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jedimaesteryoda · 1 year ago

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What was in Prince Nymor's Letter to Aegon I? (Updated)

Background

Aegon the Conqueror managed to forge the Seven Kingdoms into one with his dragons, but there was one exception: Dorne. The First Dornish War marked the only war where a kingdom managed to avoid subjugation by the Iron Throne.

The Dornish avoided open battle as well as holing in fortresses. Rhaenys found all the castles in Dorne empty as she flew on Meraxes as the Dornish forces melted away.

Meria: I will not fight you, nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that. Rhaenys: I shall, but we will come again, Princess, and next time we shall come with fire and blood. Meria: Your words, Ours are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You may burn us, my lady, but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril.

Princess Meria waited for her in Sunspear just to tell her off. Aegon placed his men to control castles, and declared victory only for the Dornish forces to return. Meria threw Lord Rosby from a window herself.

Also, apparently the Dornish didn’t play nice. Entire garrisons were put to the sword. Knights were tortured, and Lord Wyl cut off the hands of captured prisoners-of-war, including Aegon’s Hand, Orys Baratheon. These actions violated the codes of chivalry, and had Aegon and his bannermen howling for vengeance, which led to a bloody cycle of retaliation and reappraisals.

Aegon’s retaliation was swift as he and his sisters took to their dragons and burned Dornish castles. The Dornish responded by burning half the rainwood and sacking half a dozen towns and villages. The Targaryens then responded by burning more Dornish castles in dragonflame. The Dornish response to that was Lord Fowler capturing Nightfall and taking its occupants hostage and razing the nearby villages and towns. The Targaryens, then predictably, responded with their dragons again, but this time, miraculously, the Dornish managed to take down a dragon. A scorpion bolt in a one in a million shot, hit Meraxes in the eye, killing the dragon and ostensibly, the rider, Rhaenys.

The death of Aegon’s favorite sister-wife was of course a huge personal blow, and it marked the start of the next two years of the war appropriately named the Dragon’s Wroth, the nadir of the war. Aegon and Visenya's initial response was to burn every castle in Dorne, except Sunspear. Some castles were even burned more than once with Hellholt, the site of Meraxes’s death, being burned three times. Aegon and Visneya also placed bounties on the heads of Dornish lords to which the Dornish responded by placing bounties on their heads as well as those of their allies. Half a dozen Dornish lords were assassinated while Aegon and Visneya survived several assassination attempts, and Lord Fell was murdered in a brothel.

Finally, Meria Martell died, and was succeeded by her son, Nymor. Nymor took a different approach compared to his mother, and sent his daughter and heir, Deria, to King’s Landing with Meraxes’s skull and a letter. While Aegon’s queen and advisors pushed for Aegon to harm Deria, Aegon refused and heard out Deria.

Dorne wanted peace, according to Deria—but the peace of two kingdoms no longer at war, not the peace between a vassal and a lord. Many urged His Grace against this, and the phrase "no peace without submission" was often heard in the halls of the Aegonfort. It was claimed that the king would look weak should he agree to such a demand and that the lords of the Reach and stormlands who had suffered so much for his cause would be angered.

Swayed by such considerations, it is said, King Aegon was determined to refuse the offer until Princess Deria placed in his hands a private letter from her father, Prince Nymor. Aegon read it upon the Iron Throne, and men say that when he rose, his hand was bleeding, so hard had he clenched it. He burned the letter and departed immediately on Balerion's back for Dragonstone. When he returned the next morning, he agreed to the peace and signed a treaty to that effect.

Aegon read Nymor’s letter, burned it, and left for Dragonstone on Balerion that day, only to return the following morning and to his court’s surprise, agree to Nymor’s terms of ending the First Dornish War with the Iron Throne recognizing Dorne’s independence.

No one knows the contents of that letter, but there are theories as to what was in that letter that led Aegon to forgo his aim to conquer Dorne and agree to Nymor’s peace. Let’s look at the possibilities offered.

1. Did he threaten to take all the wealth of Dorne to hire the Faceless Men to kill Aegon's young son and heir, Aenys?

The problem with this one is Aegon "flew to Sunspear on Balerion on the tenth anniversary of the peace accords to celebrate ‘a feast of freindship’ with Deria Martell” with Aenys accompanying him. I doubt Aegon would willingly celebrate such a treaty with Princess Deria, and do so, by bringing along the son they threatened to kill if he didn’t sign. That would just make things awkward.

Also, the whole point of hiring an assassin, especially a Faceless Man, is to get someone killed without you being implicated. If you say that “if person A dies, it's definitely because of me,” that would be a clear invitation to retaliation from the victim’s family and allies.

The man whom this threat was made to burned every castle in Dorne in retaliation for Rhaenys’s death. It doesn’t take much speculation to imagine how he would have responded to the death of his son borne by that same woman. A threat like that likely wouldn’t have intimidated Aegon into signing the treaty, but more likely angered him and provoked threats of retaliation.

One must also note that by the time of the meeting (13 AC) Maegor had just been born the year before (12 AC). Even with Aenys dead, Aegon would still have had a son to continue the Targaryen line, and it wouldn’t have been a permanent end to the Targaryen threat.

2. Did Nymor reveal that Rhaenys lived still, broken and mutilated, and that he would end her suffering if Aegon ended hostilities?

It doesn’t take a genius to see the problems with this one. The proposal is basically to tell Aegon "Hey, remember your beloved queen Rhaenys, she's alive, we've just been torturing her for the past two years. Agree to this peace and we'll kill her, the thing that you burned Dorne over thinking we did."

For Aegon, the idea of Rhaenys having been left broken after being tortured and mutilated for two years undoubtedly would have enraged him in such a manner that would have befit his sobriquet “the Dragon”, and had him threatening swift and brutal retaliation. He would have demanded Rhaenys back, no matter what condition she was in. I also seriously doubt Aegon would take Rhaenys’s son, Aenys, to celebrate the peace with Deria that was signed on the condition of killing his tortured mother.

Nymor would also have demonstrated himself to be an idiot by needlessly endangering his daughter, Deria. By sending her, he would have handed Aegon a potentially valuable hostage on a silver platter that Aegon could use to counter any threats against Rhaenys. It also undermined the message of goodwill by bringing the skull of Meraxes.

There is also the question of if they had Rhaenys alive this whole time, why the hell didn’t they use her before, the moment they had captured her? The Dornish would have to be complete fools to not see how valuable a hostage Aegon’s favorite sister-wife could be. They at the very least could have used her to negotiate a ceasefire, and given themselves some respite.

3. Was the letter ensorceled?

Short answer: no. I don’t think we’ve seen magic capable of influencing someone’s consciousness with the most being tales of love potions.

4. Some claim it was a simple plea, from one father to another, heartfelt words that touched King Aegon’s heart.

This seems a little too romantic. I mean even if the words did touch Aegon’s heart, there were still political realities to consider, and I don’t see how relating as a father would move Aegon enough to forget about Rhaenys, the woman who first made him a father to begin with.

5. Others insist it was a list of all those lords and noble knights who lost their lives during the war.

I admit while showing a king the human costs of his war isn’t unappealing to me, one must note that “the Reach, the stormlands and the marches had suffered grievously during the fighting, and would never forgive and forget.” The relatives of those same lords and knights who died in the Dornish War largely wanted the war to continue to avenge their relatives, and would potentially have seen a Dornish peace without submission seemingly make those deaths in vain.

It also wouldn’t be the first time Aegon suffered a personal loss in his conquest. He lost his distant cousin and one of his family’s closest friends, Daemon Velaryon, in the first Targaryen assault on the Vale. Yet, he continued his conquest regardless.

What actually was in the letter?

Think back to Robert’s Rebellion with Dornish anger over the horrific deaths of Elia and her children as well as the death of Lewyn at the Battle of the Trident. Jon Arryn managed to avoid rebellion by the Dornish by returning Lewyn’s bones to Dorne, and negotiating with Prince Doran.

Returning the remains of a fallen relative is an act of respect. It is mentioned that Rhaenys’s bones were never returned. Neither were the bones Elia and her children, but that was because they were given the Targaryen custom of cremation.

I think Rhaenys’s body was likely given the same treatment. What Nymor may have mentioned in the letter is that he was returning Rhaenys’s ashes from her funeral pyre to Dragonstone. That is why Aegon left for Dragonstone that day on Balerion, he wanted to meet up with the ship carrying her urn.

That leaves the question of why Aegon burned the letter. It likely mentioned how Rhaenys died. It must be mentioned that in the Dance of Dragons, dragonriders have survived their dragons falling to the ground like Aegon II on Sunfyre (twice) and Baela on Moondancer, though with serious injuries. Rhaenys actually may have survived the fall, and they put her in bed and gave her a maester to recuperate.

Note, that "his hand was bleeding, so hard had he clenched it," or his hand was stained with Targaryen blood, a trope going back to Cain's hands being stained with the blood of his brother Abel. The letter likely stated that when Aegon attacked Hellholt in retaliation for Rhaenys's purported demise, she was in one of the towers Balerion had burned. In other words, Rhaenys had died not by Dornish hands but by his own hand. The crime he had pinned on the Dornish, and made them suffer for was his own. In his pursuit of vengeance, he had destroyed the one thing he had loved most.

The kinslayer is cursed, and that meant that House Targaryen had been tragically cursed from the start. The tradition of dragons slaying dragons would continue to plague the generations of Aegon's progeny.

Throughout the war, both sides did a lot of awful stuff with the Targaryens burning everything in Dorne in dragonflame, and the Dornish responding by engaging in torture, mutilation and assassination (which the Targaryens did first). All those actions did was escalate the war, and result in more brutal retaliation from the Targaryens with each side upping the violence, brutality and destruction. However, by performing this one honorable gesture, Nymor managed to succeed where his mother failed in ending Aegon’s attempts to subdue Dorne. Aegon having learned he had inadvertently killed his own beloved wife made him realize the futility of the Dragon's Wroth and agree to the terms to end the war.

#asoiaf #house targaryen #aegon the conqueror #balerion #rhaenys targaryen #dorne #house martell #dragons #queen rhaenys targaryen #aegon i targaryen #iron throne #sunspear

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asykriel · 1 year ago

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Love is the Death of Duty - 11.

® do not repost or translate !

☆ Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Male! Targaryen OC

☆ Status: Ongoing

☆ Summary:

“He is half of my heart.”

War made monsters of them all, but it also brought the two second sons together in a flurry of death, love, deceit and delusion. The story of Aemond Targaryen and the eldest son of Daemon and Rhaenyra, Maegor Targaryen, second of his name.

☆ Warnings: Sexual content, explicit violence, dark themes, targcest etc.

☆ AO3 ☆ || ☆ Wattpad ☆

☆ CHAPTERS: (Prologue) / ( 1 ) / ( 2 ) / ( 3 ) / ( 4 ) / ( 5 ) / ( 6 ) / ( 7 ) / ( 8 ) / ( 9 ) / ( 10 ) / ( 11 ) / ( 12 ) / ( 13 ) / ( 14 ) / ( 15 ) / (16 from now on upcoming chaps only on- AO3 || Wattpad )

☆ Masterlist ☆ || ☆ Spotify Playlist ☆

➸ Previous part

➸ Next part

CHAPTER 11

Lord Corlys, all I ask of you is spare a ship and a handful of men to take my brother to Dragonstone.

I promised my mother I will keep him safe.

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With dawn comes the clash of steel and wood, arrows whirring through the air, the roar of dragons echoing across the tumultuous sea and flames burning brighter than the sunrise.

Maegor and Aemond flank Dorne's armada from opposite sides while Addam Velaryon with the Driftmark fleet meet them heads on. The two Targaryen Princes fly and torch in sync and this time Vhagar is not kept in the shadows as a backup plan.

Like the war machine she is, Aemond unleashes her and she seems to remember from the old days how the Dornish smelled when they got charred. It fills her with renewed vigor and youth because not even the few scorpions that manage to scrape her or latch into her flesh slow her down, instead they only make her burn with more fury. And perhaps even Saagael's ferocity reminds her of the times she fought side by side the Black Dread.

As more of the Dornish ships burn or get sunken beneath the waves by the Driftmark soldiers, Maegor steers his dragon and torches right through the enemy again, scorpions flying without precision, failing to hit the swift target. This time he doesn't turn the Cannibal to circle around and launch another attack, instead he keeps on flying straight ahead, leaving Aemond behind to assure the destruction of the fleet and the Seasnake's victory.

When the time is right, I will make my move. I trust Prince Aemond with my life, and so can you.

The black dragon soars through the skies, cutting through the clouds as his wings beat faster than ever before and Maegor has just one target in mind.

Sunspear.

Dorne, a land known for its independence and resilience, has become Maegor's obsession since last night, his mind churned with plans of conquest. And not only this, but a chance to prove himself once and for all in front of his family and anyone else that might dare question his worth.

I'll show you a real dragon.

House Martell was always too prideful, stubborn and hot blooded. It led to poor decisions and now they had to pay its long awaited due to House Targaryen.

It was Princess Alliandra Martell, seventeen of age, who became the current ruler of Dorne. Her father, Qoren Martell died at the hands of Daemon's spies, years after the first war in the Stepstones, while she was still just a child, not to young to forget however.

She has made a fatal error by sending the majority of her forces to conquer the same barren islands. An inexperienced and reckless choice enabled by her own small council. A mistake that Maegor intends to fully exploit, using her negligence to strike at the heart of Sunspear itself. Now the city is weak and it beckons to him like a ripe fruit ready for picking.

The distance between the Stepstones and Dorne is covered quickly on the back of a dragon as fast as the Cannibal, and by the break of noon a shadow begins to grow larger and larger upon the sand walls and buildings in Sunspear.

Rare clouds in the sky casting their shadow on the lands, the Dornish think at first, until the form becomes larger and clearer and they hear the deafening roar that turns their blood cold under the desert sun.

They don't get the chance to react. Maegor spares no time or mercy and he allows the Cannibal to do what he loves the most.

Burn.

Mass hysteria settles in. The people below scatter in fear, scrambling with no direction, their voices echoing with cries of panic as they try to run for their lives and find a hole to hide in.

But nothing escapes dragonfire.

Fools did not keep a single Black Scorpion in the city, sending them all with the ships instead. Chaos erupts as the remaining soldiers scramble in a desperate attempt to defend their home. But the arrows shooting at the beast do nothing against the armor that were his dark scales. It was a futile struggle against the might of a dragon and the ambition of a Targaryen.

Every corner of the city is engulfed into blaze and panic. Maegor slowly becomes drunk with bloodlust and power, laying waste to everything below him. His ears pound with adrenaline. The hopeless screams of suffering fuel him more instead of making him take pity in them and cease his attack, while the Cannibal shows them why the smallfolk call him a harbringer of death.

By now half of Sunspear and its people were in flames. A blazing inferno.

The seat of House Martell is left untouched however, on purpose. Maegor wants them to watch from the balcony of their Old Palace how he turns sand into ashes. Break their minds first so that they will bend the knee easily.

Burning the city continues, until he hears the loud rumble that reverberates through the air. The sign that Maegor was eagerly waiting to hear. It meant only long awaited victory and peace of mind for him, knowing that his lover is unscathed. Not that he ever doubted him or his dragon's might.

Aemond and Vhagar, having decimated the Dornish ships alongside the Seasnake's fleet, appear on the horizon and the older Prince's eye is fixed upon the blazing city, his nephew's masterpiece. The scorching ceases momentarily so that the two of them can be reunited in the air. Maegor wastes no time and takes the lead, flying the Cannibal straight towards the Old Palace with Vhagar on his tail, their presence a formidable display of power.

The two dragons land in front of the castle's gates, flattening whatever structures or humans were under them and the ground shakes under their sheer size.

Aemond and Maegor dismount and they begin walking together in silence, stealing a few glances from eachother, towards the last feeble display of defiance. No one tries to oppose or stop them. The surviving Dornish soldiers, now faced with the terrifying presence of the Targaryen dragons, can only submit to their riders and they lay down their weapons as both beasts bare their sword like teeth.

Even if she did not burn this time, the sight of Vhagar alone, sends shivers down the spines of the Dornish people. The stories of Visenya Targaryen riding Vhagar during the time of Aegon the Conqueror have been passed down through generations. The dragon's flames had scorched the Dornish lands, leaving scars upon the sands that still whispered tales of devastation.

Now, Vhagar's presence once again cast a long shadow over Dorne. The people see in her the symbol of the Targaryen might that almost crushed their ancestors' resistance. And today might be the day when she might finish what she started decades ago.

As the two Targaryen enter the main hall of Old Palace, the Princess, her steward and two knights from her guard meet them halfway, the rest of her small council and the courtiers watch in fear and anxiety from the shadows, behind pillars or from balconies. Maegor notes how she immediately locks eyes with him and Aemond, walking with a regal aura around her, trying to seem like she is still in power while her city is smoldering.

Aemond watches her and her knights carefully, a hand on the hilt of his sword as his shoulder is pressed against his nephew's, both of them keeping close to each other at all times. If anything goes wrong he is confident him and Maegor alone could slice through all of them without the aid of their dragons.

"Alliandra Martell." Maegor calls out first, the tone of his voice cold and commanding.

"Maegor and Aemond Targaryen." She mirrors him but her tone is full of spite at the word 'Targaryen'.

Maegor's jaw clenches slightly.

"Your pathetic attempts to claim the Stepstones have left your home vulnerable and weakened. Without an army too, I made sure of it." Aemond scoffs at her and the two knights exchange worried looks behind her back. A few gasps are heard throughout the hall at the news.

"Surrender now, and I will spare further bloodshed. Dorne shall bend the knee and unite under the Crown's rule with the rest of the kingdoms." Maegor wastes no time laying out exactly what he wants. House Martell has no options left anyway. Him and Aemond could wipe out every trace of their bloodline, if bastard-making was not one of their main hobbies.

Hushed whispers begin to echo around the main hall, some blaming the poor decisions of the Princess and being in favor of uniting with the rest of the kingdoms. Even in Dorne, Targaryen loyalists emerge, especially in the face of death.

"Our sands have weathered countless storms, including you, Targaryens . We shall weather this one too." Princess Alliandra, her expression a mix of defiance and desperation, takes a step forward.

"Dragonfire fire burns hotter than any Dornish sun, you should know this by now." Aemond says sharply.

"I'm being generous by giving you a choice, bend the knee and spare the rest of your city and people. I will take Dorne either way, it matters not to me if it's just sand and ash." Maegor was slowly starting to lose his patience going back and forth with her. The Princess needs to decide fast.

The courtiers' voices become louder by now but neither Princes pay attention to them.

"You're no better than Daemon Targaryen. He did the right thing by naming you after a mad tyrant. Perhaps you will have the same fate as him?"

"Watch your tongue." Aemond sneers at her, taking a step in front of Maegor, protectively.

The two Dornish knights both instinctively grip their curved swords.

The younger Prince places his hand on his uncle's elbow, rubbing an unseen thumb against the fabric of his coat to get him to relax.

"Spare me the history lessons. You don't know anything about my house. And I'm starting to lose my patience." Maegor glares at her harshly.

Time is ticking against the Martell.

"Perhaps some more burning will make the Princess decide faster , wouldn't you say nephew?"

Before Maegor could answer his uncle, the steward excuses himself and takes Alliandra aside where they are joined by the rest of the Martell council. What begins as a hushed choir of whispers soon starts into senseless bickering and both Princes can feel their nerves stretched out to a breaking point, especially Maegor who was already irritated from the start.

"Your time has ran out Princess. I've been more than patient, considering I've been dealing with your Triarchy mongrels for a long time." Maegor barks, his voice echoing through the hall. This seems to finally get the Princess and her council to fall silent.

A subtle change is noted by both Princes, Alliandra Martell no longer holds her head high and confident, instead she is frowning at them with visible anger on her face.

Aemond keeps a close eye on her. Wary of the sudden change of attitude.

Instead of her coming before them again to speak, the steward, an elderly Martell man does, bowing his head and keeping it low when he closes some of the distance between them.

"My Princes, we accept your conditions and generous offer to unite under the same Crown, but we beg of you, spare the rest of Dorne."

This is it? All her initial defiance just to be outpowered by her own council?

Somehow Aemond is not buying it, but nonetheless he gives his nod of approval when his nephew glances at him, almost as surprised as him by the sudden change.

"Some wisdom at last."

(Art by me)

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Time passes quickly and by the time the flames throughout the city die out, night settles in, as well as momentarily peace.

Realizing that resistance is futile, the Martell Princess feigns submission and disappears from their sight, leaving her steward to invite Maegor and Aemond to a lavish feast in their honor as it was protocol. The Targaryen Princes, reluctantly accept the invitation, keeping their guard raised with a sense of caution lingering in their hearts, while the dragons still rest right where they were left, keeping guard and forbidding anyone to enter or exit the castle.

While preparations for the feast are taking place, Aemond never leaves his nephew's side. They are both given their own private quarters, but neither of them feel comfortable being alone in what not long ago was their enemy's lair.

"We should send out ravens." Aemond suddenly speaks from the large divan he is lounging in. He raises his nose from a random Dornish book he picked to look at his nephew.

"I'm sure they found out from other sources by now." Maegor sighs, leaning back against the armchair he is sitting in. Weeks of build up exhaustion really caught up with him by now. All he wishes is to be done with this charade and fly out somewhere with Aemond where he would have some peace alone in his company. He's not exactly keen on breaking bread with the Dornish and faking enjoyment, especially since some hours ago he was burning down half of Sunspear.

"Which is why we should personally send ravens. Unless we want our families to go at each other's throat for this piece of land." Aemond puts down the book and stands up from the divan.

"You know they will either way. But if you insist, write the letter, uncle, I trust your words better than my own." Maegor closes his eyes, resting the back of his head against the armchair as he feels his uncle's fingers carding through his silver locks.

Just for a fleeting moment he wants to freeze time like this. Even behind enemy lines Aemond could put him at ease with simple gestures.

"There's still some time left. Rest up my Prince." Aemond leans over to plant a kiss on his nephew's forehead before he takes a seat at the desk, paper and quill in hand.

The corners of Maegor's mouth twitch into a subtle smile and soon enough he dozes off, lulled by the sound of the hawk quill dragging ink against the paper.

With that, Aemond sets to work, allowing himself the freedom to carefully write a piece of information that none of the possible sources know. Not even his nephew, at least not yet. He keeps it short and brief, no need for bragging and boasting in a letter.

They could do that later on when they would eventually return to the capital, or at least Aemond hopes they will. He still has to find a way to deal with his mother and grandfather and keep his drunkard and nosey brother at bay, if he wants to take Maegor back to King's Landing with him. For now their relationship needs to stay private, away from the prying ears and eyes of his Hightower side of the family. If the harsh slap that his mother would deliver to Aemond's face, would be the only consequence that resulted from their relationship becoming public, the Prince can gladly take it. But he knows there's no way the punishment will be so light. And worse, Maegor will surely suffer more gravely than him.

At least he comforts himself with the thought that Helaena would surely take their side and support them, she knows best what's it like to be unable to choose who you want to love.

Outside of the quarters, across the hallways, the ruckus of the servants making the final feast preparations grows louder. It doesn't take long for a guard to lightly knock on the door, without daring to enter. Aemond doesn't answer verbally, so that his nephew can be spared a few more moments of sleep. They'll attend the feast when they please, now that Dorne was under their rule.

Instead, he makes his way to the door and demands a raven cage to be sent over. Naturally the guard obeys and swiftly fulfills the command with no complaints. He is simply glad to be alive. Even if a lot of Dornish people hold deep hatred for the Targaryens, House Martell especially, they are now powerless. Between submission and dying an agonizing death ripped apart or burned to death by a dragon, the choice is obvious.

Once the letter is complete, the older Prince rereads it twice before writing another copy, sealing both of them with melted wax and the Targaryen seal. Two ravens are sent with the letters, one meant for the Iron Throne and the other for Dragonstone.

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I pen this letter with a heart filled with pride and admiration for my beloved nephew, Prince Maegor Targaryen, Second of his name. In the recent war for the Stepstones, Prince Maegor displayed unparalleled courage, determination, and leadership. He led our forces with unwavering resolve, fought fiercely in the battles, and ultimately triumphed in conquering Sunspear and the lands of Dorne. He succeeded what the Conqueror before us could not, uniting all Seven Kingdoms under the same rule.

It is with great honor and privilege that I announce to you all that, in recognition of his valor and dedication, I proclaim Maegor Targaryen as the Prince of Dorne and Ruler of Sunspear. His tireless efforts and sacrifices have earned him this title, and I have no doubt that under the Crown, Dorne will see a new era of unity, prosperity, and peace.

In the name of House Targaryen and the Iron Throne, I ask all the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms to recognize Prince Maegor Targaryen as the rightful ruler of Dorne and offer their loyalty and support to his rule and rightful claim.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

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The older Prince is positive his nephew will be as shocked as the recipients of the letters when he finds out about his titles. But he deserves them, and who else is better fit than Aemond to give them to him?

Poor Maegor is still sleeping soundly in that armchair, exactly how his uncle left him. Aemond lets out a silent chuckle and barely brings himself to stand from the desk. He does not want to do this, but they need to show their faces for a few hours in the main hall at least, unless they want House Martell to get delusional ideas once again.

"Ñuha jorrāelagon, dombo ēdrugon." The older Prince whispers against his nephews ear.

Maegor jolts awake, finding Aemond looming over him, hands on both sides of the armchair.

"Qybor." Maegor groans at Aemond, his body relaxing in an instance at the familiar face so close to his own.

"It's time for the feast, nephew. You can rest more, after." Aemond smiles at his annoyed face. His hands are itching for more contact, but if they want to ever reach that feast he needs to keep himself in check. And his nephew.

Maegor groans louder in annoyance, rolling his eyes. He doesn't want to endure any second longer in the presence of any Martell or Dornishman.

"Don't worry, we can leave as soon as dawn breaks and we settle our affairs here. I've already sent out the letters." Aemond reassures him.

"No. We leave after the feast, I'm not planning to exceed my stay in Dorne." Maegor stands up stretching his tired arms. Even at night the heat and dry air of the desert is unbearable, especially since he was still cladded in his dragonrider garments. He could swear he has sand in his boots too.

"Our dragons are tired as well as we are. You especially. When was the last time you had a good night's sleep, Maegor?" Aemond rubs over his eyepatch, turning back to the desk to dispose of any drafts he started.

Tiredness is slowly creeping on to him as well but he can endure it longer, after all his arrival is still a recent one. It was Maegor who had weeks of fighting before him and he's surprised that his nephew is still holding himself out so brazenly. It's to be expected, he's a dragon and a warrior.

"If my head wasn't spinning from all the Arbor wine that night, I'd say when I had you in my bed." Maegor follows his uncle, closing the distance between them. He hugs Aemond from behind, pressing him against the edge of the desk.

In a year at most, Aemond is sure that Maegor will reach his height, if not even surpass him.

"You can have me in your bed again. After the feast." The older Prince emphasizes and turns around to face him.

Maegor scoffs at the sound of that dreaded dinner again and drops his hands to his uncle's waist.

"Or I could have you now and we can forget about that whole charade. We can have our own celebration in private." The younger Prince presses his lips against the side of his uncle's neck.

Aemond exhales a shaky breath. He can feel his willpower and composure slowly slipping. His nephew is turning into a cunning fiend right before his eyes, but he has to resist the temptation.

"You know how things work, Maegor. Bare with it for just a few hours." He runs a hand through his nephew's hair, untying the messy half ponytail that were keeping his silver bangs from Maegor's eyes.

Teeth suddenly sink into the side of his neck and Aemond lets out a soft wince. Someone clearly doesn't agree with him.

"Fine. But you need to make up for this, uncle." Maegor sighs dramatically and raises his head from his neck to look at him.

"Ao gīmigon kesan, ñuha dārilaros." Aemond chuckles. His nephew's childish stubborness and playful antics are like a breath of fresh air after the recent events.

A glint of something shines in the younger Prince's odd colored eyes.

Suddenly Maegor presses his lips against his uncle's and Aemond soon enough finds himself with his back flat against the desk, his nephew's body pushing down on his own.

Aemond groans in his mouth and Maegor keeps kissing him like his uncle is his sole lifeline. Wild and desperate. Maybe it was the pent up anger and exhaustion that gathered during the weeks at war, but he's starving and hungry for Aemond, worse than before their first night together.

A knock at the door reminds the older Prince that he needs to recollect his scattered thoughts and find his willpower again to be able to attend to their duties. However, Maegor doesn't seem to pay attention to it.

His uncle's fist in his hair yanking his head back snaps Maegor out from his feverish state. They stare at each other a little longer and Aemond notes how wide his nephew's pupils are blown.

You'll be the death of me.

Aemond clears his voice. Another knock, and the steward's voice excusing himself can be heard from outside the quarters.

Maegor slams a fist against the desk, groaning in annoyance as Aemond stands up, fixing his clothes before fixing his nephew's garments as well.

────────────────────────

The feast is held in the grand hall of Old Palace, with house Martell courtiers and Targaryen loyalist nobles gathering to witness the pivotal moment.

Much to both of their irritation, the Princes are seated opposite from each other at the high table. Maegor next to the Martell Princess at one end and Aemond at the other end next to the steward.

The younger Prince could feel his blood boil the moment he sat himself in the chair and felt Princess Alliandra's presence uncomfortably close to him. This arrangement was on purpose, he's sure of it.

Aemond watches him all the time and begs him silently to keep his calm, for his sake at least. Maegor swallows down his anger and keeps his usual stoic facade in front of all the eyes that are upon him. Only one matters however, his uncle's violet gaze is the only ounce of comfort that keeps him grounded and collected.

All kinds of lavish dishes and drinks are brought out, carried by the servants on huge plates. Neither Aemond nor Maegor touch anything before they make sure everyone around them does. After all, if pride is the first thing house Martell is renowned for, poisons are a close second. They have to be vigilant.

Maegor tries to zone out and shut off all the noises and voices around him until he feels a light touch on his arm that makes his anger flare out instantly.

"Prince Maegor, I offer my deepest apologies. My house and people have a lot of pride, it's not like us to bend the knee so easily, surely you can understand." Alliandra Martell speaks in a smooth voice, rubbing her hand over his forearm.

For a swift second Maegor contemplates if he should rip her hand off but sucks in a sharp breath instead, removing his arm from her touch politely as he hums in approval. If he speaks now he'll say something that he'll regret. What is the Princess even playing at? First she wishes death upon him and now she's trying to seduce him.

At the opposite side of the table Aemond buries his nose in a wine cup so that the anger that makes his expression contort at the sight displayed before him doesn't become so obvious. His nephew meets his violet glare with an apologetic one and Aemond shakes his head. It's not Maegor's fault. They both have to bear this night without deciding to burn down the other half of Sunspear still standing.

The Martell Princess doesn't quite catch the hint unfortunately and keeps touching and trying to make conversation with Maegor. He's so tensed up he can feel his flesh hurting.

Suddenly she stands up, and the hall falls silent, the courtiers moving their attention to her. Aemond glares daggers at the Princess but it seems like she either does not see him or simply ignores him.

"After many thoughts and advice from my council I wish to come forth with a proposal, one that will perhaps solidify the union between Dorne and the rest of the kingdoms." Alliandra says looking at Maegor with a smile on her lips, fake obviously, as she raises her wine cup.

The Prince raises an eyebrow and only nods, feigning interest. He's certain delusion runs deep through house Martell but he needs to play along for now.

"I propose we marry each other, that way we can strengthen our houses and forget about our clashes."

Aemond's slams his empty wine cup loudly against the table, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword at the audacity. All attention falls to him now.

However, before Aemond can utter a word, Maegor lets out a harsh, mocking laugh that reverberates through the grand hall.

"Marry you? Have you forgotten your place, Princess? Shall I remind you that I've brought Dorne to its knees along with you? You must confuse the term prisoner with betrothed." Maegor lets out another chuckle, staring at the Martell from his chair.

"I haven't, but I believe this marriage would be beneficial to the realm and our houses." Alliandra's expression falters but she tries to keep her composure and deceitful smile.

The Prince scoffs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He stands up from his chair, towering over the Martell Princess as he looks down on her.

"Half of Sunspear is in ruins, your army is charred and you've lost your kingdom. This isn't an alliance proposal, it's an act of pathetic desperation. And even if the circumstances were different, I already belong to someone Princess, someone who will have my heart until the end of time." Maegor eyes search for his uncle's for a moment then they return to lock with Alliandra's.

With her plan crumbling before her, Princess Alliandra's expression turns dark with anger and her facade of hospitality is shattered as she returns to her true self from the beginning.

"You dare to mock and reject me?" she hisses, her hand reaching into a hidden pocket of her dress from behind, from an angle where Maegor can't see.

But Aemond can. And his sharp eye is following her closely as all of his senses are on high alert.

"Have I not been clear enough, Princess? Stop embarrassing yourself any further in front of your whole court while I'm still asking nicely." Maegor scowls at her, clenching his jaw and fists and doing his best to control the anger that was boiling under his skin.

"Prince Maegor, Prince Aemond, I wish to make a toast." The old steward suddenly calls to the Targaryens as he stands up from his chair next to the older Prince, wine cup in hand.

This brief distraction is all that Alliandra needs. In a fit of rage and swift motions, she pulls out a small vial from the hidden pocket and quickly brings it to her lips.

By the time Aemond snaps back his attention towards his nephew it's too late.

With a sinister smirk, she forcefully presses her lips against Maegor's, forcing him to swallow down the liquid.

Gasps echoes through the hall as the horrifying scene unfolds before the courtier's eyes.

Maegor grabs her by the throat and she laughs in his face. He tries to choke her out but almost instantly he feels all the strength draining from his body. His knees buckle under his weight and he falls against the table, his vision clouding. A surge of immense pain follows and he grits his teeth trying to cling to consciousness.

"You treacherous harlot!" Letting out a snarl of desperation Aemond jumps over the table, drawing out his sword in the process and slicing through the steward who, no doubt had a big part to play in this sick plan. Only two foolish guards try to stop him from reaching the Princess, the same two from earlier.

"I'll send your father my deepest condolences." Princess Alliandra leans over Maegor, whispering in his ear.

"A shame though, you were such a looker." She traces a nail over a thin scar across his left cheek.

Adrenaline courses through his veins. Acting on instinct, Maegor musters all remaining strength left and, with a fierce determination, he hurls himself from Alliandra's embrace against the floor. He shoves his fingers down his throat, retching until he manages to vomit all of the contents of his stomach in an attempt to rid his body from the poison before it's too late.

Aemond mercilessly cuts through the guards, blinded by sheer fury before he rushes to his nephew's side.

"Seize her!" Aemond shouts but no one dares to move yet, too frozen with shock or fear or perhaps they are all part of her plan.

The loud growls and restless rumbling of the two dragons right outside the castle walls reminds them of their presence and they quickly make up their minds. By now both beasts sensed something was wrong, especially the Cannibal through his strong bond with Maegor. Eventually house Martell's own guards finally seize their former ruler, awaiting further orders from the older Targaryen.

Princess Alliandra simply stares at Aemond with a satisfied smile on her lips. She knows the outcome of this, but if she can take at least one Targaryen with her, it's a victory in her book.

"Qibor.." Maegor coughs and lets out raspy breaths.

"Shh Maegor. Ȳdra daor ȳdragon, vīlībagon. Nyke kostagon daor ojughagon ao." Aemond's hands tremble as they cup his nephew's face. Suddenly panic settles in, the thought of losing Maegor like this before they even got the chance to spend their days together is unbearable.

Whatever the poison, it is a very potent one and Maegor would surely be dead by now if it wasn't for his quick thinking. Judging by his state, there are still some traces of it left in his system.

Rushing to the table, Aemond grabs a bowl of salt and pours it into a water pitcher before running back to his nephew. He forces Maegor to drink large gulps of salt water and waits until his nephew starts retching and vomiting again until there's nothing left to come out from his body.

"You fool, he already swallowed some of it. Your nephew will die and you will make sure to watch." A sudden laugh makes Aemond see red.

The urge to cut Alliandra's head off her shoulders gnaws at him, but he can't allow her such a sweet, painless death. No. She needs to suffer the same way she made Maegor suffer.

"I'll make you pay. You and all of your treacherous leeches that aided you. Take her outside." The tone of Aemond's voice drops to a dangerously calm.

Throwing his nephew's arm over his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist, Aemond heaves him up. Maegor feels like he was threading the thin line between consciousness and total darkness while the sharp pain still tears through him, from head to toe. His legs feel boneless as he is suddenly raised up, but he struggles to stand despite the pain and helplesness and stumbles along, supported by his uncle. The guards follow, Alliandra now silent behind them.

Even in this state, Maegor is raging in his head, angry that he ended up being defeated so easily.

Angry that he cannot rip the Martell bitch limb by limb with his bare hands.

At the entrance of the Old Palace, the dragons are restless and distraught under the night sky. At the sight of his rider's weak body getting dragged by Aemond, the Cannibal lets out a roar, seething with fury. The beast lowers his head bearing his teeth and growling dangerously at Aemond. Vhagar rumbles and snaps her jaws in the air, close to Saagael's head as a warning.

"Daor! Lykirī!" The older Prince shouts at the two beasts. The last thing he needs is for them to start ripping each other apart.

Maegor groans painfully trying extend a hand to his dragon. The moment he lets go of his uncle however, he almost crumbles to the ground if not for Aemond to pull him back against his body.

The Cannibal lowers his head further, bringing it closer to his rider. He inhales and exhales deeply, taking in the scent of the young Prince before he lets out a low, silent cry.

"Ziry gōntan bisa." Aemond tells the beast and there's no doubt that he immediately understands by the way he reacts.

Slitted sapphire eyes like Aemond's gem get locked on Alliandra's form. Her face suddenly drains of color when she meets the Cannibal's cold glare.

"Bring her over."

The guards reluctantly obey and approach the Princes, all while both Vhagar and Saagael watch, sizing them up with a predatory glare as the men cower in fear before them.

There's no trace of pride or ambition left on the Martell's face. All of her previous confidence and foolish bravery is now replaced by dread and fear.

"Mazverdagon zirȳ hīghagon."

A final command is given.

Make them scream

Before the guards or the Princess can react, both dragons lower their head in synch, opening their massive jaws and closing them around the three at the same time, with Alliandra being in the middle. Despite their sheer size, both Vhagar and the Cannibal act with precision, careful to keep their main target alive long enough to be able to feel the pain. The two guards are ripped apart swiftly and almost too painlessly, they aren't the main course however. Alliandra has the privilege of getting torn apart methodically, limb to limb like Maegor wished until her agonizing screams turn into a gurgles and eventually die out completely just as quick as they started.

If they had any time to spare Aemond would have personally dealt with her, but Maegor is the priority now and he can feel him get weaker by the minute. There's no time to waste. He needs to take him to be tended by maesters as fast as possible.

Staying in Sunspear is not an option. After the scheme that Alliandra pulled on them, there's no one trustworthy in Dorne and he's not stupid to risk getting Maegor poisoned again and killed under the pretext of receiving medicine and care.

The Stepstones are the closest, but even if the Seasnake's maesters are skilled, there's isn't a lot they can do with the few rations left and even less medicine.

The second closest option is King's Landing. That plan too falls through as Aemond can't risk suddenly bringing Maegor in such a vulnerable state. He barely got away with flying to the Stepstones in the first place, after much nagging from his mother and grandfather. It will raise up too much suspicion if he suddenly shows up with his nephew like this and it will surely cause an even bigger rift between their families as he's certain both Daemon and Rhaenyra would misinterpret and accuse him of poisoning the younger Prince instead.

So Aemond chooses the third option, the safest bet. For Maegor at least.

Dragonstone.

────────────────────────

Translations:

Ñuha jorrāelagon, dombo ēdrugon = My love, wake up

Qybor = Uncle

Ao gīmigon kesan, ñuha dārilaros = You know I will, my Prince

Ȳdra daor ȳdragon, vīlībagon. Nyke kostagon daor ojughagon ao = Don't speak, fight. I can't lose you

Ziry gōntan bisa = She did this

Mazverdagon zirȳ hīghagon = Make them scream

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asherbakugou · 8 months ago

Text

Valyrian Demigods of Westeros - Daughter of Vermax

Lady Laena Velaryon held Princess Rhaenyra's hand as she screamed, stuck in the birthing bed for the 5th time. Her brother, Ser Laenor, stood on the other side of his wife, wincing at the hold she had upon his arm but supportive and encouraging. Very few men chose to join their wives in the birthing rooms, declaring it against propriety but Laenor cared deeply for Rhaenyra and would not see her endure this pain alone.

With a final scream, the midwife was able to remove the babe, using a knife to cut the life chord from her body. Wailing, the woman happily announced, "A girl, your highness. Healthy and joyous to be here."

Rhaenyra laughed, as the babe's wails softened. "Clean my daughter first, then I shall hold her."

"Right away, your highness."

The midwife rushed towards the small bath that had already been prepared and began cleaning the babe of fluid and blood, gently cooing to soothe her.

"Do you have a name for her, dear sister?" Laena asked, taking a rag to gently wipe away the sweat upon her brow.

"We do. She shall be Princess Visenya, Second of Her Name." Laenor could not help the cheeky grin that appeared, quickly catching his twins attention.

"What did you do this time?"

Switching to High Valyrian, Laenor explained, "We contacted Doran Martell to talk of uniting Dorne and Westeros. We spent moons conversing through letters and creating a contract for Dorne that would allow them to keep the independence they so desire without being allowed to rise against us. Their are conditions, for both of us, and ours happens to be that our next daughter shall marry their 3 year old son, Prince Trystan Martell, when she comes of age."

"If she wishes to. I will not allow my daughter to be forced into a marriage she despises," Rhaenyra added, wincing and gasping as the afterbirth began.

Luckily, the afterbirth was quickly epxpelled and the healers were able to tend to her. Laenor was forced into the sitting room so they could see if Rhaenyra needed stitches or just the ointment. Visenya was quite small and had slipped out in the height of day after barely a few hours of pushing.

The ointment the used would help her heal and prevent infection, a common disease women caught after giving birth. A cold wetcloth was brought to Rhaenyra to help with the pain from her womb, much to her relief.

"I wish to see my Visenya. And my husband," She added as an afterthought, making Laena snort.

"So dear sister, tell me, did you invite Dorne here for your birth? I heard rumors that a delegation arrived late last night but I was far more worried about you to question it."

"They did come. We plan to announce the contract as well as the betrothal in a few days time. I offered to allow them the chance to meet Visenya first in a more familiar setting, so that Prince Trystan may meet his future wife."

Visenya was gently placed into Princess Rhaenyra's arms as Laenor was let back inside. He smiled down at the adorable babe in her arms, reaching out to run a finger over her little chubby cheek.

She had thick curly silver-white hair, inherited from her father with the same dark skin. Her eyes though were the most beautiful shades of green either of them had seen, stunning all three of them.

"Didn't your grandmother, Princess Alyssa have a green eye?" Laena asked, leaning closer to the babe who cooed.

"She did," Rhaenyra agreed, smiling down at Visenya who reached up to smack at Laenors hand. "Did you pick out an egg for her? Or are we allowing her to claim one as her siblings did?"

"I thought it would be best to give her an egg due to her betrothal to Prince Trystan Martell," Laenor admitted. "I picked one from Dreamfyre's latest clutch."

"Good."

The door opened and a maid stepped inside dipping into a shallow bow. Laena scowled at the disrespect.

"You are in the presence of the future Queen, the Crown Princess, the future King, the Prince, and a Lady of a Royal House, wife of a Prince. You will show us the respect we command," Laena snapped, blue-purple eyes sharp as seaglass. The maid flinched back and dipped into a far deeper curtsy.

"I-I have a message. From the Queen," The maid stated, voice trembling, though none could tell if it was from fear or fury.

"Queen Consort," Rhaenyra corrected. "Queen Consort Alicent is not a Targaryen and as such is not gifted the title of Queen as my mother was."

"What is the message?" Laenor asked, frowning.

"She wishes for the babe to be brought to her before the ceremony so she may greet them. The Queen Consort was upset that she has not been granted the priveledge of meeting her grandchildren before they were introduced to the Realm."

Rhaenyra, Laena, and Laenor had all gone still before the Red Keep shook beneath the fury Vhagar voiced, making the maid flinch.

"Laena," Rhaenyra stated, staring down the maid. She switched to High Valyrian. "Find my uncle and the delegation from Sunspear, bring them to the Queens Apartments. Let them see how the Future Queen is treated."

"Your uncle is with the King, Rhaenyra. Hopefully he will see the kind of woman his chosen consort is. Green as her dresses," Laenor stated, grinning sharply at the woman. "Our mother and father would be most upset to hear what their gooddaughter is going through as well."

"Yes, they will." In a swirl of skirts, Laena dissappeared.

"Get out," Laenor ordered. "We shall bring our child to the Queen Consort ourselves."

"I could take the babe, ser."

"If you lay a hand on my child, I will order them to be removed," Rhaenyra snarled. "Tell your Queen Consort that I will come myself for what kind of mother would I be if I passed my child onto another."

The maid gaped at the blatant insult but scurried away as Ser Harwin, who had entered when Lady Laena had left, reached for his blade. He left behind her, closing the door as the servents, maids, midwives, and healers stared at the door in shock.

"Your highness," A midwife, Laya, began, "It is too soon after the birth. You could hurt yourself from walking."

"The Queen Consort has ordered my presence. Dress me. Please." Her maids immediatley rushed forward, pulling on one of her silk hose and pulled her hair into a simple, messy braid that fell down her back. A soft robe was then pulled over her shoulders and Visenya was cradled back in their arms.

The clothes she had chosen were done on purpose. Alicent would expect a show of power but this would show the Lords and Ladies of how cruel the Queen Consort was, and bring more to her side.

They were interrupted when the egg that had been placed in the fire, cracked and began hatching. A beautiful creamy white hatchling crawled forth, stubby horns of pale gold glinting and black frills swaying as it moved. Laughing to herself, Rhaenyra allowed the hatchling to clamber up her robe and perch on her shoulder, giving it free range to look down at Visenya.

Rhaenyra murmured a quiet thank you to the Gods who had so far shown to be protective of their children with her. Laenor appeared behind her, gently supporting her.

"Shall we, dear wife?"

"We shall, dear husband."

Together they made their way through the halls, Ser Harwin and two healers behind them. They earned odd looks as the Crown Princess was dressed in night clothes, holding a babe, with a hatchling perched on her shoulders. Immediatley whispers spread, so Rhaenyra played into it.

Her voice trembled, "Why would she do this, Laenor? Is she not a mother herself? To order me to have my babe taken to her when she is freshly born? What have I done to the Queen to deserve this?"

She made no attempt to keep her voice low as Laenor soothed her, shaking his head. Around them Lords, Ladies, and servents alike shook their heads in disgust.

Upon arriving at the Queens Apartments, they were met by the Dornish Delegation, the King, Prince Daemon, Princess Rhaenys, and Lord Corlys all of whom looked angry.

Princess Elia looked furious, arms crossed over her chest as her husband, Prince Dorian loomed at her side. Ser Cole looked shocked, furious, and afriad all at once as the King ordered him to open the door.

Queen Consort Alicent turned towards the door as it opened, a poorly concealed smirk on her lips. "Princess–"

She cut herself off, paling as the King stared back at her, flanked by his family and a group of Dornish strangers at his back.

"Husband, what–"

"Did you order my daughter . . . to bring her newly born child . . . to you?"

"My king, I would nev–"

"Ask her maid, Father. The one who came into my rooms, blatantly disrepsected me, and told me the Queen commanded my child be brought to her," Rhaenyra interrupted, looking at the maid who paled dramatically.

"Well," Viserys snarled, looking every bit the dragon he had once been. "Did you? As your King, if you do not tell me the truth, I will have you imprisoned!"

"It's the truth! Queen Alicent sent me to the Crown Princess' rooms to bring her the babe!" The maid nearly sobbed. Alicent looked horrified as the hatchling perched on Rhaenyra's shoulder shrieked in victory.

As Princess Rhaenys and Princess Elia tore into the Queen Consort, absolutely furious that she would abuse her power in such a way towards a member of the royal family.

Noting that it was taken care of, Princess Rhaenyra was taken back to her chambers to rest before the feast that night.

At the feast, Princess Rhaenyra and her husband stood before the masses with the Martells to the right and the King to their left, using a cane to keep his balance.

"Lords and Ladies of the Realm. You have been invited here today to be informed of not one but two miracles," Laenor announced.

"The first is our daughter. Introducing, Princess Visenya Velaryon, Second of Her Name," Rhaenyra called, lifting the babe higher as the crowd cheered. "Whose egg cracked and hatched barely two hours after her birth!"

The dragon on her shoulder shrieked, rearing up to flap its wings.

Lifting his hand, the King called for silence. "When my ancestors came to Westeros, they tried to force Dorne to bend the knee but they fought back. Each King after has tried to do the same, demanding Dorne bow to their true King. But none succeeded. No King was able to bring Dorne into the fold. But the future Queen did.

"A contract has been drawn up for Dorne to be formally added into the Seven Kingdoms as long as a Targaryen Queen or King sits the Iron Throne. As per the treaty, Princess Visenya Targaryen and Prince Trystan Martell shall be betrothed and married upon her six-and-tenth nameday!"

Cheers made the hall itself tremble as the true Heir's supporters made themselves known. Lady Jeyne could be seen holding Princess Alyssa with Prince Jacaerys at her side while Lord Corlys held his heir – as the titles had been relinquished from Ser Laenor. Prince Maegor was in Prince Daemons arms alongside his cousin, Princess Baela as her mother carried her twin sister, Princess Rhaena.

Prince Aegon's supporters, who had grown weaker over the years, gave false cheers, seeking out the Queen who wore black and red upon the order of her husband. Much to Crown Princess Rhaenyra's delight the woman looked pale and washed out in the regal colors of the Royal House. It was a stark reminder that Queen Consort Alicent Hightower was no true Queen for even Aemma Arryn, who was oft bedridden, had looked absolutely stunning in black and red, her maternal house colors.

The strength of the Blacks grew and grew, furthered by the birth of Crown Princess Rhaenyra's fifth child, and second daughter.

Princess Visenya Targaryen, Second of Her Name, Future Princess of Dorne, Future Princess of Sunspear, the Traveler, the Diplomat, the Intelligent, the Learned, had been born.

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westerosoliviapope · 4 months ago

Text

Sunspear - Scandal Westeros

#scandal westeros #modern westeros #modern dorne #modern dorne au #modern westeros au #sunspear

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msmorningstaarr · 11 months ago

Text

Holy and Heathen - 8 (Changes.)

Pairing: young!Oberyn MartellxF!Original Hightower Character

Word count: 7.3k

Chapter Warnings: sex; descriptions of depression and anxiety;

ao3 | masterlist

SUMMARY: Lady Melara Hightower is the youngest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower and has a distinct, serious and pious personality. She is sent to serve the Faith as a Septa, but her destiny suddenly changes once she becomes betrothed to the heir of Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell. She sees herself living in a land far from hers with distinct habits, dealing with many divergences and a husband far more wild than she could ever expect. Would she be capable of lighting the way of her mind and heart?

(Except for Melara Hightower, all characters do not belong to me but to George RR Martin, author of the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' book series.)

Taglist: @princessanglophile @hiroikegawa @hiraethrhapsody

Before you read... I'm sorry for taking so long. But here it is! I hope y'all have a good holiday <3

Melara

Melara woke up yelling loudly. Her heart beat fast and her eyes were filled with tears of angst. Almost every night, her mind reproduced the same scene: her, alone and lost in Oldtown, running desperately. Her breathing was irregular as she held her childish garment, running amongst the commoners and dimly lit alleys. The ancient cobblestone streets of her home city seemed to stretch endlessly before her, labyrinthine and foreboding. Melara's small feet pounded against the cold stone as she darted through the narrow passages, the distant echoes of her footsteps mingling with the haunting whispers of the wind.

In her recurring nightmare, the cityscape around her was both familiar and alien. The towering structures of the Starry Sept loomed overhead, their spires reaching toward the moonlit sky like ominous sentinels. The air was heavy with a palpable sense of dread, and shadows danced menacingly in the corners of her vision.

As Melara sprinted through the eerily deserted streets, she felt a pervasive sense of isolation. The windows of the ancient buildings stared back at her like vacant eyes, and the flickering lanterns cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to taunt her. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic echo of her breath and the distant tolling of a sombre bell.

Her memories of why she ran were always elusive in the dream. Yet, an unshakable feeling of urgency compelled her forward, urging her to run off the dirty streets of Oldtown with a desperate determination. She clutched the worn garment closer to her chest, its significance known only to her subconscious.

The dream held a mysterious grip on Melara's psyche, leaving her shaken each time she awoke. She longed to unravel the enigma that bound her to these scary visions, to understand the cryptic messages her subconscious seemed to be conveying. Her eyes quickly opened up and burned to the intense morning sunlight, heart beating fastly and still fretting with her bad dream. Melara scoffed and pressed her hands over her chest whilst some nervous tears fell from her eyes, still recovering from the fright. Her loyal handmaidens were sleeping on the same bed, guarding her reputation: Melessa by her side, Lys on her feet and Megga on the other side of the mattress. The three girls had woken up worried about Melara, sitting around the princess and trying to understand what happened while also gathering up their consciences.

"Princess!" Megga said, pressing one of her hands on her chest and the other on Melara’s knee while the young Princess cried in panic.

"What happened, my lady?" Lys asked, crawling at the top of the bed.

"I had… I had a bad dream…" Melara sighed as Lys wiped her tears away and pampered her with kisses on her arm and gentle patting on her body, since all of them knew how negative her response to physical touch was, especially where Oberyn left a sore mark. Her handmaidens put a few ointments, but her fair skin left it all apparent as a white canvas being covered in paint.

"It is gone now, princess." Melessa said, stroking her hair with her soft fingers, gently gazing at her lady.

"You are safe here, princess." Megga whispered words of affirmation whilst massaging her feet.

"Give us a smile, my lady." Lys pleaded, kissing one of her hands and allowing Melara to feel the warmth coming from her lips as the slow and brief moment happened. From all her handmaidens, Melara found Lys the most beautiful of them. Lys was thin, but had curves in all the right places and a long, thick black hair. She often mixed a ribbon between her braids and had a beautiful and enticing smile, a soothing voice she used to sing lullaby songs and tell tales in Melara's ears as she loosened her hair and brushed the silvery gold cascade.

Melara could never grow used to these types of dreams and she recalled having them since a young age. Once more, a faceless man appeared in her dreams, smirking at her and cornering her somewhere in the streets of Oldtown. The sense of fear was excruciating. The eagerness to scream from the top of her lungs and no voice coming out was frustrating. Her breathing was heavy as if she had run from the gates of Sunspear until the Water Gardens under the sun. Melara's trembling breaths began to steady as the reassuring presence of her handmaidens enveloped her. Their unwavering loyalty and genuine concern provided a comforting balm to the residual fear lingering from the dream. Slowly, she allowed herself to be swayed by their soothing gestures and words.

A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of Melara's lips, grateful for the genuine companionship that surrounded her. The weight of the unsettling dream started to lift as she absorbed the love and support from her loyal attendants.

"Thank you, girls," she whispered, her voice a fragile echo of the self-assured princess she presented to the world. Melessa continued to stroke her hair, Lys maintained her comforting touch and Megga kept a watchful eye, ready to offer solace in any form.

After a few moments, Melara collected herself and sat up, breaking free from the cocoon of worried looks that surrounded her. She surveyed the room, her gaze landing on the wide windows that now bathed the chamber in the soft morning light. The dream still haunted the edges of her consciousness, but with the support of her handmaidens, she felt a renewed sense of strength.

"Prepare my bath, and bring my matutine dress," Melara instructed, her voice now composed. "I will not let a mere dream dictate the course of my day."

The handmaidens nodded in unison, their expressions transitioning from worry to peaceful. As they hastened to carry out Melara's orders, the princess took a deep breath, centering herself for the day ahead. The journey into the corridors of her dreams would have to wait; duty called, and Sunspear awaited its princess.

Megga separated her a grey dress from the wardrobe, a dress with flowing fabrics adorned with intricate patterns of suns and spears, the Martell sigil. Melessa fetched a basin of water, infusing it with fragrant oils to create a soothing bath for Melara. Lys, ever attentive, prepared the fan and laid out the dress with delicate care.

As Melara immersed herself in the cold water, the tendrils of anxiety began to dissolve. The calming scents of the oils enveloped her, and the rhythmic sound of water being poured added a soothing cadence to the room. The handmaidens worked in unison, attending to their princess with a practised grace, understanding the rituals that accompanied her morning routine.

Megga gently approached Melara with the chosen dress, holding it out for her like a precious offering. "This one, my lady?" she asked, her eyes reflecting concern.

Melara nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. The garment, in shades of gray that mirrored the precious stones, clung elegantly to her form. As the handmaidens separated her dress and her jewellery, Melara's mind lingered on the frightening dream that still echoed in the recesses of her thoughts. Lys scrubbed her shoulders and rinsed her skin, smiling and reciting a prayer to Melara in order to keep cheering her lady up. It was still awkward for Melara to have people pampering and obeying her commands after staying for almost a year serving as a Septa but it reminded a old peace she always had. Even if she had grown up surrounded by wealth and luxury, being spoiled was something odd for her after the renovating experience of serving the Gods. The company of maids and Septas could be considered the closest of friendship she could ever have growing up, even being surrounded by siblings.

She missed the icy breeze and the giant tree and waved at her window as she did her morning prayers, trying not to distract herself as Lya spoke volumes after the most random things related to life. Somehow, she missed Lya as well. She found the girl to be rather talkative and dull at times, but she was a joyful person at most parts. Melara wondered if Lya had taken her vows instead of going after her in Sunspear and this thought made her have mixed feelings, once following the faith was a more than fulfilling path and some comfort lived in her heart once she ruminated about Lya serving as a Septa somewhere but unease also reached her mind once she reminded that the girl would be happier anywhere else where she could be free at her most.

"My lady," Lys approached her ears, provoking a tingle on her neck. "Shall we dress you now?"

"Yes Lys, please." Melara stood up with her bathing suit wet, her nipples appearing through the linen which made the black haired maid smile briefly. The young princess extended her hand to Lys and left the bathtub. In the quiet moments that followed, the sounds of water being drawn and the rustle of fabric filled the chamber. Melara, adorned in the morningly dress that reflected her delicateness and beauty, emerged once more as a beacon of grace and resilience.

"You are dismissed now, girls. Go find something to eat as I break my fast with Princess Ysilla." The girls bowed at her and left. But as they opened the door, two servants were standing by the entrance of her bedchambers.

Just as Oberyn commanded, there were two servants at her door with a five feet wooden stick with peacock feathers on its top, made especially to fan her and ease the heat.

"Princess," Said one of the servants, bowing at her presence alongside the other. "We are here to serve you by refreshing you as the prince commanded."

"Thank you." Melara said, walking away from her bedroom and having the boys following her and blowing a windy refresh feeling towards her recently bathed skin. She would remind of doing some kindness to her lord husband in return for this thoughtful act for her.

Oberyn was such a confusing person. In one moment, he would be distant, aggressive and aloof to her presence but just after grabbing her violently and pushing her against the floor he sends her two servants to refresh her, apologetic and thoughtful. A wave of sadness hit her remembering it, but she shrugged that feeling away. Melara would keep dutiful and loyal to Oberyn, no matter what happened. Once she gave him a trueborn heir he would leave her alone as she hoped.

She breathed heavily before encountering princess Ysilla in her solar, eating her own food. Melara tried to disguise her unease before she could face her mother by law for the first time. Ysilla, however, had a pleasant smile and a striking confidence even in that early time of the day, which made Melara wonder what could bring her so much joy. "Mother, good morning." Melara said, pushing her own chair to sit by. The older princess stared puzzled at the fan boys, intrigued by the situation.

"Good morning, my dear." She said, still watching them blow some breeze on her face. "Are you still struggling with the weather?"

Melara nodded and sighed, adjusting her dress as she sat down. "My apologies for being late, princess," she started. "And yes, I have been. Oberyn commanded I had servants to refresh me."

Her eyes had fallen onto her arms, noticing the faint bruises around it. Melara, ashamed, covered the marks with her hands discreetly and Ysilla sighed.

"What happened to your arms, my lady?" Ysilla asked, drinking a sip of her wine.

"I… I had an accident, my lady. I fell in my bathtub last night." Melara replied, disguising her nervousness. Her eyes blinked nonstop, trying to avoid tears falling down. Ysilla knew it all, Melara could see through her eyes the fury, the rage. Though it was a tough matter, Melara yearned to let it go, once everything was already too painful to remember and Oberyn seemed genuinely regretful of his explosion over her. Then, Melara sighed and stood her head up and opened a simple smile, as she would always do.

"I could not help but notice the absence of my husband at the table." Melara stated, noticing Ysilla’s eyes getting numb, somewhat worried.

"Oberyn is not in good spirits this morning." She sighed heavily, resting her head over her hands. "Which is a shame on such a beautiful, bright day with wonderful news from King’s Landing."

Melara narrowed her eyes. "What news, if I am allowed to ask, mother?"

Then, her face turned to be happy as it was before and a wide smile rose on her lips. "Elia is with child. I had just received the news, my dear."

Melara's eyes widened at the revelation. A mixture of surprise and conflicting emotions played across her features as she processed the news. Elia, Oberyn's sister, was with child, carrying the next generation of House Targaryen. A rush of conflicting emotions surged within Melara — joy for the impending addition to the family, but also a pang of jealousy of Elia, because she was able to be with child so early in her marriage. Meanwhile, Melara cried all months her bleeding fell between her legs.

"That is wonderful news, mother!" Melara exclaimed, forcing a smile to her lips despite the turmoil in her heart. "A new heir for the Iron Throne is indeed a cause for celebration."

Ysilla beamed at Melara's response, seemingly oblivious to the internal struggle beneath her daughter-in-law's composed exterior. "Yes, my dear. Elia and her husband, Prince Rhaegar, are overjoyed. The entire realm will soon rejoice in the birth of a Targaryen heir. We must throw a feast tonight to celebrate such soul fulfilling news. You make sure to be on your best looks, my dear. I will be more than thrilled to celebrate it with you."

Melara nodded, concealing the tumult of emotions within. The news added another layer of complexity to her relationship with Oberyn. The prospect of Elia providing an heir might put even more pressure on Melara, heightening the uncertainties surrounding her own role in House Martell.

"I am happy for them," Melara continued, her voice carefully modulated. "I'm sure Oberyn will be delighted to hear the news as well."

Ysilla's expression shifted slightly, her eyes betraying a hint of concern. "Oberyn has not taken the news as joyfully as one might expect. He seems burdened by some troubles."

A knot tightened in Melara's stomach. The revelation about Oberyn's mood cast a shadow over the joyous occasion. She couldn't shake off the haunting memories of the previous night's confrontation and the bruises on her arms.

"I will go to him," Melara said, her resolve strengthening. "Perhaps there's something I can do to ease his troubles."

Ysilla nodded approvingly, seemingly reassured by Melara's commitment. "A supportive wife is a pillar of strength, my dear. Go to him, and may your presence bring comfort."

As Melara rose from her seat, a subtle conflict lingered in her eyes. She moved with determination, fueled by a sense of duty, yet the echoes of the previous night's turmoil resonated in her heart. "If you excuse me, my lady. I must go see my husband."

"Be my guest, my dear." Ysilla said and Melara excused herself from Ysilla's solar, leaving behind the air of celebration and entering the quiet corridors of Sunspear. The palace seemed to hold its breath as she walked, the weight of her thoughts making each step heavier.

Her search for Oberyn led her through the winding corridors, but his presence eluded her. The normally bustling palace felt eerily quiet, echoing her growing unease. She checked the places Oberyn often frequented—his study, the training yard, and even the gardens—but all proved empty.

With a sense of frustration gnawing at her, Melara finally approached one of the servants in the corridor. "Have you seen Prince Oberyn?" she inquired, her voice laced with concern.

The servant, a young girl with wide eyes, hesitated before responding, "I'm sorry, my lady. I haven't seen Prince Oberyn since the early morning."

Melara thanked the girl and continued her search, her anxiety deepening with every unanswered inquiry. A growing sense of foreboding shadowed her steps as she roamed the palace halls accompanied by her servants.

She decided to check Oberyn's private chambers once more, hoping he had returned without her knowledge. As she approached the door, she found it slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she entered the dimly lit room. The stillness within was almost palpable, and a sinking feeling settled in Melara's chest.

"Oberyn?" she called, her voice echoing in the silence. There was no response.

Melara scanned the room, her eyes falling on the cluttered table strewn with maps and parchments. The abandoned maps seemed to mirror the complexities of their life. The atmosphere held an air of solitude, and the absence of Oberyn's usual presence felt like an unspoken void.

A feeling of helplessness crept over Melara. She moved to the window, gazing out over the sun-drenched courtyard below. The beauty of Sunspear seemed to mock her internal turmoil. She wondered if Oberyn sought solace beyond the palace walls, perhaps in the vastness of Dorne. Was he angry at her for not giving him a son like Elia gave her husband?

As the day wore on, Melara's concern deepened. She considered seeking the counsel of trusted advisers or enlisting the help of the guards to find Oberyn. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on her shoulders, and the echoes of Ysilla's words about being a supportive wife reverberated in her mind. Melara had no intention to disappoint her husband or mother by law.

In the fading daylight, Melara finally decided to retire herself in one of her quarters and quilt with her maids. Her footsteps echoed in the corridors as she retraced her path to the solar. Upon entering, she found a silent bedroom with no one but Lys, preparing a new dress for her lady. Over her table, a letter rested with the Targaryen sigil, her expression a mixture of concern and frustration.

"My lady," Lys bowed at her, "I was preparing your dress for the feast. Is it of your liking?" She asked.

Melara looked up, her eyes reflecting the same worry that clouded Melara's thoughts. She looked at the yellow dress made of Pentosi silk. "It is perfectly fine, Lys. Where are Megga and Melessa?"

"They are preparing your next bath, my lady." Her fingertips passed by the soft paper and grabbed it, showing it to her handmaiden. "Oh, it came from King’s Landing for you, my lady. Must be your good sister, Princess Elia."

Her lips slightly curved up on a timid smile, slowly opening the envelope.

My good sister,

It occurred to me I have never written to you before and I feel in need to pay you my pardon. Life in court is rather agitated and I have been attending so many events I can barely write to my loved ones. How has life in Dorne been so far? I hope you and Oberyn are building a strong relationship together. I am writing this to you in hope we can maintain contact with each other, for I hold you dear in my heart as my good sister.

I imagine it is already your acknowledgement that I am with child, once mother must be jumping to the clouds in happiness with this news. But allow me to share a secret with you - I am deeply frightened with the prospect of childbirth. I confide in you these words as a manner to bond with you. Please, do not tell this to Oberyn nor mother, they are overprotective of me due to my weak health. But the Gods are good and I will provide Rhaegar healthy babies. As for you, my lady, I am truly praying day and night you provide my brother with a nephew or niece to call it mine. I wonder if they would go to his dornish traits or your Hightower appearance. It would be beautiful either way.

Please, write me back. I would be overjoyed to have you as my friend.

With love,

Princess Elia Martell of Dragonstone.

Melara caressed the paper, caringly reading the words Elia wrote her. Apparently, both of them had the same thought and exchanged letters at the same time and the princess thought of it as a funny coincidence.

"Lys, fetch me a paper and a feather, please." Melara asked, sitting at her chair graciously. Once the handmaiden handed her everything she asked, the princess started writing in response, writing about the coincidences and how she is happy to maintain contact with Elia. Melara dipped the feather into the inkwell, her thoughts flowing onto the paper. She described the day's events, the joyous news of Elia's impending motherhood, and the challenges that seemed to envelope Sunspear in an air of uncertainty. As she wrote, the quill glided over the parchment with a fluid grace, capturing the intricacies of her emotions.

Dread settled back in Melara's chest as the letter was sent away. The complexities of her marriage with Oberyn seemed to intensify, and the challenges they faced loomed larger than ever. Her mind always returned to the thought of Oberyn raging for the failure of her womb in giving him a child. Her mind recollected places where her husband could be, she wanted to show him she could be a dutiful wife, not a disappointment, like her stepmother always made sure to remember her. She was terrified of feeling his rage again and scared she could never accomplish her only goal: give House Martell heirs. Ever since she installed herself in Sunspear, Oberyn never mysteriously disappeared without warning and it made her anxious, nervous. Once more, the scene of the day she left King’s Landing replayed in her mind. Why was Oberyn so upset with all things related to Elia and Prince Rhaegar? Why did he cry and gazed at her as if she was his lover? Why did he not receive the news well?

After getting bathed and dressed by Lys, she faced herself in the mirror and her hands slowly roamed her empty belly. How could she desire something so much she was deeply scared of? She grew up being groomed into faith. All her marital intenders gave up on her, Lady Rhea always told her posture was odd, her sombre expression was sombre and she was too skinny to bear children. Lynesse, Alysanne, Denyse, Leyla, Alerie and even Malora, who was a mind sickled woman, was considered more well built in body to have children in Rhea’s eyes. That is why they arranged good marriages sooner. She prayed to the Gods to answer her why her fate suddenly changed. Melara yearned to return to faith, to take care of people and just forget the eternal mess she is. The poor would never see her odd behaviour or her failures, they would only see someone helping them. That is what she yearned, to be nothing, to disappear.

"You look mesmerising, my princess." Lys appeared behind her, gently patting her shoulder and facing her through the mirror with a gentle smile that faded immediately after realising the sorrow on Melara’s face. "Is there something wrong, Princess? Is the dress not of your liking?"

Her eyebrows furrowed and she shook her head quickly. "No… I just… do you believe I am being punished for being who I am?"

"What greater sin such a lady, a princess like you could commit to be punished, Lady Melara?" Lys asked, wiping a single tear falling from her eyes. "Are you still sad because you’re not with child, my lady?" Lys cautiously looked at her lady with disbelief and noticed her hand resting over her womb. Her hands covered Melara’s womb, taking the hands of the princess away from it. "No… never, princess. You’re a good woman, rather serious but kind, a pious woman."

Melara sighed, the weight on her shoulders feeling a bit lighter with Lys's reassurance. She appreciated the loyalty and support of her handmaiden, but the lingering doubts about her worth as a wife and her ability to fulfil her duties gnawed at her.

"I fear I disappoint Oberyn," Melara confessed, her gaze dropping to the floor. "He's a man of passion, and I fear my inability to give him an heir might wake his anger up again."

Lys tightened her grip on Melara's hands, offering a warm and reassuring smile. "Princess, love is not solely measured by the number of heirs. Prince Oberyn cares for you deeply," she said, slightly facing the bruise on her left arm. "And I'm sure he understands the details of such matters. Your worth goes beyond bearing children."

Melara squeezed her hands and gently left Lys behind, ignoring her question. "My lady, you will be with children, I know it." Lys assured her, wrapping her arms around Melara in a comforting embrace. The softness of Lys's touch offered a momentary respite from the weight of Melara's anxieties.

"But what if I'm not meant to have children, Lys?" Melara whispered, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "What if I am truly cursed? My stepmother always said I brought misfortune to those around me."

Lys held Melara at arm's length, meeting her gaze with unwavering sincerity. "You are not cursed, my lady. Your stepmother's words are baseless. We all have our trials, but you are strong, and the Gods have a plan for you."

Melara managed a faint smile, touched by Lys's unwavering support. The handmaiden took Melara's hands in hers, a gesture of solidarity. "We face the unknown together, my princess. Perhaps the Gods have a different path for you, one that leads to happiness and fulfilment."

Melara's thoughts were a tempest of uncertainty. The mirror reflected not just her external beauty but also the internal turmoil she wrestled with. She couldn't shake the fear that Oberyn's absence was somehow connected to her inability to fulfil her role as a wife and mother. The echoes of her stepmother's disparaging words haunted her, the scars of past rejections etched into the fabric of her being. As they exited the chambers, the soft glow of the evening sun painted the corridors in warm hues. The palace seemed to hold its breath as Melara made her way toward the grand hall, accompanied by the soft rustle of her gown and the gentle footsteps of Lys behind her.

Lys spoke with a tone of reassurance, "My lady, you have a duty to yourself. Worry not about what others may think or say. Your worth is not determined by your ability to bear children."

Melara nodded, appreciating the sincerity in Lys’ words. The corridors echoed with the resonance of their footsteps as they moved towards the heart of Sunspear. The grand hall loomed ahead, its vastness symbolising the weight of responsibility that rested on Melara's shoulders.

Upon entering the grand hall, Melara's eyes scanned the room for any sign of Oberyn. The courtiers conversed in hushed tones, their attention momentarily drawn to the princess's entrance. The air was thick with the fragrance of candles and the distant aroma of a meal being prepared.

Ysilla, seated at the head of the long table, looked up with a mix of concern and curiosity as Melara entered. "My dear, you grace us with your presence. Is everything well?"

Melara curtsied, her movements graceful yet weighted with the burden she carried. "I am searching for Oberyn, my lady. Have you seen him?"

Ysilla's brows furrowed slightly, concern deepening in her eyes. "No, my dear. He has not returned since this morning. I thought he might be with you."

A cold shiver ran down Melara's spine, but she forced a composed smile. "No, my lady. I have yet to find him. I wished to join him for the banquet in Elia’s honour."

Ysilla’s eyes seemed numb for a moment as she did in the morning when they first spoke about Oberyn. She sighed and dismissed the black haired handmaiden escorting the young princess. "Come with me and sit by the table. Tonight we must celebrate. I am sure that my lordling son is well and safe somewhere as I already commanded the guards to search for them."

Melara nodded and agreed, trying to hide how tense she was. Sitting by the table, she wasn’t interested in eating or drinking wine and just retreated back, watching people cheer and feast for the new babe in Elia’s womb. Melara often wonders if they will celebrate and fuss over when she presents them a child. Maybe they would, but only because their father is Oberyn, their equal in skin, mind and bravery. No one would notice her, she knew it quite too well. Feeling invisible when you are supposed to be seen is even worse than painting yourself invisible by purpose.

Ysilla stood up and raised her cup and toasted. "I would like to raise a toast for my beloved Elia, who secured an heir for her husband and our bloodline on the Iron Throne. Cheers!" She exclaimed and everyone, including Melara, raised their cups to celebrate Elia. But then, the sounds of the crystal cups and cheering from the court were muffled by a loud bang coming from the entrance of the Great Hall. Oberyn walked the hall sweaty and grinning snarkily, the court remained in silence and Melara could hear the sound of her heart beat ripping off her skin.

"Why do I see so many silent mouths on an allegedly auspicious night?" Oberyn questioned, spinning around to see everyone, who little by little returned to raise their glasses and drink. "You," He yelled at the group of singers. "Start the song all over again." He commanded and so they complied, smiling to see the girls dancing with their respectives pairs and his mother going back to her peaceful mood. "And you," he now said to Melara. "Come dance with me."

Melara stood up and left the table, disconcerted. Oberyn usually smelled like fresh fruits and vanilla at times, but right there he had a musky scent mixed with a strong wine. His hand gently led her to the dance floor, where he began to dance with him. She feared he was mad at her, once she knew his rage could always be hidden under a well put smirk.

"Husband." Melara said and bowed at him before they started dancing.

"Wife." He replied, bringing her a bit closer and she could look him in the eyes.

The intensity in Oberyn's gaze sent shivers down Melara's spine, his eyes holding a mixture of emotions that she couldn't quite decipher. As they danced, the rhythm of the music seemed to mirror the unspoken tension between them. The court watched the prince and princess with polite interest, their conversations subdued as they observed the couple. The musicians played a lively tune, but the atmosphere surrounding Melara and Oberyn held an undercurrent of unpredictability.

Oberyn led Melara through the dance, his movements commanding yet strangely fluid. The fabric of Melara's gown rustled softly as they swayed to the music, the proximity between them both thrilling and unnerving.

"Your absence was felt, husband," Melara ventured, her voice steady despite the apprehension that knotted her stomach.

Oberyn's smirk deepened, and he spun her gracefully. "I had urgent matters to attend to, my lady. Duty calls even in moments of celebration."

Melara couldn't shake the feeling that there was more beneath the surface, that his absence had a significance he chose not to disclose. As they twirled around the dance floor, the courtiers discreetly observed the couple, trying to gauge the dynamics of their relationship.

The dance continued, and Melara felt a mix of emotions — the desire to understand Oberyn's mood, the fear of his unspoken anger, and the longing for the unity they once shared. The courtly facade they wore hid the complexities of their marriage, and each step of the dance seemed to echo the intricacies of their intertwined destinies.

"Was it an official event? Why wasn't I summoned to accompany you?" Melara asked, slightly worried her presence was useless.

Oberyn laughed lightly. "Because it was outside the city gate, my lady. I don’t think it is appropriate for you yet."

"Why not?" Melara questioned, trying her best to be polite.

"Do you want to meet Planky Town, my lady?" Oberyn squeezed her waist and Melara noticeably sighed to his touch, an expression Oberyn noticed quite too well.

"Yes. I will be their lady someday, it could be good for them to see me." She muttered, passing her fingertips over the fabric of his tunic. Her eyes, however, were still not able to disguise all the mental unease Melara felt during the day and the sadness over the iminent jealousy she fought against.

"Then I promise to take you. We can buy you new dresses and fabrics for your future features when you bear our children."

Melara looked down and stumbled on his feet, making both stop dancing that moment. Her eyes flickered with a mixture of embarrassment and a shadow of pain. The mention of bearing children, a topic that had become a persistent source of unease between them, hung heavily in the air. Her gaze met Oberyn's, and the intensity of their locked eyes conveyed a silent understanding. The mention of bearing children hung in the air like an unspoken truth that lingered between them.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Oberyn said softly, his tone a touch more tender than usual. He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze more closely.

"Oberyn…" Melara hesitated, searching for the right words to express the internal turmoil that had plagued her all day.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, his expression unwavering. "Speak your mind, Melara. I value honesty."

Melara took a deep breath. "You disappeared today because you were angry with me?"

Oberyn's face went from soft to puzzled, and he cupped her cheek gently. "Why would I be angry with you, my lady?"

Melara bit her lips, trying to gather her thoughts and express her feelings. "Princess Ysilla told me you did not receive the news well…"

Oberyn stood silent for a while, looking away from her with a hint of regret, sadness in his eyes. "Do you fear I am angry with you because Elia is with child and you are not?"

Melara took a deep breath. "I fear your expectations, Oberyn. I fear failing you. I want to be what you need, but the pressure... the pressure is suffocating. I yearn to be the lady you need, but I can't ignore the weight of these expectations."

"Melara… some things are just beyond my understanding. But I assure you none of it is your fault. You are not defined by the expectations of others. Nor should you be bound by the expectations you assume I have. We are partners, and your well-being should matters more to me than any perceived duty." Gently, Oberyn caressed the bruise over her fair skin and took a breath before speaking. "I am not being a good person to you and it brings me deep shame. Which is odd for me, because before I met you, I never experienced this."

A mix of relief and vulnerability flashed across Melara's features. "You could be worse. You could be cruel, you could yell at me for my foolishness… you could be old or force yourself on me. You’re a good man, Oberyn." Melara said, staring at the others dancing around them. "I wish to be a good wife to you, Oberyn. But my dreams are haunted by this constant fear of not meeting the expectations placed upon me."

Oberyn sighed, his thumb tracing soothing circles on her cheek. "You are not alone in this, Melara. I want to be better for you and right all the wrongs I did to you because you do not deserve any of it. Let go of the fear, my lady. But if you wish for a child, then we must conceive one." He grinned lightly while brushing his finger on her chin, approaching slowly and carefully. When she thought he would kiss her lips, he kissed her forehead and the prospect of being kissed in public suddenly became acceptable.

Melara nodded, her expression a blend of gratitude and uncertainty. The music resumed, and Oberyn guided her in a renewed dance. The courtiers, ever observant, continued to steal glances at the couple, their curiosity evident in the way they discreetly murmured to one another.

As they danced, Melara couldn't shake the feeling that there were layers to Oberyn's words, nuances that eluded her understanding. The promise of visiting Planky Town, the mention of future children — they were threads in the complex tapestry of their shared destiny.

The night wore on, the festivities continuing around them. The laughter, music, and clinking of glasses filled the Great Hall, but for Melara, there lingered a sense of alleviation. She longed for safety that transcended the formalities of courtly life.

When the dance finally concluded, Oberyn led Melara away from the crowd, toward the high table, where both could no longer see Ysilla. Apparently, she retired after being stilted by a sudden illness. Maybe it would be the large amount of wine the princess mother had drank all night.

"Melara," Oberyn began, his voice a murmur in the still night air. "I believe it is time for us to try and conceive our child once more."

Melara nodded, a mixture of apprehension and determination in her eyes. She braced herself and clung on his arms clumsily, fiddling her fingers nervously. As they walked into the moonlit gardens, the shadows whispered of untold stories, and the night held the promise of truths that could reshape the path of their relationship.

As they entered Oberyn’s private quarters, Melara trembled to the thought of having intimacy, even after being married. As their lips met in an intense kiss, Oberyn felt a surge of desire coursing through him. The air in the room was thick with anticipation as he pushed the door shut behind them, enveloping them in a cocoon of lust. The flickering candlelight cast shadows that danced across the walls, adding to the comforting atmosphere.

Oberyn's hands traced the curves of his wife’s body, revelling in the warmth and softness that had been absent from their marriage. The princess responded with a fervour that matched his own, her fingers deftly working to undo the intricate clasps of Oberyn's garments, which surprised him. The room echoed with the rustling of fabric and the quiet sounds of their shared passion.

In that intimate space, Melara allowed herself to be fully present, free from the constraints of duty, the weight of responsibility and guilt over any sin she committed. It was a stolen moment, a secret liaison that fueled the fire within him. He murmured in her ear pleading for apologies almost as if it was a prayer, desperately kissing her. At the same time he was so consumed by desire, Melara felt him so vulnerable… even regretful? She felt the sorrow in his voice. Mayhaps, the disappearance could have done something to change his mind about Melara.

“Do you consent me to fuck you?” He asked, darkening his eyes as he revealed his bare chest. Melara simply nodded, allowing him to come closer and squeeze her arse, which caused goosebumps and a soft moan leaving her lips with the sudden move.

As they tumbled onto the bed, Melara’s mind was a whirlwind of sensations. The scent of her perfume mingled with the musky aroma of the room, and the silkiness of her skin under his fingertips sent shivers down his spine. The prince surrendered himself to the intoxicating blend of pleasure and compassion for each other.

The night unfolded in a symphony of passion and vulnerability, each stolen touch and shared breath etching a memory that would linger long after their bodies parted ways. In the quiet aftermath, as they lay entwined in the dishevelled sheets, Oberyn couldn't help but wonder about what caused her husband to act towards her this way after so many altercations.

When he placed over her, Melara could see the drops of sweat mixing with his long, wavy hair. Oberyn got silent and stood still for a moment, caressing her face as she spread her legs to make entrance for him.

“I want you to ride me, my lady.” The request made Melara blush deeply and her cheeks burned with the unusual request.

Melara hesitated for a moment, her eyes locking with Oberyn's intense gaze. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow on the scene, accentuating the question mark clear in her eyes, still questioning when Oberyn turned into a caring person towards her and desire in their eyes. She could feel her heart racing, torn between the familiarity of her marriage and the allure of the forbidden.

Oberyn, still caressing her face gently, whispered, "Trust me, Melara. I want you to experience pleasure like you've never known." His voice was a seductive murmur, coaxing her to surrender to the intoxicating dance of desire.

With a nervous nod, Melara shifted her position, straddling Oberyn as he lay beneath her. The air in the room thickened with anticipation as she slowly lowered herself onto him. A mix of pleasure and discomfort crossed her face, but Oberyn's hands on her hips guided her movements, creating a rhythm that merged their bodies in a sensual dance.

As the union deepened, Melara's initial hesitation melted away, replaced by a growing hunger for the pleasures Oberyn promised. The room echoed with the sounds of their passion, a symphony of gasps and moans that mingled with the rhythmic creaking of the bed.

Oberyn's lips sought hers, and their kisses became a fusion of longing and surrender. In that intimate moment, the boundaries between them blurred, and the world outside ceased to exist. Melara discovered a side of herself she had never known, a realm of pleasure that transcended the constraints of societal expectations.

The physical connection between Oberyn and Melara became a manifestation of their unspoken desires, a silent rebellion against the confines of duty and tradition. In that unexpected encounter, they discovered a new form of intimacy that left them both breathless and wanting.

As the night wore on, the walls of the room seemed to absorb the echoes of their passion until the undeniable climax reached them both as waves crashed rocks in the sea. Melara laid by his side and as usual, she would sleep turning her back at him, however, Oberyn pulled her close to his chest and therefore, both could look into each other’s eyes. Melara was still ashamed for all the pleasure she felt, but this is what she was supposed to feel now? Pleasure and bliss? Melara thought it was about time to be more welcoming to new feelings as Oberyn gave signals of a sudden change.

Melara slept peacefully in his arms and allowed to hold her close, the rhythmic beating of his heart acting as a lullaby that soothed her ears. In the quiet aftermath, the moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow over their entwined forms.

Oberyn's fingers traced gentle patterns on her back as they lay in each other's arms. His eyes, filled with a mixture of tenderness and understanding, met Melara's gaze. There was a newfound intimacy in that shared moment, a bridge built between them that went beyond the physical. Finally, a strange warmth in her heart hit her once she had a big realisation: she wasn’t a disappointment nor felt like one for Oberyn. Still, the ruminations of what caused this sudden change lingered her mind and followed her to her sleep.

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