#house dayne

[novaursa]

Hii,I love your work, you are on of my favs on this app .I wanted to request Arthur Dayne x Targaryen Princess reader ,where they have a relationship in private just like Rhaenyra and Harwin,they share moments together hidden from all the others...I hope the information I gave u is enough.

What Honor Cannot Hold

- Summary:  He was a knight, bound to oaths and honor. But in shadows beyond duty, he was yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I had something similar already done. These are actually parts of the various chapters from the story "The Price of Fire" that were never posted. As they were unnecessary for the plot at that time. I've managed to reuse them for your request.

The gardens at King’s Landing were not like the ones in the North. It lacked the solemn weight of snow-laced boughs and the ancient, weeping face of a heart tree. But it was quiet, tucked away from the court’s endless whispers and sharp-eyed courtiers. Here, the stillness was sacred in its own way—broken only by the gentle rustle of red leaves and the hush of silk skirts brushing against grass. You had come alone, or at least you were meant to be alone, cloaked in twilight and the scent of cedar, your thoughts tangled with longing and dread. And yet, you were not surprised when you turned and found him there—Arthur Dayne, cloaked in shadows and moonlight, standing as though he belonged more to a dream than the world that hurt you.

He said your name like a prayer, soft and reverent, his violet eyes catching the last rays of dusk. You watched him approach, every inch of him perfect and poised, the white cloak trailing behind him like a vow he could not yet break. “You shouldn't be here,” you murmured, your voice trembling more from hope than fear.

“I never should be,” he answered, “and yet I come.”

You exhaled, closing your eyes. “People will notice. My father—”

“Let them,” Arthur said, stepping close, his voice low but fierce. “Let them whisper if they dare. I would face your father a thousand times over before I walk away from this.”

Your heart thudded hard in your chest, and you tilted your chin up, searching his face—handsome and solemn, carved with the weight of honor and want. His hand hovered, hesitating at your cheek, fingers curling just short of touching you. You wanted to fall into him, but fear kept your spine stiff.

“You don’t understand what it means,” you said, almost pleading. “What it could cost. My brother, my blood… My father would kill you.”

He gave a small, sad smile, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your gaze. “Then let me die for something that matters.”

The words unraveled you, their truth laying bare all the nights you’d dreamed of his arms, the stolen glances in the Red Keep, the way he held your gaze a moment too long in the throne room, and how your hand brushed his gauntlet once on the training yard steps and your whole world tilted.

“Arthur,” you whispered, and this time it was your hand that reached out, trembling, pressing to the curve of his jaw. His breath caught.

“You’ve ruined me,” he said, voice low and shaking. “I thought I could serve you from afar. I thought honor could silence the ache. But every time I see you, I forget my vows. I forget my name. I would give up everything if you only asked.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you leaned closer, until his forehead rested against yours, until your lips were a breath apart. “I’ve loved you,” you admitted, “since Duskendale. Since you brought me that lily from the river and said it reminded you of me.”

“I remember,” he whispered. “You wore it in your hair.”

“And I kept it,” you said, barely audible. “Pressed between pages of a book I never read again. Because I didn’t want to lose the smell of you on it.”

His hand finally moved, strong fingers threading into your silver-gold hair, cradling the back of your head. “Say it again,” he pleaded, his voice frayed with longing. “Please, I need to hear it.”

“I love you,” you said, and the words spilled out like fire and rain, like a storm you could no longer hold back. “I love you, Ser Arthur Dayne. And gods help me, I always will.”

And then he kissed you.

It was not chaste or cautious—it was the kiss of a man who had waited too long, burned too deeply, who held back nothing. His mouth was warm and desperate, and yours met him with a hunger that left you both breathless. You clutched at his cloak, drawing him closer, feeling the hard planes of his chest against you, the sword still strapped to his side. His white cloak draped around your shoulders as though to shield you from the rest of the world, from duty and fear and war.

He broke the kiss only when he had to, resting his forehead against yours again, both of you gasping like you’d emerged from drowning. “Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he begged.

“It’s real,” you said, voice trembling against his lips. “You’re real. We are real.”

The world beyond the gardens still waited—your father’s madness, your brother’s tragedy, the tangled fate of houses and crowns. But for this moment, under the blood-red leaves and silver moonlight, all of it faded. There was only Arthur, and the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the most sacred thing he’d ever known.

It was never enough.

That kiss in the gardens had broken something open between you and Arthur—a dam long strained under the weight of unspoken glances and lingering touches, finally giving way to a flood of everything neither of you could say aloud before. What followed were stolen moments, threaded like pearls through the tapestry of court life, hidden between silences and shadows. You became an expert in slipping away. A longer visit to the sept, a sudden desire for fresh air, feigned headaches to escape court functions. Your ladies whispered about your strange moods, but they never followed you when you wandered. They never saw the way you disappeared into alcoves behind heavy drapes or slipped through narrow servant doors into dim hallways that snaked toward nowhere. But Arthur did.

He always found you. Sometimes he was already waiting—leaning against a cold stone wall with his arms crossed, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth as though he could hear your heartbeat before you even turned the corner. Other times he would appear beside you in silence, stepping out from shadows, his presence like the sudden hush of snowfall. He would never touch you in public, but his eyes did. Every time they locked with yours across the feasting hall or a corridor, the world dimmed and your skin prickled, heat blooming in your chest.

In the library once, you’d pretended to be lost in a dusty tome on Valyrian histories. He came to you silently, his armor left behind, dressed simply in a black tunic that made him look more like a rogue than a knight. He sat beside you at the long table, his thigh brushing yours under the wood, sending shivers through your spine. You didn’t look at him, not at first. You simply whispered, “We’ll be missed.”

“I don’t care,” he said softly, his voice low and rich, meant for no one but you. “Let them miss me.”

You turned to him then, and his hand reached under the table, his fingers sliding over yours with the reverence of a prayer. His skin was warm, rough with calluses, and you squeezed his hand tightly, needing that grounding contact more than air. “I dreamed of you last night,” you confessed, barely above a whisper. “You stood at my window and called me down like a knight from a song.”

His smile flickered with something pained and tender all at once. “If I thought you'd come, I would.”

“I would,” you said, and the truth of it made your cheeks flush.

Later, in the old rookery where ravens once flew, now abandoned to dust and cobwebs, he kissed you again—gently this time, with infinite patience, as though trying to memorize every shape your lips made against his. The stone tower was cold, but his hands were warm where they cupped your face, his breath warm against your skin. He pressed his forehead to yours afterward, his eyes closed, as though praying to gods neither of you fully believed in anymore.

“We’re playing with fire,” you murmured, tracing the lines of his jaw, your thumb brushing the shadow of a bruise beneath his eye—an old sparring match, perhaps, but it still made your heart ache.

“Then let me burn,” he said, lifting your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. “If I burn with you, I’ll die happy.”

Sometimes you would meet beneath the stables in the early dawn, when the grooms were still asleep and the first birds hadn’t yet stirred. There, among the scent of hay and horse sweat, he’d pull you into his arms and bury his face in your hair, holding you like a man starved. Once, he took your face in his hands and whispered against your brow, “When I take the White again, when I kneel in service before your brother... will you be there?”

“I’ll be there,” you promised. “Always.”

And you meant it. Even though you both knew how fragile this was. Aerys watched you too closely these days. Rhaegar had begun to speak of duty, of marriage and alliances. But none of that could quiet the thunder in your chest when Arthur’s hand brushed your arm, or when he said your name in that low, reverent voice that turned you to ash and gold.

There was one night—stormy, wild—that you would remember forever. The wind howled through the Red Keep like a grieving spirit, and rain lashed against your windowpanes in violent rhythm. You hadn’t planned to see him. You had resigned yourself to your lonely chambers and the ache of wanting. But he came anyway, soaked through, his cloak dripping, his hair wet and clinging to his face. You let him in with shaking hands, and he kissed you the moment the door closed behind him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured between kisses, his hands tangled in your hair. “All I could think about was you. The rain… it sounded like your voice. I thought I’d go mad if I didn’t see you.”

You took his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing raindrops from his cheeks, and you kissed him with everything you had, desperate and fierce. You didn’t care that your dress was soaked now, or that your bed was rumpled with wet cloaks and half-torn silks. You only cared that he was with you, that his body pressed against yours, solid and real, and that when he whispered your name, it sounded like love.

He stayed until the rain stopped.

And when he left, it was through the servant’s passage, silent as a wraith. You watched from the window, the wind tugging at the curtains, your heart still racing in your chest.

You knew you would never belong to him in the way you both dreamed. Not in this world. Not in this life.

But the stolen moments were yours—and for now, they were enough.

[agentrouka-blog]

Why are the Daynes so thankful to Ned (naming a son after him)/protective of the truth of Jon’s parentage? It boggles my mind that Ned was confident enough to leave them with at least some of the Daynes knowing the truth.

They obviously know the truth, indeed.

Ned shows up out of nowhere with a newborn and Arthur's sword, requiring a wetnurse. The man needs to offer some explanations and in any case it's kind of obvious, given Lyanna's corpse. They must have been the ones to lend him the manpower to accomplish the destruction of the Tower of Joy, the construction of the cairns, as well as the preparation of Lyanna's bones for travel. Also, said mentioned wetnurse. Wylla.

Now, what's their motivation for helping him? Lying for him? Just random loyalty to Rhaegar, whom Arthur served so loyally and senselessly?

Or possibly something else, related to Ashara's disappearance, and potentially the rescue of a different royal son, whose survival also needs to be kept quiet? A mutual pact of silence so important they will nickname their future heir after an honorable man? Why does Ned almost violently shut down any speculation about Ashara Dayne when Cat asks him about it? Why does he lie to distracted Robert, confirming the Wylla rumors, but refuses to tell that same lie to Jon and Cat, to whom this information is more relevant? What needs to be hidden about Starfall, from any potential investigation?

Lots of unanswered questions.

[souryam]

tall and fair

[novembermorgon]

rhaegar & arthur dayne

[amaati]

Arthur and Ashara Dayne 💫

Commission for the lovely @troiades ! Such a joy to work with and I'm so happy I got to draw these two together💕!

[wodania]

round three of my six fanarts!!! thank you so much to everyone who participated and funded by elden ring addiction. keep an eye out for round four!

[melinoyart]

i measure my art growth in ashara daynes

[helaenarts]

Allyria dayne

[winterstarfall]

the dayne’s and the stark’s being the two oldest families in westeros is insane actually bc what do you mean they’ve both had 10-8k years of uninterrupted rules of starfall and winterfell but barely/didn’t interact until those dragon fuckers turned up. what do you mean ashara dayne might have had brandon stark’s baby. what do you mean arthur dayne sort of helped kidnap lyanna stark and then was killed by ned stark. what do you mean ned took refuge in starfall right after killing arthur and the dayne’s didn’t immediately kill him. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY NEVER INTERACTED FOR 15+ YEARS AFTER THAT UNTIL ARYA STARK MEETS NED DAYNE?

[amber-laughs]

edric dayne thinking wylla the wetnurse is jon’s mother while simultaneously believing ned and ashara were in love omg ned they’re calling you a whore down in starfall

[novaursa]

https://www.tumblr.com/novaursa/763433066909810688/hello-dear-how-are-you-i-hope-im-not-bothering?source=share

Thank you for your answer. I would like to send a request for Maegor. I hope he has no problem. Dark Maegor Targaryen and second wife reader. (Reader can be Tyrell or Dayne. Or nobel lady from another house.) When Maegor starts looking for a woman to have an heir (37 Ac/earlier than the year he started in the original story) he meets the reader. When he gets , he is determined to make the reader his wife. He gets rid of Ceryse (maybe by poison or by accident) and marries the reader. The reader immediately becomes pregnant and gives birth to three babies. This causes Maegor's obsession to increase. Because the reader gave him three babies like the three-headed dragon in the symbol of his house. The reader is fertile enough to get pregnant every year.

Crimson Fate

- Summary: Maegor takes you as his bride after Ceryse fails to give him an heir.

- Pairing: dayne!reader/dark!Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Maegor’s eyes settle on you the moment he arrives at Starfall, and from that moment, there is no mistaking his intentions. You hear the whispers from the courtiers, the rumors of Maegor’s insatiable ambition to secure an heir, to further his line and strength. His first wife, Ceryse, has yet to bear him a child, and many speculate he has come south seeking a new wife—one capable of giving him what the Hightower woman could not.

The first time Maegor speaks to you, his presence is overwhelming. His tall, imposing figure clad in black and crimson, his eyes burning with something far more dangerous than mere desire. It is as if he has already decided your fate without consulting you, as though the idea of refusal is inconceivable.

“You are Dayne,” he says, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around you like chains. “From the blood of the stars.”

Your throat tightens, a shiver of unease sliding down your spine. You manage a nod, keeping your gaze lowered, though you feel the weight of his stare, lingering on you like a predator studying its prey.

“Tell me,” Maegor continues, stepping closer, “how many sons does your house expect from you?”

There is no answer you can give that will change your fate. In that moment, Maegor has already chosen you to bear his heirs, to fulfill the destiny of House Targaryen. You are no longer a daughter of the stars, but a piece in his game.

Weeks later, news comes from Oldtown—Ceryse has died. There are whispers, dark ones, that she and Maegor had quarreled, that the fight escalated, and her death, though unexplained, was no accident. The dread among the court is palpable, as many know Maegor is quick to wrath, but none dare speak it aloud in his presence. The timing is too convenient to be coincidental. Ceryse's death clears the way for what Maegor desires.

You know what is coming, yet you are powerless to stop it. When Maegor asks for your hand in marriage, there is no question of refusal. He does not ask out of love, nor does he seek your opinion. It is a demand cloaked in formality. And so, you are wed to the King’s half-brother, the man who would soon rule with fire and blood.

Your wedding is a display of power, of domination. Maegor does not look at you as a man looks at his bride, but as a conqueror looks at new territory. That night, you feel the true weight of what it means to be his wife. His touch is possessive, harsh, as if he is claiming you in both body and spirit. You are not just a woman to him—you are a vessel, the key to his legacy, the bearer of his children.

And soon, that is exactly what you become.

Your belly swells with the evidence of Maegor’s claim, and the court watches in awe as the rumors begin to swirl. You are carrying not one, but three babes. It is as if the gods themselves have blessed your union, gifting Maegor with a legacy befitting his house—the three-headed dragon of Targaryen. His obsession grows with each passing day as your pregnancy progresses. He watches you constantly, his hands never far from your stomach, his gaze intense, possessive, and burning with an unspoken madness.

When you finally give birth, it is as if the entire realm holds its breath. Three babes—two boys and a girl, each as perfect as the dragons their blood rides—are born to you. The court hails it as a miracle, and Maegor’s obsession deepens, solidifying into something far darker. He sees you not just as his wife but as the mother of his dynasty, the woman who gave him three heirs, who brought the Targaryen sigil to life in flesh and blood.

“You have given me what no other could,” he says to you, his hand resting possessively over your belly, even as you cradle your newborns in your arms. His voice is thick with pride, but there is something else there—something darker. “Three-headed, like the dragon. You are my wife, my queen. You will give me more.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air like a threat, and though your body is still weak from the birthing, you know Maegor will not wait long. He is not a patient man, and now that you have proven yourself capable of giving him heirs, he will want more. His hunger is insatiable, and his obsession with you—his vessel, his wife—has grown into something that feels like madness.

It is not long before you are with child again, your belly growing heavy with Maegor’s next heir. The court watches with a mixture of awe and fear, for they know that you are the key to Maegor’s power, the woman who can provide him the legacy he so desperately craves. He watches over you like a dragon guards its hoard, his eyes always on you, his hand always tracing the swell of your belly as if ensuring that his claim remains intact.

But there is no love in Maegor’s gaze—only possession. You are his, body and soul, and you know that you will never escape him. He is the dragon, and you are his queen, bound to him by fire and blood.

[madamabelladonna]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐀𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝: House Dayne of Starfall, bearing the sigil of a white falling star and a sword on a field of lavender. Though sparse in men and coin, House Dayne is renowned as one of the oldest in Westeros. Sworn to House Martell, under the decree of their liege lord, Lord Julius Dayne dispatched the Sword of the Morning, his second son, Ser Merek Dayne, along with his only daughter, to King’s Landing as emissaries of Dorne. Little did they know, the twinkle of a star could ignite the passions of men, dragons, and wolves alike. 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Romance, Angst, Love Triangle, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, Drama, Coming-of-Age, Explicit Content, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Violence, Gore, War, Reader eating cheerios with Luke and Helaena while Jace, Cregan, and Aemond duke it out 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Cregan Stark x Reader

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈: 𝐄𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞 Young Lady Dayne never truly grasped what it meant to be a high-born lady; her mother and father had sheltered her from the vipers lurking in the shadows. Yet, as fate would have it, their protection could only shield her for so long before she was cast into a den brimming with treachery. Green or Black? The choice is hers, but she finds herself drawn to the hue of violet…

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 Young Lady Dayne, finds herself adjusting to her new life at the capital. A gift from Starfall, a steed with a mane like freshly fallen snow. As she immerses herself in the pages of her books, a small figure unexpectedly scampers into her chamber—a boy lost in the game of hide and seek. She finds herself teaching the boy how to read. Only to be seated in the company of Princess Rhaenyra and her small family, sharing a quiet tea.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐀𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐟𝐚𝐫 Young Lady Dayne, awaiting Jacaerys' lesson's end, enjoys tea with Princess Rhaenyra, who grants her access to the Royal Library due to her rare gifts. As she reads beneath the heart tree, a prince in green watches her, sparking jealousy within the eldest son of Rhaenyra. With Jacaerys' eighth name day nearing, their growing relationship seems to be all the court can talk about.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐕: 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 Young Lady Dayne captivated the feast held by King Viserys in honor of his grandson, her presence and dance stirring much interest among the court. The murmurs of a possible union between the Seven Kingdoms and The Principality of Dorne swirled in the air, though beneath the revelry, rumors threatened to unravel such hopes.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕: 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲 Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 Young Lady Dayne watched the Red Keep, no longer as crimson as it once had been, now draped in the creeping embrace of ivy and moss. It looked more like an overgrown garden than a fortress of kings. Only Aemond, with his hard gaze and sharper tongue, stirred no sympathy. But Helaena—sweet Helaena—her heart ached for the gentle princess. Such a delicate flower, doomed to marry the vile Aegon. How cruel the gods could be.

[More in pending...]

This is my first post so I hope you like it, personally, House Dayne is my favorite and I hope it gets more recognition in the next book.

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@yohanseyebrowmole @radiantdanvers @accidentpronedork @marvel-mistress-padawan @tabathastan @deltamoon666 @hotdhoe @cosmosnkaz @dragonamongwolves @r-3dlips @ghizlana @boiolay @gardenfaeries @ilymoonie @mellylla @omgsuperstarg @idohknow @beskardroids @buckystevelove @plainxlazy @gwaynehightower @beebeechaos @milksde @saintkittykat @cornbreadwithcheese @pinkb00bsocks @agoldenwoe @moonliightbabes @day2dream @geminizmoonz

[souryam]

year of false spring

[novembermorgon]

me and the dragon can chase all the pain away

[khromuse]

The Little Lord of Starfall, Edric Dayne

[wodania]

Ashara and Wylla i forgot to post