Have you noticed that GRRM describes all the Targaryens as "heirs" of one of the three Conquerors? Literally every king in this family can be roughly classified into one of three groups:
weak and soft hedonists or mystics, passionate about distinctly unmanly hobbies ("Rhaenys genes") - Aenys, Viserys l, Baelor, Aerys l
cruel, half-mad devils, often associated with black magic, or good warriors, incapable of politics ("Visenya's genes") - Maegor, Daemon, Aegon II, Daeron I, Aegon IV, Maekar, Aerys II
gigachad of both sexes, those whom GRRM himself appoints as outstanding rulers/potential rulers ("Aegon genes") - Jaehaerys, Aegon III, Viserys II, Daeron II, Aegon V, Jaehaerys II
I'd like to point out that this distinction is arbitrary, but it speaks volumes about GRRM himself. He clearly gives preference to and brightens up the biographies of the "pacifiers" who come to power to bring order to chaos, as Aegon I did. Only such Targaryens are included in the register of the "great", while the rest of the categories are either "madmen" or outright nonentities. It's not hard to guess that the king in the end of the Saga should be someone who humbles and heals wounds, while the warrior heroes and inspirers will fly by.
My Daeron II Headcanons(cos there is not enough about my homeboy!!!)
1.Young Daeron II, reading books on dornish culture, while he was young, cos he wanted to know about his future wife's history and culture.-It was during this time, that aegon iv started calling him bookish.
2. Young Daeron II serving as Viserys II's cupbearer.(Maybe GRRM will change that who knows, should wait for fire and blood part 2).
3. Young Daeron II writing letters to young Myriah Martell to try and get to know her. They have been betrothed since they were like 5 no?
4. Young Daeron II gets nervous about meeting Myriah Martell and tries to not leave her side and defends her against his father. Bc he was raised by his mentally strong mama🤘🏼
5. Young Daeron II, getting bullied by his father on his wedding day feast, asking him if he even knew how to be a man to his wife. To defend himself Daeron replied that he "knew what not to do to his wife."-this response led to the further deterioration of their already bleak relationship.
6. Daeron II trying to pour his love to Baelor, as he knows what it felt like being his own father's heir and being sidelined regardless, hated even, considered a bastard for looking like his mother more*.(Not just that I know)
7. Daeron II letting Aerys do his own thing on reading and ignoring courts jabs on having a bookish son, knowing how it felt like having his own father belittle him for being bookish.*
8. Daeron II letting Maekar marry for love knowing he could've used him to marry for another kingdom(the Reach,Westerlands or the North.)
9. Daeron is extra gentle to Rhaegal bc of his outbursts, and not sending him away from court(which would've been understood at the time), but rather letting him be situated with him at his own high seat, so he could be with him bc it would be easier to see his progress in health.
10. Daeron II, verbally defending his mother against accusations of adultery. He knows his mother, a devotee of the faith, who wanted to be a septa, wouldn't have had sexual or romantic feelings for her other brother, just bc they got along better, than the brother-husband, Aegon IV(who canonically maritally rapes her, with the hope that she should die.)
11. I just know Daeron II low key is a switch.
These are just my own personal headcanons ofc we don't know how GRRM will write about his full persoanlity in fire and blood part 2 untill he releases it
So in the middle of writing Cleaved, I got mega inspired, and word vomited this whole Bloodraven chapter in one sitting (and may or may not have mapped out a whole ass Blackfyre rebellion fic, but I'm impulse controlling myself rn). Anyways, enjoy the fourth Outsiders POV and lmk your thoughts.
Disclaimer; this one-shot is a companion piece to the Cleaved in Two fanfic, however, it may be read as part of the regular cannon, minus a few details.
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4. The Three-Eyed Crow
Daemon Waters had been an exceptionally vexing man.
Brilliant from an early age, he was all a Prince ought to be; an astute scholar, a skilled swordsman, a most judicious diplomat. He knew how to charm men with his quick wit, put down retorts with ruthless efficiency. He was handsome and well-muscled like a maiden's fantasy, the kind of man who inspired envy and awe in equal measure.
He was, by all accounts, a perfect specimen. Someone easy to loathe, and even easier to love.
“Are you sulking again?” A sultry voice purred behind him. Grass whispered, followed by the caress of sweet, earthy perfume. Brynden felt a lithe body press against his back, Shiera's delicate arms clamping jealously around his waist. “Poor little crow. Have the Children's wails been keeping you up at night?"
Brynden grimaced, staring at the cut stump. It was the size of a carriage wheel, with chalky veins running through the dead wood, where once red sap had flown. This weirwood had been cut down during Baelor the Blessed's reign. The last remnant of the old gods, miraculously surviving the Andal invasion, then protected by the Conqueror, destroyed in one single night of zealotry and fear.
Brynden recalled visiting it the first time, seeking refuge from Aegor's torment in the arms of the dreamers who understood his plight. All he'd found was a desecrated ossuary. The weirwood at Raventree had been poisoned centuries ago, but it still stood, sleeping soundly in its protected alcove. The souls of deceased greenseers lay dormant in its roots, waiting for fresh sacrifice to bleed red sap again.
Sometimes, when Brynden would sleep in its shadow, he would end up sharing their dreams, bear witness to the magic still contained in their memories. Here, the weirwood was dead. The vessel for all those dead Children had been destroyed, and now their souls were left to wail in aimless misery, tethered to the weirwood's roots, but unable to find peace.
It was hell to hear them; agony to get close. He still visited on occasion, when he needed another's turmoil to silence his own.
“No more than custom,” he rasped, sensing the roots shifting beneath the ground. Shiera's giggle grazed the shell of his ear, as her lips pressed a soft kiss into the crook of his neck.
“Ah, is it the ghosts of men that trouble you then? What is it today? The first moon of our lovely 212 AC; that makes it fourteen—no, fifteen years since our dear half-brother passed, does it?”
“Sixteen,” he corrected swiftly, his gaze still trained on the stump. Sixteen years, one moon and three weeks since he’d loosed a hail of seven arrows that had pierced straight into his brother's chest.
“Fitting,” Shiera quipped, and pulled apart to stand beside him. “Our sweet King and his heir died nary a moon before the anniversary of his challenger's death. And we, the lesser siblings, yet live on."
She craned her head, a certain petulance to her plump mouth.
“Our half-brother and his grandsons have died, and you’re here quipping about it. How callously devious of you, my sweet.”
Another giggle, as her mismatch eyes erupted.
“What did you tell me once? That I was much too beautiful to be shrouded in grief? I’m simply living up to your assertion.”
For emphasis, she swept a jeweled hand over her gown, the pearlescent silk shimmering in the midmorning sun. She was wearing white again; a Qartheen dress with a black sachet, the silk strategically covering the left breast the silk was meant to leave exposed.
Her necklace was on her of course, that cursed jade and sapphire piece that brought out the brightness of her eyes; one green and one blue, two gemstones countless men had fought and died to gaze upon.
Yes. She was much too lovely for grief; and entirely too cumbersome for his peace of mind.
“Well, I’d ask you to be callous in silence. I’m not in the mood today.”
Shiera groaned. “Good, because I didn’t come to set you upon one of my suitors.”
Brynden grimaced. “What then?”
Her smile faltered, and she let loose a sigh. “A supper. Just between us. Something small to commemorate. Mayhaps a… spread of roast mutton and buttered carrots. Our sweet King loved that. Oh and for dessert—"
“A peach tart.”
Shiera blinked at him. “Peach? You hate peaches, you’ve always hated peaches."
“I do,” he admitted. “But Daemon loved peaches. They were his favorite.”
Even now, he remembered. Every time they had supper in family, he'd ask for a slice of peach tart, with a thick glob of custard and honey on top.
“He gave me a peach, you know. Right in front of this tree,” diving into his pocket, he fished out the pit. It was old and dried, a pale grey husk with deep ridges that resembled trenches. “His last one.”
It had been the end of harvest, the end of their five year summer. Brynden had just come from Raventree to live at the Capitol, a pale, skinny thing with flesh like milk, and a wine stain on his cheek. He didn’t fit anywhere, much less at court, amid the company of his half brother's princely sons, and his own royal sire’s more impressive baseborn children.
But Aegor Rivers had wormed his way into court as Daemon's companion, and his Blackwood kinsmen couldn’t allow their rival's son to gain power over them.
“Did they run you off again?” he recalled Daemon asking. His older half-brother had found him hiding in the godswood, sullen and wroth, nursing a bruised wrist he'd earned during that morn’s spar. Brynden had done his earnest to make himself as unwelcoming as possible to deter the wretch from coming over.
He seemed utterly blind to his unwillingness for any company. He just skipped over, a smile on his face, and wind in his silver hair, and plopped himself beside Brynden against the stump like some lazy tomcat. “I told you not to curse them. It’s the surest way to get your teeth knocked out.”
Brynden sneered, and deliberately inched away. Gods; he hated how cocksure the wretch was about everything.
“I didn’t curse them. Neither did they run me off. I just came here to pray.”
For emphasis, he tapped the great stump, shudders pinching his skin when his fingers grazed the mangled wood.
Daemon laughed. “Hm, yes, of course. Well, I may not know much about the old gods, but I’d hazard a guess their prayers don’t require scowling.”
Brynden squinted at him. “I’m not scowling.”
Daemon's smile grew wider. “Yes, you are. You’re always scowling. It’s why none of the lads want to be near you. Because you look at them like you want to eat their livers.”
For emphasis, he made an exaggerated face, his pale, purple eyes narrowing into vicious slits. Brynden groaned.
“Fuck off, what do you know about it? They despise me because they’re Aegor's creatures.”
Petty squires, upjumped knights, and bootlickers of all sorts. Aegor had been permitted to come to their royal sire's court scarce a year past, and already, he had drawn all the rats crawling in its gutters to his side. The moment Brynden had arrived, the wretch had made it his life's mission to humiliate him at every turn. He'd sent Podrick to piss in his morning porridge, Pollivar to rip up his cloak, the one he needed to protect his sensitive skin.
In the yard, he and his lickspittles wouldn’t give him respite despite being three years his elder and twice as large. Brynden fought back as best he could, following Ser Quentyn's council, using every trick in the book. And yet there was just one of him. A small, pasty lad with red eyes and milky flesh.
“Ah yes, the ancient rivalry between the Houses Blackwood and Bracken.” Daemon quipped, a quirk to his mouth. “I’m certain you vowing to send wolves to fuck Pollivar's Mother to death had absolutely nothing to do with it. And gutting Podrick's dog. And scattering nails around Aegor's bed to cut up his feet.”
“They started it first!” Brynden insisted. “They called me a bloodless bastard. A freak.”
Daemon's brows arched. “And? Why should that upset you?”
He scoffed. “Ah, it’s so easy for you to say. Daemon the Glorious, the finest knight the realm has ever seen. You have no notion of what it’s like to not belong.”
He'd been different all his life. Even amongst his kinsmen at Raventree, they regarded him with abject suspicion; the strange, crooked boy who spoke to crows and had the eyes of death. Here… he felt like even more of a monster. The freak Pollivar insisted needed to be drawn and quartered.
“Don’t I? What do you think I am?” his half brother asked. The cocksure smile wilted off his face, his pale eyes darkening to a rich indigo. “I can fight, and sing and dance, to be sure. I can charm the Lords with humorous witticisms, make their wives flush with decadent flattery. I can be as good a son as our royal sire ever wished, and none of that will ever change a thing. I’m a bastard. I’ll always be a bastard.”
His voice dropped, his tongue catching on the word. Brynden grimaced. It was queer to see him sad. He always seemed the jolliest of their lot, the pinnacle of Targaryen spirit and daring, something he'd inherited from his royal Mother. And yet, he had a sadness to him now. A weight that aged his handsome face, a worry that spoiled his smirk into a scowl.
“But doesn’t that anger you? It scarce seems fair to be treated as lesser for something you are.”
The smile returned, still sad and unbearably endearing.
“Forgive me, but now you sound like Aegor,” Daemon sighed. “It does. But there is naught I can do about it. Brass will not become gold, no matter how vigorously you polish it. At best, I can embrace what I am, without resentments, without shame. As should you. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.”
Brynden spat, bitterness playing on his tongue. “I think I’d prefer knocking Polliver's teeth out and making Aegor eat them.”
This time, Daemon laughed, the sound echoing in the empty godswood.
“I’ll have a word with the lad on the morrow. See if he's as… zealous when confronted with an opponent of more… equal standing.”
His head snapped in his direction. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. I can manage by myself.”
“Alright, if you wish it,” his arms raised in mock surrender. “I was merely trying to help. At the very least you could take my Council and cease scowling so much. You look dreadful. Here.”
Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out something; a peach. He split the flesh with his dagger, pink juice dripping between his fingers to fill the air with saccharine sweetness.
“Have a peach. Something sweet will do wonders to cheer you.”
Brynden regarded the slice, his belly rumbling in protest.
“I don’t want a peach. I hate peaches.”
The wretch groaned, then scooped the slice into his own mouth. “Oh Seven hells you’re impossible. First, you reject my council, then my offer of brotherly aid, and now my peach! It’s the last of the season, you know. The orchards have been picked bare, and winter will soon be upon us.”
Brynden grumbled, and turned away.
“Fine, be that way,” Daemon pulled back and moved to rise, visible disappointment carving lines around his slanted eyes.
Something inside him cracked. “Wait.”
He snatched the peach up before he could tuck it into his pocket, shame churning in his stomach.
“But don’t tell Polliver I sent you. He’ll think me a craven.”
The smile he flashed him was devious. “No. I’ll tell him the thrashing was all my notion. Payment for him being insufferable; which isn’t far from the truth.”
Brynden almost laughed, but managed to contain himself. His brother gently tapped his shoulder.
“You’ll be alright. I promise. We'll, uh… we'll resolve this together.”
“Aegor won’t like that,” he added, bitterness on his tongue.
He'd already been incensed Brynden's kinsmen had dared send him to court to try and vie for royal favor. Hearing that he was trying to poach their half-brother and close friend was like to push him into attempted fratricide. Not that he considered Brynden kin in the first place.
“Well, then he's welcome to explain why our brotherly relation matters less than his and mine,” he paused, the seriousness returning. “We're bastards. Irrespective of petty rivalries, we should band together. For our own sakes.”
“Daemon! Daemon, my boy!” A sonorous voice thundered in the distance. Up ahead, the bushes rustled, and a great beast emerged from beneath the carved arches.
“There you are! Seven hells, the lads have been searching everywhere. Come, come! Your King has need of you!” Aegon IV Targaryen boomed, waving a meaty hand in Daemon’s direction. Brynden grimaced; even at a distance, he was grotesque. Sandwiched between an army of servants, and Kingsguard, he still managed to be larger than several of them put together, like a thick lump of lard, haphazardly stuffed in gaudy silks. A patchy stubble covered his round cheeks, his thinning hair concealed beneath a feathered cap.
Brynden had heard it tell his Father had been a handsome man in his youth. He always struggled to see it. He'd only known the King as he was now; a corpulent lecher, with splotchy skin, and a lame leg, who perpetually had the stink of rot about him.
“Of course, your Grace! Right away!” Daemon called back, then leaned in to whisper. “Must be off. It seems the Lord Emperor of Grease and Cunt has need of my services.”
This time, Brynden didn’t stifle his chuckle.
“Be good eh? No scowling,” the wretch mused. He snuck a hand under his hood, to quickly muss up his white hair. Brynden snorted, trying to feign indignation, but his smile betrayed him.
Yes, the man was a wretch. Perfectly amiable, perfectly kind and charming. A good elder brother, and a better shield, someone who deserved respect, despite his bastardy. He watched him march up to their royal sire, head raised, shoulders flared, regal in spite his simple woolen tunic and scuffed leather boots.
He smiled and preened at Aegon, showering him in a barrage of bawdy jests, the kind the King was most fond of. The Lord Emperor wheezed a laugh, his meaty hand gesturing scornfully behind him. It was then Brynden realized; Daeron was there as well.
The Prince of Dragonstone stood behind his royal Father, his thumbs anxiously warring with one another, whilst his eldest son eyed Daemon with cautious apprehension.
They were of an age, Daemon and Baelor; six and ten, and men grown, warriors in their own right. Yet it was Daemon who cut the image of a proper Targaryen heir, Daemon who seemed to hold their father's favor over his legitimate son and his dark haired, Dornish-looking grandson.
It was them Brynden chose in the end. The trueborns over the bastards, the red dragon over the black. Daemon had been a brother to him, as true as any there ever was, and yet he'd not hesitated to cut him down when the Redgrass came.
“It's queer,” Brynden continued, tracing the lines in the weirwood stump; the life veins that should be brimming with red sap. “I scarce remember it; the arrows. I just knocked and loosed, till he and his sons fell. And I thought it might haunt me, that I’d see his bloodied face in my dreams. It didn’t. But I remember the peach he gave me. The last of the season.”
He turned the pit over in his hand, his thumb following each ridge. It had been the last. The last time they’d been brothers. The Lord Emperor of Grease and Cunt had died not long after, and Daemon was wed off to the Tyroshi woman when Daeron discovered him with Daenerys abed; after Brynden told him to go and look.
“It happened for a reason. He may have been a good brother, but there is a greater good at stake here. One only you can ensure will come to pass.”
“Can I?” he whispered, his voice catching on the word.
He'd seen vague images, ripples in muddy water. He'd deduced Daeron's line was fated to bring forth dragons, but he had four sons. Four sons, three of which had children of their own.
“What if I’m wrong?” he asked, Aerea's words once again coming to haunt him.
The branches whispered around them, the autumn breeze caressing the fresh leaves. The muscle in Shiera's jaw tensed.
“You're not. You know that.”
“I’ve been wrong before,” he admitted, bile in his throat.
He'd thought it would be Baelor at first; the great dragon who would revive the legacy of Old Valyria. He'd done all he could to keep him protected on the Redgrass, found him a strategic match to ensure his bloodline continued.
And yet, on the eve of his son's birth, the image of a fiery anvil came to him, and Brynden realized the horrible truth; Baelor, just like Daemon, was naught save an obstacle. A thing to be removed to ensure the world of men got their chosen hero.
“Not this time,” Shiera insisted, her nails curling into the front of his doublet. “You know it. We both saw it. In the fire, in the roots. The path forward is clear. And there is no room for error.”
He paused to regard her, the fierceness in her posture, the proud glint of her mismatched eyes. She was as lovely as she was terrible, and it hurt to look at her at times.
“So much. I always wondered how you did it. How you stayed so sure in yourself.”
Shiera let her lips peel back into a dangerous smile.
“I’m a bastard, my sweet crow. I must have faith in myself, or crumble under the scrutiny.”
Her expression never faltered, and yet he could feel it; the small hints of vulnerability, the echoes of disdain. She'd suffered the same as the rest of them had, forever living in the shadow as a sorceress, a bastard seductress, a goddess that was worshiped but feared as well.
He tried to nod, to steel himself. He had to have conviction. Faith in his choices. Elsewise, it would have been all for nothing. He’d have poisoned Baelor’s line for nothing, chosen Daeron when he shouldn’t have, tampered with his granddaughter, killed a brother he loved in cold blood; all for a foolish mistake.
Brynden turned the peach in his hand once more, flitting through his visions. A red comet, a great pyre. The image of a Targaryen girl, nursing hatchlings. A pale haired Prince, and his black haired Queen birthing hope for the future. An old warrior with his blade trained high, besieging a city of solid brick, whilst dragons flew above him.
Yes. That was the future. What he had to do; to stop the dark. The heart of winter. The inevitable collapse of the living world, the one he'd been dreaming about since before he even had the words to name what he saw.
“Ask for that supper, would you. It would be good for someone to morn the wretch.”
Shiera pulled away, that coy smile quickly slipping back in place. “I will.”
Brynden cast a look at the pit once again. He knew he should discard it. There was no point in keeping it with him. He'd made his choice long ago, loosed the arrows that had ended his brother's life and whatever greatness or madness his line might have produced. All the pit served was to remind him of roads not taken; cast doubt where it shouldn’t exist.
Brynden swallowed and drew a breath, letting the scent of blooming hydrangeas fill his nostrils. His hand closed around the pit, then returned it back into his pocket.
“Now, if you’ll pardon me. I have a Council to attend. And a new King to maneuver,” Bloodraven exclaimed, his mask slipping back in place. Shiera rewarded it with a soft caress, her demeanor just as impenetrable.
Meanwhile, the pit lingered in his pocket, heavier than any stone.
from left to right: Queen Naerys, King Aegon IV, and Prince Aemon (1); Septa Rhaena, Princess Elaena, and Princess Daena (2); Princess Daenerys, King Daeron II, and Ser Daemon Blackfyre (3)
*For reference, those are the ages I'm working off of. Some of them are canon, some are approximations, but I needed a guide*
As I stated in my first post (which you can read here) my favorite era of Targaryen history is the time between the First Blackfyre rebellion to Aerys I's death.
This time we'll be going over Alys Arryn and Rhaegel Targaryen. I've been very excited to go over them since they're is a lot of mystery about them. ALSO! Arryn family tree for fun:
Rhaegel was the kindest of his brothers. he was particularly close to Maekar, and the two boys were raised very close together. Maekar was not to hit or chide anyone who insulted Rhaegel.
Rhaegel was his mothers favorite son.
Alys was married to Rhaegel as thanks to her brother, Lord Donnel Arryn, for being such an active supporter of Daeron IIs claim.
Alys was very classically Arryn, in that she could be rather haughty. That being said, she loved Rhaegel, and she was a very active supporter of his political interests, though very often he was oblivious to this.
The two of them were married in 198, just after the First Blackfyre rebellion. Jena Dondarrion actually went into labor and delivered her son Matarys during the wedding celebrations, which was seen as a good omen.
Due to Rhaegels mental health problems, it took them several years to be able to have children. This is also why there is such a large age gap between the twins and Daenora.
Alys loved her twins dearly, but she sort of saw them as political pawns, more than children. It was for this reason she pushed so strongly to have them wed each other, to make them seem like traditional Targaryens (a la Alicent Hightower, and her children Aegon and Helaena.)
Alys was not close to her family-in-law. She resented that Jena Dondarrion and Aelinor Penrose had higher stations than her, even though they came from vassal houses, while her house were Lord Paramount's.
Rhaegel was an excellent singer, and even composed some of his own music, though most of it was destroyed during the Tragedy of Summerhal.
Aside from Baelor, Rhaegel was the most Martell in appearance.
Alys was robbed of the throne five times in her life. When Rhaegel choked on the pie, she was robbed of being queen. When her son Aelor died, and later Aelora, she was robbed of being the Queen Mother. When her daughter Daenora was passed over as heir, and finally, when her grandson Maegor was not selected to be king.
Although Rhaegel had been close to Maekar, Alys hated him, and may have even started the rumors that Maekar would kill his brother. It infuriated her that Maekars line won out in the end. She eventually left Kings Landing, and returned to the Eyrie, where she helped to raise her grand-nephew, Jon Arryn.
