#the last poet in westeros

[the-last-poet-in-westeros]

Each Targaryen has its own sun and moon

PreASOIAF coloring page. Rhaegar Targaryen and his wives. If you color and want to share the result, be sure to tag me in your post.

@eliaxrhaegar @love-dragoneyes @forcesmuggler @irisewithsunyourisewiththemoon @xx--ofmanythoughts--xx @valyrianpoem @asoiafrarepairs @asongofrhaegar @asoiafwomensource @thelastdragonsnet @songs-of-love-and-doom

[blue-rose-of-wolves]

@love-dragoneyes @dorneandthenorth @sayruq

@thelastdragonsnet @libby-the-lion @princessofdragonsandwolves @irisewithsunyourisewiththemoon

@asoiafrarepairs @houseofjaqen

@asoiaffanart-blog @valyrianpoem

@asoiafwomensource @valyriansilk

[the-golden-viper-of-dorne]

[ilreleonewikiart]

The Doom in our Blood comes Back: The three daughters of Queen's Rhaenyra

Notwithstanding, I posit that it is appropriate to formally present the remaining trio of the progeny of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, who despite their gender and age, emerged as prime protagonists in the political landscape of Westeros, garnering comparable, if not greater, significance than their elder brothers.

[...]

The last of the Queen's three daughters, and the elder by a few minutes, is the one we know the most about.

 Numerous stories and ballads have been crafted about Princess Baela Targaryen, both during and after her life, and a plethora of rumours—some true, others false—have circulated regarding her personality and demeanour. Despite the embellishments of poets, numerous portraits confirm the tales of her striking beauty.

Unlike her twin sister Rhaena, who predominantly inherited their mother's delicate features, Princess Baela possessed more defined and slightly angular features, reminiscent of her formidable father, Prince Daemon. While the two twins were initially indistinguishable as children, in adulthood, their features diverged.

 Although both were uncommonly beautiful, the charm they radiated was distinctly different.

If Princess Rhaena's features were harmonious and sweet, resembling a flower, Princess Baela's were notably sharper and more defined—keen as knives, mirroring the magnetic and intense gaze that revealed her every intention, even the most violent. Another striking resemblance to her father Daemon—and occasionally her uncle Aemond—was the profile of her nose, subtly more prominent and sinuous than her sisters', resembling the profile of a dragon. This feature became even more pronounced after Uncle Aemond, during a tournament in 137 A.D., struck her with the hilt of his sword, breaking her nasal bridge, and leading to an uneven and irreparable alteration of its shape.

[...]

Princess Rhaena Targaryen, a figure of prominence on the political scene of Westeros, had previously been introduced, having wed her mother's half-brother at the tender age of sixteen, elevating her to the esteemed position of Lady of Oldtown.

Despite the near-identical appearance she shared with her twin sister Baela during their youth, Rhaena's features evolved into a distinct manifestation of delicate feminine beauty, gifts of her mother. Her rounded and soft cheekbones, complemented by large, round eyes with lighter pupils, defined a countenance captured in numerous paintings adorning the Hightower. A small, upward nose and a tiny, pulpy mouth completed her exquisite profile, a testament to her captivating allure.

Intelligent and shrewd like her brother Viserys, Rhaena concealed her thoughtful nature with affability, recognizing societal biases against thoughtful women. Differing from her twin, she exhibited patience and conciliation, relying on charm rather than coercion. This adeptness in politics and scheming, combined with natural talents in diplomacy, surpassed even her brother's, who ascended to the role of Hand at twenty.

[...]

As per her father Daemon's account, Princess Visenya stood out as the one who, among all his progeny alongside Aegon, most closely resembled his wife, Queen Rhaenyra. This remarkable similarity became increasingly apparent as the young princess blossomed into womanhood, earning her the moniker of Rhaenyra's long-lost twin among courtiers.

During that era, the prevailing belief among the Seven Kingdoms' nobility held that the young Visenya, with her sweet and flawless features, beautifully golden locks, soft rosy cheeks, and petite, fleshy allure, was indeed the most captivating maiden in all of Westeros. This sentiment persisted even in comparison to her two elder sisters, who also possessed a charm uncommon to everyone.

A distinctive feature setting the youngest of Queen Rhaenyra’s children apart was her eyes, showcasing two different colors; the right one a darker violet than the left. This rare characteristic, while not as uncommon as one might think, especially among the Royal family, had also been present in her late grandmother, Princess Alyssa, and her young cousin Baelor of Harrenhal.

During infancy, Visenya was described as a plump and robust child, but with the onset of puberty, her figure transformed into one more slender and graceful. Nevertheless, she remained notably petite compared to Baela and Rhaena, with a prosperous bosom, though not on par with her mother's.

The young princess gained notoriety for her unusual fondness for crows and ravens, treating them with the care and attention typically reserved for more conventional pets, in stark contrast to her courtly companions who favoured smaller dogs or stoats. Throughout her life, she kept only three crows – Maemarr, Virys, and Garaerys – housed in an elaborate gold cage within her chambers, each named after characters from her beloved Valyrian poem.

Described as a vivacious and amiable girl, Visenya possessed an easy manner of speech and a gentle, sweet voice. However, some accounts noted occasional displays of immature and childish behaviour, potentially linked to her privileged upbringing. Nevertheless, on crucial occasions, she demonstrated the ability to adopt a serious and resolute demeanour.

-from TDIOBCB on AO3

[noeverse]

Excerpts from Master Glyadyn from Fire and Blood regarding Lady Aurynn Mormont:

«Despite having given birth at the young age of three and ten, Lady Aurynn kept her striking figure, although her breasts would grow plumpier and he hips widened after Princess Visenya's birth. Throughout her tenure as Crown Princess of Dragonstone, she would wear similar fashion to her mother-in-law, Queen Rhaenyra, with black and red dresses, with rich blue brocades of the Velaryon colour, her jewels were as shiny as the moon itself, her hands elegantly possessing the most beautiful rings, all gifts from their neighbours. Her hair was strikingly long, down till her knees, and richly thick and as soft and brilliant as a fine Lyseni silk, with elaborate updos, coiffed at the sides of her head and then down with the famous Northern braids, decorated with delicate gold, and a gorgeous tiara that her father-in-law, Prince Daemon, gifted her upon her wedding, with gold and lavender. It is said that all trace of girlhood left the young lady upon the birth of her daughter, whom she draped in gorgeous and expensive Myrish lace, a beautiful seahorse necklace made of gold and sapphire, gifted by Lord Corlys Velaryon and she had an austere expression, her lovely russet eyes that were once full of life now with mistrust and calculating, as if she knew what the price of such gruesome war. Even before being a widow, she was a demanded beauty, for her beauty, intelligence and lively presence had woken suitors from the North to even Dorne and Qarth, and it is said that minor and major houses of Westeros tripped over each other so their sons could wed Princess Rhaenyra's most precious and fierce jewel. Even when she wed not once, but twice more, men would go as far as to duel one another for her hand. Poets wrote extensive poems about her beauty and her prowess as a political figure in Westeros, the best seamstresses and tailors begged the lady to dress their silks, the Smallfolk sung songs of her fascinating life and knights dropped on their knees for her favour in battle. Many whispered that the only men who did not see to adore and respect her as a woman and as a wife were her next two husbands, Lord Cregan and Lord Alyn, who'd both be unfaithful to her. The only objection anyone ever had of the Lady Aurynn was of how close she was to Princess Visella, perhaps too close to sin than mere female companionship. Even at sixty, she still had some of her youth's beauty and aged like the finest of wines, even if she had become plumpier from each child she bore, and wrinkles and grey hairs came, it is said that a young, aspiring poet kissed her hand and named her 'she whose beauty never fades away' and artists later painted her as the personification of spring. Lord Cregan Stark, to whom she had been divorced for nearly three decades, won the painting from Lord Royce in a duel and hung it on his personal rooms. It is said that he gazed at the portrait and lamented one more time not having valued 'His most precious Lynn' before drawing his last breath. Skillful in dancing as well as fighting, hosting the wives of her vassals as she commanded their husbands in the Night's Watch and other battles that would ensue, there is no denying that her influence marked an important time in Westeros, and leaves behind a legacy that surely many little girls will be eager to follow.»

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #46: Bequeathed from Pale Estates, but HotD

My absolute favorite GoT fic is Bequeathed from Pale Estates by Author376, wherein f!Jon Snow gains a soulmate in Oberyn Martell and inadvertently destabilizes the delicate balance of power in Westeros by going south. There are a variety of reasons for this, from the remarkable characterizations and extensions of GRRM's world building, to the real and visceral plot, to my undying love for female Jon Snow fics.

So it was perhaps inevitable I'd eventually use it as a jumping off point for HotD fic. Or: What if Aemond and Lucerys were soulmates?

aka the As The Poets Say fic

Just imagine it:

First, imagine an AU that plays by Bequeathed from Pale Estates soulmate rules. Which is to say: soulmates are rare, undeniable, holy, and as much romance as divine retribution. It’s an honor to be marked, but there’s always the undercurrent of our marriage is healing a blood feud as there is in so many noble medieval weddings. Children of these marriages are always legitimate, as the soulmates can bed no other.

Second, imagine that Aemond and Lucerys were on the lower end of believability when Laena Valeryon dies - say nine and seven respectively - to make the whole thing as traumatic as possible.

And so, seven years to the day after Aemond loses his eye and gains a dragon, Aemond gains a soulmark, utterly ruining his grandfather's plans to marry him off to one of Borros Baratheon's daughters.

It should be obvious from the start that his other half is Lucerys Velaryon - the entwined red and silver dragons really limit the options - but Otto and Alicent manage to convince themselves otherwise until Rhaenyra shows up at the Red Keep with her family.

Luke, having put two and two together and gotten four immediately, tries to hide his mark. He may have had a ridiculous crush on his uncle since he was old enough to want anything, but that doesn't change the fact that Aemond hates him for taking his eye. He manages it for all of three weeks before being found out, which is honestly more than anyone could have imagined any of his plans working.

Viserys is naturally overjoyed and orders a wedding to rival the Golden Wedding.

(It is called the Rose Wedding, for the absurd number of red and black roses that decorate King's Landing for the seven days of the celebration. Part of the royal gardens are even replanted with these roses and is called Lucerys' Garden by later generations despite the fact Aemond spent far more time there.)

The rest of his family is less pleased. The Greens claim the soul marks are reparations for the loss of Aemond's eye, while the Blacks claim it is restitution for Viserys choosing to wed Alicent Hightower over Laena Valeryon.

As for Aemond and Luke? Their relationship should start off on a really unhealthy note, with Aemond thinking to seduce Luke - who he knows has always had feelings for him - over to the Greens. That plan doesn't last long, as it's very hard for Aemond to stay on plot when Luke 1) apologizes for the eye, 2) swears to be a good husband, and 3) carries out a really impressive charm offensive.

Dealer's choice if Luke's actions are his own attempt to seduce Aemond to the Blacks or if he's just that gone over his uncle.

Meanwhile their marriage should force the Greens and the Blacks to confront their differences before Viserys' death brings them to war. This should be a fraught process, the highlight of which should be Aemond killing Otto in an unconscious echo of Ser Criston's murder of Joffrey Lonmouth after his grandfather says something unsavory about his soulmate at a public event.

The Dance of Dragons is avoided - in part because of Otto's death, in part because Aegon II's vices manage to kill him not long after.

After Aegon's death, Aemond and Luke help Helaena raise her children, even going so far as to adopt them as their heirs. Some historians claim the three children she gave birth to later in life were fathered by one or the other regardless of the soul marks that make such thing impossible, though others claim their father was Alyn Velayron. Helaena herself always claims they are Aegon II's children, regardless of the many years between his death and her younger children's births.

Bonuses include: 1) The world's most awkward wedding night, in which there is no sex but a lot of uncomfortable conversation. This should be made more awkward by the fact that Luke and Aemond clearly find each other attractive, but Luke refuses to sleep with someone who hates him and Aemond not quite knowing how to go about his seduction plan; 2) The slowest of slow burns - it should be at least a year after their wedding that Aemond admits to trusting, let alone liking, Luke - with love only coming when both parties realize they don't have to play the roles their mothers made for them; 3) Murder as House Targaryen's love language; and 4) Alicent and Rhaenyra never quite regaining the closeness they had as children, but slowly coming to the realization that they are not each other's enemies, but made into such by the parochial, patriarchal society they live in, and that the only way to ensure their children don't repeat the cycle is to break the system. It's incredibly slow going, but starts the feminism ball rolling in Westeros.

And that's all I really have, though there is a lot one could do with this idea depending on how much plot and/or awkwardness one wants to get into. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you chose to do anything with it.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

[gael-hightower]

TWO HEROES OF ALAYM

As faithful followers of the Faith of the Seven, Leyton and Gael Hightower travelled to Andalos for the Crusade of Alaym. The middle Hightower brother never wielded a sword or any weapon of any kind, yet marched straight into the field of battle, wearing chainmail and the holy symbol of the Seven to do his gods' work. The youngest of the Hightower brothers donned the armor with his house sigil and bravely fought alongside the faithful men of Westeros who pushed back against the taking of Alaym. The man who gained recognition as a poet continued to build upon his reputation as a skilled warrior after the war with the Ironborn, further cementing himself as a worthy swordsman. After the first weeks of battle, the Hightower brothers were deemed heroes for their respective roles in that crusade, standing as symbols of bravery and men loyal to the Seven, surviving what so many did not. Gael wrote to their mother, Lady Simonetta Hightower, to give a brief report and assure her that her two distant sons still lived. By the time the raven reached Oldtown, however, the dowager lady had already heard the news about the deeds of Leyton and Gael, as songs and pieces of news about all the warriors in Alaym had already started to reach Westeros. While on the voyage back to the Reach, Gael composed an epic poem of a thousand stanzas about his brother Leyton, a most unlikely hero, yet one who deserved his legendary stand in Alaym to be commemorated. He titled the poem “He who speaks with the voice of the gods”, detailing all stages of Leyton's presence in Alaym, from his arrival, his unfaltering stance of avoiding violence to do the gods' work, the encouraging speeches he gave to the men in the camps, and his last stand prior to the return to Westeros.

( @leytonhightower )

[the-last-poet-in-westeros]

https://justpaste.it/rhaegar

Stary Wujek Regał postanowił zabrać głos w biesiadnej zabawie, jaką jest Wieczorek Szczerości i odpowiedzieć na kilka pytań. Ask przestał istnieć, więc i justpaste wydaje się być już passé. Na szczęście tutaj, na Tumbrl można odpowiadać bez ograniczeń.

𝕺𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖓𝖎 𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖙𝖆 𝖂𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖘

1. Czy twoja miłość do Lyanny była warta całej krwi przelanej przez nią?

Moje relacje z Lyanną były motywowane przede wszystkim proroctwami.

Nie przeczę, że wilczyca potrafiła swoją dziką naturą wzniecić niejeden pożar. W naszym przypadku płonął cały kraj. Głęboko wierzyłem, że nasz związek był koniecznym krokiem na drodze do spełnienia przepowiedni o Księciu, Którego Obiecano. Nie wyobrażałem sobie przyszłości u jej boku jako czegoś, co miało mi przynieść osobiste szczęście – raczej jako obowiązek, który miał zapewnić lepszy los dla świata, a Elia nie była w stanie dać mi więcej dzieci, tymczasem smok powinien mieć trzy głowy. Zawsze.

Gdybyśmy mieli więcej czasu, zapewne zrozumiałbym, że moje działania były błędem i że moje miejsce było u boku Elii i naszych dzieci.

2.       Gdybyś mógł przekazać jedno przesłanie swoim dzieciom, co by to było?

Moje drogie dzieci, pamiętajcie, że nawet najszlachetniejsze intencje muszą być rozważane z rozwagą, zatem nie pozwólcie, aby proroctwa czy ambicje przysłoniły wam to, co naprawdę ważne: miłość, rodzinę i pokój.

(Bardzo złożone, ale jedno zdanie ;) )

3. Czy twoja wiara w proroctwa była twoją największą siłą czy największą słabością?

Moja wiara w proroctwa dawała mi cel i kierunek, ale jednocześnie zaślepiała mnie na rzeczywistość. Była to zarówno siła, która napędzała moje działania, jak i słabość, która prowadziła do tragicznych decyzji.

4. Czy uważasz, że mogłeś być dobrym królem, gdybyś dostał tę szansę?

Wierzę, że miałem potencjał, aby być sprawiedliwym i mądrym w��adcą, przy czym jednocześnie nigdy nie pragnąłem władzy dla siebie.

Żelazny Tron z jego stopionym i mieczami zawsze rzucał cień obłędu i choć królewskie krzesło wydawało się zawsze dostojnym to zapowiadało upadek. Najszczęśliwszym scenariuszem zdaje się być ten na Smoczej Skalę, której atmosfera pasowałaby do mojej melancholii nie mniej niźli ruiny Harrenhal. Kolejny majestat, który zabiera sen z powiek i zdrowy osad.

Czy powinienem być wobec tego władcą, księciem? Moje obsesje i błędne decyzje mogłyby podważyć tę możliwość. Gdybym skupił się na miłości do Elii i naszych dzieci, zamiast gonić za proroctwami, mógłbym poprowadzić królestwo ku lepszej przyszłości, chociażby będąc zwykłym bardem. W końcu pieśń z każdego lochu ucieknie i większą ma moc od zaprzysiężonych mieczy.

5. Co naprawdę oznacza dla ciebie honor?

Honor to dla mnie zgodność z własnymi wartościami i przekonaniami, lojalność wobec...siebie i własnych kategorycznych osądów.

Niestety, moje działania pokazały, że czasami pozwalałem, aby moje przekonania przysłoniły mi to, co naprawdę ważne, prowadząc do niehonorowych decyzji.

6. Czy miłość do Lyanny była silniejsza niż obowiązek wobec twojej rodziny?

Moje relacje z Lyanną były motywowane proroctwami, a nie płomiennym uczuciem. To moja miłość do Elii była prawdziwa i głęboka. Nad obiema niewiastami jak myśl chwały górowało przekonanie o słuszności, niemal boskiej nieomylności. Niestety, pozwoliłem, aby proroctwa wpłynęły na moje decyzje, co zaszkodziło mojej rodzinie.

7. Czy kiedykolwiek żałowałeś swojego wyboru w imię miłości?

Żałuję, że pozwoliłem, aby proroctwa wpłynęły na moje decyzje, zamiast skupić się na miłości do Elii i naszych dzieci. Moje działania doprowadziły do cierpienia wielu osób, w tym tych, których kochałem najbardziej. W efekcie zgasiłem nie tylko miłość, ale i ludzkie istnienia. Uczucia do Elii w obliczu rebelii nie dane mi było umocnić, naprawić. Z kolei uczucia do Lyanny naprawdę rozwinąć.

8. Jak myślisz, czy można kochać więcej niż jedną osobę jednocześnie?

Serce człowieka jest skomplikowane i zdolne do różnych uczuć. Jednak prawdziwa, głęboka miłość wymaga pełnego zaangażowania. Moje doświadczenia pokazują, że próba pogodzenia różnych uczuć może prowadzić do tragedii.

9. Gdybyś mógł powiedzieć Rhaenys i Aegonowi jedną rzecz o miłości, co by to było?

Moje ukochane dzieci, miłość to potężna siła, ale musi być kierowana rozwagą. Nie pozwólcie, aby wasze uczucia prowadziły was do decyzji, które mogą skrzywdzić innych. Szukajcie równowagi między sercem a rozumem.

10. Czy poświęciłbyś koronę, gdyby oznaczało to życie w spokoju u boku ukochanej osoby?

Gdybym mógł cofnąć czas, wybrałbym życie w spokoju u boku mojej żony Elii i naszych dzieci. Korona i proroctwa nie są warte cierpienia tych, których kochamy - z jednej strony. Z drugiej, mój tragizm polegał na tym, że niezależnie jaką decyzję bym podjął lub nie podjął straty i ofiary by się pojawiły.

Mój ojciec mógłby jeszcze długo być na tronie. Król Strup, marionetka. Rebelia miałaby miejsce prędzej czy później, niezależnie od Lyanny - podniosłyby się najpierw głosy możnych przeciw władcy, później prostaczków. Gdyby nie Starkowie i Jon Snow prawda o Białych Wędrówkach mogłaby jeszcze długo zostać wśród bajań starych niań, a zagłada tym samym stałaby się jeszcze bardziej niezapowiedzianą. Czy to lepiej, lata (pozornego) spokoju i niepokój za grubym murem lodu niedopowiedzeń?

Czy niedopowiedzenia znaczą miłość, czy tylko najszczerszą prawda?

11. Jakie było twoje najszczęśliwsze wspomnienie związane z miłością?

Najszczęśliwsze chwile spędziłem z Elią i naszymi dziećmi, grając na harfie i śpiewając dla nich. Ich uśmiechy i radość były dla mnie największym skarbem.

12. Czy miłość jest dla ciebie przeznaczeniem czy wyborem?

Miłość to połączenie przeznaczenia i wyboru. Los może stawiać przed nami pewne osoby, ale to od nas zależy, czy zdecydujemy się podążać za tym uczuciem i jakie decyzje podejmiemy w jego imię.

13. Jak wyobrażałeś sobie życie z Lyanną, gdybyście mieli więcej czasu?

Moje relacje z Lyanną były motywowane proroctwami, a nie prawdziwą miłością.

14. Czy uważasz, że miłość zawsze wymaga poświęceń?

Miłość często wiąże się z poświęceniami, ale nie powinna wymagać rezygnacji z tego, co najważniejsze. Moje doświadczenia pokazują, że nawet największe poświęcenie dla innych prowadzi do tragedii.

15. Gdybyś mógł napisać wiersz o miłości, jaki byłby jego tytuł? Proszę, zaprezentuj go nam.

Pieśń o utraconym słońcu

W cieniu smoków serce me płonie,

Proroctw szept zdradliwy w umyśle brzmi,

Lecz to jej imię wciąż w sercu tkwi.

Miłość do Elii w duszy mej tonie.

Lyanna dziki wiatr zimy przez los mi dany,

Lecz to Elia jest moim słońcem kochanym.

W pogoni za losem zgubiłem drogę,

Teraz w żalu przed wami stoję.

Niech ta pieśń będzie przestrogą dla Was,

By nie porzucać prawdziwej miłości w trudny czas.

Bo choć proroctwa kuszą wizją chwały,

To serce bez miłości jest jak świat cały –

Pusty, zimny, bez życia blasku,

Tylko cień wspomnień w samotnym oklasku.

16. Twoja postać może zabrać dowolną inną postać na randkę, kogo wybiera i dlaczego? Opisz przebieg tej randki, być może powstanie z tego fascynująca fabuła.

Gdybym mógł, zabrałbym moją żonę, Elię Martell, na romantyczny wieczór w ogrodach Wodnych Ogrodów w Dorne. Spacerowalibyśmy pośród kwitnących drzew pomarańczowych, rozmawiając o naszych marzeniach i planach na przyszłość. Następnie usiedlibyśmy przy fontannie, gdzie zagrałbym dla niej na harfie, a jej śmiech i uśmiech byłyby dla mnie największą nagrodą.

17. Czy dobrze całujesz? Czy kiedykolwiek miałeś nieudany pocałunek? Jaki pocałunek zapadł ci w pamięć?

Czyżby ktoś chciał zaznać osobiście smoczych języków na skórze w miłosnej agonii spełnień wsz takich? }:> Uprzedzam, że ogień nie lubi się dzielić. Opieczętowuje. Znaczy trwałe ślady na skórze. Naznacza, aż pod powierzchnię skóry. Nagrodą jest symfonia jęków.

A tak już na serio. Elia zawsze mówiła, że moje pocałunki są pełne czułości i pasji. Najbardziej pamiętam nasz pierwszy pocałunek po ceremonii ślubnej, kiedy to nasze serca biły w jednym rytmie, a przyszłość wydawała się pełna obietnic.

18. Szukasz kogoś do stworzenia wspólnej historii?

Nie wykluczam ich. Chociaż na przestrzeni lat doświadczenie nauczyło mnie, że lepiej trzymać się swoich starych, stałych rozmówców. Z nowymi niestety jest tak, że jeśli romans nie wchodził w grę to porzucali wątki.

Przez lata prowadzenia Rhaegara wiem jedno: drugiego takiego jak ja nie ma, nie było i przypuszczalnie nie będzie na fikcji. Wiem, że skromny jestem niesłychanie ;) i na smocze jaja, błękitne róże tudzież harfę zawsze jest zapotrzebowanie hahaha. A tak na serio widziałem w życiu już różnych Rhaegarów. Niektórzy ze mnie jawnie kopiowali. Zazwyczaj prowadzenie postaci Rhaegara było u nich słomianym zapałem. Nie twierdzę że jestem kryształowy, ale trzeba zaznaczyć, że konto Ostatniego Księcia Westeros miałem jeszcze długo przed pojawieniem się serialu Gry o Tron. Zabawnie było czytać, że niektóre osoby proponujące mi wątek i twierdzące, że czytały książki pytały, czy moja postać to OC.

Z fabuł, które wspominam nader miło to te z Aliserem, Jaimiem, Daenerys (tą pierwszą, najlepszą, która poświęciła dla wskrzeszenia brata swego smoka - pozdrawiam Cię w tym miejscu bez oznaczenia, ponieważ możesz sobie tego nie życzyć, a przeczytasz najlepiej), z Brienne i rzecz jasna z Elią @the-golden-viper-of-dorne Inne sesje opisowe miały potencjał, ale umarły śmiercią naturalną.

Z pewnością staram się być wierny książkom i sobie. Prowadzę Rhaegara w swój własny, unikalny sposób. Nie każdemu to odpowiada i ma prawo. Sam z siebie nie szukam nowych towarzyszy. Jeśli jednak pojawiłoby się jacyś śmiałkowie, w co wątpię - zastrzegam sobie, że 10 razy się zastanowię nim zdecyduję na wątek. Zwyczajnie szkoda mi czasu na coś co miałoby się skończyć fiaskiem. Lepiej ten czas inaczej przeznaczyć. Nie wykluczam jednak ciekawego wątku po dłuższej, naprawdę dłuższej rozmowie odautorskiej i podwawelskiej w ramach wkupnego zamiast młodych dziewic hehe.

Jestem już starym smokiem. Lubię swoją gawrę. I jak to smok lubię mietuzinkowość, inteligencję i wrażliwość, które mnie zaintrygują. Wówczas mogę podjąć się lotu i szybować na skrzydłach fantazji.

19. Twój crush.

Moim jedynym i prawdziwym uczuciem była miłość do mojej żony, Elii z Martellów.

20. Jaki jest Twój ulubiony strój?

Najbardziej ceniłem sobie prostą, ale elegancką tunikę lub płaszcz z obszernym kapturem. Słowem, odzienie zapewniające anonimowość, dzięki czemu mogłem uchodzić za barda.

21. Wyobraź sobie, że wchodzisz do swojego dziecięcego pokoju i siadasz naprzeciwko swej młodszej wersji. Co zapragniesz powiedzieć temu chłopcu?

Jeśli nie będziesz spędzał tyle czasu nad książkami będziesz głupcem, który nie umie żyć tysiącem żyć. Jeśli nie przestaniesz siedzieć nad tymi samymi książkami miliardy istnień zapiszą nowe karty historii inkaustem krwi, który w przyszłości będzie na Twoich rękach. Równowaga między mieczem a harfą jest trudna. W obu musisz opanować drżenie serca, myśli i dłoni.

Choć komponujesz to i tak wygrasz dźwięki, które kiedyś, ktoś przed Tobą nazwał i skomponował. A twórcami tymi były Dzieci Lasu.

22. Ciepłe wspomnienie zimy.

W Wieży Radości zima istniała jedynie we wspomnieniach.

Pamiętam, jak Lyanna opowiadała mi o zimnych nocach w Winterfell, o śniegu skrzypiącym pod końskimi kopytami i lodowych soplach zwisających z blank zamku.

Leżała na łożu, osłabiona, ale w jej oczach wciąż płonął dawny ogień. „Tęsknię za zimą,” powiedziała wtedy cicho, a ja nie wiedziałem, jak jej odpowiedzieć.

W Dorne nie było zimy, tylko palące słońce i ciepły wiatr. Ale w tamtej chwili chciałem dać jej choć odrobinę chłodu Północy – choćby w słowach, choćby w pieśni. Więc sięgnąłem po harfę i zagrałem dla niej melodię, która miała przypomnieć jej dom...

Dom, o którym ja pamiętałem na tyle, że palił mnie żywym ogniem. Zimowy wieczór spędzony z Elią przy kominku w Smoczej Skale. Śnieg padał za oknem, a my, otuleni ciepłymi kocami, czytaliśmy sobie nawzajem poezję i dzieliliśmy się marzeniami o przyszłości.

Tak oto pieśń połączyła wspomnienie z następna chwilą. Różę ze słońcem.

23. Słowa, które echem odbijają się w Twojej duszy.

Miłość jest światłem w mroku proroctw.

24. Co szepcze Twoje serce?

Imię kobiety niesione przez wody Triddentu, kiedy umierałem.

25. Wymień dwie największe pokusy Rhaegara.

Pierwszą pokusą była moja obsesja na punkcie proroctw i przeznaczenia. Drugą – fascynacja Lyanną Stark, wynikająca z przekonania, że jest kluczem do spełnienia tych proroctw.

26. Czym jest dla Twojej postaci prawdziwe piękno?

Prawdziwe piękno to dla mnie wewnętrzna siła i dobroć serca. Elia uosabiała te cechy, będąc pełną empatii i miłością osobą, która potrafiła dostrzec dobro w innych.

27. Słodka chwila zatracenia.

To była noc, gdy po raz pierwszy zagrałem dla Elii pieśń, którą skomponowałem tylko dla Niej.

Świece drżały na wietrze, a dornijskie perfumy unosiły się w powietrzu, mieszając się ze słodkim aromatem wina. Siedziała naprzeciwko mnie, otoczona miękkimi poduszkami, uśmiechając się lekko, choć jej oczy zdradzały zmęczenie.

Kiedy struny harfy wydały pierwsze dźwięki, wszystko inne zniknęło. Byliśmy tylko my, zamknięci w chwili, w której świat przestał istnieć. Śpiewałem dla niej, a ona słuchała – uważnie, z dłonią delikatnie opartą na brzuchu, gdzie nosiła nasze dziecko. Czułem, jak muzyka splata się z biciem naszych serc, jak zanurzamy się w tym, co było prawdziwe – w miłości, która mimo wszystkich przeszkód wciąż istniała.

Gdy skończyłem, podeszła do mnie i pocałowała mnie lekko w czoło. „Jestem twoją pieśnią, Rhaegarze” - wyszeptała, a ja wtedy zrozumiałem, że nigdy nie powinienem szukać melodii gdzie indziej.

Pieśń i pocałunek przerwało odległe wycie wilka, a może raczej wilczycy oraz północny wiatr ruszył stronicę starych woluminów...

28. Co takiego utkwiło Twojej postaci w pamięci? Czego nigdy nie będzie w stanie zapomnieć?

Nigdy nie zapomnę krzyku mojej matki, gdy po raz pierwszy usłyszała przepowiednię o moim przeznaczeniu Nigdy nie zapomnę ojca i jego słów na temat małej Rhaenys. Nigdy nie zapomnę łagodnego dotyku Elii, gdy trzymała naszego nowonarodzonego syna, ani jej smutnych oczu, gdy zrozumiała, że moje myśli błądzą gdzie indziej. Nigdy nie zapomnę dłoni ściskających koronę z zimowych róż aż do krwi, kiedy zdecydowałem się ruszyć w bitwę, zamiast zostać z Lyanną, która nie mogła pogodzić się z wypadkami losu. Nigdy nie zapomnę też krwi na piasku Tridentu, gdy moje ciało poddało się sile młota Roberta Baratheona.

29. Jaki utwór Twoja postać potrafi odtwarzać w kółko? Jakie towarzyszą jej przy tym emocje? O czym myśli?

Utwory są dwa, niezmienne od lat. Emocje są w nich jawne.

Pierwszy.

Drugi.

30. Napisz coś miłego o swoich współtwórcach!

Część z kamratów została już przeze mnie wymieniona. Cóż mogę rzec... Gdyby nie Wy, ta historia nigdy nie nabrałaby takiego kształtu. Tworzycie świat, w którym mogę istnieć poza cieniem błędnych proroctw ;) . Dziękuję wam za to, że pozwalacie mi opowiadać moją wersję tej opowieści – pełną miłości, żalu i prawdy, której świat nigdy nie poznał.

31. Czy zostawiłeś kiedyś jakiś ślad na innej osobie?

Ogniste pocałunki. Pęknięte na dwoje słońce. Płatki niebieski róż zamiast łez.

Zostawiłem ślad w historii Westeros, choć nie taki, jaki chciałem. Byłem niczym nuta w pieśni, która miała ocalić świat, lecz zamiast tego zaprowadziła go na skraj upadku.

32. Jaki masz cel w życiu?

Chciałem być bohaterem proroctwa, które miało przynieść światu nową erę. Teraz wiem, że moim celem powinno być coś innego – ochrona tych, których kochałem. Ale tego celu nie mogę już osiągnąć.

33. Rhaegar, co poprawia Ci humor?

Muzyka. Gra na harfie była moim jedynym schronieniem, miejscem, w którym mogłem być po prostu sobą – nie księciem, nie wojownikiem, nie wybrańcem, lecz poetą.

34. Czy Twój bohater ma jakąś mroczną tajemnicę?

Tak. Moją tajemnicą było to, że nigdy nie byłem pewien, czy rzeczywiście jestem tym, którego proroctwo zapowiadało. W głębi serca bałem się, że popełniłem błąd – że poświęciłem zbyt wiele dla iluzji. I miałem rację.

35. Moodboard

Poniżej.

Ponieważ jakikolwiek bard nie może odejść bez ukłonu, dlatego ja serdecznie się Wam kłaniam i składam swoje uszanowanie za każde pytanie umożliwiające mi udział w zabawie.

Przede wszystkim wielkie brawa dla Valyra @valkyrs-world za inicjatywę i organizację zabawy. Miło było zrzucić stare łuski i rozpostrzeć skrzydła. Głęboki ukłon dla autorów twórczych pytań.

Jeśli chcecie pieśń na bis, być może uda się ją wykonać z okazji następnego Wieczorku Szczerości.

Kłaniam się Rhaegar Targaryen.

[blue-rose-of-wolves]

@shewolflyannastark

[the-golden-viper-of-dorne]

@qyburnsghost @songs-of-love-and-doom @thelastdragonsnet @valyriqn @valyriansilk @princessofdragonsandwolves @valyrianpoem @asoiafrarepairs @asoiafwomensource @asoiaffanart-blog @love-dragoneyes @houseofjaqen @joneryskingdom @forcesmuggler @1nsaankahanhai-bkr @irisewithsunyourisewiththemoon @libby-the-lion

@chemtrailsoverthesun

[the-golden-viper-of-dorne]

This is my fan art! Thank you for re-blog!

https://www.deviantart.com/las-rzeczy/art/Elia-x-Rhaegar-A-song-of-Fire-and-Ice-Sun-775993222

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[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 5

The Commitment

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person), Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand Summary: A choice is made. WC: 5.9K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, soulmate shenanigans, drinking, mentions of food, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), praise kink. Arguing. Yearning. Feelings. Angsty feeling yearning feelings, friends. These two are so in it. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: This is technically the last chapter. There is a brief epilogue I'm going to release at the end of the week. As always, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically.

To be alerted of new writing, please follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

~~Please see dedications at the end~~

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

Part 4 >>> Epilogue

Asked to oblige and engage 

But instead I commit my heart you

I breathe with ease in a choice all my own

And in kind, I hope you meet me there

The depth of the water surrounding Dorne still took her by surprise. She stares out at the sea, trying to track where it ends and the setting sun begins, but the horizon is lost, golden water bleeding up into violet sky. Her vision blurs, rich shades of yellow melting into sparkling blue, everything fading into the background as she loses herself in the wide expanse of it all, her heart sinking faster with each lap of the waves along the sandy shore. 

Oberyn’s confession swirled around and around her heart, a tempest all its own, land locking her at the center of his storm. Her own voice was lost; a peculiarity in its own right, with only calm waters left to meet her quiet gaze. 

She had half expected him to wait outside her door until an answer had been given, the insistence radiating off of him in waves. But he made no move to press her further on the matter, stepping away and allowing her all the time she needed. It seemed speaking his peace aloud was enough to temper his mood. With one last longing look he bid her good night for a second time, leaving her alone at the threshold of her door, only the hammering of her heartbeat to keep time with her staggered breaths. 

The pretense of sleep had been abandoned by sunrise, her restless steps taking her down the corridors of the palace and out to the beach, wide and sweeping, and still not enough. 

Love. He had spoken of love. Concrete and confident and grown out of the time they had taken to know each other. It was more than just a reaction born of soulmates and marriage arrangements. More than but still so entwined, like charcoal fingers tied tightly to his own, jars of paint brighter than any jewel, his eyes on hers as she spoke of a bitter cold and a friend left behind. 

Oberyn Martell loves her. 

What did she know of love? She scoffed at his poets and rolled her eyes at his endearments, teeth snapping in protest at their match. She clung to her stubborn independence, desperate for a choice that she swore was stolen, even as her own pool of water began to rise.  

She frowns, eyes fixed on the clouds, sparse in their presence, most retreating with the last of the summer storm. Her fingers dig down, wet sand cutting the delicate skin beneath her nail beds. She wonders how it would feel to dip her hands into the sharp sting of salt water; to wash away the sand as she moved deeper into the watery depths. 

Oberyn said he was waiting for her. He had described it as though he was swimming but it felt more of drowning — gasping, haggard broken breaths — a strangled prayer that he would vow until the dark sea swallowed him whole. Could she reach him in time? Could she swim that far?

She closes her eyes to the burn of the sunset, the embers of her mind catching along the edges of her heart, dreams of Oberyn refusing to come while she remains awake. She digs her fingers deeper, the sand cold and hard and wet. She is desperate, frantic to hold something between her hands; some sort of proof that is more than just the ache in her chest or twist in her gut.

The smell of the ocean. The taste of plums. Honey brown eyes watching from across the room.

It came in slow and steady, a rise of the tide she could not hold back if she tried. She could choose to look the other way, to keep her feet firmly planted on solid ground as she turned her back on the lap of water as it chased her heels.

Or she could choose to take a step forward, just enough, to meet the current halfway. 

———

The knock on his door comes just as the last traces of sunlight disappear from the sky, deep blue painting the world outside his window. Oberyn steps back from the balcony and towards the entryway of his quarters, his steps only faltering when the sound grows softer the further away he moves. He takes pause, just barely before his feet are carrying him back in the other direction before his head has a chance to catch on. 

Oberyn stops at the foot of his bed, eyes pinned to the door at the furthest corner of his quarters, the melody of knuckles knocking along the wood clear and sweet. He wants to laugh for the irony of it all, and so he does, his chuckle sharp and anxious as he surveys his path forward. 

He remembers a much younger man, angry and brash, just come of age and every bit the spoiled prince, shoving the heaviest of his bookcases in front of this very door. It had been a proclamation, one his young ego had preened upon with glee, shouting to his parents and all that would raise an ear to his tirade — Oberyn Martell would take no wife. 

He stands there now, twice over from that indignant age, looking at the door that leads to his wife’s chambers. The bookcase still sits in front of it, seemingly smaller now than he ever remembers it being, and his laugh takes on a fondness as he loses himself in childish actions that bled of so much more than political arrangements and romantic intrigue. 

It takes no more than a push of his hip and the doorway is cleared, his hand reaching for the handle, miles ahead of where his mind has already taken him. When the door swings open she is mid-knock, fist poised at eye level, her lips pulled into a thin, determined line.

Oberyn waits for his stomach to drop, dreading the feeling of icy panic that is sure to settle along his spine like an old, unwelcome visitor but it never comes. Instead, he is once again overcome with the serenity of her presence, peace and love making a home in the whole of his chest. 

He can’t help but to smile, a laugh still lingering on the tip of his tongue, this one teasing and light. 

“I know northern customs may not always align with Dorne’s own but I am certain you understand the implications of using this door, my wolf.” 

Her frown falters, almost breaking, but she does not bite back, her lips sealed impossibly tight even as her eyes trace the shape of his threshold. Oberyn opens the door wider, inviting her deeper into his own quarters but she does not move, hands flexing at her sides, nervous fingers reaching out into the empty air. 

He wants to encourage her, provide some small comfort that may ease the passage of her words, but he feels just as tongue tied. His confession still hangs in the air, heady and thick and so very honest, and though he meant it, means it still, the repercussions of his loose lips are still to come. 

Finally her eyes find his and she licks her lips, the quickest sweep of her pink tongue before she finds the will to speak. 

“You’re loud.”

“I…”

“I can hear you at all hours of the night.” 

“Sounds to me like you’re—“

“And you gulp your wine.”

“I do,” he agrees.

She breezes past him then, every bit emblazoned by the sound of her own words, her bare feet carrying her further into his quarters, drops of salt water and bits of sand left in her wake. Oberyn can only watch on in amusement, the volume of her voice rising with each swipe she takes at him. 

“You leave berry stains on my floor and plum pits on tabletops. I’d think you'd sooner die than clean up after yourself.” 

“Anything else?”

“You mouth along with the words while you read.”

“Do I?” He asks, moving in behind her, close enough to see a shiver chase his simple question across her shoulders. 

“Y-yes. It distracts me.” 

Oberyn refuses to touch her, instead hovering at her backside, letting her feel the heat of his body just barely out of reach. 

“It seems I am a troublesome match.”

She whips around, the silk of her dress tangling in her feet, eyes wide and fists balled tight. 

“You're stubborn. Impossibly so. I can hardly fathom it.” 

Oberyn bites his lip, the urge to lean in and kiss the poison away from her words stronger than ever. She is a breath away from him, the hook of his nose a ghost along her own, and still he does not move, his curiosity swelling up up up to meet the crest of her frustrations. 

“And…and…you love.”

She moves as if to reach for him but stops herself, still frantically trying to arrange her thoughts in some kind of order. He does not dare to interrupt, desperate to hear the end of her monologue, if only to be out from under this misery of unknowing. 

“You love your people. All of Dorne…it’s why you agreed to this arrangement in the first place. And your daughters. The way you look at them —”

Fingers find the curve of his wrist, anchoring along the beat of his pulse, and without prompting, she keeps speaking.

“Your brother and sister; you are devout in your feelings for them. And Ellaria. You love her so deeply, refusing to bend, to break. It’s who you are and I am remiss in the fact that I did not see it until now. Your heart aims true, and I would do better to trust in it from time to time.”

Oberyn feels his own breath catch in time with her words, lips parting as the watery depths of her eyes lock onto his own. Had it only been moments ago that she could barely stand to look at him? Had avoided his eyes as she stormed past him, the bite of her words melting into something soft and sweet and still so startlingly honest. 

“And what of your heart?” 

“You will ask me to say it,” she laughs, the sound watery but bright, a shy glance of tears brimming along the width of her eyes.

The chance to tease presents itself too easily. 

“It is my husbandly right.”

She scoffs, pushing at him with all her might. “I cannot believe I love you, Oberyn Marte–” 

And suddenly he cannot hold back anymore. 

———

The kiss is searing, liquid heat dripping down her spine as Oberyn fuses his lips to hers. He cradles her face, large hands cupping her cheeks and pulling her closer, as the kiss deepens into something smoother, seamless drifts of water crowding up into the sand. He coaxes her lips apart, a gentle sweeping of his tongue, stealing away her taste and leaving his own in its place. 

She moans, the sound of it swallowed whole, drowning in sunlight and sea salt, and with a break in their kiss and gasp of air, he pulls away, only to press his forehead tightly to her own.

“You must tell me now if you wish to wait,” he all but pleads before swooping back in to snatch one more kiss, his breath hot and haggard along the seam of her lips. 

“Would you be able to bear it?” She can’t help but tease, even as she pulls him back towards his bed.

“Not with any sort of grace, no.”

“In this we can agree,” she offers, stealing another kiss for herself before she falls backwards, the plush give of silk sheets and downy pillows softening her landing. 

She looks up at Oberyn, taking in his heaving chest and his flushed face. His eyes are wild, frantically tracing her form from top to bottom and back again, until finally he stops on her lips, still hopelessly swollen from his kiss. She resists the urge to squirm beneath his scrutiny, instead letting her legs fall open, the loose layers of her dress parting like the Dornish sea itself. 

Oberyn falls to his knees, hands bracing himself on the bend of her knees, pushing her legs that much wider. 

“Then it is decided,” he quips, the flick of his tongue touching the top of his lip, eyes never leaving hers. “We are to consummate our union?”

She starts to laugh, the sound bubbling up inside her, but it dies in her throat, cut short by the press of his lips to the heat of her thigh. He kisses upward, marking a slow path up her body, hot breath and wet tongue tattooed across her skin. His weight settles atop her, trapping her beneath him, her hands making equal measure along the broad expanse of his back. 

The shape of him is cruel, sharp angles and soft skin that she can feel herself craving, even with all of him so very close. It produces an ache, carving itself deep inside her, a cut to her bone as she tries to pull him closer still. 

His lips slant along her own, swallowing her gasps as a touch far more delicate than she ever considered glances along her curves. With a confident ease, nimble fingers loosen the sash around her waist, but it’s here that Oberyn finally stills, waiting for permission to take just a little more. 

She sits up, letting the rich shades of gold fabric slowly slip down her shoulders, goosebumps erupting across her skin. Oberyn tracks each one, honey brown eyes sticky sweet as he looks down at her bare body. 

“If I were to say I preferred this stage of dress to all others?”

She bites her lip, willing her fingers to steady as she reaches for the belt of his robe. “I am inclined to ask you to prove it, my love.” 

He groans, head falling back as she makes quick work of stripping him bare, his own robes falling away to reveal the red viper in all his glory. He is stunning; golden skin and dark hair, muscles hard-earned from years of battle and a soft belly born of his indulgent days. For a second she can only stare, mouth agape and eyes wide as she drinks him like a woman parched. 

Oberyn seems as distracted, her body and her words hypnotizing the prince into stunned silence. Slowly, his hands shaking,he cups the hinge of her jaw, thumb resting on the seam of her lips. She presses a kiss there, letting the tip of her tongue graze the pad of his finger, another groan slipping from his lips, throat bobbing and voice cracking as he finally finds word.

“Say it again, I beseech you.” 

She smiles despite herself, knowing that neither of them will tire of this game. 

A small part of her hopes that feeling remains forever. 

Another part of her knows it will be.

“My love,” she whispers, relishing the way the words sound to her own ear; a soft insistence that rings true in the quiet night.

Oberyn moans again, just as soft, his finger dragging gently down the length of her neck, and further down to rest atop the frantic beat of her heart. He pauses there, smiles, before cupping the swell of her breast in his whole hand. 

“You are nervous?”

“Excited,” she counters, and if possible his smile grows all the more wider. 

He pinches her nipple, the sting of pleasure screaming just shy of pain. His other hand is restless, fingers digging, squeezing, gripping to her curves, hard then soft then hard again, as if the idea of letting go was more than he could fathom. His cock is hard, pressed to the folds of her cunt, already soaked from his kiss. His touch. 

Him. Him.

Him.

“Do not tease,” she begs, refusing to be ashamed of the quiver that trails after her request, her hips canting up to meet his length, desperation coursing through her veins, nails scratching down his bare back, a silent plea for him to slip inside. 

Oberyn growls, but she can see the cracks in his resolve, his own hips thrusting into the jut of her hip. 

“I would have hoped to take my time tonight.”

“T-there will be time tomorrow,” she grinds out, her body aflame, desire settling painfully deep. “And the day after and after again.” 

Oberyn curses, one hand steadying her thrusts with a firm grip to her hip, the other finding the hinge of her jaw. He tilts her head until their eyes meet, the tip of his thumb forcing her lips wide. For the smallest of moments he does not speak, content it seems to watch her writhe beneath him, even as his own need for her goes unanswered. 

Without warning he leans forward, the tip of his nose tracing hers, his breath a heady mix of wine and salt and something more. She wants to swallow the taste of him down; to lick into the farthest corners of his mouth and keep him on her tongue forever, but his hold is true, keeping the whole of her pinned to the bed below. His whispers her name, a prayer between his lips, she is all the more desperate for him. 

“Be careful, my love. You may be giving me too much leeway in this arrangement.”

Oberyn fills her then, the length of him stretching her open inch by glorious inch, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss. She lets him take as much as he wants, content to bask in the feeling of their union, his hips slotted so sweetly between her legs, his hands so gentle in their iron grip.

It is unlike anything real or possibly imagined, colors she had dreamt of, but never thought to be real. The very same he had held out to her with unsure hands; a gift she used to bring her daydreams to life. Charcoal eyes bleed into golden skin, shades of grey giving way to scarlet lips and violet hands, and soon enough she is begging for more. 

“You are greedy,” Oberyn chides, lips finding her ear, teeth and tongue leaving their mark there as well. “But so am I, little wolf.”  

His thrusts grow frantic, his words a perfect match. 

“You take me so well. Made for me, for this. M-my cock deep inside you,” he spits out, filthy and tender and all for her. “You want this, yes? Want me to fuck you harder, my lady?”  

“Yes,” she sobs, the blunt bite of her teeth digging into the curve of his shoulder, coiled muscles giving way to her pitiful cries. 

Oberyn falls to the task easily, doubling his efforts, the tip of his cock finding that spot deep inside her and stealing the last of her senses away. It is not long before her pleasure is cresting upward, the crash of the wave inevitable. 

“S-so tight — fuck — exquisite pussy…I don’t t-think I can last,” he groans, his release trailing just behind her own. 

“Please promise this is no dream,” he begs, his hips faltering. It is all too quick, happening faster than either of them would prefer, but to stop now is an impossibility, so instead they cling to one another, gasping around the promise for tomorrow. 

“Please say you want this. Forever. Not just tonight….I could not bear it.” 

Words are failing her, her mouth dry, her fingers scrambling, the punch of Oberyn’s length inside her almost too much and still more than she could have ever hoped for. She is clumsy in her efforts but eventually her lips find the corner of his mouth, the kiss awkward and off center and filled with all the love she had to give. 

“I…gods…yes. Yes, my prince. I want this.”

It is the final push they both need, fingers tangling, phantom silk holding them together as relief slams into them just as the last of dusk disappears behind the horizon, the stars blinking to life one by one. 

Hours or perhaps only minutes later, Oberyn is pulling her onto his chest, his lips on the crown of her head, her own on the beat of his heart. 

“I did not intend your first time to be so…frantic.”

The admission is meant to be a comfort, his voice in her ear like warm honey, his fingers on her back like a gentle current. 

Still, she cannot help but laugh. 

His grimace is insistent atop her head and it is easy to picture the roll of his eyes as he waits so impatiently for her laughter to subside. 

“My love,” she starts, a snort breaking up her words, his fingers prodding into her soft belly. “Did you think that my first time with a lover?”

“Well, I can hardly be so insulted for assuming,” he murmurs. 

“Oh, dearest prince. How else are we to keep warm in the north?” 

Her answer gives him pause, and suddenly she is all the more anxious for his promise to visit the north. Her mind runs away with fantasies of Oberyn dressed in thick coats with fur lining the thick column of his throat, her nimble fingers slipping each button free as she teaches him all the ways to find warmth between the stony walls of Winterfell. 

It is a small miracle, but one she counts on with her entire heart, that proclamations of love and all that followed suit, did not steal away the push and pull born between them. She can feel the fire, a distinct burn that simmers even as she settles deeper into the warmth of his embrace. 

“I will need to hear more of this,” Oberyn murmurs, sleep already dripping around the corners of his voice. 

She closes her eyes, unsure she should dream now for the sake of rest. But there is comfort here in the consequence of her choice, and it is enough to sate her beating heart and quiet her restless hands, and it seems sleep is not so far behind. 

———

The spot beside Oberyn is empty, his hands brushing cold silk instead of warm skin, and instantly his mood has soured. It had not been a dream, he is certain. Her colors were too bright, her touch too strong. The memory of their kiss is still so close, dawn barely cresting up above the horizon, that he refuses to believe he conjured the entirety of it all in his mind. 

Her arrival at his quarters last night had been unexpected, his traitorous mind already committing to a life spent treading water; convinced his outburst had asked for too much too soon. But how to explain that it was more than a soul’s match or the proximity of convenience, that each minute spent in her presence had brought him to that very choice, and to her door that night. 

One could make the argument that all of this had been inevitable, the fates and gods above refusing to let either of them refuse their bond, but even so, their time together had only helped for that feeling to grow.

Some find their soulmates, Oberyn reasoned, but what of those that you make?

He drags one hand down his face, breathing deep through his nose before finally finding the courage to open his eyes, the first tendrils of sunlight just starting to snake their way across his bed. He tracks the golden glow across the empty space, following it with trepidation, rejection feeling more a heavy stone than anything else, sinking deeper in his stomach. Until –

The telltale sound of charcoal on parchment finds him, the quiet sound easily missed in the haze of his own doubt. Oberyn follows the last bits of sunlight to the far end of the bed, where she sits completely unaware of his undivided attentions. 

A waterfall of silk is wrapped around her form, barely enough to cover her most intimate of moments and he drinks in the sight. A book sits propped along the bend of her knees, her hand stained black moving across the page, her focus evident as she draws out whatever rests at the edge of her mind. 

He allows himself the opportunity to watch her, sunlight sneaking closer with each swipe of her hand, silk sheets slipping down her body to expose more and more of her skin to his hungry eyes. It’s an easy moment to rest in, his body waking up to the flash of her curves and the scent of her skin, and unlike the night prior, Oberyn intends to take his time. He palms himself, his cock already beginning to harden between his legs, just as her eyes rise to meet his own. 

“Do you normally rise with the sun?”

He hums, then laughs, pushing the sheets around his waist down low, shameless in his hope to beckon her closer. 

“That depends on what odd habits my bedfellows keep. I will say you are the first to rummage through my fireplace for bits of charcoal, and,” he squints into the rays of sunshine, confirming his suspicions. “Using one of my books in place of parchment.”

She has the decency to look shamefaced, if however brief. “I did not want to go back to my own quarters. Not yet, anyway.” 

He bites at his cheek, reluctant to discuss the peculiarities of their next steps so soon. He wants to remain in the waves of their union for a little while longer, where the rich shades of color have burnt away to reveal a soft halo of muted pastels. 

Still, he is compelled, reaching out to brush the tips of his fingers across her leg, her smooth skin warm beneath his gentle touch. 

“You are welcome to come and go as you please.”

Oberyn hopes the double meaning of his words is enough to press the issue forward in her mind, desperate for her to understand that he would never keep her from seeking a pleasure all her own. Selfishly, he hopes the same for himself, for all talk of marriage and soulmates have not changed any of his wants or needs. 

When her lips split into a smile, the curve of it dancing in mirth and he matches it with his own, something so clear spoken quietly between them. 

“And I offer the same to you, my love.” 

And then, with a lick of her lips and a nudge of her toes, “I am interested to learn more of these Dornish traditions.” 

“Oh? His grin grows wider, a thrum of pleasure curling up and around his spine. He inches closer, just enough for his lips to find purpose on the thin skin around her ankle. 

She shivers, but the teasing resolve in her voice remains. 

“I am a Martell after all.” 

Another thrill shoots through him, a possessive sting he had not thought himself capable of. He leans into it, kissing higher and higher, teeth nipping with each gasp she sets free until he is only a breath away from her core. 

“One taste,” he groans. “Would my princess grant me this pleasure?”

The endearment catches her unaware, and she stills beneath his touch, the plush press of his lips pausing in their lavished attention. Oberyn smiles into her skin, a veritable cat with the cream, peeking up at her, and delighting in her wide eyes and parted lips. 

“You’ve never called me…”

He laughs then, the sound still rough with sleep, letting the tip of his nose drift higher, coaxing the smallest of whimpers from her mouth. 

“And what a princess you are,” he admonishes. “Sand in my bed, charcoal in my books. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were raised by wolves.”

She giggles in response, the sound as sweet as milk and honey, but he delights more in how the sound breaks into a mewl of pleasure, his tongue slipping out to trace her folds. She is as decadent as he imagined, slick arousal like candy on his lips. He moves in closer, spreading her legs as wide as he can, anxious to have his fill of her. 

Her hands find the crown of his head as his tongue pushes deeper, her groans almost enough to drown out the sudden knock to his door. 

“O-Oberyn…”

“The way you say my name,” he preens, ignoring the insistent sound from across the room. 

“The — gods above — th-the door,” she tries again, but her attempts to alert him are half hearted, her hips thrusting down to meet each dip of his tongue inside her. 

Just as he’s considering how good it will feel to slip the tip of his finger inside her, desperate to feel the tight clench of her pussy, a throat clears loudly behind him. With a well-placed growl to her clit, he pulls away, realizing suddenly that they are no longer alone. 

“My lord?” 

It is one of Doran’s aids, his voice shaking, and Oberyn cannot help but hope with a vengeful bite that it is out of fear. 

“What could possibly need my attention when I am so obviously indebted to a much more useful activity?”

“It is your brother, my lord, he…he…”

Oberyn growls again, eyes pinned to her fluttering cunt, heedless of his and hers state of undress. “Out with it.”

“He is asking for you. The maesters say…”

They say he is out of time. 

———

Prince Doran Martell passed quietly; his younger brother at his side, his family in the wings, his people in quiet mourning. 

In the hours that followed, the courts convened, less concerned with grief and more so with the overbearing shadow of politics. A raven was on its way to King’s Landing before they had even begun to prepare Doran’s body, sudden worry that a pronouncement and a will would hold no bearings in the Red Keep and Oberyn’s birthright would somehow be denied. 

The prince seemed far less concerned with such troubles, merely casting a grimace at the news, a solemn nod and wave of his hands his only reply. 

Ellaria had been at his side almost immediately, offering support in a way that only the oldest and dearest of companions can. She knew him with an intimacy that most covet, and it was clear he took some solace in her company. But it was not long before she was called away, tasked with keeping her four girls as close as possible, ravens sent urging the eldest of Oberyn’s girls to return to Sunspear as well. 

Peace may have been the new rule of the land, but old habits were more difficult to stave off, and all of Dorne would sleep better with four of their most precious daughters back amongst the sand and shore. 

In the midst of it all, she felt compelled to stay at her husband’s side, desperate to help him but unsure of where to begin. Their waters had only just started to steady, flat footing found only the night before. It would have been easy to step away, to claim that the new glow of their joining was not enough to sustain such grief, but she refused. 

As the sun set and the place found a semblance of silence beneath the moonlight, she searched for him, her heart guiding her feet to the very place she knew to go. 

She stands at the threshold of the great hall, Oberyn’s back turned to her, his gaze set upon his brother’s throne, a glass mirror to the first few nights of their clumsy courtship. She approaches him, trying to match her steps to the soft streams of moonlight glancing across the floor.  

“I should have known I would not be capable of hiding from you.”

She bites her lip, a retort lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it whole, leaving only silence between them. It feels out of place, ill-fitting and unneeded around his slumped shoulders and pallid complexion. When he turns his head, just enough to find her eyes across the room, she can see the deeply rooted lines, the red rims, and the pinched brow. 

Her fingers ache to soothe the lasting imprints of grief away, as if they were smudges along the edge of a painting. She has no doubt he would welcome the touch, his body seemingly caving in on itself the longer he keeps his distance, but she stays rooted to the spot for now, for reasons she is not even sure of. 

“Did you know that when my sister was murdered, my brother refused to march on King’s Landing?”

His back is to her once again, arms crossed and eyes on the throne, fatigue bleeding way to rage. 

“He made claim it was not in Dorne’s best interest.” Oberyn scoffs, shaking his head as if to dispel the ugly memory. 

“A queen was dead, the heir to the iron throne along with her, and the people did nothing. No outrage, no uprising. It was just another day. And my brother agreed with them! He—“

His voice raised with each word, his stance tight, his fists shaking. He looked every inch the venomous snake, poised to strike at the first opportunity. But she was unafraid.

“He did not seem to care that she was gone,” Oberyn admitted, the words uttered with broken disdain. “And now so is he.”

She moves fully into the room, letting her steps fall heavy on the porcelain floor. Oberyn turns to face her as she stands beside him, and it is only then that she sees the guilt etched into his features. 

“Why is it that I cannot seem to die?”

There is no answer that would soothe him. The truth is far too simple and life far too cruel. It could just as easily have been Oberyn to an early grave, unseen dangers or ugly circumstances finding him in a moment’s weakness he could not predict. She does not speak but instead finds a seat along the steps leading up to the throne, looking up at him through the length of her lashes. 

Oberyn watches her carefully, body swaying as if he wants to sit beside her, but he remains standing, lips slipping away from grimace in the name of something sentimental. 

“Doran was patient. Quiet. He refused to move without considering every outcome. Each avenue. It was why he was so well-suited for duty. I…I am so very different. I am not…”

“He chose you. You have his trust,” she reminds him, remembering the words of a dear brother-in-law she had only just begun to know, to love. 

“And what if he misplaced it?”

“I do not think that is possible, my lord.”

His smile tilts again, the angle rueful. “Still,” he counters, “I do not think I am meant for it.”

“Maybe,” she reasons, letting the tone of her own voice lighten, “and still you choose it.”

He finds her eyes again, his entire being softening, and without falter, he matches her tone. “And what of you, my little wolf?”

She moves to stand beside him now, facing the very thing she had dreamt of so long ago. She considers all the things that brought her here at Oberyn Martell’s side, and how those same tendrils of a cruel world and different choices could have prevented this moment. 

She takes his hand and breathes in deep, her heart finding the beat of his own. 

“I am where I am meant to be.”

———

Dedications:

To my dearest @jazzelsaur who has listened, read, reread, and encouraged this ridiculous fever dream of a story. I am 100% beta reading a soulmate/arranged marriage/GoT fanfic was not on your bingo card but the fact that you never once discouraged me means a lot. Thank you. ilu

To @magpie-to-the-morning BABE! Your love of this story makes me stupid happy! I have confessed to you that I am having so much fun writing it, and a big part of that has been sharing the experience with you. Thank you for this and for your friendship. ilu

[leesielex]

Magic Awakens | CH 55: Jon Snow XIV

Summary: Jon's powers intensify under the tutelage of Bloodraven, and his feelings intensify for Daenerys as they share their dreams more often.

A Preview:

“It’s beautiful here. Where are we?” Daenerys asked Jon.

He had to shake his head and look at their surroundings to know, as the only beauty he had been able to see was hers. She was utterly distracting and he needed to pull himself together. No one had ever mistaken him for a poet, but when in her presence thoughts came to him unbidden and made him feel as if he could be.

Her moonglow hair reflected the light to shimmer like a gem. Her eyes glistened like amethysts set in the most prized of jewelry, reflecting the light and seering into his own with a passion of fire. Her milky white skin was flawless and smooth and her clothes fit her so well, they hugged every curve and left little to the imagination. The women of Westeros never dressed like that, especially in the cold, harsh north.

“We are in Winterfell, in the godswood. My father, or uncle rather, used to come here and sit on this root and polish the Stark ancestral sword, Ice, next to the pool,” Jon told her as he motioned to the twisted root that came up from the ground and made a perfect seat before it grew downwards into the earth, just before the pool.

Dany walked around the tree, one hand following slightly behind her, trailing along the bone white bark of the heart tree. “It’s magical. I can feel the power of the Gods here. Can you feel it too?” Her violet eyes found his as she asked him.

His mouth went dry. He often felt nervous around her, which would normally mean he would forget how to speak. But with Dany it was different.

Though they had yet to meet in person, she was an old friend who he had long known in this world between reality and dreams. She made him want to confide in her, to trust her, to tell her things he had never dared to share with anyone. She understood him in a way most never had before and it made him feel like he belonged somewhere, that mayhaps he could belong to her, and her to him.

Maybe it was because she had known about magic long before him and had helped him to learn and understand, to accept it was within him. Perhaps it was because she was family, two of the last Targaryens. Though he still felt more wolf than dragon, more ice than fire.

Mayhaps it was in their blood and the magic to feel this connection, to be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He thought it was just her. It was who she was and everyone around her gravitated towards her. She made them feel welcome and accepted, her smile lit up the room and her passion burned you where you stood.

Jon sat upon the root as his father had. His chest constricted, remembering the man he’d lost and his last days with him before coming North. Oftentimes his tongue would twist around calling him father, or uncle, stuttering out one, then changing it.

Worse was when he called a combination, his mind and tongue did not connect properly, ‘fancle’ or some other nonsense would come out. Dany was always quick to smile and remind him Ned Stark would always be his father, he did raise him and protect him after all. Family is more than blood, she told him with a sad smile upon her face.

He knew why. Dany had divulged her own childhood tales. He marveled at them, the good and bad, as they spoke through the night in this world they created for themselves as they slept.

“Aye, I feel it. It sounds like whispers in the wind. Like someone else is here with us, and if we just opened our ears, or minds, we could hear their wisdom. I had always felt that near the heart tree, but I always brushed it away before,” he confessed to her.

A branch snapped behind him, as he whipped his head around to find his silver-haired aunt behind him, two slender arms came around his neck. His face went red as the leaves above him when he accidentally got an eyeful of her perky bosom. They weren’t overly large but they were more than enough for her petite frame and the dress she currently wore accentuated them and drew his sight to them.

Her laugh sounded like bells, and made the hairs on his neck stand at attention as her breath met his ear. It was not the only thing standing at attention at her close proximity. He was unused to any woman being so affectionate with him, let alone one of such beauty. She seemed unaware of the effect she had on him, which he was both grateful for and annoyed at.

He often woke up alone in the makeshift bed in the cave, hard and wanting after she walked into his dreams. It shamed him and filled him with guilt that he pictured her purple eyes blown wide with desire, her plump lips around his cock, and her soft body as naked as her nameday, as he brought himself relief.

When she touched him so freely like this his mind flashed through those inappropriate visions and he quickly disentangled himself from her.

Click here to read full story on AO3

[jaime-brienne-fic-exchange]

Fic Exchange Roundup: Modern AUs Pt. 3

Where and Why Don't Matter by TeaandBanjo for blinkbot (zoetrope731)

   Jaime Lannister needs to be at a meeting. Too bad he doesn't have the option to take a plane, not this time.

Two Tickets by Weboury for letters2the0

Brienne of Tarth, aged 12, and Jaime Lannister, aged 13 and a 1/3, found themselves attending the same summer camp for nerdy kids who love LARPing Medieval Westeros. Their encounter was full of the epic highs and lows that only the teenage penchant for drama can bring, to the extent many spoke of that summer for years to come. The rest of us… The rest of us have this abridged collection of letters, exchanged during the summer of —94 AC, as the only proof of what actually happened. *looks meaningfully into the camera* This is the beginning of a love story.

Dust to Dust by Octamercuria for everydayescapeartist

Having been recently diagnosed - Dr. Jaime Lannister heads to Riverrun General for his son's treatment under the care of Dr. Brienne Tarth

i lost myself in a familiar song by EllisJay for gypsyscarfwoman

When Jaime and Brienne had bought tickets to their favorite band's farewell tour a year in advance, they'd been stupidly in love and confident that they always would be. When they'd broken up, loudly and messily and angrily, neither had been willing to give up their tickets. Which was fine because they weren't stupidly in love with each other anymore. Or that's what Jaime thought until he saw her walking towards him.

all our souls are written in our eyes by cardinalgirl75 for Mel_Sanfo

Jaime is falling in love with a young woman with the soul and wit of a poet. Too bad he thinks she's someone else.

I think I’m gonna let you read my mind (‘Cause it’s last call, it’s closing time) by ImberReader for jencat

A chance takes Jaime all the way to a bar in Winterfell. There, he finds a bartender who challenges him in quiet ways, kids that will involve him in a snowball war and a home he didn't expect to find.

breath and bone by jencat for tuliptoes

"You could just come home," Selwyn offers, although they both know how this conversation goes. "Your room's still made up." "Too many stairs," Brienne says, tiredly. Home on Tarth is a tall, vague shadow on the other side of the headland, a well-worn path away. Close, but not too close. The key clicks into the lock of her grandmother's front door and she shifts her weight against her bag; balances the cane with her other hand. She thinks she should be used to this by now. "Someone needs to be here for the animals, don't they?" Her dad sighs; shoulders the door up over the point where it always catches. "I don't know why she won't let me fix this. The neighbour's been feeding them. That mainlander." *** Brienne comes home to say goodbye to her grandmother, and has an unexpected encounter.

slow dancing with the devil by makinggold for LadyRhiyana

Brienne is out for blood, and Jaime Lannister stands in her way. She discovers that they could be mutually beneficial to each other. But she never expected to get attached. (the mob boss jaime!au)

Re/union by Luthien for cardinalgirl75

Six months after an eventful night in the mountains that feels more like a dream than reality, Brienne makes an unwelcome discovery on the day she starts her new job.

[the-last-poet-in-westeros]

Daenerys' vision, mix media, A3

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