A/N: Hi all. Can I just say... Emilia is awesome! I knew she thought the same as us about season 8, but is too classy to go full medieval on D&D... that's our job in her stead XD
I love the support this story is getting, and keep it up!
Enjoy and comment!
"Gods, what a mess you two have found yourselves in."
Watching the pained looks on her two gooddaughters, Rhaella didn't know whether to smack them upside the head as she knew Lyarra would do - same with Mynara if she was still alive - or to just burst out into rapturous giggles at what she knew that they didn't. It was testament to her skill at the game that she remained neutral and… motherly.
The three of them were journeying to the Maidenvault, intending to see the Princesses. "You couldn't hate us more than we hate ourselves," Elia breathed.
"If they still haven't made up…" Lyanna bit her lip, close to tears. "I wouldn't blame you if you told Rhaegar of our wicked actions."
"No one is going to tell Rhaegar anything. You've been such wonderful Queens, wives, and mothers that I wouldn't dream of it." They could use a little humility and good sense, but otherwise absolutely true. "Don't worry, gooddaughters. Everything will be fine."
Lyanna looked back at her. "You don't know that."
Rhaella gave nothing away - when she spoke, it sounded like motherly intuition rather than inside knowledge. "Trust me… you two raised two amazing, wonderful Princesses. This isn't the Dance and they aren't the Blacks and Greens. Our family will survive a mere ill advised bet."
Elia perhaps at her wife before sighing. "Mayhaps you're right. I won't excuse our actions, but they are good girls and they won't hate each other."
Damn, I'm good. "You will still have to tell them everything." She was stern about that - make them sweat and perhaps they'd now learn. It served to hammer home the lesson she'd intended to create once they both confessed their stupidity to her. They are lucky Rhaegar and I worked it all out. There was nothing but a happy ending in store for her grandchildren.
"I know, and we will after the tourney." Lyanna turned the corner to the Maidenvault. "Rhaenys was dying to compete in the melee and I can't shatter her concentration with this."
"Can't have that, can we." A thought came to her mind. "Tell me, what was the spoils of the winner of the bet?" Both Queens blushed. "Something dirty, I assume."
"Well…" Elia went further red - for a Dornishwoman she could be quite modest. "The loser would be the winner's… pleasure slave for a month." Lyanna buried her head in her hands as Elia averted her gaze.
"Oh… makes sense I suppose." Reaching the door to the Maidenvault, Rhaella shook her head, trying to hide her smirk. Oh son, you owe me for delivering to you the best moon of your life. She intended to collect when the time came and she needed a favor. "Let's see what the damage is." Without delay, she unlocked the door and entered.
Located behind the now unused royal sept, the Maidenvault was a miniature keep with a vaulted slate roof. It was beautiful as it was imposing, but unlike Maegor's Holdfast it was a prison, preventing escape rather than infiltration. Such made it perfect to house the three beautiful sisters of Baelor the Blessed, even though Daena the Defiant managed to escape it.
There was no sign that either Princess tried to emulate Daena, which was a good or a bad sign depending on the circumstances. However, the answers for the three Queens were given when they entered the bedchamber. What was in front of them was a bittersweet sight. Rhae and Dany curled up together intimately in the bed. They were both awake and dressed, but still lay there with sad expressions. Rhae enveloped Dany while the younger Princess buried her head in her sister's neck.
Lyanna and Elia were close to tears at seeing them so melancholy. "Oh my darling girls." Lyanna was by Rhae's side, kissing her forehead. "I can't believe this happened."
"We're sorry, muna," Dany told her as Elia kissed her brow. "We talked it out and… we're fine now." There was much she didn't say, but neither Queen could figure out what.
Rhaella knew though. From what Rhaegar told her that morning about Jon's head finally out of his ass, she knew full well what transpired and how it would be solved. You haven't played the game this well since your own wedding, son of mine.
"Don't worry my dears," Rhaella finally said to all four of them. "Everything will be alright." They looked skeptical but she insisted. "Now Rhae, are you ready for the melee today?"
Rhaenys sighed but stood, allowing her worries to be replaced with a mask of steel. "Give me Dark Sister."
Tourney day was here.
A vast explosion of sound boomed persistently through the entirety of King's Landing as tens of thousands marched for the grounds outside the city walls, tents, stalls, and wooden arenas hastily elected at the order of King Rhaegar I Targaryen. The festivities would last a week with competition in virtually everything - starting with one of the events most favored by the smallfolk - the grand melee, pitting teams representing all distinct entities of the Seven Kingdoms in a battle royale that would only end when one was left standing.
Old tourneys had fight to the death, but by order of Jaehaerys I Targaryen it was changed to 'knockout.' The warriors fought to overpower, never to kill.
Dressed in the most unappealing trousers and tunic that she could find in her closet, Princess Visenya Targaryen hadn't signed up for the melee as did her elder brother, elder sister, and numerous cousins. Storming through the tourney grounds without a guard or even her family's sigil on display, gods she wished she had. The Princess was in the foulest of moods. Scowl affixed to her lips and fire in her eyes, people gave a wide berth even not knowing who she was. The girl looked deadly.
Hard to know that only twelve hours before, she had been the very fixture of a girl utterly in love.
What a fucking joke.
She wanted to hurt someone. To kill something. To take her treasured longsword gifted to her by her munas on her three and tenth nameday and ram it right up the ass of the man she thought she loved. And I was going to give my maidenhead to you, Gerold! An entire night had been spent holed up in her room crying herself to sleep, but now her eyes were dry. The bloodshot rims were replaced with fire.
Visenya was spoiling for a fight, and it couldn't wait for the joust that she had already signed up for at her muna's urgings - all of Queen Lyanna's children were born horsemen, and visenya was no exception - to sate her urge. Someone would invariably cross her, and that someone would pay.
"...ook at the scrawny fucker!"
The Princess stopped in her tracks, hearing laughs followed by a cry of pain. "Ee' thinks ee's a knight, lads."
"What a fookin' liar. Ee's more like a girl."
"Cunt's sure weak enough to be one of 'em!" Catching Visenya's attention, she placed a hand on the hilt of her sword and crept towards where the voices came from. Peeking around the corner of a tent bearing the sigil of a Riverlands house. One she didn't recognize.
But she recognized the scene before her - almost doing a double take at the quirk of fate.
A skinny boy barely older than her brother Daeron was trapped on the ground. A spear laid in the dirt, kicked far away from him as three burly knights - all around her age or a bit older - laughed sadistically. Kicks to his face and chest periodically made him moan disorientated. "Stay down, motherfucker!"
"I am… I am the son of Lord..." the skinny boy yelled only to get another kick. This time in the gut, which caused him to cough and gasp. The boy looked sickly in general, so the attacks had an even greater effect.
Blood already boiling, Visenya remembered the stories of her powerful muna. How she protected Lord Howland Reed from the assholes of the realm and then clobbered them in the joust as a mystery knight… and earning the love at first sight of the King as a result. Lyanna Stark would forever be known for such, and Visenya could find no better outlet than emulating her.
She stormed into view. "Hey, assholes!" The three knights stilled, revealing a sigil of House Lannister, House Frey, and House Westerling. Ah, perfect. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?!"
"Piss off, cunt!" said the Lannister. He kicked the fallen boy again. "Do you know who I am?!"
"Someone who had their hair pissed on, cause that has to be where the color came from." She pointed to his friends. "Where'd you find the dung beetles?" Visenya inherited her mother's wit.
The knight went red. "You better take that back, bitch!" If they knew she was a Princess, they'd probably act completely different, but being dressed as some common smallfolk girl with her hedge knight brother's sword made them bolder. "Don't make me teach you respect." Probably thought to rape her.
Drawing her sword, Visenya intended to teach them a proper lesson. "Make me then, though you'll lose your hands and teeth trying."
The Lannister drew his blade. A massive greatsword that took both hands to hold "Have it your way then, cunt." He charged, putting everything into his frontal hit. It didn't take much effort for Visenya to twirl out of the way with nimble feet and smack the flat of her blade across his back. With a grunt, the blow sent him to the ground.
The Westerling lad was right after, sword chopping low to slice at her feet… Visenya jumped, dodging the blow and shooting her arm out - smashing her elbow into his face. The knight screamed, blood spurting from a broken nose and knocking him out of the fight. One blow, impressive. "I've seen Ironborn do a better job at fighting," she mocked, knowing how to get Westermen riled up
Unlike his friends, the Frey showed more sense than one would give to that family. Sloppy and not even close to Visenya's skills, his feet were nonetheless quick and backed by a firm stance and strength. Trained by the best House Targaryen had to offer, Visenya made quick work of him. All her anger released in a sudden fury, imagining that this poor schmuck was Gerold Dayne. Visenya parried the first strike - blade twirling in her wrist to knock it out of his hand.
Eyes wide in fear, the Frey moved to grab it... only for the Princess to punch him in the jaw over and over again... leaving it a bloody mess as she screamed murder.
It was cathartic… and foolish, for she didn't watch her back. The Lannister taught her the lesson with a blow to the back of Visenya's skull, staggering her and causing her vision to explode into colors. She fell, quickly rolling over… only to find him grinning savagely down at her. Blade at her neck. "Feisty. I always liked my girls like that." He went for his belt, and the anger and rage morphed into terror as Visenya's hubris came back to bite her.
No… please no…
"Oi', asshole!" Visenya watched as a mighty fist crashed right into the Lannister's handsome face, sending him sprawling. Her eyes widened. Gendry.
The knight rubbed his face as the Westerling gingerly helped the Frey up. "What the fuck are you doing, Gendry? Just wait until your grandfather finds out you attacked your own cousin."
"You were always an ass, Tyrek," Gendry shot back. He had a warhammer slung across his back for the melee later, but he merely cracked his knuckles. "Probably why you didn't recognize Princess Visenya Targaryen."
The cocky arrogance morphed into confusion… and then pure terror from the three knights. "I…oh, gods… forgiveness Princess!" It was almost amusing how purely fawning and fear-stricken they sounded. "We didn't…"
Gendry laughed at them. "I may be able to persuade her to let this all go if you get the fuck out of my sight right now." They didn't waste time, making a run for it. He turned down to Visenya, holding out a hand which she took, hauling her up. "I won't ask for a thank you, but it would be appreciated."
"None was offered. I had it under control," she growled, crossing her arms.
"Sure, sure." Inside, Visenya knew Gendry saved her… but it would take a moment to swallow her pride. While she did so, she went to the still prone boy. "You alright?"
He coughed and nodded. "Aye. Thank you, Princess."
"Any time. And your name…"
"Jojen Reed… son of Howland Reed."
Quite the coincidence. "Well Jojen, let's get you back to your father." Helping him up, the boy began dusting himself off while Visenya went back to Gendry. "Thank you," she mumbled.
"What was that?"
She wanted to wipe that cocky smile off his face. Normally she'd punch him… but instead Visenya pressed her lips to his. That worked… and she liked it more than she thought she would.
Probably why she crossed the gap for a second kiss.
It was a packed crowd for the melee. Not a surprise, since aside from the final joust the event was the most popular among the smallfolk and nobles alike. Vendors crisscrossed the spectators with meals both hot and cold while bets traded hands on everything from the winner to the first fallen - anything to make a coin from the hottest event of the year. With fifty thousand souls watching, there would be a lot of coin to be made.
The King hadn't yet arrived at the royal box, but trumpets heralded the arrival of the Queens. Elia and Lyanna were dressed impeccably as always in red and black lace gowns of a modest Meereenese style, hiding their grief and self-loathing beneath the mask of rulers. They waved to the crowd as the heralds introduced them before finally seating - Princess Daenerys sitting beside them in a sky-blue gown.
Each was inwardly sullen, but not willing to be seen as such by their family. Smiles were forced, but only the insider knowledge of Ashara and Rhaella could see through it, so skilled were they at the game. Rhaella didn't say anything, not wanting to give it away. Ash, not in the know of Rhaegar's plans, smiled sympathetically at her niece while glaring at her goodsisters as she sat by Ned - giving him a loving kiss.
"Where is Rhaegar?" Elia asked of Lord Hand Tywin, who looked to be in quite a foul mood.
"I saw him speaking alone to Lord Commander Barristan in the royal tent, so he could be here within the minute or in hours," was the curt reply. Respectful, but sullen.
Lyanna wasn't one to miss words. "What crawled up his ass and died?" she asked her brothers.
Ned shrugged, while Brandon - his arm wrapped around Catelyn's shoulders - laughed heartily. "It appears that your daughter decided to emulate you and his nephew got caught in the middle."
Frowning, they both looked at Daenerys for a moment, but she looked as confused as they were. Rhaenys wasn't here, so that left… "Senya?" Seated alone with her arms crossed, the quiet girl looked at her munas. "What happened?" Proceeding to tell them the whole story, she was soon surrounded by a cocoon of Lyanna and Elia. "My poor little darling," Lyanna cooed, kissing her forehead.
Elia looked to Tywin with a hard glare. "I'll take it Tyrek will be punished for this?"
"That little shit will be on privy duty in Casterly Rock by the end of the week," he growled. The Hand didn't need this right now, and the fury would fall down on his poor bastard of a nephew. "Be lucky my grandson was there to stop it."
"Gendry will certainly be rewarded for his conduct," Lyanna remarked. Looking at Elia, for the first time since Ash informed them of Rhae and Dany's fight, there was a bit of a twinkle in their eyes. Seeing how close Gendry and Senya were, a betrothal was long considered.
This time though, they would do it right. Cersei and Stannis called and consulted over the terms of the marriage alliance between their two houses. Hearing a giggle, eyes falling on Margaery and Jaehaerys laughing over something or another, their minds made more connections. Two betrothals perhaps?
Suddenly, the trumpets blared loudly. "His Grace! Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name!"
Powerful as ever, Rhaegar strode into the box to the roars of the crowd. He kissed Lya and Elia on the lips while pressing kisses to the cheeks of his daughters and mother. "Let the melee begin!" he announced.
"I don't know if I can do this…"
"Nonsense, you are my son. For the Lightbringer, these tourney knights don't stand a chance against you."
"That's not what I'm afraid of, kepa… I just know I'll have to face Rhae."
"And that's a problem, how…?"
"If I beat her, then she won't accept my love, and if I let her win she'll just kill me."
"Oh, my son… believe me, a good fight only gets the juices flowing. Look at me and your munas."
Much as the implications of that last statement still caused Jon to shudder - his father was strong and virile while his mothers were gorgeous women, and the presence of him and his seven siblings bore witness to their fertility - he took Rhaegar's words to heart. Foregoing a helm but allowing his squire and cousin Rickon to affix his boiled leather and mail armor of the North to his form, he steeled himself for the coming fight.
"Ready, cousin?" He looked over to see Robb jogging to him through the tunnel that ran underneath the stands. In the distance, he could see Myrcella Baratheon fidgeting with her hands, gazing longingly at the Stark knight.
"As I'll ever be," Jon replied, looking from Robb's kiss-swollen lips and a gold ribbon tied to his wrist. "Myrcella's favor?" Each of his team wore favors - except for Viserys, which was odd cause he normally sported a half-dozen from various well-wishers. Arthur had Dacey's, and she his since she was also competing. Domeric wore a purple sliver of silk imprinted with a yellow butterfly, to which only Jon recognized it as Missandei's… Odd pairing, but I can't deny them happiness.
Robb grinned. "Aye… she's pretty worried for me."
He raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know you, I'd say you took advantage of her."
"Perhaps we took advantage of each other." His wiggled brows made him roll his eyes.
Arthur smacked his nephew on the head. "Behave, boy." Robb rubbed the back of his head but said nothing. "You have your favors, your Grace?"
Jon held up his hand, revealing that of both Queens. "Aye." He loved his munas and their support gave him strength, but he wished for two others on his wrist.
Nodding, Arthur looked out as the horns sounded. "Showtime. Let's go." And with that, the Crown Prince's team marched onto the melee grounds.
It was a stiflingly hot day, the sun mounted high in the sky and shining down upon them. Helmless as a proper Northman should be, he used his gloves palm to shield his eyes. Only the breeze off Blackwater Bay served to temper the muggy heat. It wasn't enough.
"Gods help me, the Dreadfort is better than this." Domeric complained. Given how he hated his home and both his late father and brother, that was a heady statement.
"Quiet," Jon barked back, taking his position to the left of the Royal box along with his team. Already he could see the warm smiles of his munas, aunts, and grandmothers, as well as the quick shows of support from kepa, and his Stark uncles. Also there was… Dany…
If there was any remaining doubts of what he confessed to his father the night before, they died upon simply looking at her. She was absolutely breathtaking, and Jon saw her in a whole new light. Not his beloved sister or closest friend, but treasured lover and unbreakable soulmate. Their eyes met, and he could see her violets filled with adoration… and sadness. You'll never be sad again, dear sister. I shan't allow it.
Rhaegar stood. "Citizens, we are gathered to witness the greatest among us display their courage under arms. All are honorable warriors, yet only one may triumph. The Lord Hand shall list those participating!"
"The noble teams to represent each of the entities before us," announced Tywin, reading off a list. "For the North, Lord Jon Umber, Lady Dacey Mormont, Lady Alysane Mormont, Ser Jorah Mormont, and Ser Brandon Stark." Having been knighted by Jon personally during the war, there was no doubt the lad was ready to kick some serious ass. He shared a kiss with Lady Meera Reed, whom Jon also approved of.
Tywin continued. "For the Riverlands, Ser Brynden Tully, Lord Edmure Tully, Lord Jason Mallister, Lord Tytos Blackwood, Ser Oswell Whent." While Oswell and the Blackfish were worries, none really stood out as true threats to Jon. Edmure seemed more interested in throwing kisses to his newly-wedded wife Roslin, whose favor he wore, than eying his opponents.
"For the Vale, Ser Harrold Hardyng…" He could see Viserys tense up at the name, fist clenching the hilt of his sword. The fuck…? "Lord Yohn Royce, Ser Andar Royce, Lord Myles Grafton, Ser Lyn Corbray."
"For the Iron Islands…" Normally the Ironborn would be very much hated, but they had served honorably in the War in the Stepstones so the crowd didn't pelt them with jeers and insults this time. "Lady Asha Greyjoy, Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy, Ser Harras Harlaw, and Ser Andrik the Unsmiling." Tywin's lips curled at the nickname but moved on.
He smiled at the next list, voice ever prouder. "For the Westerlands, Ser Aegon Lannister." Half-dragon, the crowd roared for him. "Sandor Clegane, Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser Podrick Payne, Ser Addam Marbrand." A team of heavy hitters. Jon fought with Sandor and knew never to underestimate his uncle Aegon… but it was the Strongboar that worried him the most.
But now it was his name to come up so he steeled himself. "For the Crown itself, Crown Prince Daemon Targaryen." It was as if the crowd erupted like the Fourteen Flames, his name booming all across the landscape. Tywin waited till it died down. "Ser Robb Stark, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Domeric Bolton, Prince Viserys Targaryen." Probably the strongest team - Jon was proud of his lineup.
"This time, the Crown chooses to field two teams. For the second, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen." A similar reaction to Jon, the warrior Princess basking in the adoration of the crowd while Jon looked at her with a suppressed longing. Damn… I really am in love with her too. Her helm covered her raven hair, but the same violets that Dany held looked at him - Jon swore he could hear an intake of breath from her at simply meeting his gaze. My gorgeous warrior Princess… He probably would still enjoy fighting her as before, but what he really wanted to do was wrestle Rhaenys to the ground and have her. "Ser Arya Stark, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Bronn Blackwater, Ser Loras Tyrell." An equally powerful lineup.
"For the Stormlands, Gendry Baratheon, Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Beric Dondarrion, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Cortnay Penrose." The stormlands were powerful and warlike, and their champions were no different. Jon saw his friend Gendry and the burly lad nodded at him - on his wrist was a slip of red and black with a white dragon on it. Senya's favor. Finally… I've been waiting for them to get together.
"For the Reach, Ser Garlan Tyrell, Ser Dickon Tarly, Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Baelor Hightower, and Lord Tanton Fossaway." Those of the Reach were oft derided as 'summer knights' but Jon knew from speaking to Margaery that these knights were the real deal. Best watch out for them.
"For Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell, Prince Quentyn Martell, Ser Edric Dayne, Ser Daemon Sand, and Ser Obara Sand." Two bastards, which Jon didn't mind cause he liked Ser Daemon and cousin Obara… he chuckled at cousin Quentyn being in the fight. A gold dragon he trips and falls once it commences.
"A special participant for us all and a first in any grand melee. For the Night's Watch…" This drew approval from the crowd. "Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, Edd Tollet, Ser Qhorin Halfhand, Pypar Stone, and Grenn Hill." No better men that Jon had ever served with… and no tougher. Underestimate them at one's own peril.
"And for the Free Folk beyond the Wall." No doubt the crowd was bummed that they didn't get to face giants. "Lady Val Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, Sigorn of Thenn, Ser Theon Greyjoy, Lady Ygritte Greyjoy." Jon could almost imagine both Val and Ygritte pissed at the title of Lady, but what could one do?
Tywin sitting down, Rhaegar clapped his hands. "May the gods be with you and bring you triumph. Begin!"
A stillness fell over the field, only broken as men drew their swords. Readying themselves. It was odd… dozens of men and women eager to throw themselves at each other in hand-to-hand combat but refrained. Almost as if they were afraid to make the first blow…
"AAAARGGH!" With a bellow Sandor Clegane charged at his opponents of the Stormlands.
In an instant, the disciplined squares of competitors descended into madness as everyone erupted at each other. Swords flashing and armor glinting in the sun.
Screeching at the top of his lungs, Viserys broke formation almost immediately, charging into the mess of crashing warriors. "Uncle!" Jon cried, but there was no stopping the Prince as he bashed Tytos Blackwood in the back, sending the Lord of Raventree Hall sprawling as he raced towards an as yet unknown target.
Jon would've gone after him, but was blocked as two leapt at him. His cousin Obara lunged with a spear, nearly hitting him in the chestplate. Feet only just managing to keep his balance, Jon had to quickly parry a wild swing from Quentyn, the toady figure of Arianne's brother smugly trying to go after him.
So they teamed up to get me. He didn't begrudge Obara for it - Oberyn's brood all liked him but she was rather competitive. Quentyn though. Jon dodged a thrust, then a swing, then another trust… enjoying as the Dornish Prince grew frustrated. Holding his blade in both hands, Quentyn threw himself at Jon… only for the sword to be blocked and a left hook sending him collapsing to the ground.
Obara was more of a challenge. She jerked the spear up, forcing Jon's blade skywards and leaving her an opening. But Jon was quick, regaining his wits and dropping his blade upside down, catching the assault dead in its tracks. When the Sand Snake swung around, going for the left, Jon shouted a battlecry and chopped downward. Knocking the spear from her hands. "Yield."
She glowered, but nodded. "Yield."
"Don't fight, big lady!" Tormund blocked a powerful sword swing with his axes, grinning at his opponent. "We can do much better things together." He wiggled his brows.
It only seemed to infuriate Brienne of Tarth more, the wildling's shameless flirtation somewhat flattering but driving her mad on the melee grounds. Charging at him, she opened herself up to attacks from the Lady Val and Sigorn of Thenn.
"Brienne! Watch out!" Rhaenys darted forward, her sword blocking a blow from the Axe of the Thenn Magnar, drawing his attention. His bald face and imposing visage may have scared an ordinary person, but not a Princess of House Targaryen. She twirled her blade and dug in her legs. Meeting his charge head on.
Teeth gritted, Viserys lunged forward. His slash was only just parried by Ser Lyn Corbray. "The fuck are you doing here?!" The knight of the Vale gasped, trying to block the furious assault of the Targaryen Prince.
Viserys said nothing, a demon as he kept the attack. Through the first ten minutes of the melee did the Vale team manage to perform themselves well. They hadn't lost their number and took out a Reachman and two Westermen before turning towards the Night's Watch. Both Royces and Ser Gyles Grafton were tearing into them, knocking out Pypar Stone and close to overwhelming Lord Commander Mormont, but Ser Gyles was hit out of nowhere by Prince Viserys, sent sprawling and forcing Ser Lyn to try and hold the rear.
What started as a perfect attack now turned into a hammer and anvil. The reinvigorated Night's Watch as the anvil and Viserys as the hammer.
The Prince cared not about Corbray… or Grafton before him. With a kick he sent Corbray down, the fire in his eyes declaring to the spindly knight that it simply wasn't worth it and yielded quickly. Both Yohn and Andar Royce fending off attack by the four remaining Black Brothers, Viserys was left against the one he truly wanted. "Hardyng!"
Hesitating, now no longer the reserve and instead exposed, the arrogant heir to the Vale looked back and saw the Targaryen sigil staring back at him. Gaudy, it wasn't the son of Lyanna. "Viserys? The fuck are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your direwolf nephew?"
"He can fight without me." Viserys twirled his blade, rage growing against the man that toyed with the heart of his Sansa.
Harry smirked under the visor. "Made friends with a bunch of bastard criminals, did you?"
The Black Brothers are certainly better than you, arsehole. "No, not why." He readied himself. "Lady Sansa sends her regards."
Eyes widening, Harry had but a split-second to ponder that before Viserys was on him.
Viserys was a man possessed. Rage and fire overtaking him. All he could think of was Sansa, the beautiful spirit of the North chained and manipulated by this cunt. Again he slammed his blade against Hardyng's shield. The knight fought back as best he could, using his shield to keep Viserys from hitting at his chest but all his swings were weak. Moves frenzied but focused, Viserys forced Harry to fall back. Terror finally filling his blue eyes.
"You will never hurt her again!" Faster, stronger, fiercer… "She is no longer yours to abuse!" he bellowed, voice the roar of the dragon he rode. A half-hearted slash was slammed back, Viserys slamming his armored fist up into Harry's chin. Scorching his own throat with an even louder roar, he cracked the shield in two and sent Harry sprawling.
A kick to his chest caused Harry to groan. "Yield! Yield!" He never felt more afraid in his life.
Debating whether to act further and pound his pretty face into a pulp, Viserys had the decision taken away from him as Qhorin Halfhand smacked him across the back with his sword, felling the Prince. "Yield," Viserys said, rising to his feet and seeing that the Night's Watch had overwhelmed the Vale. Finding Harry's now hateful gaze, he smirked as the man stomped away.
Red from anger and humiliation, Harry avoided anyone that tried to run to him… from his own servants to the other fallen Valemen. He heard his uncle Elbert call out to him but merely walked past… only to run straight into Sansa Stark - the last person he wanted to see.
Seeing him fall to Viserys of all people, Sansa had been worried and managed to slip away from Dany and Margaery to race down and see him. "Harry… are you hurt?" She reached up to caress a bruise on his cheek.
He slapped away her hand. "Did you put him up to that?!"
She recoiled, eyes wide with confusion at his snarl. "Up to what? Harry…?"
Her denial - as if he were an idiot - made Harry angrier. "Must've put on a laugh, didn't it. Little fucking slut. Did you plot my downfall while fucking him?!"
So great was her love for him - what she thought was her love for him - in the briefest of moments his words broke her heart… but Sansa was raised to be stronger than that, and her pain transformed into a stoic calm. "Don't speak with me that way, Harry."
"Deny you're a slut? I know the fucking truth!." He ripped off her favor on his wrist, carefully embroidered personally by her. "You can have his fucking cock, fucking whore!" With a rip, he tore up the embroidery and threw it at the ground, spitting on it.
There was a quiet moment where Sansa simply stared at him… and then Harry staggered as she socked him right in the nose, causing him to fall. Trembling, the direwolf of House Stark stormed off, fighting tears in her eyes.
From where he had found a waterskin to quench his thirst, Viserys watched all of this with a smirk on his face. My work is done.
Jon had nothing against Ser Loras. He was a noble knight and ever dutiful to House Targaryen… but the Crown Prince wasn't about to let sentimentality fell him in this street brawl of a melee. They were down to eight, and with Ser Arthur busy engaging the Hound - inevitable, the clash between his two guards - it was up to him to deal with the Knight of Flowers.
Easier said than done. Far from being a reputed pansy - his torrid affair with Ser Renly Baratheon was legend at court, and Jon could see a tiny scrap of yellow with the Baratheon stag tied to his wrist under his tunic - Loras was a machine. His chiseled good looks belied a toned strength and fluid attack, his swordplay sharp and one Jon had to work to block. Thus his defensive stance, testing out Loras' style.
"Found your match, Prince Daemon," the Flower Knight remarked smugly, swiping at Jon.
The Prince leapt back, eyes narrowing. The blows were good, very good… amazing recitation of form… That was it! Loras was excellent but fought as a tourney knight would. All form and style. Jon knew what he had to do.
He feinted, allowing his thrust to fail. Loras smirked and charged him, but Jon spun his blade and just barely parried the attack. The Tyrell knight pressed his advantage, Jon letting him get ever closer… before spitting in his face. Loras cried out in surprise, momentum gone. Remembering the lesson of Karl Tanner very well, Jon pressed his advantage and shoved Loras back. The knight stumbled, and a blow to the helm with the hilt of Jon's sword sent him to the ground.
"Yield?"
"Yield."
Jon had only a moment to celebrate his triumph before just having to dodge a mace gunning for him...
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that Dany's frilly lace favor tied to her wrist was what kept Rhaenys going. She was sure Sigorn of Thenn would've pulverized her without a quick kick to the stones felling him. She was certain Ser Oswell would've gotten the jump on her had she not been attentive enough. And she was positive Victarion Greyjoy would've battered her into submission had the dragonsblood not ran hot from where Dany's favor touched her skin.
Just thinking of her… just thinking of Jon, it gave her strength and power. The Kraken's blow was caught, Rhae falling to her knee but managing to keep the greatsword from dispatching her. He was big, but also top-heavy. She used it to her advantage, shifting right and letting the greatsword slam to the ground before crashing her blade into the man's ankle.
Victarion grunted, the anklebone bruising and his foot essentially shutting down. Blade dropped, he howled as he fell upon the ground.
And so there were four.
Rhaenys locked eyes with Ser Arthur from underneath their helms. The Kingsguard that helped trained her was twice her age but no less deadly. He had fought in battles and tourneys for decades and came to victory in almost all of them. It wasn't Dawn, but he twirled the twin blades as if they were extensions of his wrist. With Jon clearly occupied by Lyle Crakehall, she had time to face him down.
Grabbing the straps of her helm, Rhaenys dropped it to the sandy ground. She would need the extra line of sight, sweat-drenched raven locks sparkling in the sun. Arthur stilled… only to ram his sword in the ground and reciprocate. He looked tired, but resolved. "Time for the student to be the master, Arthur," Rhaenys remarked.
"You can try, your Grace," was Arthur's reply, still not having picked up his blade from the ground.
Holding not-Dark Sister in her hand, Rhaenys leveled it back and charged. She ran low, only to spring up with powerful legs and thrust hard at Arthur. But Arthur was just as quick. Grabbing the embedded blade he spun back and avoided Rhaenys' thrust. His first sword batted Rhaenys' away while the second chopped downward. Rhae just managed to dodge the blow but tripped up on the sandy soil. She fell in a plop - inwardly cursing at such a slip up.
But the Princess was not out, lashing out with her foot and kicking Arthur in the breastplate. The momentum managed to hurl into a handstand which continued till spun around and landed back onto her feet, sword in hand. Mindful of the baited gasps of the crowd, she ground her stance - almost daring Arthur to come at her.
Narrowing his eyes, Arthur leveled one blade flat against his forearm and swung with the other. Rhaenys quickly parried but her strikes were blocked with the defensive blade. Back and forth they danced, Arthur pushing forward but failing to break Rhaenys' defense while she was unable to go on the offensive without meeting his prepared counter. Back and forth it went, both limitless in their endurance as their fluid assaults ebbed and flowed…
And then… an impromptu course correction hit Rhaenys' wrist in just the right place for her to scream and drop her sword. Arthur smirked and swung down, meaning to hit her shoulder and end the fight. But Rhaenys was quick, her palms thrown up and clasping flat against the dulled blade. She gritted her teeth from the strain but just managed to stop the attack. Arthur frowned and began to attack with his second blade…
"Holy shit," the King breathed. "Is she really gonna…?"
Rhaenys bent her knees and leapt into the air. Her foot lashed out, kicking Arthur square in the front of his chest and sending him sprawling. Plopping on the ground with barely a hair out of place - at least not more disheveled than it already was, she dove for her blade, ducked and rolled, and leapt on her feet just in time to point her blade at Arthur's throat. "Yield."
Arthur smirked, impressed. "Yield. Good show, your Grace."
She gave him a smile, breathing hard. "Thank you."
Across the melee grounds, Jon dodged yet another furious attack from Lyle Crakehall. The Strongboar was a head taller than him and stronger, but he was top heavy and Jon just about managed to keep out of the arc of his mace. "Can't run forever, my Prince," the Crakehall knight bellowed, swinging again.
Leaping back, Jon struck out with his blade - the thrust was batted aside with Ser Lyle's armored gauntlet, the mace thrusting out to jab the Prince directly in his center mass. Jon stumbled back, only just managing to keep from tripping and falling to his back. The mace angled down but he blocked it with his sword, staring Lyle down in a contest of strength…
One Lyle broke by crashing his fist into Jon's jaw.
Gasps echoed out from the crowd as Jon pitched back, spitting blood onto the ground as he recovered his bearings. Hearing Lyle's footsteps in a quick charge, the Prince made a split-second decision. He countercharged, crashing into Lyle with a dragon roar.
"That's my fuckin' son!" Rhaegar hooted, clapping his hands.
Weapons both knocked to the ground, Lyle was forced back as Jon crashed his fists against him. A knee to his leg stunned the Strongboar long enough for Jon to rip off his helm and begin pummeling his jaw. Lyle was not one to take it lying down, his own hooks slamming into Jon's side. He gritted his teeth as his ribs ached but jabbed forward, breaking Lyle's nose. Punches flew, the melee turning into a streetfight of fists and strength as both the boar and the dragon desperately wailed on the other - hoping one would finally collapse from all the blows and hand victory to them.
Targaryen fire won out over pure brawn that day. Blows quick and blood hot, Jon knocked Lyle's legs out from under him and sent him falling to the ground. The Prince leapt onto him, punches sailing forth against his shoulders and face until the Westerman knight cried out "yield." Jon was fierce but no bloodthirsty monster. He quickly rose, allowing the stretcher bearers to come and help carry the exhausted and bloodied Lyle Crakehall off the field.
And there was it. The final two competitors. Jon cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. "Well sis, just you and me." Her hair sloppy and armor snug on every curve, she looked absolutely breathtaking.
Rhaenys found her mouth dry looking at Jon, his raven curls let down and muscles bulging as he held his sword. "Aye, just us."
"Yield now and you'll be spared the humiliation of my beatdown."
Her eyes narrowed. Oh, so he's gonna play that game. "In your dreams, Prince Daemon."
Shrugging, he held non-Blackfyre in both hands, raising it above his head parallel to the ground. "I'll try not to go too easy on you."
"No different than when you let me win," she shot back, leveling her blade.
The crowd - and the royals - waited with baited breath over who would make the first move. Not a sound but the wind fluttering the many Targaryen banners breaking the silence. Daenerys clasped her palms over her mouth in worry. For it was her two loves pitted against each other. Her favor was on Rhaenys' sleeve, but both of them occupied the same place in her heart. Protect them both, oh gods…
Turned out to be a very long wait. Jon and Rhae seemed eager to draw it out as long as possible. Studying each other, taking in every weakness. Two dragons ready to do battle for the glory of their house… or was it simply a selfish desire to see who was to be on top? Didn't matter, for whatever the motives a battle of the dragons was something both terrifying and awesome to behold.
It ended up being simultaneous, but both Prince and Princess erupted at each other. Blades met in a flurry of blows, Jon and Rhaenys going all out in their initial salvos. Jon swung, which Rhae dodged. She spun her sword in a series of slashes that caused Jon to retreat a few paces, only to rock forward with a thrust. Seizing the opportunity, he brought his longsword down in a relentless series of blows, growling each and every time as he tried to bash through her defenses.
"All out so early?" Ned couldn't help but question. This wasn't like Jon at all.
"He's testing her… and she him it seems," was Rhaegar's response. He knew his children, this was but the beginning of their show.
He was proven right rather quickly. The blows began to slow, their previous frenzied assault growing more calculating… just as furious but more thought put into them. Rhaenys threw a punch that grazed Jon's chin. It stung like the seven hells but he put it out of his mind, and rocketed his head forward, butting her. She stumbled back and he advanced… her blade just managing to meet his as they formed an x.
Observers saw no movement, but there was no rest. Muscles strained and burned, Jon and Rhaenys matched blow for blow. Her armor strained with her arms, while Jon was drenched in sweat as he continued to exert. Their swords budged mere inches before a furious counterattack drove it back to where they started. Pure attrition, a battleplan hated by dragons but one that found itself in the melee.
There was an ever so slight hesitation, the two of them locked close in a clash of swords… their eyes met, Rhae dazzled by his greys and he enraptured by her violets. Rhaenys only felt her love deepen for this man while Jon felt ever more determined to make this woman his…
As soon as the moment began, it ended as Jon bellowed at the top of his lungs, his own superior strength just managing to shove Rhaenys back. She skid on the sand, leg shooting out to ground her as she took another blow that made her shoulder strain. Parry, attack, parry. Steel met steel, their skills too evenly matched.
The Prince and Princess of House Targaryen - gorgets both emblazoned with the three-headed dragon - held no equal but each other, and thus the stalemate continued. Unless…
Rhaenys had one shot to win this and only one. His blade was dulled, it wouldn't kill her but it would hurt like fuck… only if she let his attack crash into her would she be able to counter… hopefully her blow would be harder than his.
And the blow came. Jon punched her side, causing a grunt of pain that he followed through with a downward slice right for her shoulder. Expecting her to parry weakly and leave her side vulnerable, Jon's eyes widened as she left her shoulder exposed - Rhaenys instead twirled her blade and aimed for his knee in a side swing.
In reality it was but a split-second, but to all that watched it played out in slow motion. The blades crashed against their targets simultaneously. Rhaenys cried out in pure agony as her shoulder exploded underneath the plate, while Jon's padded leather saved his knee but didn't block out any of the pain. Twin roars echoed across the tourney grounds, arms failing and blades dropped.
Jon fell to his knee, plopping into the sand. Rhaenys, clutching her shoulder, followed not long after - by some twist of fate, the two of them laid side by side. Beaten, succumbing to their exhaustion and unable to get up.
No one cheered. No one spoke. A pin's drop would be louder than a dragon's shriek on the tourney grounds as Rhaegar rose, clearing his throat. The rules were simple as to whom would win. "With both Crown Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenys knocked out, the title of champion of this Grand Melee goes to the competitor who last stayed on their feet… Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!"
Rhae won. By a hair but she won. Even as the crowd simply dissolved into an unadulterated maelstrom of cheers, Dany didn't move. Not until both of them rose, Jon helping Rhaenys up in spite of a slight limp on his stricken knee, did Dany let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding and begin clapping with a wide smile. A melee for the ages, and her loves were the stars.
Feeling her hand clasped in another, Before Rhae could react Jon had pulled her into a tight hug. They were both sweaty and filthy with grime but nevertheless she couldn't help but savor his hold. Clutching him greedily to the cheers of the crowd - but they were but background noise. All Rhaenys could hear, see, feel was Jon, her beloved.
Perhaps she was mad, but there was no way she wouldn't savor this. Almost greedily she would take whatever she was given even if such would never again be hers.
What she didn't expect was his harsh whisper in her ears. "I need to speak with you."
Her brows furrowed but he wouldn't let her pull back. "Shall we go to the tent?"
"No, later, in your chambers after dark… have Dany sent there too."
"Alright."
Finally he pulled back, face all smiles and throwing her fist high in the air. "Your champion!" He boomed with all the pride in the world. "Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!"
As the crowd chanted her name, all Rhae could think of was his words. Could they… no. She inwardly shook her head. Impossible.
"Jon… seven hells, slow down."
"I've slowed down enough, uncle," Jon growled. He had bathed since his defeat by a hair at the melee, free of the stench of battle and sweat, but the Prince was dressed down. His hair was let free, a simple pair of black trousers and tunic emblazoned with the Targaryen three-headed dragon. "Long since I should be bold."
When Daemon Targaryen set his mind on something, it got done. The fact the Night King was a pile of ice crystals somewhere North of the Wall only proved the truth of this, but Viserys had a right to be a bit worried. His nephew… wasn't the most sentimental or romantic type. Sure, he had his moments, but they were awkward and sparing compared to someone like him… or Rhaegar if one was to choose a happily married man rather than a player. "Wait, Jon." Catching up to him, Viserys grabbed his shoulder.
Halting, Jon wrenched out of his uncle's grasp. "Don't try to stop me, Vis." His look was fiery, but not angry. More… determined.
"I'm not. I've been waiting for this… but are you truly sure about this? Are you ready?"
"Can I ever truly be ready? Are you ready to tell Sansa of your love?"
Wide eyed, Viserys shuffled his feet. "So you know about that?"
"You're probably the one person who I'm not clueless about, uncle… besides, Ros told me. Well, she told Robb and he told me."
Viserys muttered curses under his breath. "Damn that woman."
"Regardless, neither of us can truly be ready to make this step, but if we don't want to lose our chance at everlasting love then I'd suggest manning up and making the charge."
For once, Viserys sounded like the one that lacked confidence. "And if they reject us?"
Jon smirked. "We're dragons. If a fat cunt like Aegon the Unworthy could charm any woman into being his mistress then we should be fine." He clapped Viserys on the shoulder, and the two shared a smile. "Now, I just need to find one thing and then it's into the fray we go."
Blinking, Viserys followed. "You sure we can't just go to the stables?"
"I'm not doing this with rope meant for horses. Val told me she plans on doing it to someone so she probably has enough rope for the both of us."
"But why Val? She scares me."
Reaching the Wildling Princess' door, Jon laughed. "Believe me, uncle, she scares me too sometimes." Leaving Viserys there, he pushed open the door and walked towards where he assumed Val was lounging around… and halted in place as soon as he saw that she wasn't. "Seven fucking hells!"
Val, to her credit, was fully dressed. Only instead of the fitted woolen trousers and northern battle dresses borrowed from the Mormonts she sported the furs she wore north of the wall. It wasn't cold enough for that, but they served a rather… perverse purpose. Coupled with a bone club, Val was the captor, and tied spread-eagle on the bed was a fully nude Arianne Martell - trembling… but not from fear and perfectly beautiful.
Hells, both of them were.
The goodsister of King Mance was surprised that Jon showed up. Not Ari, who in spite of her predicament smirked at Jon. "Oh, hello cousin. Want to join in?"
Flushed beet red, Jon turned around - though he had both of them in some form of carnal knowledge, he gave them some form of modesty. "I hate to ask what this is…"
"I'm sure you know what a stealing looks like, Prince Daemon," Val snickered. "And if Arianne wishes you to join then I shan't complain."
"How… how this happened is not something I wish to know." All Jon wanted to do was get the fuck out of there and leave them… to whatever they were doing. "I just wanted to know if you had any rope I could borrow."
"Rope?" Ari was confused.
Val snorted. "Gods, Ari, can't you put two and two together? Jon wants to steal someone of his own."
Now Ari was interested in something other than pleasure. "Oh? Someone or multiple someones?"
"I'm not going to answer that, cousin. Can you just give me the rope?"
"Here, Jon." Val handed a sizable bit to him. "Sure you don't want to join."
He was already at the door. "Goodbye." Giggles followed by moans followed him outside.
Viserys was grinning like a hyena in the hallway. "I would've joined."
"Shut up." Rolling his eyes and shuddering, Jon stomped away.
Laughing to himself, Viserys shook his head. "If only these walls could talk… no child could live here for the rest of forever." Turning to head in the other direction, suddenly he came face to face with a haunting apparition.
For only an angel could be so beautiful in his eyes.
"Viserys…" Sansa said, fiddling with her thumbs and biting her lip. "Can we talk?"
"I'm back!" Prince Rhaegal announced. "Sausages are ready!"
Eyes tearing away from the furious melee on screen at the prospect of food, Prince Baelor reached out his hands. "Gimme… wait. Brother, where the fuck are your pants?"
Rhaegal was bare to the world except for his underclothes, showing off a rather… buff body. "Pants are tools of the oppressive Faith. This is much better." He sat on the couch - immediately, both Brynden and Maekar inched away from him. "Now we could all be better if we nuded up…"
"No!" announced all the brothers and uncles.
"Rats."
Finally, they fell back onto the screen. Seeing Prince Daemon disarm the massive Westerman with ease. "Pretty good form," Maekar granted. "That's what you need to do when attacked by a mace."
"Actually that's a warhammer." Eyes fell on Aerys, who had finally drew his nose from the tome of weapons and warfighting perched in his lap.
Maekar rolled his eyes. "Brother, that's a mace."
"No, it's too long to be a mace." His listless, withdrawn eyes were now filled with firmness at defending his intellectual point. "A mace holds a length at a maximum of three feet in the stem. Any longer and it's either a halberd or a warhammer and that is a bashing weapon rather than a cutting one…"
"I know what a fucking mace is!" Bellowed the King. "I wield a fucking mace while you can't get your nose out of a book. Who would you rather trust with weapons knowledge."
Aerys was unperturbed. "It isn't my fault that you choose to be ignorant."
Before Maekar could bring his fists upon his annoying elder brother, Brynden rose. "Brothers, brothers, can we not squabble about this right now?"
"Yeah, everyone knows Maekar is an expert in maces," Daemon remarked slyly. "Right, Baelor?"
The Crown Prince's dark Martell eyes narrowed at his uncle. "You said that on purpose, didn't you?" He rubbed the side of his head, almost feeling the massive pain from when his younger brother delivered the mortal blow at the Ashford Tourney. It had been easy for him to forgive Maekar - much harder for Maekar to forgive himself.
Their youngest brother still hadn't forgiven himself fully, leading to him going fully sullen and withdrawn - the scowl on his face belied self-loathing rather than anger. Brynden sighed and smacked his dear half-brother on his head. "Must you do that?"
Daemon shrugged. "It amuses me."
"Any more amusing when I Redgrass Field your ass?" Baelor growled, Daemon getting on his nerves.
It didn't intimidate or anger the Warrior Without Peer. No, it seemed to invigorate him. "Bring it on, Dorne-boy. You beat Aegor, not me. Had I been there you'd be worm chow."
"Get your sword and I'll get my spear."
"I'll do that right now…"
A loud clearing of the throat from the little pantry behind them attracted the attention of the cluster of Princes. "Do I have to come over there, Daemon?" insisted Daenerys, hands on her hips.
Daemon looked affronted. "Why do you assume it's me causing trouble?"
"Cause we know you all too well," stated Dyanna Dayne, almost the opposite of Dany with her dark eyes and hair - but equally beautiful. "Stop ragging on my husband."
"Oh come on, Dyanna, he can take it," Jena Dondarrion laughed. "Baelor has his back, so don't embarrass our sweet little dragons." All five other wives of the Targaryen princes giggled at the comment, even sweet, quiet Elinor Penrose.
Baelor blushed, Daemon muttered something obscene under his breath, Maekar was even more brooding than he was, Rhaegal just scarfed down another sausage, while Aerys was back to reading. Casting a look of relief at the ladies, Brynden turned back to the screen. "Alright, now can we finally get back to the melee." He pointed at the image. "See, we're down to Rhaenys and Daemon."
Still grumbling, Daemon muttered some sort of assent, while Baelor crossed his arms. "Fine. I am eager to see the winner."
"As am I," said the namesake of the Prince competing.
Smiling, Brynden heard a tiny cough and looked behind him. Shiera was walking to the privy - casting him a rather… sultry look with her mismatched eyes. She gestured with her head, biting her lip as she disappeared behind a corner.
Suddenly, his collar appeared tight. "Umm…" The former Hand of the King stood. "I need to head to the privy. I'll be back soon." Soon, he rounded the couch and disappeared after Sheira.
Watching his brother, Daemon rolled his eyes. "Horny idiot."
"Please, like any of us are any different?" Baelor mused, though his eyes flickered to Aerys. "Minus him, though. I doubt he even knows what those parts do."
"I know what those parts do, thank you very much," Aerys replied, not looking up from his book.
"Really? Cause I remember all Elinor did for you was write letters that you felt was beneath 'a scholar.'"
"That was just for a few years, a practice that I junked when I was King." He scrawled something in the margins of his tome. "Thankfully all the things my wife used to do can be taken care of with my right hand."
A man that didn't know Aerys would've collapsed in laughter. But uncle and nephew merely eyed each other with a disturbed look. "Should we tell him?"
"No, I'd rather not."
"Speaking of right hands," Rhaegal blurted out. "Is it now time to nude up?"
"NO!" came nine throats.
"Rats," Rhaegal grumbled.
A/N: That melee was hard to write but I hope you liked :)
Senya's exactly like her mom right there.
The next gen of the Blackfyre era with Daemon B and Bloodraven returning for an encore. Can anyone guess Aerys I's inspiration? I used a pretty famous line of his XD
No, Rhaegal, no one wants to nude up (except for Bloodraven and Shiera, but only in private)
15 reviews gets a Wed update.
