zarah

season 1 features viserys' model of old valyria, illustrating how, much like valyria's doom, his obsession with the glory of the past led to the destruction of their future.

while viserys' model does tell the story somewhat correctly, it is far more concerned with their blood and ancestry, and all those bloodlines ultimately pool back into the well that makes the "house of the dragon."

seasons 2 and 3 feature tapestries now that helaena has become our narrator instead, a dragon of flesh weaving dragons of thread. unlike the physical models, her tapestries are exclusively focused on the people involved.

helaena being a dragon dreamer gives her the ability to see things as they are, which lets her weave a more complete narrative of the past, the present, and the future (as it unfolds). this gives us the most faithful version of the events that we have and one we can almost take as fact, especially since they all match up with what we see on screen.

what about season 4 then? will she still weave the narrative after she is gone, or will someone else take up the mantle?

in order to continue with the intentional nature of these, my personal choice would be ink illustrations, which ultimately make up the book that is fire and blood. these illustrations should be penned by the maesters, with each distorted to match the book's canon rather than what we see on screen.

these illustrations should make rhaenyra look young to reduce her agency, and alicent look older to paint her as the conniving stepmother. they should paint aemond as a bloodthirsty killer rather than a teenager who made a massive mistake.

these illustrations should show us a sanitised rook's rest to remove any semblance of friction between the brothers, and they should warp a firm, kind but grieving queen rhaenyra into a cruel, crazy, paranoid bitch, and rewrite alys from a woman trying to make the best of a bad deal into a seductress preying on a prince.

not only would this be a great nod to the source material, it would also serve as a brilliant move to highlight how the people who write history tend to distort it to find their agenda and narrative.

BELONGING TO THE HIGHTOWERS

pure fluff ⋆ established relationship except alicent ⋆ soft moments

Belonging to Otto Hightower means making him soft, if only for a moment. He is not the kind of man who needs anyone's words. He is too stubborn to listen to someone else's opinion. Otto values his own opinion too much to blindly follow anyone else's. But when it comes to his lady wife, he suddenly becomes subservient. He listens to every word you say attentively, as if you are reading a spell. A small, barely noticeable smile appears on his dry lips. You sigh with feigned, light annoyance. "My dear husband, are you even listening to me?" The reproach in your voice gradually fades when you meet his gaze, so softened and calm. Otto covers your hand with his, the metal of his rings contrasting sharply with the warmth of his palms. "I always listen to you, my dear wife," he states simply, leaning in to leave a tender kiss on your exposed forehead. He will never tell you aloud how much every word of yours means to him. He remembers everything. The fact that you complained about a draft recently, and so he asked the servants to find a heavier and warmer blanket for Lady Hightower. Otto appreciates that his wife is not just beautiful, but also wise. He especially treasures the moments when he can come to your chambers, rest his head on your lap, and keep such tender silence, listening only to your voice. You hum something under your breath, it is hard to call it a song, more like honeyed murmuring. Your fingers run through his hair, which in places has already been touched by noble silver. Who would have thought that this man, who looks so formidable behind the doors of your chambers, could be like this? And the only reason is you.

Belonging to Ormund Hightower means being accepted and understood completely, even when there's a smirk on his lips. It is hard to believe that this man, whose armor probably weighs more than you, can be truly gentle. But being married to him, you have grown used to the fact that your husband has far more facets than the seven-pointed star has points. He can spend a few minutes scolding a stable boy for being too slow, his horse still not ready. But seeing you wrapped in a long scarf, sitting on silk cushions in the garden, Ormund feels as if he has descended into a small paradise, and you, his beautiful wife, allow him to be there. Your face is focused, a small bronze needle in your fingers, a piece of linen stretched on wooden embroidery hoops on your lap. Lord Hightower approaches slowly, his blue eyes fixed on the way you lick your lips each time you try to thread the silk through the needle. You were distracted when a huge shadow fell over your embroidery. Ormund smiled widely, boyishly, though his eyes sparkled with laughter. He couldn't help but find you amusing, because your embroidery was always crooked and clumsy, but he always convinced you that you were a very skilled craftswoman. What convinced you even more was seeing that he always kept your scraps, into which you poured so much effort, in a mother-of-pearl inlaid box. He sits down next to you, or rather falls, crushing the grass beneath the blanket. Ormund pulls you closer, peering curiously at your new work. "Is that a snake?" he asks velvety. "It's a leaf!" you answer, slightly indignant. "Oh, forgive me, my precious craftswoman." He chuckles, but kisses each of your fingers with a meaningful, loving look.

Belonging to Gwayne Hightower means being loved with his whole heart. He always finds time for you, even if dark circles have settled under his eyes and exhaustion weighs on his shoulders. Gwayne always keeps his warm smile for you, exclusively for you. He listens to your expressive, lively story, propping his chin on his hand. His eyes never leave your face. He catches every emotion of yours and cannot help but be charmed by the way your brows furrow and your gaze darts mischievously. He adores it when you laugh playfully and quickly cover your mouth with your hand, realizing you don't look like a proper lady. You lower your gaze, feeling slightly embarrassed. You have been told so often that you and Gwayne look like a union of moon and sun. He holds back when you can't stay silent, and only when he places his hand on your waist encouragingly does your blood quiet in your veins. Your dear sweet husband wakes up almost with the first rays of sun, turns on his side, carefully adjusts the edge of the blanket, covering your exposed shoulder. The first thing you see before opening your sleep-filled eyes is your Gwayne's face. He admires you for a long time, as if painting a picture, filling the canvas with every small detail. You moan, still trying to ward off sleep, but it holds onto you tightly. Your cheek presses against his chest, and Gwayne's hands slide over your back, stroking with tenderness. "Sleep, my lady, it's still early," he whispers softly, leaving a few warm kisses on the crown of your head. "I'll guard your sleep, alright?" You make a barely distinguishable sound, but he understands it is your agreement.

Belonging to Alicent Hightower means that she can trust you. Her trust is incredibly fragile, like delicate porcelain. Alicent, accustomed to life at court, does not know how to open her heart so trustingly and simply. Her amber eyes, with their captivating beauty, glinting in the sun, rarely smile, but when you timidly hand her an earring, a painfully sweet knot tightens inside her. "You dropped this, your grace," you whisper, hiding your eyes behind the fringe of your lashes. The queen grips your hand tightly, unable to believe that your care is for her, not for her sick dreams. She has grown too unaccustomed to such treatment, to being needed simply, not because the crown weighs on her head. You always appear beside her so unobtrusively. You simply approach her quietly, afraid of startling Alicent. There is not a trace of predation in this. It is gentle caution. You admire from a distance, but she sees it, and that is what loosens the chains she has placed around her heart. The queen entrusts you with her silence. She herself asks you to come to her, her eyes wide open, and her thin marble fingers tremble as she hands you a hair comb. "It wouldn't be too much trouble for you. I think my hair is tangled," she says, her cheeks warming with a blush. Alicent feels like a young girl again, making up silly excuses to be close to you. Now she trusts you with far more than just her thick, lush hair. The Green Queen has let you into her soul and is afraid that she will not take a step back. Why is she so sure you will always be there? Or does she passionately want to believe it?

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