Chapter Text
King Aegon III Targaryen was a solemn man of one and twenty years. The Conqueror’s Crown had been forced upon his head at the tender age of ten, shortly after he had used his grandfather’s Valyrian Blade, Blackfyre to separate the Usurper’s own head from his mangled body. A little boy who was barley even able to hold the broadsword had lifted it with surprising ease and as if directed by the Fourteen Flames, had ended the life of Aegon II Targaryen with one swift and defining blow.
His intense hatred for the Hightowers and any Green supporters was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. As soon as he had sat the Iron Throne, the “Red King” had set about a purge that ended the regin of any and all nobles, smallfolk, dignitaries, or foreigners that dared to wear the emerald fabric of Aegon II. Even to this day, servants whispered, the color was considered a taboo in the Red Keep, and it was heavily advised that it remain hidden away from the “Red King’s” eyes, less another head decorate the pikes of the Red Keep.
The loathing of the Hightowers also extended to Aegon’s cousin-wife, Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen, and her debased grandmother, Lady Alicent Hightower. The “Red King” had allowed Alicent Hightower to escape the chopping block simply because his Queen had begged him for her life.
There was no love lost between the two.
While Alicent may have been allowed to keep her head, her kinsmen were not so lucky. The entirety of House Hightower of Oldtown, the Redwynes of the Arbor, and the Florents of Brightwater Keep were summarily extinguished with only one woman, Lady Florys Florent, being spared. The lands of Oldtown and the Arbor were quickly confiscated by the Crown, and turned into royal territories - potential holdfasts for the King’s current and future children.
It was said that atop his second mount, Silverwing, the “Red King”, had gleefully laughed when his dragon’s quicksilver flames had engulfed the High Tower, Citadel, Starry Sept, and Great Motherhouse - ending the power of an ancient House that had once stood for over a millenia, and leaving only ashes in the wake of his fury.
A warning if there ever was one.
The King had not merely stopped there, however. House Lannister was ripped root and stem from their golden infested lands of Lannisport, their coffers seized, their bodies suspended from their own holdfast walls, and their name banished to the history tomes. House Baratheon, only comprised of a widow, her four maiden daughters, and a newborn son, were also swiftly dealt with.
Lady Elenda Caron’s maternal house had Nightson stripped, their lands and coffers now belonging to the Iron Throne. The Stormlands Dowager Lady Consort was removed from her position of power, and allowed to take residency upon Maiden Isles’ Motherhouse - a solitary refuge which took in the most evil of women. Never again, the Head Septa had claimed, would Lady Elenda dared to spread her legs or mouth in blasphemy.
Her four daughters, however, would suffer much worse fates. Lady Cassandra Baratheon, the oldest of the Four Storms and Aegon’s future Queen, was a woman grown where her betrothed was executed, and she once again denied her future position. For her crimes, Cassandra Baratheon had her tongue removed from her whorish mouth, and was banished to the desolate wastelands of the Iron Islands, where she was lost to history. Many believe she had become the salt wife of a minor war-lord, but a seed never quickened in her womb.
Lady Maris Baratheon, the instigator that had caused the murder of Prince Lucerys Velaryon, was denied a trial. Originally, the second daughter had wanted to join the Silent Sisters, but her petitioned were overturned by the King, himself, who demanded that she was to be beheaded and hanged from the inner bailey of the Red Keep. A girl of one and twenty when Aegon claimed his birthright, he had her dragged from a Motherhouse in the Riverlands, unhappy when he noticed that her tongue had long since been removed.
The Septa of the Motherhouse had pleaded with the “Red King”, and begged him permission for the Lady Maris to be returned to the Riverlands. When questioned about what happened to the organ that had slandered Aemond Targaryen into mounting Vhagar and killing the Prince Lucerys and his beloved dragon, Arrax, the Septa had revealed that the Silent Sister had become suddenly ill. The disease had caused her tongue to swell and become infected, which would have killed her had a Maester not removed it days later.
In addition, the King had learned, the Silent Sister had also become blind when the disease had ravaged her once pleasant face. Now splotches decorated her alabaster skin, a hideous and patchworked scar crossed from her right temple down to her neck. She was left mute and blind, a fitting punishment, the “Red King” supposed, for the woman. The King, however, was a vengeful and angry youth, who was not yet satisfied with what Maris Baratheon had already suffered.
He ordered that she be presented in the outer courtyard. Aegon had emerged from the Red Keep, garbed in a fine tunic of obsidian black with matching trousers and boots, the Valyrian Steel crown shining proudly atop his silver locks. Blackfyre was slung across his back, kept there by a chain of three snarling dragons that ran around his chest.
With nearly black eyes, the “Red King” had not even bothered to open his mouth to summon his dragon, Silverwing, one of the only surviving Dragons from the Dance. The only other wyrm that soared the skies was Morning, the pink beast that had hatched for his sister, Rhaena, and whom the Usurper had killed to attain the hatchling. Even to a hatchling, freshly emerged from its shelled womb, Morning could smell the rot that the Usurper’s mixed blood oozed.
As Silverwing slunk over the great walls of the Red Keep, Maris Baratheon flinched back, her grey veil had been removed, leaving all to see the state of her face. While she could no longer speak or see, the Silent Sister could hear as the wood crunched and bricks crumbling under the sheer weight that Silverwing possessed.
Shaking in her plain woolen dress and black hair blown back by the dry heat, Maris felt as a snout was directly in front of her and nearly wet herself when the dragon suddenly reared her great head back and loosed a bellow that shook the Red Keep down to its very foundation. Since the death of her mate, Vermithor, Silverwing had become a solitary and ferocious beast who seemed to soak Aegon’s bloodlust up like a sponge, never once flinching away from the brutal executions that the “Red King” held.
“You took my brother’s life with your tongue and your greedy eyes looked to a position of power. Your Seven-Faced Gods have judged and found you guilty, Maris of House Baratheon. Your bones shall never be returned to the Stormlands and your House name shall vanish as just another family who sided with the wrong monarch. Your vile words stole the chance for my mother to burn her son, my brother’s body, and instead he was lost to the waves above Stormbreaker Bay,”
The silence echoing was suffocating.
“Had your lips remained sealed, Silent Sister, then Lucerys Velaryon would still be among us. Despite your sins, I have listened to your Mother Septa, and have decided that you shall be returned as a Silent Sister once again. Make no mistake, Maris of House Baratheon, that I shall ever forget your face or words that ripped my family apart. Should you ever attempt to leave your Motherhouse, I shall have you brought to the Black Cells, and you will face a fate worse than death,”
The decree of the King was signed in the blood of Maris Baratheon, who never once set foot out of her holy sanctuary, and died within its cold walls. Her body, as the King had declared decades before, was never returned to the Stormlands of her birth, instead buried within a tomb of the surrounding forests - common amongst the commonborn Septas and Silent Sisters.
A fate, history would write, deserving.
Lady Ellyn Baratheon, meanwhile, had been lost to the dredges of the past. The third of the Four Storms, Ellyn was only ten and eight when the King loosened his reckoning upon the traitorous Greens, and their families. Neither the oldest, the cleverest, or the loveliest, Ellyn was never truly recognized by her Lord Father, Borros Barathen, or her Lady Mother, Elenda Caron. Her worth, Maesters and noblemen would claim, only came from her fertility and the ability to bring fourth heirs from her wombs.
With his righteous fury and his Silver Queen strong beneath his thighs, Aegon had landed in the ancient holdfast of Storm’s End. Borros’ head was in a roughspun sack attached to Silverwing’s saddle, which had been preserved in vinegar and salt, before Aegon threaded his finger through the obsidian black hair and threw it at the feet of his wailing widow and screeching daughters - save for Ellyn who merely looked upon the divested head with something akin to glee.
From atop the few remaining Dragons, Aegon cut the image of the Conqueror Come Again, as he leered over his dragon’s silver horned head. His black riding tunic, Blackfyre strapped to his back, Valyrian Steel circlet nested in his war-braids, and purple eyes dark with hatred, the “Red King” would henceforth gain yet another moniker “The Storm Destroyer”, with his next words.
“Lady Elenda Caron of Nightsong!” His voice thundered, overwhelming even the rumbling weather common amongst Storm’s End. “Your husband has been executed as per the laws regarding treason, and I have come bearing you his head. Consider me a merciful King, Lady Elenda, for if I was the Usurper or my Lady Mother I would have made you show yourself before the Iron Throne, and watch as your husband’s body was fed to my Silverwing and his head piked atop Traitor’s Walk,”
Cassandra Baratheon dropped to her knees and bursted into wails.
“Punishment for your husband and your own sins, Elenda Caron, will be presented to you upon the morrow. My leal lords shall escort you and your children to King’s Landing, prostrate yourself before the Iron Throne, and beg my forgiveness. Perhaps, my dear Ladies, I shall be merciful,”
With his words spoken and his decision made, Silverwing took to wing, her great form rising gracefully into the thunderclouds, and making way for the Crownlands. While Cassandra, Florys, and Elenda were besides themselves with fear and upset, Ellyn merely stared as the figure of the King vanished from sight.
Facing the wrath of dragonfire on the entirety of the Stormlands, lords and ladies who had supported the rise of Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen, quickly surrounded Storm’s End, taking the Dowager Lady, her daughters, and newborn son hostage.
Cladding them, aside from newborn Royce Baratheon, in heavy chains of iron, the Three Storms and their mother were boarded atop a war gallery, The Princess Alyssa , and sailed to King’s Landing, where their fates would be revealed. It was during this transition, however, that Lady Ellyn Baratheon went missing during a terrible storm that rocked the boat back and fourth, waves crashing atop the deck.
Many assumed that Ellyn Baratheon had simply been washed away, dragged down to the bottom of Shipbreaker’s Bay. With no way to loosen her manacles from her wrists and ankles, it is speculated Ellyn joined the body of Lucerys Velaryon and Arrax, under the cruel waters that had claimed many innocent lives - especially, maesters would whisper behind weathered hands and dusty tomes, during the Dance of the Dragons.
Evan over a century after the destruction of House Baratheon, mysteries were still talked about the missing Ellyn Baratheon. With no body or no skull, the third of the Four Storms would never see the lands of her birth again, instead lost to to waves of time and Shipbreaker Bay. A fitting end for the daughter few remembered.
“Floris Baratheon, betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Greens. You were merely a girl of four and ten when your Lord Father gave your hand away to the One-Eye, and yet you never once attempted to deny him or break your engagement. I judged your sister guilty for agreeing to marry the Usurper King, whatever should I do with the woman who still seeks the arms of the man who killed his own kin?” The “Red King” hissed, cocking his head.
At six and ten namedays, Floris Baratheon, even under the cloak of depression and harsh treatment, clad in heavy chains, was still a lovely girl. Her midnight black curls had been brutally ripped by the cruel hands of her captors, now just brushed the edge of her sharp chin, and her large doe eyes were blackened from the fist of a rather harsh Stormlander - a man whose father and brothers had fallen in Borros Baratheon’s siege upon King’s Landing.
“I am just a simple woman, My King,” Floris said, unflinchingly stubborn even in the face of such a powerful figure. “You, yourself, are only a boy of one and ten, yet you hold yourself more regally than any of your predecessors. Had you not already been wed, perhaps I would have made a worthy Queen? I am, afterall, the descendant of Dowager Queen Alyssa Velaryon, mother of King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne Targaryen - kin to you and House Targaryen.”
“A kinship your father was all to willing to forget,”
“Tell me, My King,” Floris declared. “Would you rather have the Usurper’s progeny in your bed or a Stormlander? My beauty is my saving grace, Your Grace , and I do believe that I would make a wonderful companion. In lieu of your little Queen being unable to produce an heir anytime soon, perhaps you could make due with me?”
“I would have neither,” The King admitted, leaning back against the deadly pointed swords that made up the Iron Throne. “If it was up to me, I would have personally selected either of my sisters, Baela or Rhaena, but they were unjustly murdered at the hands of the Usurper - the person that your father supported, thereby meaning their blood is on his hands, and by extent your hands , my Lady. So, why in the name of the Fourteen Flames would I dare let you slither your way into my bed?
“An opinion that definitely warrants thought, My King?”
“Your tongue is as vicious as that of your older sister, Maris Baratheon. Tell me something, Lady Floris, where is she? I have little care for the betrothed of my kinslaying uncle, but the little whore who dared to open her open and spew such venomous words, is the one I truly desire. Grant me her location and I shall grant a marriage, to a Lord of my choice, of course. Or, you may venture to the Iron Islands with Cassandra Baratheon,”
“You would spare my life? What about my mother and younger brother? Royce is the rightful Lord of Storm’s End,”
“I would be more akin to spare your life should you answer my question. As for your mother, she shall be banished to Maiden’s Isle and serve a Motherhouse, alive but exiled . The Stormlands, from House Durrandon’s Holdfast of Storm’s End to their ancestral lands and the paramountcy, shall be stripped from House Baratheon and returned to the Crown. Little Royce Baratheon shall have his last name removed, and be given as a ward to the North, where he shall be raised in a different family. The boy is not even six moons old and has no memories of the war his foolish father helped to begin - a father he will never know,”
“What?” Floris gasped, eyes wide with confusion.
“Royce Baratheon shall be adopted into a new family, one that Lord Cregan Stark shall choose, and not even I have knowledge off. He will never know his true lineage, and instead ill hopefully lead a life of peace and prosperity. That , Lady Floris, is how far my mercy shall extend,”
Dumbsmacked, Floris Baratheon was swiftly removed from the Throne Room, and instead interred deep within the Black Cells - the lowest level of the Dungeon Tower, and reserved only for the most heinous of criminals. It had been built on the orders of Maegor I Targaryen, who had his own wife, Lady Alys Harroway, tortured and later killed within its depths of darkness. Another victim who had lost their life was King Jaehaerys’ older brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen, who endured nine days of endless torture and brutalility, before finally succumbing to his injuries, and his body left to bake under the hot sun.
As Cassandra and Floris Baratheon boarded a ship that would take them far away from King’s Landing to the Iron Islands, one void of her tongue and the other her dignity, Aegon watched from the rebuilt docks, a sense of satisfaction clear on his too young face. Word would eventually reach Aegon’s ear that Floris Baratheon, claimed by a wayfaring pirate as one of his many salt wives, had died in childbirth with a stillborn son.
Soon enough, Septons would say, House Baratheon’s family line was reduced to nothing more than bastards scattered around the Iron Islands and the Stormlands, their raven black hair and dark blue eyes their only characteristic. Never again would a Baratheon dare to sit the Storm Throne. They had been raised up by a Targaryen and then brought down by a Targaryen, for they betrayed the true Targaryens for that of a Hightower disguised as a wyrm.
LINE BREAK
Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen wailed in pain. As lighting cracked across a midnight purple sky, a babe was trying to be born in a world of fire and blood. Silverwing cooed outside the large window where she was posted, her intelligent amber eyes focusing on the laboring Queen. Bounding around her large clawed feet were numerous little hatchlings, one for each of the children that Jaehaera had brought into the world.
With midwives and Septons surrounding the grand bed, Jaehaera let loose a scream that seemed to echo with the rumbling thunder. Blood gushed from her spread legs and tears were leaking from her pale purple eyes, as she desperately pushed anther child from her womb. Plenty of the Queen’s Ladies were bustling around their mistress like a flock of chickens with their heads cut off, not knowing what was expected of them, while their older counterparts had recused themselves to a sitting room, happily sewing the newborn’s layettes and clothing.
A large boiling cauldron had been placed in the Queen’s Chambers, where a shaking egg with scales of rainbow moonstone, nestled with in its burning coals. The King, nowhere near the birthing rooms, was happily enjoying himself upon a cask of Arbor Gold - with its fruits having been handpicked by gardeners employed at the palace erected in place of the Redwyne Manor, which had been torn down in the third year of King Aegon III Targaryen’s reign, and later bequeathed as the future lands of Princess Alyssa Targaryen.
Attending to him was none other than Lady Myrielle Peake, only surviving child of Lord Unwin Peake, Lady of Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove. Her deep brown hair had been braided back into a crown atop her head, freckles danced across her tanned face, her narrow lips were painted a lovely shade of plum, and bronze eyes spoke of a deep intelligence. Once mocked as “Lady Turnips”, Myrielle had shed girlhood for a woman of one and twenty.
Wedded and bedded at three and ten, Myrielle had been widowed not even a full year later, her maidenhead still intact. She was eventually sent to King’s Landing, where she would serve as Queen Jaehaera’s Lady-In-Waiting, with her father hoping she found a prospective husband that would bolster his own lands and coffers. It was during the winter of the year 135 AC, the four and ten nameday King was forced to reveal to the Lady Myrielle that Lord Unwin Peake had been stricken with a mysterious disease that had quickly bedridden him - dying not even a fortnight after he had first experienced the symptoms.
With no brothers or uncles to inherit the lands after him, Unwin was succeeded by his daughter as Lady of Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove. Shrewd and incredibly gifted with handling gold coins, Myrielle had returned House Peake to greatness, hoping to erase the stain of her father siding with the Usurper, and soon word had begun to spread that she was entertaining a betrothal with Lord Kermit Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and a deadly swordsmen.
While no wedding had come, Myrielle was often found accompanying the King during walks in the gardens, taking meals in his private dining room, and even serving him wine on one occasion, during a Small Council session. When Jaehaera, then heavily pregnant with her twins, Naerys and Alyssa, had attempted to berate her Lord Husband, Aegon had uncharacteristically snapped at his wife, stating that she had no business to question him.
While some suspected that the King and Lady Peake were lovers, no child had come, and thus it was declared gossip, a mere rumor to weaken Queen Jaehaera’s already fragile hold on the King. Even seven years later, Lady Myrielle had not taken another husband, nor birthed a single child, though she had not been short on suitors even considered a spinster.
“Do you desire yet another son, My King?” Myrelle asked, stirring sugar into her ginger tea, the only thing that seemed to settle her upset stomach. “I have heard that the Septons insist that Her Grace is going to deliver another boy,”
“I have no care what the child is,” Aegon dismissed, waving his hand. “Enough talk about her . How are you doing, my love?”
“Well! The Maester has estimated that I am about two moons along, and very healthy,”
“Good, good,” Aegon nodded, before rising from his seat and kneeling before her chair, his ringed hand resting upon her stomach. “You have yet to swell, but I have no doubt that you shall birth a Targaryen . Do you have a name chosen?”
“Ah, no,” Myrielle admitted, gaze drawn to her feet. “I have a feeling the name shall be a boy, but only the Gods know if I carry a son or daughter in my womb,”
As the two discussed names over a light supper of honeyed chicken, roasted onions dipped in gravy, boiled beans, fermented crabs, salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums, thick soups of barley and venison, with lamprey and kidney pies, Queen Jaehaera finally reached the ends of her labor. As the clouds parted, allowing for the full moon to shine upon the silver scales of Silverwing and dance like stars in the birthing chambers, a final command, a large push, and a wail later, gave way to the birth of the newest Targaryen.
Jaehaera’s silver strewn hair was plastered to her sweat beaded brow, her pale cheeks flushed like she was drunk on Arbor Gold or Dornish Red, but a victorious smile pulled at her lips. As her babe screamed like their lungs depended on it, the Queen couldn’t help but feel a sense of vindictiveness as she beheld a patch of starlight white hair and the bloody form of her newest babe. A son, she was so sure, for only a boy could rip his way free from her womb.
“A lovely daughter, My Queen,” one of the midwives beamed, as she held the child aloft in the air. “A true Targaryen Princess! And so beautiful!”
‘A girl,’ Jaehaera lamented, nearly throwing her head back against her silk pillows. ‘A fifth daughter, not another a boy, ’
Her original idea for christening the babe “Jaehaerys” had just been thrown out the window and into a pile of dragon dung. She had always wanted to name one of her daughters “Helaena” for a her mother, but Aegon had turned such a vicious shade of red at the mere mention, that she never brought the subject up a again. Looking at this child, as the nursemaids swaddled her in a cloth of pure gold and embroidered with dragons, Jaehaera could see she would have the classic beauty of Targaryens of old, and be yet another piece on the political chess board.
“Has Your and His Grace chosen a name?” One of her newer ladies, Jeyne Merryweather of Longtable, asked the Queen.
“Aegon wanted to name the babe “Aerion” was it a boy, and “Rhaelle” if a girl, but neither of those names fit. Perhaps something more unique, something that she can make into her own. I would be aghast to use the name “Saera”, and we have already taken Alyssa and Viserra, from the Concilartor’s daughters. I suspect the King would agree if she was named “Gael”, but I have no desire to curse my child with the name of a simpleton,”
“What about “Maegelle”, My Queen?” Lady Alycia Beesbury of Honeyholt, great-granddaughter of Lord Lyman Beesbury, suggested. “It was the name of their third daughter and the only one, alongside Archmaester Vaegon, who truly showed piety to the Seven-Who-Are One. It would also, hopefully, seal the fracture that His Grace has formed with the Faith, no?”
“Maegelle,” The Queen tested the name on her tongue, enjoying the way the syllables rolled like honey. “I quiet like that, yes. Well done, Lady Alycia!” Jaehaera praised, before turning her gaze back to the weeping and flailing figure of her newborn child.
“Let it be known that Her Grace, Queen Jaehaera of House Targaryen, has given birth to Princess Maegelle Targaryen, Second of Her Name!”
Little did the Queen know that her night had not yet ended.