, while some servants tidied up the cushions and blankets.

They had just entered the corridor that connected the Middle Bailey to the Small Hall, where many guests had gathered to converse, when noises coming from beyond the walls facing the Out Yard caught their attention. Despite being far from the scene of action, the clamor was such that Jaehaera's ears could discern the sound of trumpets announcing the arrival of horses and carts, and the back and forth of guards moving from one part of the castle to another.

Those noises and the bustling of the many servants running back and forth in the corridor awakened something in the young girl, who returned in her mind to the conversation she had overheard that morning between her father and his valet.

At the memory of her father's words, Jaehaera felt an urgent desire to go and see the origin of the commotion that seemed to have taken hold of the fortress, and with a determination and firmness of spirit that she normally did not possess, she turned to her uncle and asked, "Uncle, is the noise I hear by any chance Lord Strong's procession approaching? I would very much like to go and see. Can we climb the walls and watch them arrive from there?"

Upon hearing those words, even little Visenya began to clutch the prince's arm with her small hands, as if she had only just noticed the commotion unfolding around her, and she began to chirp, "Oh yes! Please, Uncle Daeron, let's go right away! I want to see their carriages! And I heard Lord Strong owns the largest and strongest horses in all the Riverlands, and I really want to see them!"

The other girls, as soon as the youngest daughter of the Queen expressed her curiosity, also began to become animated and whisper about their desire to admire those animals, and before he knew it, the young Lord of Oldtown was surrounded by a flock of excited girls, looking at him with eyes full of anticipation and impatience, awaiting his response.

"But of course, sweet songbirds, every wish of yours is a command to me," Daeron said to them with a broad and amiable smile, albeit somewhat surprised by such a request. Then, turning to Lady Elinda and the other ladies, he added, "That is, if your chaperone permits it."

At those words, the lady-in-waiting blushed slightly, as if she were not accustomed to such gallantry and respect, especially from a man much younger than herself. However, after a few moments of slight confusion, the woman regained her composure, and with the last shred of self-control she had in her, she nodded, accepting the proposal.

The wall that overlooked the vast Outer Yard of the fortress was not far from where they were, so even with the long skirts that Jaehaera and the other ladies wore, it did not take long to climb the stone steps and reach their summit. They arrived at one of the lookout towers just at the exact moment when the heavy iron gates of the fortress opened, giving them the opportunity to see the beginning of the enormous flow of wheels and hooves, led by the majestic steeds with dark coats, adorned with decorations of blue, red, and green, just like the banner of House Strong.

Just as Visenya had said, unlike the royal carriages, those of the nobles of Harrenhal were pulled by gigantic horses, the largest and most massive that Jaehaera had ever seen. Their carts, on the other hand, were far less extravagant and smaller in size than those used by the Targaryens. Instead of the red and gold dragons on a black background, the dark blue hangings that adorned the dark wood walls featured what appeared to be bears embroidered in silver, perhaps reminiscent of the majestic animals that inhabited the wild woods around Harrenhal, thought the absorbed girl as her violet eyes stopped to observe the many carts passing through the gates.

Indeed, there were more than sixty horses, including ponies and warhorses, and almost fifteen carriages, both small and large, from which dozens of finely dressed noblemen and noblewomen emerged. They were followed in turn by their servants, who began to unpack the many trunks and luggage they had brought, setting them on the ground, creating an impressive mountain of objects.

Although it was almost impossible to distinguish the faces of those nobles from that distance, Jaehaera had no difficulty in spotting Harwin Strong and his young bride. Despite having met the third Lady Strong only once many months before, the girl's eyes immediately found her, as she was the only lady there not wearing the typical white head covering made of heavy cotton, characteristic of the Riverlands. Unlike the more classic pearl nets or veils that were so fashionable in the capital, those strange handkerchiefs were worn to cover the entire head, showing little to none of the ladies' beautiful hair, as if they were Septas ready to begin their afternoon rituals and not high-born noblewomen.

Jaehaera, like many other girls raised in the capital, was not used to seeing such modest attire, devoid of any kind of decoration, on people of high rank, and she couldn't help but be intrigued by the rigid and simple silhouette of their clothes, which featured almost no embroidery or jewelry, except for thin gold chains or some fur that softened their high, tight collars.

All details that led the girl to wonder if they didn't feel hot under those heavy layers of clothing.

Indeed, apart from those strictly aesthetic details, the most curious fact that had caught the attention of the young princess was the size of the entourage that Lord Strong had brought with him from Harrenhal, which was clearly disproportionate to his actual importance and the multitude of people that composed it.

When finally the iron gates closed and the last horse entered, the confusion and discomfort had become palpable, especially on the part of the poor castellan and his collaborators, who, just arrived outside to receive them, had not expected such a mass of people and livestock to manage.

Moreover, as soon as all the guests had finally dismounted, another problem seemed to have presented itself, namely the dilemma of who to welcome first.

Indeed, if at first the girl had mistaken all the newcomers for members of the court of the Lord of Harrenhal, after seeing two more men of distinguished air and undoubtedly elegant clothing with bright colors step forward alongside Lord Strong to receive the greeting of the castellan, Jaehaera understood the reason for that unusually large and varied retinue.

It was unthinkable even to imagine that the carriages of House Blackwood and House Bracken, two families that had been at war with each other since the arrival of the Andals in Westeros, could share the same road without sparking a fight, so seeing now the two heads of the family standing side by side, with only the massive figure of Harwin Strong dividing them, after presumably sharing two days of travel, was an overwhelmingly shocking sight. The sight of the three noble banners next to each other - the fiery red rearing horse and the silver weirwood - therefore, could not help but draw the attention of the entire castle, or at least that part that was now bustling in the Outeryard, including the guard soldiers, the stablehands who had come to take care of the horses, as well as the busy group of servants and attendants belonging to the other retinues of the other guests, who had camped on the northernmost part of the field, almost near the walls and the guardhouse, due to the limited space.

To finally break that unbearable tension was not the castellan, whose gaze was still dancing between the three Lords, but the sudden appearance of Lady Careleen and Alla Strong, who entered the main courtyard right at that precise moment almost in a rush. The two women, dressed to the nines and still very agile for their age, strode across the dusty courtyard, ignoring the castellan with not even a glance, and threw themselves into the arms of their older brother.

The arrival of the two ladies-in-waiting of the Queen seemed to put an end to that initial tension and embarrassment, but just as everything seemed to relax, something unexpected happened.

Indeed, just moments after the appearance of the two sisters, the keen eyes of the young princess spotted one of the carriages bearing the colors of House Harrenhal, with the horses still attached to the bridles, motionless, surrounded by soldiers, as if there was still someone inside who had not yet descended and was waiting for the right moment to make their appearance.

The protagonists of that scene must have noticed that carriage, still stationary in the center of the Outeryard, because at a certain point, without any warning, they turned in its direction, as if they sensed that something was about to happen: and so it did.

Jaehaera held her breath as her eyes saw a male figure emerge with bowed head from that carriage, his silvery hair covering his face, while he helped another person descend from the carriage, a woman dressed in green with hair as black as a crow's feathers, who in turn held a child, all skin and bones, by the hand.

The world around them seemed to stop as those three figures began to move away at a heavy and slow pace from the center of the courtyard to join the other members of the court, who had meanwhile stepped aside to let them pass.

From that distance and angle, the girl could not see in any way the expression on the faces of the queen's two ladies-in-waiting, but from the way their bodies stiffened when they saw the newcomers, she understood that they must have been extremely shocked.

At that precise moment, crows perched on the spires of the walls began to caw and flap their black wings hysterically, making a deafening noise; as if she had also heard them, the woman in the green dress raised her gaze in the direction of the small retinue, beginning to stare intensely at each of them.

Jaehaera remained still as the eyes of the stranger pierced her like fiery arrows, making her tremble with a submission she had never felt before, yet the real shock came when the man beside her, perhaps wondering what the woman had seen, turned his face towards them, finally revealing the rough bandage covering his left eye.

The princess's heart began to race wildly, as if the mere sight of those familiar features had unlocked a memory buried deep in her mind, the same memory that had tormented her all day and now appeared as clear as day.

Interrupting her sudden epiphany was the sound of a groan, this time coming from behind her, almost like the lament of an animal in distress. When she turned around, however, the princess realized it wasn't an animal, but her uncle Daeron, who had collapsed to the ground, his hands in his thick, shiny hair, while his now stiffened body trembled incessantly.

The expression of the young man, who only a short time ago had been joyful and bright, was now twisted into a mask of terror and confusion, as if a ghost had just appeared before his eyes.

Seeing him in that state, Lady Elinda rushed to his aid, concerned by his sudden and violent reaction. Yet, even her assistance seemed unable to calm him. On the contrary, his legs continued to tremble, and against all protests from the woman, the young prince insisted he had to leave. So, in a rather uncertain and bewildering manner, his uncle Daeron descended the stairs that connected the walls to the ground floor, nearly stumbling more than once, and hurried away from there, still pale-faced, leaving Lady Elinda and the other young ladies astonished and confused by what had just happened to reduce him so.

"Jaehaera," a small voice said near her ear. At first, the girl remained motionless, as if she hadn't heard it, but after a while, her left arm began to strangely ache, and so she instinctively turned, only to discover that the cause of that pain was none other than Visenya's chubby little hands, which were squeezing her with such violence and force as to almost cut off her blood flow.

When she finally looked in her cousin's direction, the young princess realized that the girl's face - just like her uncle Daeron's - had turned deathly pale, and her body was trembling, as if struck by violent chills.

Seeing her in that state, Jaehaera grew worried, but before she could ask her what was wrong, Visenya began pointing downwards, towards the guests being escorted into the castle.

"It's her," Visenya gasped, clutching even tighter to her older cousin, "it's really her..."

"But who are you talking about?" Jaehaera asked, confused, not understanding what she was referring to.

"The woman," the child whispered, this time even softer, so that only she could hear, "the woman I dreamed about last night. The lady of the lake. It's her."

As soon as she uttered those words, a thunderous roar shook the castle walls, and two enormous ravens, as large as hawks, soared near their heads, cawing menacingly.