It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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Alias: nica
Age: 55
Sworn To: Targaryen
Born to: Martell
Location: Sunspear
Title: Prince
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Joined: 13-March 17
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Last Seen: Mar 17 2018, 11:46 PM
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Mar 17 2018, 11:46 PM
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for their's is the power and this is the kingdom as sure as the sun does burn


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oberyn martell

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44 | dorne | hrithik roshan

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<p><i>Venomous, fiery and deceptive, the Red Viper is all that Doran is not. Strong, quick, sometimes vengeful and brash. Some people of Dorne believe Oberyn should have been the firstborn, while those north of the Red Mountains thank the Seven that Doran was born first. Well-traveled, educated and sharp, Oberyn is the epitome of a true Dornishman, and the royal Martell blood in his veins only make him even more pompous. Despite these qualities, though, Oberyn has always held one virtue close to his heart -- fatherhood.</i>
Doran and Oberyn are as different as two brothers could be; Doran is quiet, contemplative, and places his duties to his people before his duties to his family, while Oberyn is bold, rash, and loves his family before all else. Despite this, they work together far more closely than even the rest of the family may suspect. Doran and Oberyn are perfect complements for one another, working hand in hand; Doran acting as the grass that shields the serpent, Oberyn acting as the light that allows the shadow freedom.
Following Elia's death, Oberyn served as Master of Laws until her murderers were brought to justice, her avenger. Once that task was done, Oberyn and Doran switched roles; Doran traveled to King's Landing to serve as King Rhaegar's Master of Laws for 18 years, while Oberyn acted as the reigning Prince of Dorne. Despite their distance, Doran and Oberyn exchanged more ravens than Doran exchanged to his wife and his children combined. Despite being born 11 years apart, the two men are brothers through and through. The sun and the spear.
ANywho, with the coming winter, Dorne is making moves to become largely independent of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and Doran needs his right hand man. Please make him.

</div></div></div><div class=spencredit><a href="">♥ spenny</a></div>[/dohtml]
Dec 16 2017, 03:37 AM
A dark, flame-infused gaze eyed the crumpled letter before him. Jaw gritted, the Prince of Dorne resisted the temptation to mutilate the parchment further, and bit upon the inside of his cheek instead, before breathing. A deep inhale, and then a long exhale, and the tawny man exorcised the demons clawing at his chest, a feeling like cool water spreading from his brow, downward. Another long breath, and he was ready to flatten the paper with both hands, starting from the crumpled center, and spreading knobby fingers outwards, bringing it as close to pristine as possible. The evidence of his momentary rage would forever be enshrined in each wrinkle, in each distorted letter, but few were bold enough to comment upon such, and for that Doran was grateful. It had been nearly twenty years since he'd received a similar letter, and he'd hoped to never receive another. And yet, here he was, staring at the dark ink, stark upon a backdrop of off-white parchment. Condolences. Doran loathed that word, like he loathed little else. Empty syllables, a cacophony of meaningless letters, intended to portray a similar grief.

There was no similar grief.

There was nothing like losing a child.

It didn't tear at his chest; clawing, ripping, pain like an open wound. Instead, it sat upon him. A weight; heavy, unyielding, unrelenting. Doran found it hard to breathe, the inhalations and exhalations coming in brief bursts between long bouts of suffocation. He had sworn never again. He had sworn that so long as he yet lived, the blood of Nymeria, his blood, would come to no harm. The Gods had their own ideas. Doran had certainly never taught Quentyn to be a hero. He'd thought the boy to be a creature after his own vein; distant, calculating, cold. But he'd disappeared, a moon's span ago? Longer? It wasn't unusual for Quentyn to go off, following his own projects. And Doran hadn't worried; the letters from his son had come, assuring the Prince of Dorne of his safety. Sure, perhaps they'd been languorously slow, but Doran had thought little of it, attributing the delay to the weather. But he ought to have known. He ought to have stopped the boy, locked him within the Spear Tower, held him there until that Martell blood cooled and he came to his senses. That guilt lay upon Doran.

But that was the least of it.

He recalled their last meeting; their last true exchange of words. The Prince of Dorne had been livid then, too; the amber of his gaze dark with scorn, with betrayal. He had thought Arianne capable of rebellion, of betrayal, but not Quentyn. Following that initial meeting following Mellario's return, there had been a much longer one, in which Doran laid out the ways in which he'd been disappointed in Quentyn's actions. When his son had vanished not long after, Doran hadn't been surprised, attributing it to youthful angst, a rebellion against a stifling father. He'd grow out of it.

But he wouldn't.

They'd parted on ill terms. And that was a guilt that would lay upon Doran the rest of his days. The Prince glanced back to the letter before him, and brushed it to the side. He reached for his cane, just beyond his grip, and grasped it, gritting his teeth, the intake of breath sharp with pain as he pulled himself to his feet. He made his way to the door of his study, and pulled it open slowly. With a nod at Areo Hotah, Doran started his slow, steady progress down the hall, the ax-bearing guard a step behind him, undoubtedly scowling. There was something about the quiet, stoic man that was comforting. Few things in this world made Doran feel safer, more secure, than the knowledge that Areo Hotah was watching his back, guarding him from any who may desire him harm. The spiral stairs were a struggle for the ailing Prince, and yet, he would show no weakness. He would allow no sign of strain to cross the blank visage he called his face. He was Doran Martell, scion of Nymeria. Though his progress was slow, Doran knew where he was going. The graveyard.

It was a faraway part of the grounds of Sunspear, and Doran visited infrequently. Perhaps the last time he set foot upon its hallowed grounds was when Elia was laid to rest. He had always viewed token devotion, such as laying flowers against headstones, to be a version of grief merely for show. And yet, something drew him there today. However, a brief stop was made to the kitchens, whereupon a servant fetched Doran a wineskin, filled to near-bursting with a sour Dornish red, the liquid inside surely one to draw all moisture from the tongue, a deep red, darker than blood. But he wouldn't be drinking it, though his head ached, and he longed to forget, if only momentarily. At long last, halting steps finally brought the Prince of Dorne to the one place in Sunspear he was not the master of; the Stranger's domain. Narrow headstones marked the resting places of generations of Martells and their consorts; Princes and Princesses laid here, as did Martells of lesser stature. The graves nearest the gate were the oldest, and Doran knew he still had a walk ahead of him. Between the tombs were benches wrought of white stone; stark, unadorned. It took longer than Doran would have preferred to reach the resting place of Elia, of Lewyn, of his mother, of his father.

"I let you down." The man's voice was low, as he upturned the wineskin before Elia's gravestone, the red liquid merging with the pale sand, and soaking into the ground thirstily. Areo Hotah stood a respectful distance away, turned away from the mourning Prince, eyes towards the entrance. Doran returned to the bench closest his nearest family's graves, and sat, resting his cane against the white stone, and his head in his hands. No tears fell; Doran's grief was a silent thing, and he was too proud to show much beyond the ragged way his chest rose and fell.

Though none were here to witness, aside from the stony Hotah, Doran was not quite sure he even had the emotion left for tears to fall.

Dec 8 2017, 04:38 AM
In many ways, Doran ran his household like he ran all of Dorne, like he had run the courts as Master of Laws. Deliberate, slow, infuriatingly slow. He'd learned long before that it was a far more effective tactic to make others wait upon him. To give them time alone with their thoughts, their anxieties, to allow them the berth to conjure scenarios and demons.

He'd found that it led to much more pliable subjects.

But there was an art to it. Too short a wait, and they were simply annoyed at his tardiness, assuming it due to laziness, or, north of the Red Mountains, 'Dornish time'. Too long a wait, and they simply lost interest. No, there was a sweet spot there, a deliberate point at which they were most vulnerable, somewhere between annoyance and disinterest, a point where their anxieties were strongest. When called out regarding this habit of making others wait, Doran had ready excuses; his ill health, his busy schedule. But it was a deliberate thing, like every action Doran took (or failed to take), it was a planned to the minute detail. Beyond softening his subjects, rendering the most stubborn of men pliable, the waiting gave Doran time to gather his own thoughts upon the matter at hand. To organize his thinking into thin rows of spidery handwriting; painstakingly noted down in a graceful hand that, somehow, few others were capable of reading. It wasn't that his handwriting was illegible; it was merely written in such a manner as to render the overall form more pleasing than intelligible.

This too was deliberate.

All of these habits converged to throw a wrench into his way of thinking, way of life, when Mellario of Norvos marched through his doors, silks swishing, her chin held high. Lips a careful line. Had Doran's spies done their jobs, had his children been honest, had he known she was to cross his threshold, she'd have waited for her audience. He would have set her in a suite on the other side of Sunspear, and allowed her time to stew in her thoughts. Stew in all the reasons she deemed it necessary to return, why, now. But Arianne and Quentyn had deliberately kept it from him. More importantly, they had somehow kept it from his many informants scattered across Dorne and across Essos. Doran's knuckles whitened as he considered the words he had carefully constructed for his own Master of Whispers, an unofficial title, here, away from King's Landing. But now was not that time. That man was still waiting, mulling over his own fate. A deep breath. Inhale, exhale. He'd declined to call upon his daughter the evening of Mellario's return; in fact, he had declined to call upon anyone, instead remaining within his chambers, surrounded by his books, hiding his thoughts behind a mountain of accounting. As Prince of Dorne, he was, of course, free to place such responsibilities upon his underlings. However, he had found long before that burying himself in work; dry, dull, tedious work, allowed him to organize his thoughts far more effectively than any meditation exercise.

Another day passed; pale morning light intensifying to a golden haze, burning the tile and gilded roofs of Sunspear, and faded into a copper pool upon the Western dunes. Another day, and still, Doran declined to call upon his children. He'd instructed his personal guard and staff to allow none through; claiming ill health. In truth, he was biding his time. Day two dawned cold and bright; the sky a pale blue rarely seen this far south, and frost rimed the windows as dawn's tendrils brushed the night from the horizon. It was then that Doran sent for Quentyn. The young Martell arrived mid-morning, to find his father picking at a spread of Dornish fruits; blood oranges, pomegranate, figs. It was a long while before he spoke, breaking the silence that stretched between the two quiet Martells. "Why did you lie to me?" Doran asked, voice deceptively calm, demeanor more curious than interrogating. He declined to make eye contact, instead remaining focused upon freeing the pips of the pomegranate from the white pulp. 'Lie, father?' Quentyn hedged, avoiding the question directly. 'You never asked if I was in contact with my mother.' Doran eyed him now, dark eyes unreadable. Doran too avoided the implicit question in Quentyn's words. "You are more than aware that I do not appreciate surprises." It was a statement, the words calm, dropping into the air like stones upon a still pool. "Tell me this; whose idea was it? Yours? Or Arianne's?" Quentyn shifted in his seat; now he was the one failing to make eye contact. "Arianne," he replied at last. Doran nodded. "You are dismissed. We will continue this conversation later." The middle boy nodded, bowed, and turned upon a heel to leave Doran's solar. Day two grew progressively hotter; the frost on the windows long gone before Quentyn had even arrived. With dusk returned the cold; a wind blew from the water just as the sun dipped over the horizon.

Day three brought an unusual mist climbing up from the sea, trying to smother Sunspear and the Shadow City below. By midmorning, the sun burned it away, leaving but a few wisps of clouds in the sky. Midday passed by, the time languid, the air warm and wet, each mote of dust appearing gilded as they floated by. As the sun crawled towards the western dunes, Doran called for Arianne. They would sup together in his private dining room; perhaps among the most lavish rooms in Sunspear, if only for the sheer amount of glass that encased it; allowing views from every direction, collecting what remained of the day's light. The spread was a simple one; spiced fowl, grape leaves stuffed with rice and steamed with lemons and spices, chickpea paste served with soft, warm flatbread, and a bowl of pickled vegetables; olives, carrots, dragon peppers. Sipping delicately at a chalice of sour Dornish red, Doran awaited his daughter's arrival, expression pensive.

Jul 22 2017, 12:34 PM
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spare me your judgments and spare me your dreams, cause recently mine have been tearing my seams

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arianne martell

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26 | dorne | shanina shaik

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<p><i>Set to one day rule the whole of Dorne, Princess Arianne is the pure embodiment of a Dornishwoman. Buxom and dark haired, fierce and passionate, she is perhaps much more like her adventurous uncle Oberyn than she is her quiet, passive father. Some say she is simply too much for a man to marry, and some wonder when Doran will finally force her to obey his commands. Though short in stature, her attitude makes up for whatever height she lacks.</i>
Arianne Martell is all her father is not; headstrong, fiery, fierce, and full of life. Some days, he wonders where she got it from. It certainly wasn't from him. At other times, he sees the fierce young woman who is to inherit his chair, and sees not himself reflected in her deep amber eyes, but Mellario's spark, her passion, that boundless capability for love. He sees Oberyn's zeal for life, that potent rage that simmered just below the surface.
He sees a glint in those dark eyes that reminds him of Elia; her mischief, her penchant for clever words and witty banter.
And he does not wonder where her fire comes from. House Nymeros-Martell had two founders, after all: the shrewd politician, Mors Martell, after whom Doran took after, and the Princess-General who risked it all to save her people, and to bring them to a better place. Nymeria.
It is the latter whom Doran sees in the strength that holds Arianne upright.
Though Doran curses her more often than not, he still holds a fierce pride in his only daughter. Still, their methods differ sharply. Where Doran is willing to sit, to wait, to watch as things play out around him, Arianne acts.
Recently, this has thrown a wrench into Doran's life. For the past eighteen years, Doran lived in King's Landing, serving upon the Small Council. He did visit Dorne periodically, but certainly not frequently enough to have a truly active presence in the lives of his children; something he feels deep regret about. Several years back, Doran and Mellario finally fell apart; the relationship that had been fraying at the seams for decades finally ripped to shreds. Mellario returned to Norvos, where Arianne has maintained correspondence with her. Due to this correspondence, Arianne asked Mellario to return, citing the coming war with Essos as reasons to bring her Essosi mother back to Dorne.
She did not bother to consult Doran about this.
Naturally, Doran is livid, in that quiet way he has, steeping until the bitter tannins turn everything black.
Drama does make familial relations more interesting.
ANYwho, holla @ me with your questions. Here are doran's, mellario's, and oberyn's apps for reference. I can be reached via pm or Skype [nicapikachu]. <3
</div></div></div><div class=spencredit><a href="">♥ spenny</a></div>[/dohtml]

sorry panda
Jul 12 2017, 11:29 AM
note: this occurs in 272 AC when doran was 24, and met mellario (16) for the first time
he Prince of Dorne's eyes were alight with wonder. Essos had been everything he'd imagined from his texts, and then more. In so many ways, it was quite like Dorne; the languorous twists of language, the spiced cuisine, the whispering wisps of silk that passed for gowns. None of which was found in the other Seven Kingdoms. And yet, as familiar as everything seemed, it was altogether alien. Something about these shores just seemed older. More civilizations had perished here than had existed upon the shores of his homeland. Doran had sailed first to Lys from Sunspear, marveling at the marble city shrouded in silk, and the pallor of its inhabitants. It was an altogether different world from the one he'd left behind, where amber eyes flashed through dark lashes, and black hair gleamed against copper skin. Here, pale blonde glimmered against skin as pale as the marble the city was built from, and jewel-toned eyes smoldered behind slowly waving fans. Something about the place chilled Doran to his bones. Perhaps it was the clear evidence of slavery that still flourished there, the lithe young women in their gilded cages. Or perhaps it was an ancestral memory; his Rhoynish blood recalling the dragon lords' violet eyes and violent whims.

From Lys, Doran had sailed to Volantis, where he marveled at the black walls, and wandered through the western edge of the city, incognito within its twining alleyways and wide avenues. He crossed the Long Bridge, haggled with merchants in his rough Volantene, and still felt. . .strange. There was something deeply unsettling about the city in which time had both passed by, and utterly forgot. His western sensibilities were further challenged by the even clearer evidence of slavery that surrounded him; the elaborate facial tattoos that embellished each human, marking men and women as property. For a man who'd been raised with freedom as a key right; it was something wholly anathema to him. He did not mourn when he next took a river-craft northward upon the Rhoyne. He wondered no longer why she was called the Mother of Rivers. In places, her banks were so wide that he felt they were not upon a river, but upon a curiously calm sea. Here, instead of the salt air that both invigorated and drained, mist blanketed the landscape, at least for a while. The Sorrows were aptly named, and through rolling fog, Doran spied the bones of cities; the carcasses of what was once a great civilization. Chroyane's remnants of obelisks rendered in green marble, and the Bridge of Dream, upon which dwelled nightmares broke the monotony of the cold gray.

The further north they traveled, the slower their journey, for they paddled against the flow. Still, Doran did not mind the glacial pace with which they passed through Ny Sar. Here, Nymeria once walked, before building her ten thousand ships and sailing south to the Summer Sea and west to Dorne. From the deck, Doran witnessed ancient cobbles choked with weeds, and architecture that was familiar and yet alien all at once. He was finding that feeling to be a common one upon these shores; the juxtaposition of the common and the strange, the known and the unknown. A collection of shattered domed roofs that once might have been glorious, the pink and green marble once majestic. Amber eyes missed little of the sights here; this was where it had all began, so long ago. From Ny Sar, he then traveled up the Noyne, the Mother of Rivers' 'Wild Daughter' and Doran learned it too was aptly named. The landscape grew hillier here, and more wild, and vast fields soon gave way to dark tangled forests. Tangled forests occasionally gave way to walled villages surrounded by terraced farms, and soon enough, he sighted Norvos. The upper part of the city, ringed by mighty stone walls was built upon the tallest hill in the region, and the lower part was a warren of twisting, narrow lanes, and merchants hawking goods, words twisted by strange accents.

Doran was an honored guest here, welcomed by the ancient nobility that dwelled within the High City, and bid take part in a festival honoring strange gods. And who was Doran to say no? He was the Prince of Dorne, and it was his duty to maintain that facade, to smile at the proper men, to kiss the cheeks of their children, and to leave a pleasant taste in their mouths once he'd left. Dorne had always kept closer ties to Essos than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and now was no different; fealty to the Iron Throne or no. Dancers spun about the Sinner's Steps, garbed in wisps of silk in cloth-of-silver, blue, green, beads rattling about their necks, and bells jingling about their ankles. The bells of Norvos, too, rang; the deep, mournful peal of Noom resounded in Doran's bones, the sound nearly heady, compounding the effects of the spiced nasha he drank. Following the human dancers were bears, clad also in bells and bright colors, and kept moving by men bearing chains and whips; large, heavily muscled men without a trace of hair upon their bodies. With the glut of festivities surrounding him, Doran was not sure where to rest his eyes.

He had settled upon raking his amber gaze all around him, absorbing as much as he could, when he found himself arrested in spot. Several steps above him, and what felt like half a world away, stood her. She held the forest in her gaze, and the world stilled around them as their eyes met, slowing to a crawl. The deep rolling thunder of Noom sounded all around them, as Narrah pealed mournfully, and Nyel's chime punctuated the moment. And it was for but a moment, and the crowd shifted, and he could no longer sight her in her swirls of silk, dripping in gold and gems, with emeralds in her gaze. A strange feeling of loss cut through Doran like a knife. In many ways, Doran was no stranger to beautiful women; hailing from Dorne, his world was dominated by black-haired women in wisps of silk, sultry gazes equal parts inviting and domineering. And yet, Doran had never known a woman as such; never felt that carnal call, that basest form of man's nature. Even yet a youth, he was formed less of the flame and shifting sands of Dorne than the rock and ice of the Red Mountains. His peers teased him for an old man, to which Doran only replied with that quiet smile of his; dark eyes unreadable. He was the Prince of Dorne, and though he had never felt fully of Dorne, he knew that there was yet a place for a quiet Prince inside Sunspear.

The gold-clad prince was startled from his reverie by a man clearing his throat before him. Doran focused his eyes upon the man before him, broad shouldered and quiet-eyed, a serious twist upon his lips. "My lady bids that I make her introductions," he began, voice heavily accented, the twists of syllables unusual to Doran's ear. "She is the Lady Mellario of Norvos, and bids your own name."

"Doran," he replied, gaze distant, mind someplace else, "Prince Doran Martell, of Dorne."

young doran fc (varun dhawan)
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