#moryn tyrell

[asoiafreadthru]

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach,

His wife, LADY ALERIE, of House Hightower of Oldtown,

Their children:

WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden,

SER GARLAN, called the Gallant, their second son,

SER LORAS, the Knight of Flowers, their youngest son,

MARGAERY, their daughter, a maid of fourteen years,

His widowed mother, LADY OLENNA of House Redwyne, called the Queen of Thorns,

His sisters:

MINA, wed to Lord Paxter Redwyne,

JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,

His uncles:

GARTH, called the Gross, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,

His bastard sons, GARSE and GARRETT FLOWERS,

SER MORYN, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,

MAESTER GORMON, a scholar of the Citadel,

His household:

MAESTER LOMYS, counselor, healer, and tutor,

IGON VYRWEL, captain of the guard,

SER VORTIMER CRANE, master-at-arms,

His knights and lords bannermen:

PAXTER REDWYNE, Lord of the Arbor,

His wife, LADY MINA, of House Tyrell,

Their children:

SER HORAS, mocked as Horror, twin to Hobber,

SER HOBBER, mocked as Slobber, twin to Horas,

DESMERA, a maid of fifteen,

RANDYLL TARLY, Lord of Horn Hill,

SAMWELL, his elder son, of the Night’s Watch,

DICKON, his younger son, heir to Horn Hill,

ARWYN OAKHEART, Lady of Old Oak,

MATHIS ROWAN, Lord of Goldengrove,

LEYTON HIGHTOWER, Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port,

SER JON FOSSOWAY.

[perfinn]

the heat that drives the light

aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc - part iv

wc: 2.6k

summary: aemond eavesdrops on his wife, meets her dog, and suffers a moment of profound weakness

cw: NSFW, blind oc, masturbation (for aemond), feelings of guilt (implied to be based in religion?), tbh theres not much this chapter

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

The pain Aemond has been caused by the loss of eye is something he had long hoped to grow used to, but time and again failed to do. It is a constant ache, on some days a distant throbbing and on others an excruciating pain so overwhelming he cannot face the public for fear of them seeing him weak. Aemond wonders, as he watches his lady wife in the Keep’s gardens, whether Cecily’s blindness causes her any pain. Did the unnamed disease that blinded her leave any other damage? He supposes he could ask, if only he could stand to speak to her. 

It has been a fortnight since their wedding and all the celebrations that followed it, and he has barely spoken a word to her. She has spoken words to him, has tried many times, but he doesn't respond– cannot. He cannot even be around Cecily for how strongly she allures him. And she isn't even trying. It's wretched, bewitching, and entirely too distracting. He tells himself, rather, that he has more important things to attend to than speaking to a silly girl. 

And yet, here he stands in the cover of cloister shadows, watching her as she sits with Flora and shares a pot of tea. He could be doing anything more productive, but instead he stands here and eavesdrops on his spouse. Pathetic.

She looks beautiful, even from here, in a gown of green and gold brocade with her dark hair braided half up into a spiral on the back of her head. Her lilted voice carries through the Godswood so smooth and perfect, he’d call it sweet if it weren’t accompanied by Flora’s softer tones. 

“Is it not what you’d hoped?” says Flora. 

“I tried not to have too many hopes,” Cecily responds, her voice carrying up clearly to where Aemond stands. “I was told of him but not much. Besides, it is not so bad to have a husband who is aloof. People call me aloof too.”

“But aloof and aloof do not make for much of a relationship,” says Flora. “Not that you are aloof, in truth.”

“Perhaps not with you. Others think it so.”

“Others do not matter, do they?” Flora does seem to have some emotional intelligence. Aemond supposes it makes up for her lack of cunning, but it will not get her far in this world. “Who matters,” says Flora, setting down her cup and reaching to touch Cecily’s hand. “Is me. And your husband, should you wish him to matter.” 

Cecily laughs, intertwining her fingers with Flora’s. “You are sweet, Flora.” And foolish, thinks Aemond distantly. “I am happy enough with Prince Aemond.” 

Aemond knows that to be a lie. How can it be anything else? How can she be happy with a man who will not even speak to her? She must be lying to ease her cousin’s worries. She is not aloof, she is in fact a social creature and she must be utterly miserable with a husband who barely gives her the time of day. Aemond could change this in a heartbeat, sure, but he has not a clue where to begin. He would make a fool of himself if he tried.

Flora hums, lifting her cup to her lips and sipping slowly at it. “Well, I hope when you find a husband for me he is just as handsome with none of the aloof nature of the prince.”

Aemond ought to be insulted, but he’s not certain he can find it in him. He is more stunned by the fact that Flora believes Cecily is to find her a match, and not her own father. He knows little of Moryn Tyrell, but he knows perfectly well that the man is still alive and perfectly capable of making matches for his daughter. Surely he’d want to, after his son’s potential for an advantageous match was squandered by his joining the Kingsguard. Are the girls just delusional to their position in the world as women?

“My lady.” A new voice enters the conversation. A squire, perhaps a steward. He does not quite recognise the man speaking. Cecily’s head turns toward the new voice, and she stands. Flora follows, whispering in her ear. “I apologise for the interruption. But by your request, your dog has been brought from Highgarden.”

Cecily’s face brightens in a way Aemond has never seen before, her eyes alight with joy. “Bud is here already?”

Bud? He supposes a dog would make sense, a clever beast to help guide her so she does not constantly need Flora’s help. What he expects to see is a hound of some kind, perhaps something smaller than a hunting dog to better suit her needs, a retriever maybe. Only, the creature that bounds across the grass toward the two Ladies is nothing of the sort. Bud is a tiny thing with floppy ears and a shiny coat the colour of bronze, and Aemond finds him to be rather ugly. 

Cecily, however, crouches down to pick the dog up when it yaps it her, cooing at it as though it were her very own child she cradles it in her arms. Flora coos with her, scratching under its chin while its tail wags wildly. Who Aemond assumes to be the handler jogs in, exasperated for not having been able to keep the dog under control. Flora, at least, seems to notice him

“Cecily will keep him out of trouble, sir,” she says, assuring him. “He is a good boy, just excitable.”

Good? What good can he be? What purpose could the little beast serve but to sit on a woman’s lap and lick at her fingers? 

“I should like to bring him to meet my lord husband,” says Cecily, pressing a kiss to the dog’s round little skull. “Perhaps he’ll like him.”

Gods be good. Now Aemond must decide between lying to his wife and saying he thinks the little creature is sweet, or being honest with her and disappointing her again. He’s not certain he could bear to see that disheartened look on her face again. 

Some hours after Aemond takes his dinner alone in his apartment, a knock reaches his door, Ser Leo come to tell him his wife has requested his presence in her own rooms. Undoubtedly to introduce him to the ugly little creature she has the nerve to call a dog. He debates telling her no, and keeping to himself, but some force he cannot put a name to has him standing and following the kingsguard across the halls toward his wife’s chambers. 

Leo opens the door for him, announcing his presence. Aemond watches as Cecily turns around and smiles, lifting Bud from her lap into her arms as she stands. 

“Lord husband,” she greets him sweetly, taking a few steps towards him. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“No,” says Aemond, watching as Bud settles comfortably in her grasp, hairy tail wagging lightly. “I had finished eating.” He hesitates before he speaks next. “And who is this?”

“Ah!” Cecily breathes, and Aemond hears the door click shut signalling that Ser Leo has left them alone. “This is Bud. When I came east I left him at Highgarden as I did not expect to be here quite so long, but my father tells me his business will keep him here for some time. So, I had this one brought here.”

The dog looks up at Aemond, squished little face tilting in curiosity. To sate Cecily, he reaches his hand out and lets the dog sniff at his fingers. “Does he serve a purpose?”

Cecily smiles wryly. “I am most certain you’ve heard of Reachmen’s love for lapdogs. His purpose is to be spoiled, I rather think.”

“Mmm,” hums Aemond, reaching to scratch under the dog’s chin when it has decided it trusts him enough to be petted. Aemond takes note of the collar he wears, soft leather dyed green and stitched with pink roses. “It looks as though he serves it well. Curious choice of name.”

Cecily smiles, and Aemond despises the way it tugs on his heart. “Leo thinks so too,” she says, gently smoothing a hand over Bud’s head. “I think it is sweet. Like Rosebud. Were he a bitch I might have named him that. But I have no wish to emasculate the poor pup, hm?”

She lifts him up closer to her so she can kiss his head, and he licks her cheek in return. Cecily laughs, and it's a sweeter sound than any bardsong. She bends over sets Bud down, saying firmly, “To your bed now.” 

And obediently, Bud trots over to a wicker basket with a soft cushion inside and curls up, perfectly content. Aemond cannot help but admire how well his wife appears to have trained the little hound. He knows small dogs to typically be disobedient and hard to train, yet Cecily has managed it without ever even seeing the thing. 

Or perhaps she had someone else do it, though Aemond doesn't think so. He cannot know why he thinks this. It just seems correct. 

“I hoped,” begins Cecily, turning back to face Aemond, her eyes seeming to find his. It's as though she looks right at him, Aemond could almost be fooled for a second. “That we might lay together tonight. It has been a fortnight since our wedding, and I-”

“Not tonight.” The words are out before Aemond can stop them. 

He cannot fuck Cecily, cannot put himself through it again and still manage keep his control. To be so near her naked body would drive him over the precipice of absolute madness, he knows it. He squeezes his eye shut, a dreadful pang of pain shooting across his nerves. He inhales sharply, trying to will the pain away. “We will be as vigilant as we must until your womb quickens, but I will not put you through such an act any more than is necessary.”

And there he has done it. The disheartened look takes up residence on her face once more, her head falling as though she were looking shamefully at the ground. What he would not give to read her mind. Can she not see he does this only out of respect for her? He is his wife, not some pleasure house whore he would degrade to sate his own carnal desire. 

She is a humiliation upon him. He knows this. He has not and will not change his mind. Nevertheless, the very thought of degrading her makes his stomach twist. He does not care what she thinks of, but he can't stomach the thought of her thinking so badly of him. What might she think of him if he were to treat her so callously?

(He already does, he treats her callously and unkindly. But he cannot see it.)

“I understand,” she says after a moment. “May I ask one more thing of you?”

Aemond hesitates. Wishes he could give her just a nod. “Yes.”

“I do not know what you look like,” she says. Aemond startles with the realisation. Sure, she has no doubt been told how he looks, what his features are, but she can't know what he actually looks like. The finer details, the shape of his face or the scars he bears. “If you’d allow me, I dearly wish to find out.”

“How?”

Cecily smiles, gently reaching out until her hand touches his clothed chest, fingers trailing up until she touches the skin of his neck. She steps closer, mere inches between them, and trails her fingers upward. Her soft fingers trace the length of his jaw, and Aemond watches as she closes her eyes as though trying to create a clearer picture of him in her mind. 

“Do you remember the way people look?” Aemond asks, not realising he’s spoken until the words are in the air. 

“In a broad sense?”

“No,” he murmurs. “Individuals.”

Cecily hums, fingers finding his lips and tracing them with a slow and deliberate touch. “I remember somewhat how they looked when I was a girl. I am told my mother and father look much the same. But I remember how Flora and Leo looked as children. The colour of their skin, their hair and eyes, I know has not changed. But we were just children then, so of course they have grown.”

Aemond wonders if she knows what she looks like. She may touch her face whenever, but is it the same? The soft pad of her thumb finds the lower end of his scar and she pauses. Her eyes open, and her lips purse as she traces upwards and finds his eyepatch. 

“May I?” She asks. Aemond nods, knowing she’ll feel it. Cecily carefully lifts the eyepatch off his face, and Aemond watches as her face shifts and she takes in the length of his scar. She’s difficult to read in this moment, he cannot tell whether she pities him or she fears the scar. He does not know which he prefers. 

She does not linger too long on the scar, or make her touch any heavier than a light brush. She moves on to his nose, satisfied with the shape and size of it if the smile on her face is any indication. After another moment she lowers her hands, searching for his and placing the eyepatch back into his palm. 

“Thank you, lord husband,” she murmurs, fingers lingering on his hand. Her touch sets his nerves on fire, but only in the best of ways. “You are most handsome. More so than I was promised.”

Aemond hums, tracing one finger over her palm, as though he does not dare touch her any more than that. “You are kind,” he says, watching as Cecily trails her own fingers up toward his wrist.

 Her intentions are not difficult to read. 

Soften his resolve with such an intimate act and proceed to seduce him into her bed. Has she no shame? Aemond pulls away from her and hears a startled breath leave her lips at the sudden loss of contact. 

“Goodnight, Cecily,” he says, turning away from her and heading for the door. He hears her huff in frustration but pays it no mind. He must get back to his own chambers. 

“My prince-”

“Stay with her,” Aemond says as he passes Ser Leo by, footsteps falling heavily on the stone floors of the Keep. He is ever thankful his own rooms are so close to his wife’s. As soon as he’s inside and the door is closed, he closes his eye, tearing off his eyepatch and throwing it across the room. 

Treacherous fucking body, he curses himself. He unlaces his breeches with deft hands and tugs them down past his swollen cock. 

He takes his length into his hands, biting his lip to suppress any noise. Heavens forbid anyone discover him doing this. He leans his head back as he begins to stroke himself, harsh breaths leaving his nose as the heat of Cecily’s touch lingers on his hands. He tries to imagine how her hands might feel wrapped around his cock, how different her soft palms might feel from his calloused one. How her cunt might feel wrapped around it– not the shallow thrusts he’d given her on their wedding night, but to feel her warmth envelop his cock entirely. 

A shuddering gasp leaves him before he clenches his jaw, forcing any sound back down his throat, as though he could draw back the gasp. His cock twitches in his hand as that treacherous image of Cecily on her knees invades his mind’s eye once again.

It takes little more than that image for him to reach his end, seed spilling into his hand as Aemond pants, feeling as though his knees might buckle. He opens his eye, looking down at himself with slow breaths. 

He knows not whether he can deny himself the pleasures of his wife much longer.

part v

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Three

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, loss of virginity. Word count: ~6.1k

Chapter summary: Daemon leaves King's Landing as quickly as he has arrived. A wedding takes place. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Daemon surveys the spread of tarts, lemon cakes and tea with a sneer.

“I hadn’t realised your wife would be joining us,” Daemon says stiffly, seating himself across from Moryn in the solar.

“She won’t be, Your Grace,” Moryn replies, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion.

Daemon’s eyes widen slightly. He finds the setting oddly feminine. Had the old fool gotten him confused with Laenor? Fuck, this is going to be awful.

“Just call me Daemon. I’m not as jumped up my own arse as the rest of my family.”

The older man shifts uncomfortably in his seat and clears his throat, obviously not used to such vulgarity.

“Tea?” Moryn offers, the serving girl rounding the table to fill his cup in complement to his words.

“No.” Daemon snatches up the jug of wine from the middle of the table, pouring himself a cup.

Shortly after he had left Melessa in the gardens earlier that morning, he had sent word requesting to speak with her father. He’d been surprised to receive an invitation to the solar less than an hour later. Now he sits opposite the portly Lord of Highgarden, not bothering to mask his disgust at the unsightly residue left behind in his moustache as he takes a large bite from a Tyroshi honey finger.

“So,” Moryn begins around a mouthful of pastry, raising his teacup to his lips. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Daemon fixes Moryn with a steady gaze. “Your daughter. I’m going to marry her.”

Moryn splutters around his tea, sending the cup clattering back into its saucer. “Melessa?” The colour in his cheeks has blanched.

“Unless you’ve another stashed away somewhere?” Daemon reclines back in his chair with a smirk.

“She is betrothed to your nephew! That cannot simply be undone.”

“It can and it will.” Daemon leans forward, his hand curling around his wine cup. All trace of humour leaves his face. “When my brother dies, my niece will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She will make me her Hand. That is a powerful ally for Highgarden to have, I think you’ll agree.”

“But Prince Aegon is-”

“A drunken, useless cunt,” Daemon spits, cutting Moryn off. “My brother named Rhaenyra as his heir. That has not changed.”

The older man fidgets in his seat. The irritating nervous throat clearing has returned, although he is no longer eating any of the food upon the table. Daemon thinks it would be agreeable for him to be kept in a perpetual state of fear, a means to stop his overeating. He chuckles drily to himself, not caring to share the joke. 

Moryn sighs. “Lord Hightower is the King’s Hand. He says that His Highness is in no fit state to be making decisions regarding succession. Prince Aemond is a good match for Melessa - he is well-educated and he rides the largest dragon in all of Westeros.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, his tone becoming icy. “That treasonous prick Otto will find himself fed to my dragon once Rhaenyra is crowned. As will you if you do not strongly reconsider.”

Blinking rapidly, Moryn appears to concede. “What would you have me do?”

“The day after tomorrow is when the original betrothal announcement was to be made, yes? That is when we will have the wedding.”

The elderly man balks at the suggestion, his mouth hanging agape for a moment before he speaks. “That is too soon! Aemond and Melessa were to have a year-long courtship.”

“A year-long courtship that your daughter does not want,” Daemon states bluntly. “She has expressed a desire to marry me. I see no reason to wait.”

Moryn bows his head, clearly beaten. “As you wish. Let us make the necessary arrangements.”

As Daemon strides from the solar, a smug sense of satisfaction emanates from every pore of his body. For once, he has been granted something he wants. He is so pleased by this that he is prepared to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him that he is rushing this simply so he doesn’t have time to change his mind.

Daemon confines himself to his chambers for the rest of the day. Tempted as he is to seek out his new wife-to-be and share in their happy news, he knows that Moryn is likely having a conversation with Otto that he would do well to keep out of. Being seen with her would serve only to exacerbate tensions. He longs to put the King’s Hand in his place, but that is a side of him that Melessa has yet to see. He has no desire to frighten her away before they’ve even exchanged vows.

He cannot scare her off before they get to the wedding night. His thoughts drift to how it will finally feel to touch her as he longs to, to kiss her as he wants to, to fuck her as he pleases. The idea of being the first man to undress her, to be inside of her, to spill within her cunny… It’s enough to push him to the brink of spending in his breeches like a green boy. If nothing else, that alone makes all of this worth it. Political alliances be damned - he will pluck his rose so no one else may have her, defile those soft little petals so that they are only his.

He finds himself fisting his cock to the thought of her once again. Gods, this is becoming pathetic. At least there is comfort to be found in the fact that he will not have long to wait until she becomes the vessel for his carnal appetite. 

Just as Daemon suspected, he does not have long to wait to lock horns with the King's Hand. Otto seeks out Daemon the next day as he is preparing to head to the gardens, hoping for a chance to see Melessa again. He has thought of nothing but her since parting ways with her oaf of a father yesterday.

“Are you really so pig-headed that you’d break off your own nephew’s betrothal to sate your lust?” Otto demands, not bothering with pleasantries. Daemon grins at the informality of it.

“Good morning to you, too,” Daemon states with airy indifference.

“This is treason, Daemon! I will not allow it!” Otto retorts coolly, though the anger that bubbles beneath the surface is more than apparent.

“You think that because my brother lays rotting at your mercy that you have the right to decide anything? Your plans to get Highgarden on side are as flimsy and obvious as your attempts to usurp Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne. You will do well to remember who will be named Hand once Viserys passes.”

“Viserys is in no fit state-”

“You will not speak of my brother to me,” Daemon interrupts with enormous irritation. “You have not earned the right. Lord Tyrell has agreed to wed his daughter to me. You will find another match for Aemond easily enough. I’m sure you must be positively overwhelmed by the number of high born ladies all desperate to marry a one-eyed prince.”

Otto clenches his jaw, exhaling heavily through his nose. “You will live to regret your rashness.”

“And you will live to regret your insolence, unless you walk away. Now,” Daemon says darkly, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister.

With a withering sigh, Otto turns back towards the Red Keep. He halts after a few steps, calling back over his shoulder. “Marry her if you must. However, I’d suggest you seek out an alternative location - the Queen will not allow for your nuptials to take place in the capital.”

You mean you will not allow it, you cunt. Daemon glares at Otto’s retreating form before continuing on towards the gardens. 

His strides are more purposeful, his face hardened by anger. He longs to go after Otto, to run him through with Dark Sister. In his youth, perhaps he would have. However, he is aware that there are larger things at stake than his wounded pride.

He feels his heart rate slow and his mood grow lighter as he thinks of Melessa’s clear blue eyes, the scent of almond oil and rosewater, the grin that is just for him. He knows that seeing her will calm him, so he is at first disappointed when he arrives at the gardens to find her usual bench unoccupied. This quickly escalates to anger.

Emitting a growl of frustration, he settles himself upon the bench, bowing his head and rubbing his temples. It is his first time at ‘home’ in fifteen years and the last few days have been more stressful than all of his time away combined. He is sick of needless politicking, tired of family quarrels, disgusted by the Hightower influence that now permeates every crevice of the Red Keep.

He has made a promise to marry Melessa tomorrow and now faces the humiliation of having to disappoint her. Perhaps it is for the best. She is too delicate for the likes of him. Dragons trample flowers underfoot - they do not nurture them.

“I believe congratulations are in order, Uncle.”

Daemon lifts his gaze to the welcome sight of Rhaenyra, his shoulders relaxing as she approaches and seats herself next to him.

“Not if your father’s Hand has anything to do with it,” Daemon mutters, looking out across the gardens.

Rhaenyra shoots him an amused sideways glance. “You couldn’t possibly expect to take Aemond’s betrothed for yourself and marry her here in the city?”

Daemon says nothing. Truthfully, he hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond having Melessa to himself, and the more he considers his oversight of the finer details the more embarrassed he feels. It is not a feeling that sits right with him.

She scoffs. “That is so typical of you: storming in, causing a scene and not thinking about how it affects anyone besides yourself.”

“I get the distinct impression you’re no longer talking about just Melessa.” He raises his eyebrows, turning to her.

Hurt flashes across Rhaenyra’s face, her voice rising an octave. “Why her?”

“You mean why not you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Rhaenyra, you were a child,” Daemon says gently. “I spared you.”

She laughs bitterly. “Yes, because the life I’ve led since you left has been just wonderful.”

“And you think mine is any better?”

“I know little of it!”

Daemon takes Rhaenyra’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You have three wonderful sons. Does their father not make you happy?”

The implication goes unspoken, though it is clear he is referring to Harwin Strong and not Laenor Velaryon.

“He does,” she admits with a soft smile.

“Then don’t begrudge me for wanting what you have.”

Rhaenyra sighs, regarding Daemon carefully before she speaks.

“If it is her that you truly want, Uncle, then return with her to Dragonstone and marry her there. It will take a day by boat for Melessa and her family. If they were to leave within the hour, then they’d make it in time for you to marry her tomorrow, just as you wanted.”

Daemon considers this for a moment, his eyes lighting up. This is perfect. A final ‘fuck you’ to that Hightower imbecile, his whore of a daughter and her idiotic children.

“Can I count on my niece’s presence?” he asks with a wry smile.

“On dragonback, Laenor, the children and I can be on Dragonstone in less than half a day,” she says softly. “I am reluctant to leave Father, but I suppose you will need someone there for your wedding.”

“Thank you, Rhaenyra. You have no idea what that means to me.”

They remain seated together, hand in hand, for a few moments longer. Daemon has never felt more grateful for his niece than he does at this moment. As much as he hates to admit it, this is not the first time she has saved him from his own folly. It is unlikely it will be the last.

Rhaenyra and Daemon part ways in the garden. Rhaenyra in agreement that she will ready Laenor and her boys to set off for Dragonstone and aid in wedding preparations. Daemon needs to ensure that Melessa and the rest of the Tyrells currently residing within the Red Keep are ready to leave by boat within the hour. Laenor’s seafaring history means he will be able to aid with securing a boat within the Blackwater Rush to provide safe passage. Finally, the pillow biter has a useful purpose.

Daemon knocks at Melessa’s chamber door. It is answered by a flustered handmaiden, and the room is abuzz with activity. Melessa stands in the middle of the room atop a small stool, a gaggle of women crowd around her pinning, sewing and layering white lace fabric.

“You aren’t supposed to be here!” the handmaiden says exasperatedly. Not quite the welcome he’d hoped for, but he has more pressing matters to attend to than this lowly woman’s over-inflated sense of self worth.

“I need to speak with my betrothed,” he says simply.

At the sound of his voice, Melessa turns her head, earning a tut from a fraught looking older woman attempting to pin together a shoulder of the gown.

“Daemon!” she gasps. “You mustn’t see me before I’m ready!”

His eyes travel appreciatively over the cut of the half-finished gown. It is form-fitting and backless, typical of the style in Highgarden, and far more revealing than the modest and rather frumpy dress sense of the ladies of the capital. His excitement at seeing the finished result is almost as great as his excitement to see her out of it entirely. Almost.

“Forgive me, petal,” he says apologetically, though not actually sorry at all. “There has been a change in plans.”

He explains to her the urgency of the situation and what needs to happen next. She listens wide-eyed with excitement and offers no protest, sweet little thing that she is. He leaves her with a soft kiss to her hairline and the promise that they will be reunited soon. For now, he must speak to her father.

Moryn will be harder to persuade. However, the greater problem, Daemon fears, will be getting the bulk of his weight from the Red Keep to the boat in time for when it departs.

Predictably, he is resistant at first - but when Daemon points out that the Tyrells have likely worn out their welcome in the capital, having broken off Melessa’s betrothal to Aemond, Moryn is much more agreeable.

Having made the final preparations, Daemon finds himself readying to leave King’s Landing once more. It has only been a few days, yet he feels he has had more than his fill of this wretched place. He mounts the great, red beast that is Caraxes, preparing for the half-day’s flight back to the place that actually feels like home: Dragonstone.

The wind whips around him as Caraxes glides in to land on the jagged rocks that make up the island. Daemon is taken aback by how much colder it is here than back in the capital. He wonders how Melessa will fare living here. Highgarden and King’s Landing proffer much balmier climes - there is every chance his delicate rose will wilt in the winds that batter the jagged cliff faces here.

His doubts begin to grow as he sets about making preparations for the wedding that is to take place tomorrow. It is too short notice for the castle’s kitchen to order in supplies for the feast - they will simply have to make do with what is already on hand, though with the meagre attendance that this celebration is to have that certainly won’t pose a problem. He cannot shake the feeling that he is not giving Melessa the wedding that she deserves, nor the husband.

Daemon’s mind settles with the arrival of Rhaenyra and Laenor along with their children and respective dragons. Harwin, not being a dragonrider, is notably absent. It is odd, though not unpleasant, for Dragonstone to suddenly have so much noise and life within it.

With the aid of his niece and her husband, the castle is bustling with activity as servants work to prepare the sleeping quarters for the arrival of the Tyrells, while the kitchen staff work in earnest to ensure enough food is cooked. He pushes his doubts away, allowing himself a moment of optimism. He will have his pretty bride, and she will have a Targaryen prince. There has never been a fairer exchange than this one.

Melessa, along with her father and mother, arrive by boat the following morning. She looks sea-sick. It strikes Daemon that this was potentially her first time ever travelling on a boat, and for her maiden voyage she’d sailed non-stop through the night. The poor thing must feel wretched. Lucky for her, she need never sail anywhere again after this, not now she is his.

He looks softly down upon her, taking her hands into his as she disembarks. Her queasy expression is enough to make him laugh, but he bites it back for her sake.

“I trust you had a safe journey, petal?” he asks, ignoring the admonishing look from Moryn at his choice of pet name for his daughter.

“Mm...yes,” Melessa responds, her voice weak.

He gives her hands a soft squeeze, before ushering her forward. “Come, let us get you settled. The hours pass swiftly and there is much to do before we are husband and wife.”

Daemon does not see Melessa again for the rest of the day. She is swept off towards her chambers to be readied for the ceremony, while he returns to his to do the same.

It strikes him as he looks upon the bed that in a few short hours will have Melessa atop it. The thought excites him. It has been a long time since he has indulged in untouched flesh. He can almost picture the pained expression on her sweet little face the first time he pushes inside. The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

It is early evening as Daemon and Melessa stand in front of the Septon in the Hall of Dragonstone. Daemon has always imagined a traditional Valyrian rite with dragon glass and exchanges of blood if he were to ever remarry after his first wife Rhea. He resents having to go through another ceremony under the Seven. However, Melessa is not of Valyrian descent and he has had to agree to this to even get her here in the first place.

The turnout is poor. Servants outnumber actual wedding guests, though Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey stand to the right and Melessa’s parents to the left. Daemon is almost too ashamed to look at any of them. She absolutely deserves better than this, yet she is looking at him as though she has never been happier. All traces of seasickness are gone and her blue eyes have recovered their beautiful shine.

She looks radiant, a vision of beauty in form fitting white lace, decorated with elegant hand-sewn roses. He can tell from the gooseflesh that prickles across her bare arms and shoulders that she is chilled to the bone. Dragonstone is absolutely going to be an adjustment for her.

Sad as he is to cover such a lovely ensemble, he is also glad to drape the cloak around her shoulders as they chant “I am yours and you are mine.” At least now she has something to keep her warm until he is able to heat her skin with his own later.

The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

When they kiss it is as though he has forgotten how to breathe. He’d known her lips were soft - a quick glance at those rosy red lips was enough to see that - but it could never have prepared him for how they actually feel. They are tender and plump against his own, yet unyielding. It feels like it has ended no sooner than it began. For the sake of propriety they are forced to keep things chaste.

Finally, she is his.

“Husband,” she whispers up at him as they leave the Hall hand in hand. Her look of pure adoration is enough to make him feel as though his cock will slice clean through his breeches from the speed in which it rises to attention.

“Wife,” he murmurs back, fingertips grazing her delicate jaw.

Mercifully, they are spared the indignity of a wedding dance, though the meal that follows is tense and awkward. With only six adults and three children to occupy the table, it is a far cosier affair than Daemon would have liked and conversation does not flow freely. Rhaenyra and Laenor, to their credit, do more than their fair share of the talking, though it is clear that having to marry his only daughter to the Rogue Prince is still very much a bone of contention for Moryn. His wife is far more gracious, commenting on how much of a privilege it is to sup with the heir to the Iron Throne. Daemon sends a silent thanks to the gods that it’s her mother that Melessa takes after.

He is enamoured with her. Her eyes do not seem to move from him at all. She gazes up at him like he has hung the very stars in the sky for her and it makes his chest swell with pride. Feeding her morsels from his own fork, he is captivated by the way her lips move against the prongs. A flash of her wet pink tongue has him stifling a groan. She has kept the wedding cloak wrapped firmly around her. Despite the fireplace having been lit, it does little to keep the chill from the room, especially when it is so sparsely populated. 

Daemon longs to retire to their marital chambers, to unravel her from her layers like a gift. After having felt the softness of her lips against his, he is aching to find out if she feels that way everywhere, to feel the heat of his flesh pressed against hers.

The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

At last, the wedding feast draws to a close and Daemon finds himself alone with Melessa, fighting the urge to leap upon her and stake his claim like a wild animal. He must show restraint, be gentle with her, convince her this is something she wants to do over and over again.

Unlike at the dining table, Melessa’s eyes seem to want to look anywhere but at him. The poor thing is nervous, he can see that from how she shakes.

“You are trembling, petal,” he says softly, taking her hands in his. He steps closer, carefully, a predator stalking its prey. “Are you frightened of me?”

“No,” he murmurs. “Not-not of you, but… of what you are going to - do to me. Will it - will it hurt?”

Daemon chuckles, releasing her hand to gently grip her jaw between his thumb and forefinger.

“Sweet flower. It is not what I am going to do to you; it is what we are going to do together. You will feel pleasure if you allow me to do as I please. Will you allow me?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He kisses her then. It is not the chaste kiss shared at the altar. His mouth moves against hers, claiming her lips as his own and she lets him. She gasps as his tongue sweeps against her own and he tangles his fingers into her silky hair, holding her in place as he feels her body relax into his. Finally, she is succumbing.

He pulls away, drawing in a steadying breath as he takes in her kiss-swollen lips and dilated pupils. She is perfect. His stones ache at the very sight of her.

“Has anyone ever kissed you like that before, petal?”

“I have never been kissed at all,” she whispers.

Gods, she is going to be the death of him. He inhales sharply through his nose, pushing the cloak from her shoulders and letting it pool to the floor.

“Undress.” His lust filled state gives his voice an edge, and the command is delivered with more sharpness than he intended. He caresses her cheek as her skin flushes with fear and embarrassment. “Trust me, little flower, I will take good care of you.”

“I-I will need you to help me.” Her voice trembles and her cheeks are almost scarlet.

She turns, brushing her long flaxen hair off of her back and over her shoulder to reveal the open back of the dress. It is held together by two fastenings at the back of her neck and lacing at the waist band of the skirt. The open back leaves her creamy white flesh totally exposed and Daemon cannot stop himself from reaching out and trailing his fingertips down the curve of her spine. She shivers beneath his touch and he cannot help the smirk that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

If she shakes at the mere touch of her back, imagine how she will react when I touch between her legs.

He carefully unclasps and unlaces her gown. As it falls away from her body, he turns, allowing her to step out of it as he begins to remove his doublet and undershirt.

The sensation that shoots straight to the tip of his cock as he returns his gaze to her leaves him sure he has just spilled his seed in his breeches. She is completely naked. He feels like he has forgotten to breathe as he drinks in the sight of her. She is small and slight; her breasts are petite, barely a handful with peaks that are the same ruddy shade as her lips. His eyes follow the natural curve of her waist and hips, lingering upon the delicate thatch of blonde curls that sits upon her mound.

“Where are your smallclothes, petal?” he asks, struggling to hold himself back as he battles to regulate his breathing. He is utterly bewildered and delighted in equal measure.

“I...uh… the cut of my wedding gown did not allow for small clothes. I was going to have them specially tailored, but there wasn’t time.”

The flush of her shame has now spread to her chest, a light dusting of pink blooming beneath her collarbones. Daemon now has another reason to be glad of the haste of their nuptials. A most fortunate turn of events indeed. He notices that her eyes linger on the marred flesh of his bare torso, a parting gift from a flaming arrow that punctured his neck during the battle of the Stepstones.

He cocks his head, watching her carefully as she takes him in. “Do my scars bother you?”

His words appear to snap her out of her reverie. She gives him an apologetic look, shaking her head fervently. “N-no… I just… may I touch them? Your scars, I mean.”

Daemon is taken aback by her request. He had expected her to be repulsed. His little flower is full of surprises. 

“You may.”

Her small, delicate hand reaches forward with trepidation. He cannot help but smile at the care with which she touches him as her fingertips trace gently over the ruined flesh.

“I am sorry that that happened to you,” she says softly.

He is touched by her sentiment, capturing her hand in his and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“Lay on the bed for me,” he says huskily, not wishing to dwell on the past any longer than he has to.

He lets go of her hand and she turns, climbing onto the bedspread before laying back on the pillows. He crawls on after her, bestowing another searing kiss upon her lips. She responds in kind, matching his passion. She is a fast learner.

She eyes him curiously as they part. “Will you keep your trousers on?”

“Eager to see my cock, little flower?” he smirks down at her.

“N-no! I mean… yes… but - I am naked and you are not...”

“Yes, you are naked,” he muses, trailing a hand down her side. “I need to prepare you, and that is easier for me to accomplish if I keep these on - for now.”

Daemon knows the moment his erection is free he will not be able to resist the urge to bury it inside of her, to make her irrevocably his. It is better to keep the barrier between them, to allow her what she needs to be ready for him. It is going to hurt her, there is no escaping that, but he will do all he can to ensure it doesn’t hurt as much as it could.

“I was right,” he muses, his hand giving her breast a gentle squeeze before his thumb rubs against her hardened peak. “You are soft everywhere. A proper little Highgarden rose that is ready for plucking.”

She gasps as he bows his head, laving the flat of his tongue over her breast and sucking on it. Her back arches, and the dulcet sounds that spill from her mouth indicate that she is enjoying this every bit as much as he is. He releases her with a wet pop, shifting his attention to the other. She is mewling by this point, writhing beneath him like a common whore. He wonders if she could peak from this alone, but he is too eager to taste her cunt to find out.

He shifts down the bed, stopping once his face is level with where her thighs meet. He grips her knees, spreading her legs. She is every bit the perfect little bud he’d envisioned; soft, neat and utterly untouched. The sight of the wetness that has gathered between her velvety folds causes him to groan and he runs his tongue through the length of it.

Melessa lets out a shocked yelp, attempting to push him away. “You cannot do that, it is dirty!”

He smirks, his eyes flitting up to meet hers. “Oh little flower, you have yet to learn what dirty truly is.”

He probes and prods with the tip of his tongue until he finds the pearl that is situated at the apex of her sex. She squeals as he circles it slowly and he has to hold her down by her hips to get her to keep still. She cants desperately against his face, greedy little thing that she is, and he indulges her, sucking messily at her. The noises that fill the room are obscene.

His index finger rests against her entrance. He is to be the first to ever breach her and he longs to savour the moment, but with the way his cock presses painfully against the mattress he knows he will spend before he’s even gotten to fuck her if he does not hurry things along. He pushes inside up to the knuckle, lips parting at how warm and tight she feels around his digit. He fears he may split her in two if he dares to add a second.

Melessa claws desperately at the bedsheets, eyes screwed shut as he crooks his finger, locating the spongy spot deep within her and dragging against it as he allows his tongue to focus its attention on her swollen bud. As her inner walls clench and more wetness seeps from her, he takes the opportunity for his middle finger to join his pointer inside of her. It is a snug fit and he scissors both fingers, an attempt to loosen her for what is to come.

Daemon knows he needs to get her to peak at least once if she is to be relaxed enough to take his cock for the first time. Using both fingers to bully at her, he laps at her cunny with renewed vigour. Melessa wails piteously.

“I-I’m going to piss myself!”sShe cries out.

He balks at the sudden vulgarity. Has she never peaked before?

He raises his head, taking in her panicked expression. “Have you ever touched yourself as I am touching you right now, petal?”

She shakes her head against the pillows. “Never. It is a sin.”

He laughs softly. “You aren’t going to piss yourself. You’re going to come, and you’ll like how it feels.”

He continues to work at her with his mouth and fingers until the clenching of her walls turns to fluttering contractions. The desperate cry that Melessa lets out is like music to Daemon’s ears. He laps greedily at the viscosity that floods out of her until she jerks away, too sensitive to take any more.

He moves back up the bed, chin still coated with her slick and kisses her deeply. If she is shocked by the taste of herself, she does not show it. The poor thing looks utterly dazed, as though he has fucked every coherent thought from her mind with his tongue and fingers.

“I think you are ready now,” he coos to her, working open the lacings of his trousers and pushing them down.

He takes his cock in his hand. Looking at her, he sees fear in her eyes.

“That’s never going to fit,” she whispers.

“It won’t at first,” he admits. “But I’ll make it fit.”

Daemon knows he has to act swiftly, when she is still pliable from the aftermath of her climax. If he allows time for fear to set in, she will tense up and it will be unpleasant for both of them.

He presses the head against her opening, pushing forward. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes and she whimpers in pain. Despite how he has worked to prepare her, she still feels like a vice around him and he’s not even halfway in.

He runs a soothing hand down her side, looking down at her pained expression with sympathy. “You aren’t going to like this, petal, but it will hurt less than if I go slowly.”

Thrusting forward with full force, he sheaths himself fully inside of her. She cries out in agony, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobs from the pain of the intrusion and the tearing of her maidenhead. Daemon shushes her with soft kisses to her hairline, gently wiping away her tears with his thumbs.

“It is done now, little flower. The worst part is over.”

She is his. He has done it. She is finally his. He is the first to have her, and will be the only one to have her.

The grip she has on him is so tight he can feel her nails digging crescent moon shapes into his skin. Once she has calmed and her tears turned to sniffles, Daemon allows himself to move. She is so hot, so tight around him that he doesn’t realise he has been holding his breath until he needs to suck in a lungful of air to steady himself. The familiar scent of almond oil and rosewater fills his nostrils as he breathes her in.

His thrusts are slow to start with, dragging his shaft in and out of her at a laggard pace to allow her to adjust to the sensation. Once he feels her grip loosen on him, he senses she is relaxed enough for him to increase the pace.

The movements of his hips speed up and the noises Melessa makes begin to sound less pained and more like she is allowing herself to enjoy the experience. She is enough to drive him to total ruin as she lays beneath him - golden hair spread out across the pillows, eyes wet with tears, cheeks ruddy, and soft, pillowy lips parted in the sounds of pleasure she makes.

“Gods… you are perfect, molded to my cock, mine,” he utters through gritted teeth.

He will not last long. He would have liked to have brought her to peak once more, but he is past the point of no return. She stares up at him with the look of adoration from earlier, the one that places him at the very centre of her world, and he is done for.

“Fuck!” he growls, throwing his head back.

White hot pleasure licks at her lower back, his stones tighten and he falls over the precipice, spilling inside of her as his hips still. His attention lingers on the mixture of blood and his seed that leaks from her as he pulls out with a hiss and collapses next to her.

Eagerly, she seeks him out, laying her head on his chest, doe-eyed and soft. He wraps an arm around her.

“I love you.”

His eyes snap to hers. She means it. Shit.

What the fuck has he just done?

[winged-wolf-dreamer]

So I started a reread of ASOIAF, going for one chapter per day, but I read the appendix of AGOT first...

George, hey George, why are you giving us so much info on the household of the Tyrells, considering only Loras shows up in the first book?

Like, who the hell are Igon Vyrwel and Vortimer Crane? Moryn Tyrell hasn't even shown up despite the two chapters in Oldtown, and I believe Garth the Gross has only been mentioned.

Had some plans for Highgarden and Oldtown all the way back in '96, perhaps?

[swordshq]

a new player in the game of thrones has arrived ... we welcome the arrival of moryn tyrell and loren redwyne to king's landing ! your presence is expected within twenty four hours and your guide can be found here. sevda erginci and rege jean page are now unavailable.

(  SEVDA ERGINCI,  CIS WOMAN,  SHE/HER.  )  could  that  really  be  MORYN TYRELL,  the  LADY  of  THE REACH  entering  the  keep  ?  king’s  landing  is  sure  to  benefit  from  the  TWENTY-NINE  year  old’s  ability  to  be  both  AFABLE  and  COURAGEOUS,  but  beware,  whispers  also  say  they  have  been  known  to  be  MELANCHOLIC  and  CUNNING.  their  loyalty  belongs  to  HOUSE  TYRELL  and  they  SUPPORT  the  notion  of  peace  throughout  westeros.  /  WISPY,  SHE/HER,  22,  GMT.

( REGÉ-JEAN PAGE, CIS MAN, HE/HIM. ) could that really be LOREN REDWYNE, the RULNG LORD of ARBOR entering the keep ? king’s landing is sure to benefit from the THIRTY FIVE year old’s ability to be both DEBONAIR and ADRIOT, but beware, whispers also say they have been known to be OPPORTUNISTIC and ABRASIVE their loyalty belongs to HOUSE REDWYNE and they ARE INDIFFERENT the notion of peace throughout westeros. / taddy tommy

[thecursedthrone]

PERSONAJES CANON

001 ― DISPONIBLE | Luthor Tyrell Edad: 23 años Asentamiento: Altojardín Títulos: Señor de Altojardín, Defensor de las Marcas, Alto Mariscal del Dominio y Guardián del Sur Rasgo vetado: Administración Durante su juventud estuvo comprometido con la princesa Shaera Targaryen, pero la futura reina finalmente se casó a escondida de todos con su hermano y vigente monarca, Jaehaerys II Targaryen. Esta afrenta hubiese hecho que cualquiera entre en cólera, pero el Señor de Altojardín es lo suficientemente necio como para no darle mayor importancia. Aficionado a los caballos y la cetrería, Luthor invierte más tiempo en sus entretenimientos que en el gobierno del Domino. Afortunadamente, cuenta con una esposa más que capacitada para ponerse al frente de una de las Casas más poderosas de Poniente. Lady Olenna es la única persona a la que siempre escucha y, pese a su necedad, termina cediendo en cada decisión que tome. Tienen tres hijos: Mace (4), Mina (3) y Janna (1).

002 ― DISPONIBLE | Olenna Tyrell Edad: 32 años Asentamiento: Altojardín Rasgo vetado: Proeza La Reina de las Espinas ganó su apodo por su astucia, ingenio ladino y lengua afilada. Durante su juventud estuvo comprometida con el difunto príncipe Daeron Targaryen, pero él rechazó el compromiso. Olenna afirma haber hecho todo cuanto fuera posible para que tal desenlace sucediera, y terminó contrayendo nupcias con Lord Luthor Tyrell, volviéndose la Señora de Altojardín. Su aspecto frágil se contradice con su fuerte personalidad: hábil política y con conocimientos sobre venenos, Olenna es una de las mujeres más peligrosas del reino. No es particularmente paciente y es bastante cruel con sus parientes, pero es una ferviente defensora de los intereses de los Tyrell. Nominalmente, Luthor es el gobernante del Dominio, pero quien toma las decisiones y se queda con la última palabra es ella. Tienen tres hijos: Mace (4), Mina (3) y Janna (1).

003 ― DISPONIBLE | Garth Tyrell Edad: 20 años Asentamiento: Altojardín Rasgo vetado: Marcial Apodado Garth el Grosero porque sufre de flatulencias, el tercero de los hermanos Tyrell es un hábil e inteligente administrador, a diferencia de Luthor. Su pericia llevó a Lady Olenna a sugerirlo como el nuevo mayordomo de Altojardín, puesto que aceptó de buena gana, y desde el que pudo dar rienda suelta a su lujuria. En el tiempo que lleva en la posición ya engendró a dos hijos bastardos, Garse Flowers (3) y Garret Flowers (1). Garth no tiene una gran opinión de su hermano Luthor, pero lo estima como el pariente que es. A quien sí respeta indiscutidamente es a su cuñada, la verdadera señora de Altojardín.

PERSONAJES SEMICANON

001 ― DISPONIBLE | Gormon Tyrell Edad: 22 años Datos: Hermano de Lord Luthor. Se encuentra en la Ciudadela estudiando para convertirse en maestre.

002 ― DISPONIBLE | Moryn Tyrell Edad: 18 años Datos: Hermano de Lord Luthor. Es uno de los capitanes de la Guardia de la Ciudad de Antigua.

003 ― RESERVADO | Leyton Hightower Edad: 27 años Datos: Señor de Antigua.

PERSONAJES ORIGINALES

Se interpretarán como primas de Lord Luthor y sus hermanos.

―Tyrell original femenino #1 (disponible) ―Tyrell original femenino #2 (disponible)

[haticesultanas]

The Tyrells were never kings, though royal blood flows in their veins (as in half a hundred of the other great houses in the Reach). Ser Alester Tyrell, the founder of the line, was an Andal adventurer who became the champion and sworn shield to King Gwayne V Gardener, one of the Three Sage Kings. His eldest son became a notable knight as well, only to die in a tourney. His second son, Gareth, was of a more bookish bent and never achieved knighthood, choosing to serve as a royal steward instead. It is from him that today’s Tyrells descend. (insp.)

-- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIAMH @cosmonauthill !! 

[asoiafrarepairswap]

What is ASOIAF Rarepair Swap?

ASOIAF Rarepair Swap is a monthly fanworks exchange for both the A Song Of Ice And Fire book series and the Game Of Thrones show. As well as the Dunk and Egg novellas and pre-asoiaf.

All types of fanworks are welcome.

How does it work?

When you sign up you make three requests. They must be either romantic or platonic rarepairs. For the purpose of this exchange, a paring is considered rare if it has less than 200 works on Archive Of Our Own.

If this is your first time signing up, please fill out this form. If this is not your first time, you can either reblog or reply to this post with your requests. Please have your fanworks for Round One posted before signing up. 

You have until May 15th to sign up!

[persephone-lancaster]

House Tyrell

Lord Mace Tyrell - Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South. Son of Lord Luthor and Lady Olenna Tyrell. Husband of Alerie and Father of Willas, Garlan, Margaery and Loras.

Lady Olenna Tyrell (née Redwyne) - Dowager Lady of Highgarden. Mother of Mace, Mina and Janna. Widow of Luthor Tyrell. Grandmother of Willas, Garlan, Margaery and Loras, Horas, Hobber and Desmera.

Lady Alerie Tyrell (née Hightower) - Lady of Highgarden. Daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower. Wife of Mace and Mother of Willas, Garlan, Margaery and Loras.

Ser Willas Tyrell - Heir to Highgarden and the Reach. Master of Coin. Eldest son of Mace and Alerie Tyrell.

Ser Garlan Tyrell - Royal Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep. Second Son of Mace and Alerie Tyrell. Husband of Lady Leonette Fossoway.

Lady Margaery Tyrell - Second Lady-in-Waiting to Princess Daenerys. Daughter of Mace and Alerie Tyrell. Betrothed of Prince Viserys Targaryen.

Ser Loras Tyrell - Royal Custodian. Former Squire of Ser Gerold Hightower. Third Son of Mace and Alerie Tyrell.

Lady Leonette Fossoway - Royal Governess. Wife of Ser Garlan Tyrell.

Lady Mina Tyrell - Senior Lady-in-Waiting to Queen Elia Martell. Eldest Daughter of Luthor and Olenna Tyrell. Wife of Lord Paxter Redwyne. Mother of Horas, Hobber and Desmera.

Lady Janna Tyrell - Second Daughter of Luthor and Olenna Tyrell. Wife of Ser Jon Fossoway.

Garth Tyrell - Lord Seneschal of Highgarden. Uncle of Mace. Father of Garse and Garrett.

Garse Flowers - Eldest Natural Son of Garth Tyrell.

Garrett Flowers - Second Son of Garth Tyrell

Ser Moryn Tyrell - Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown. Uncle of Mace.

Elinor Tyrell - Great Granddaughter of Ser Moryn.

Luthor Tyrell - Great Grandson of Ser Moryn.

Maester Medwick - Second Grandson of Ser Moryn

Leo Tyrell - Novice at the Citadel. Ser Moryn's Second Son.

Maester Gormon - Maester of the Citadel. Uncle of Mace.

Maester Normund - Maester of Blackcrown. Cousin of Mace.

Household:

Maester Lomys - Maester of Highgarden.

Igon Vyrwel - Captain of the Tyrell Household Guard

Ser Vortimer Crane - Master-at-Arms of Highgarden

Butterbumps - Fool and Jester

Arryk and Erryk - Twin Guardsmen of Lady Olenna

Septa Nysterica - Septa of Highgarden

The Blue Bard - Bard of Highgarden

[stormlanded]

              WORD  TRAVELS  FAST  IN  WESTEROS .  this  much ,  katherynne  knows .  what  she  did  not  expect ,  however ,  was  how  the  more  pressing  matters  at  winterfell did  not  deter  lords  &  ladies  from  their  whisperings . it  was  public  knowledge ,  now - -  to  the  masses ,  at  least . katherynne  baratheon  was  to  be  ‘lady  vance . ’   her  father  had  not  been  a  difficult  sell.  with  marina  he  had  the  support  of  the  tyrells ,  with  theoden  he  had  an  heir ( and  katherynne  did  not  have  to  leave  his  side  )  ,  and  with  anthony ,  he  had  another  chance  at  a  high  profile  arrangement .  it  was  kat ,  ‘kitty’  who  had  been  the  odd  one  out ,  the  black  sheep ,  the  ruined  woman . lord  baratheon  had  made  it  abundantly  clear  to  tristan  that  he  would  not  receive  much  from  the  union , but  dowries  &  alliances  are  of  little  consequence  when  the  engagement  itself  is  all  a  farce .  ‘  it’s  a  wonder  anyone  wants  you  at  all  after  the  splash  you  made  the  first  time  ‘round ,  kitty .’ 

she  does  not  know  how  she  has  found  herself  surrounded  by  a  gaggle  of  ladies ,  all  giving  pretend  congratulations .  she  knows  what  they  want .   they  want  a  closer  look  at  the  witch  of  runestone . they  want  a  better  look  at  the  woman  from  the  towers  of  house  royce ,  kept  away  for  her  wellbeing . ‘  lady  katherynne ,  the  news  was  unexpected  to  say  the  least !  how  pleased  i  am  to  hear  it. ‘  whispers  one ,  taking  her  hands  into  her  own . katherynne  steels  herself ,  allowing  the  words  to  roll off of  her  back .  she’s  heard  them  too  many  times  before ‘ after  lord  royce’s  mysterious  death ,  you  seemed  to  have  vanished .  but  you  glow  now ,  truly .  it  must  be  the  new  love. ‘  says  another. gifted  as  she  is at  playing  the  game ,  she  feels  her  veneer  begin  to  crack .  thankfully ,  her  rescue  is  in  sight.  a  gentle (  some  might  even  say  doting  )  smile  touches  her  lips . ❛ ladies ,  i  must  beg  your  pardon .  it  seems  the  gentleman  of  the  hour  requires  me .   ❜  with  a  turn  and  a  swish  of  her  skirts , she  leaves  the  hens  to  their  clucking. 

            ‘  i  heard  she  tried  to  attack  lord  moryn . ‘  one  whispers ,              ‘  how  long ,  do  you  think ,  before  she  kills  this  one ,  too ?’

it  is  time ,  now ,  to  play  the  part  of  the  enamored  woman ,  in  the  bloom  of  new  love .  truthfully ,  it’s  easier  than  it  seems ,  as  the  mere  sight  of  tristan  sends  her  heart  racing , and  colors  her  cheeks  .  she  approaches  him  rather  quickly ,  extending  a  hand  (  she’s  not  entirely  sure  if  this  is  what  she’s  meant  to  do ,  but  it  feels  a  logical  step.  )  ‘ my  lord. ‘ she  states  audibly ,  enough  for  the  gaggle  of  ladies  to  turn  their  heads.  then , she  ducks  her  head  closer  to  his . ❛ you’re  late .  devoted  men  do  not  let  their  future  wives  be  fed  to  the  wolves.  ❜  the  comment  is  accompanied  by  the  slightest  wrinkle  of  her  nose ,  indicating  that  it  is  in  jest  only . 

@stormxblooded​

[klaradox]

THE TYRELL FAMILY TREE: LEO THE LAZY

Leo Tyrell, known as Lazy Leo, is a member of House Tyrell, a first cousin of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden. He is the second son of Ser Moryn Tyrell, the commander of Oldtown's City Watch. Leo is a novice at the Citadel.

Handsome and pale, with sly hazel eyes and a cruel mouth, Leo has a soft voice and ash-blonde hair which falls over one eye. He dresses in satin striped in the Tyrell colors of green and gold. He has worn a black silk half cape, pinned to his shoulder by a jade rose, and a half cape striped in green and gold.

The arrogant and malicious Leo often gives mocking names to his acquaintances, and speaks unpleasantly of Dornishmen and Summer Islanders. He is disliked by his fellow students. Leo sometimes gambles at the Checkered Hazard, to the point of losing all his money and having to beg for drinks from acquaintances. He has been trained to arms, and is known to be deadly with bravo's blade and dagger.

This image will be featured on my upcoming map of THE REACH.

[perfinn]

Excerpts from writings on Cecily and Flora Tyrell

Lady Cecily Tyrell

Cecily Tyrell, first of her name, born to Lord Martyn Tyrell and Lady Alerie Redwyne in the 109th year after Aegon's Conquest. Brown of eye, brown of hair, and fair of complexion. An illness in her sixth year rendered her blind. Wed to Aemond of House Targaryen, second son of King Viserys I and Queen Alicent Hightower. {REMAINING RECORDS LOST, OR UNFINISHED}

- Grand Maester Malleon, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms

"Lady Cecily Tyrell took after her mother in looks but her father in mind. She is oft remembered as exceptionally clever, though some of her contemporaries found her to be aloof and enigmatic. Nevertheless, she was beloved at the courts of Highgarden and the Red Keep alike for her beauty and charming sense of humour."

- Master Alester, Lives of the Lords and Ladies of House Tyrell

Lady Flora Tyrell

Flora Tyrell, third of her name, born to Ser Moryn Tyrell and Elissa of Braavos in the 110th year after Aegon's Conquest. Brown of eye, black of hair, and brown of complexion. Wed to- {REMAINING RECORDS LOST, OR UNFINISHED}

- Grand Maester Malleon, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms

"The Lady Flora joined her cousin in the Red Keep and was quickly embraced and adored by the court. Sharp of wit but with a sweeter tongue, Flora was beautiful, adept with the harp, and alluring by virtue of her sweet demeanour and influential Reach fashions."

- Master Alester, Lives of the Lords and Ladies of House Tyrell

series masterlist

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Two

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Sexual themes. Word count: ~2.5k

Chapter summary: Daemon battles with self doubt and Melessa makes a bold proposition. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Daemon’s thoughts are filled with Melessa when he awakens, his hand lazily slipping beneath the bedclothes to relieve his arousal. Images of shining flaxen hair, rosy petal soft lips and wide cerulean eyes cloud his mind as his fist moves rapidly up and down his hardened cock. 

This is the second time since their meeting in front of the tapestries that he has found himself in this predicament. He’d feel embarrassed were it not the only thing preventing him from marching through the halls of the Red Keep, throwing open the door to her bedchamber and tearing her asunder as he presses her into the mattress.

The memory of the scent of almond oil and rosewater burns hotly in his nostrils. He imagines breathing it in as he presses past her maidenhead, hearing her girlish cries of discomfort as he molds her to him, ruining her for any other man, making her irredeemably his. It’s this that finally sends him toppling over the edge, his skin flushed and breathing ragged, ropes of pearly spend painting his fingers and stomach.

He reaches across to the bedside table to retrieve a cloth and begin cleaning himself up. It’s in this moment of post-peak clarity that he wonders if she’d be better off if he just left her alone. She is such a sweet, delicate little flower. What could the Rogue Prince possibly offer her? It is not in his nature to play the role of the white knight swooping in to save the fair maiden. Would she really have it that bad if she were to simply marry Aemond? A life of predictable neglect awaits her, no doubt, but at least it is one that is safe and comfortable.

No. He is Daemon Targaryen - he takes what he wants, and he wants Melessa. He knows she wants him too, even if she doesn’t realise it yet. He has never been one to shy away from a battle and she would be his most victorious triumph yet. His family have taken so much away from him over the last two decades. It is about time he took something back; they owe him that much.

It is almost noon when Daemon walks out into the training yard. A crowd has gathered to watch Aemond spar with Alicent’s personal guard, Ser Criston Cole, an obvious show for the sake of the visiting Tyrell family. Daemon can’t help but notice with a smirk that Rhaenyra and her sons are absent from the gaggle of spectators. How thoroughly unsupportive. 

As Daemon observes, he is struck by the skill with which his nephew fights. There is a fluidity to his movements which is surprising, considering his impairment. However, it is not Aemond that he is here for. His eyes scan the crowd and he spots it; long, pale blonde hair gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. Melessa. He moves closer, pausing when he sees the portly figure of her father, Moryn, standing beside her. Perhaps not the best idea to engage her in idle chit chat while he is present.

Daemon studies Moryn. He is far too short for a man and obscenely plump. His balding head bears the remnants of graying mousy brown hair, and Daemon wonders if it all migrated south to position itself within the ridiculous mustache which adorns his upper lip. He is quietly grateful that Melessa takes after her mother, and cannot help the titter that escapes him at the thought of this beastly man rutting atop the poor woman.

Looking around, he captures the displeased gaze of Otto. The older man stands facing the spectacle before him, yet his eyes are narrowed with contempt and focused solely on Daemon. Cunt. Daemon sends him a quick wink which causes him to bristle, turning away with a scowl. If only he knew.

As Aemond works to drive Criston backwards, the crowd shifts and disperses, making way for their movements. Daemon is delighted to find himself finally standing next to Melessa.

He takes in her downcast expression, the glassiness of her eyes and tight line her usually full lips are set into. She is bored. Smug satisfaction blossoms across Daemon’s features as he looks down at her with a wry smile.

“Hello again.”

He cannot help but notice the way her face animates as she looks up at him, her blue eyes practically light up as those soft petal lips curve upwards. So she does feel the same way.

“Daemon,” she breathes happily.

“Is your betrothed keeping you entertained? You look positively riveted.”

She sighs, looking away and fidgeting with a lock of her hair. “He hasn’t looked my way once. I doubt he even knows I’m here.”

Of course he doesn’t. She is nothing more than an obligation passed onto him by his mother. Aemond is unable to look beyond his own self interest far enough to notice the beauty of the Highgarden rose before him. Lucky for her, he does.

Feigning concern, Daemon pouts slightly. “Oh? Are you not spending much time together?”

Melessa’s eyes flicker cautiously at the people surrounding them, and she lowers her voice as she speaks to Daemon. “The words you have spoken to me since I arrived here outnumber everyone else’s combined.”

“A pity,” he responds, voice filled with mock sympathy. “Perhaps there is still time for you to find a better suited match? Someone who can help you blossom from the pretty little bud you are now into a beautiful flower.”

“And who might you suggest?” she asks, eyeing him curiously.

He is about to open his mouth to respond when he catches sight of Otto and Moryn making their way towards them. Shit.

“Another time perhaps, my lady.” 

He nods to her, carving a swift path through the crowd, eager to avoid the insufferable presence of his brother’s Hand. He is not yet ready for Melessa to meet the side of him that Otto evokes. She’d be lost to him before he even has her, such is the rage that man inspires.

Daemon does not see Melessa for the rest of the day, but her absence allows him to put into action a plan that has been brewing inside his head ever since she admitted to Aemond’s neglect of her.

He has a servant fetch him a dozen red roses from the gardens, arranged neatly in a bouquet. A heavy-handed gesture, considering she is from Highgarden and likely sick of the sight of the damnable things. However, he feels the message he intends to include more than makes up for such thoughtlessness.

“To a beautiful bud: I hope you find someone that makes you bloom.”

He smirks to himself as he re-reads the scrap of parchment, rolling it up and tucking it into the bouquet. Just innocent enough for plausible deniability should anyone question his intentions - a simple congratulatory gift from the Prince’s Uncle, absolutely not a ploy to suggest she have him instead.

Daemon waits until the following morning to seek Melessa out again, holding the bouquet behind his back once he finds her. Predictable little thing she is, he knows exactly where to look for her. She sits on a stone bench in the gardens, leaning slightly back on her palms. Her pale hair falls in soft, loose waves down her back as the delicate features of her face are turned upwards towards the sun, eyes closed as she basks in its warmth.

She is doubtless missing the lush greenery of home, so the Red Keep’s gardens provide her a much needed sanctuary from the barren stone labyrinth that is King’s Landing. Dragonstone is even more desolate and gray than the capital. He wonders how she will fare on an isle where nothing grows.

Tendrils of doubt niggle at him as he watches her. She is so full of girlish exuberance. Is he really being fair in pursuing her? Will a life with a battle-hardened man twice her age not snuff out her carefree innocence? He supposes it will die a slow and painful death surrounded by the Hightowers and their miserable brood, anyway - a blossoming flower slowly being strangled by invasive weeds. He can at least offer it a quick and relatively pain-free end.

Clearly aware she is being watched, Melessa opens her eyes, turning her head to face him.

Daemon cannot help but feel a little irritated that he has been robbed of the opportunity to initiate the encounter, such has become the dynamic of their relationship; he enjoys catching her unaware. He knows deep down that his irritation stems from embarrassment. He is not usually one to stand around gawking, and yet he has been caught doing just that.

His entire demeanour visibly softens, his shoulders relaxing and a faint smile playing upon his lips the moment he sees her light up in his presence. The apples of her cheeks look full and positively velveteen as she grins excitedly. The lack of demureness would surely earn her a scolding from a septa. It is improper, vulgar even, for a lady to smile like that at a man, and yet he is delighted by it. He has made her look like that, no one else, just him.

“A pleasure to see you again, petal.” The pet name is saccharine as it tumbles from his lips and he is quietly pleased when she doesn’t recoil at it.

“And you, Daemon,” Melessa replies, rising from the bench and walking towards him. The grin has left her face, yet her eyes continue to shine with excitement. “A wonderful morning to be in the gardens.”

“Yes, quite,” he smirks. “I’d heard a radiant flower had rooted itself here and had to come and see for myself.”

“Oh, really? Might I help you find it?” She cocks her head, her pretty face a mask of curiosity as she gazes up at him wide-eyed.

Daemon has to suck his teeth to suppress the laugh attempting to force its way out of him. Precious little darling doesn’t understand his innuendo at all. How sweet. His eyes travel the length of her body appreciatively before returning to her face.

“Yes, let’s walk,” he decides. It would be far better to bestow his gift upon her away from prying eyes. He is beginning to feel foolish standing with one arm obscured behind him.

He takes the liberty of placing his free hand on the small of Melessa’s back as they walk, smirking to himself when she makes no attempt to stop him.

“I have something for you,” he says, coming to a stop and turning to face her once he is satisfied they’ve ventured far enough away from the Keep.

Daemon produces the bouquet from behind his back and sees her grin for the second time that day. The excitement in her eyes is palpable as they shift from the bouquet to his own gaze. He inhales sharply. That bloody grin. There is something wickedly dirty about it, and the worst part is that she is wholly unaware of it. It leaves him longing to press her up against the nearest wall and do everything in his power to wipe it from her face. The lust it stirs within him feels almost suffocating.

“They are beautiful. Thank you.”

The sincerity of her gratitude makes him feel like he has just gifted her the stars in the sky. Daemon stands a little straighter, basking in her gratitude. 

She reaches to take the roses from him and he lets her, taking note of the fact that she doesn’t wait to be offered them. Typical behaviour of a spoiled highborn lady. Impatient little thing, she is. It is nothing that can’t be fucked out of her, though.

“I suspect you have been overwhelmed by gifts from my nephew since your arrival, but I wanted to show a token of my own appreciation.”

He watches as she circles a dainty index finger around the petals of a rose. He cannot help but wonder if she touches herself with such care. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as the thought causes his cock to stir in his breeches. Melessa’s voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“He hasn’t, actually,” she says solemnly, still focusing on the flowers. “Aemond and I don’t spend time together unless it is arranged by his mother or grandfather.”

Daemon is thoroughly unsurprised by her revelation. Aemond doesn’t strike him as the classically romantic type, likely never making her grin the way that he has twice. He likes to think that that is a smile that’s just for him.

“You must be positively bereft,” he teases. “I am glad I am able to make up for his most tragic shortcomings.”

He watches as she plucks the note from between the flowers, taking the bouquet back from her so that she may unfurl the parchment between dainty fingers and read it. If she catches the meaning behind his message, she does not show it.

She fixes him with a steady, unblinking stare, full of seriousness. “Perhaps you could make up for all of them?”

Daemon swallows thickly. Hot prickles of panic dancing along his spine, in spite of his stoic exterior. “And how would you like me to do that?” 

He already knows what she is going to say, but there is a small part of him that is hoping she won’t. Her next utterance hits him harder than any strike from a sword ever has.

“I could marry you instead.”

The jut of her jaw, the look of determined defiance that is almost a silent challenge brings him back to fifteen years previous. “Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.” He’d felt the same dread and panic when Rhaenyra had propositioned him, and he had fled. Could he do the same to Melessa? It would be cruel to abandon her after having pursued her so avidly and actively encouraging her distaste for Aemond. But at the same time, is marrying him instead really the right thing for her?

“Is that really what you want?” he asks, searching her expression for any hint of hesitation. He sees none.

“Yes.” Her reply is instant. “I have enjoyed your company far more than I have enjoyed Aemond's. We are a better match. I know you have the power to make it happen.”

So, the delicate flower is fearless. Daemon is quietly impressed by her. He has run from what he wanted once before. He will not make the same mistake again.

“Very well,” he says, passing the bouquet back to her. “I shall make it so.”

[firenzes3]

Cerissa Oakheart, esposa de Garth Tyrell. 

Rosalind Rowan, esposa de Moryn Tyrell. 

[swordshq]

due to mun request, please unfollow :

@cvhotics ( tommen hightower, levi mormont & cayde hill )

@ashescs ( aella arryn, visenya velaryon & moryn yronwood )

the following are now available :

bill skarsgard, maxence danet fauvel, taylor zakhar perez, a hightower lord, a mormont lord & a lannister bastard.

thea sofie loch naess, sevda erginci, sonoya mizuno, an arryn lady, a tyrell lady, & house velaryon.

[goodqueenaly]

What kind of factors would go into determining whether an extraneous son far from succession is sent to the Maesters, a Septry, or the Watch? Like why pick one over the others?

Good question!

Part of it is probably temperament. For example, Jeor Mormont notes that Aemon liked to say he “had a slow sword but quick wits”, and Yandel describes Aemon as a “bookish boy”; it would make the most sense, then, to send Aemon to the “knights of the mind” than to the primarily religious Faith or the primarily martial Watch. On the other hand, Denys Mallister likely joined the Watch once he saw his tourney career was over: an evidently well-trained and capable knight (a champion only four years after his knighthood, unseating great reacher lords), he likely saw the martial Watch as a place where his knightly talents would be welcome.

Part of it is also probably family connections. Young Zachery Frey, the grandson of Lord Walder’s son Jared, is training to be a septon at Oldtown, probably in no small part because great-uncle Luceon (Jared’s full brother) is a member of the Most Devout and likely has connections among the powers-that-be at the Starry Sept. “Lazy” Leo Tyrell finds the Citadel more comfortable than the Wall or the Faith would be because of House Tyrell’s many family connections there: Ser Moryn Tyrell, Leo’s father, is Commander of Oldtown’s City Watch, while Lord Leyton Hightower is cousin Mace’s bannerman and father-in-law and, perhaps most usefully, Uncle Gormon Tyrell is one of the archmaesters. Obviously, Jon Snow had personal motivations to join the Night’s Watch, having formed an idealistic (if somewhat unrealistic) idea of service in the Watch from his Uncle Benjen.

There’s also the reputation and obligations of the institution. The Night’s Watch has in (relatively, given its history) recent years been considered a glorified penal colony, hardly the place for a young lordling of eminent family to go of his own volition. However, for some families, the Night’s Watch is still an honorable calling, particularly for northmen (like Jeor Mormont and, again, Jon Snow) and those of old First Men traditions (like the Royces), who would have strong cultural ties to the Wall and the Watch as an institution. Too, while some might consider service as a maester dishonorable, turning highborn men into servants (e.g. “The men of Horn Hill do not bow and scrape to petty lords”), for others, public service might be exactly the goal (hence, in part, why I think Jaehaerys and Alysanne might have liked the idea of sending son Vaegon to the Citadel - showing off to the realm that they were serious about serving the realm).