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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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 WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL, Rhae <3
VALARR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Mar 25 2018, 12:57 PM
Quote
N/A is Offline
20 years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
Targaryen
Summerhall
Prince




King’s Landing had been a pleasant adventure, the congregation there however had seemed in far better spirits travelling to their destination rather than returning. Somewhere between the first ravine and the waiting expanse of Summerhall the skies had bruised, the mass swollen into a grotesque mound of blackening purple before the downpour had soaked those beneath. It took mere seconds for the earth to turn into brown slush, the mud thickening with each drop of water bouncing half a foot on impact. It wouldn’t have mattered much if he’d been alone, perhaps in those circumstances he might have laughed, cursed his ill-luck, tossed his head back and caught the water on his tongue to refresh the senses. But his companionship stretched between 60 mounted men, the hillside set alight with Targaryen colours vibrant against the stretch of pale luscious green. Not to mention two additional voyagers.

“Father! Father it’s hurting my face.” Turning his head aside he’d search the squinted expression of the small silver haired lad slowing the progression on his pint-sized mount. With cheeks fashioned red, their natural marble-white stained from the rain, and his mouth twisted in pompous disgust, Valarr couldn’t help but find some amusement in the flustered child tugging at his furs. “Rickard you need to —“ Before he could complete his sentence a similar voice sounded across his left shoulder, the exasperated sigh heard even against the rise of the wind; “That’s Rhaegar, I’m Rickard.. I’m telling mother you forgot again.” Without hesitation an apologetic smile would fall against his mouth, it was after all an honest mistake - especially when one considered the lack of clarity provided in the current climate. He’d never expected to have twins, although he’d been told it was quite common for a twin to produce a twin. But when both had been identical he’d found himself caught between a sense of awe and constant confusion. It wasn’t the first time he’d made the mistake and he doubted it would be the last, “Apologies, Rickard..Rhaegar, you need to get used to it. There might come a time you’ll be forced to travel in harsher weather than this. Think of what your Grandfather must travel in — ice hurts far more than rain.” There seemed to be a moment of contemplation gathering in the peaks of the young Targaryen’s cheeks before a resilient frown hardened his forehead leading his heels to press against his horse; the gentle nudge quickening the pace, “You’re right, this is nothing, I can do this.”

Rickard’s deafening snigger might have garnered his condemnation if it wasn’t for the overhead acrobatics diverting his focus. In what seemed like an instant Ghiscar had emerged against the lightening, as if the strike had birthed the beast and thrown her into the clouds twisting in a streak of vibrant white and unusual blue. “We’re close..” The statement was muttered more to himself, the declaration leading a pleased smile to dimple the sharpened edge of his cheek. Before his observant son could question the comment, a second sound bellowed against the thunder, the vibration holding far more power than the deafening drum of the storm. Rhaenna’s dragon, the creature far more elegant than his own, with a mythical like grace seemed to glide beneath the pale spectre, the duo engaged in some indelicate greeting he knew he’d never quite understand. As expected the men paused, their heads upturned to marvel at the might of two beasts spiralling against one-another, the colours a divine whirlwind against the otherwise bleak landscape; their presence enough to brighten the upper-world. Valarr could still recall their initiation into Westeros, their first hesitant appearance. After what felt like a life-time he’d resigned himself to the grim possibilities that perhaps he’d never be a dragon-rider, that he and his sister would stand as flightless beasts, as wolves amongst dragons. But upon their wedding night the pair had hatched, born to the fresh-warmth of a calm summer-eve. The same night they’d conceived the twins, or at least that was what he’d come to believe.

Now he couldn’t quite remember a time without them, just as he found himself unable to imagine a world before he’d crossed into fatherhood. Before he’d presented his father his first grandchildren, the infants of equal size blessed with hair as pale as northern frost, their skin more delicate than the softest goose feather, their heads no heavier than his left boot. Cast into a moment of thought the Prince almost didn’t notice the horizon disintegrating to expose the outline of Summerhall, the call of home ringing true as the rain dampened to nothing more than a meek drizzle.

“Race ya!” The sound of Rickard’s voice drew the Prince from his thought, the comforting recollection fading to dust as he observed the eldest twin throw himself into a sudden gallop, his cloak gliding out behind the fragile width of his childish shoulders.

“No! I want to see mother first! That’s not fair!”

Before he could conjure a breath of warning, he witnessed his second child flood after his antagonist, his knuckles born white against the stress of his fists balled against the reigns. The echo of hooves lingering long after the muck cleared and the pair were nothing more than silhouettes slipping between the towering stones. Of course the duo were chased with ease by the guards entrusted to their service, the men well versed in managing childish antics. But Valarr took his time, the wet cloth clinging to his skin offered a strange coolness which eased the heat from his flesh, like a cool flannel. Those about him hurried on, the promise of their wives and children urging their progress, the distance no longer preventing what he imagined to be pleasant evenings for all. Whether that be with a woman or with wine. He himself took a final look to the dragons disappearing overhead before urging his mount on, the promise of his own wife guiding him home.

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RHAENNA VELARYON
 Posted: May 27 2018, 06:51 PM
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oswin is Offline
18 years old
CROWNLANDS [A]
house velayron
targaryen
oswin
royal


The bay of the storm against her windows rattled Rhaenna’s very soul. Knowing her family were traipsing through its midsts made her heart shudder with every roll of thunder and quicken with each heavier wave of lightning. Shyka bellowed from below, echoing her ache for their boys that were lost in the storm. Both mixed with so many emotions that Rhaenna could not tell which was hers or which were the amethyst dragons beneath the castle, sheltered from the weather yet facing it all the same. Rhaenna could not help imagining Rhaegar's brows furrowed against the bite of rain and Rickard putting on a brave race for whomever was watching, with the very light of her heart, the prince of Summerhall himself, attempting to keep them both uplifted for enough time to see them home. Attempting to will their silhouettes from the gods themselves, the princess was left with little to do but wait.

For as long as she could recall, her heart and hand had been promised to Valarr. Within that time he had done all to see the precious muscle within her chest grow and flourish under his touch, while she had done all in her power to do the same. Both of the twins had been a blessing that the couple had not known to ask for, larger than life Rhaenna did not know she could love as much as she did her small family. Or be as fearful when they were not home. Heeled boots announced their presence against the stones as the restless princess made her way down to settle her dragon, the wind whipping at her coat with all its might did little against the natural furnace of her skin. The silver waterfall of tresses finally settled back into place as the princess stepped within the warmed confines of a home they had built for Ghiscar and Shyka, thankfully only needing to make one cavern as the pair always seemed to find themselves curled in on the other while they slumbered.

Shyka’s molten hues turned to face her upon entry, scales glowing iridescent with the minimal light, shifting to the perceiving eye from amethyst with the heavy undertones of silver beneath. Rhaenna’s heart went to her with the perturbed rumble that sent the dancing shadows scattering. “They will be home soon.” She soothed her creature knowingly, the dragon lowering her monolith cranium to press against Rhaenna’s open palm. Traveling across the scales and scratching just below her creatures chin, hoping to send Shyka the confidence she herself did not have. Not until they were safely beneath the roof of Summerhall once more. Both seemingly lost in their own thoughts, staring off into the waves of rain, that were slowly beginning to lighten, the dragon turned her ear to a sound that was lost to the princess. All at once every muscle within the mighty animals form coiled, wisely stepping to the side - just in time, it would seem - to escape the whip of a tail, or something far worse just before Shyka launched herself skyward. The bellowing cry that rattled the castles very foundation made her smile, knowing the response that bounded across the horizon to greet her. They had made it.

Following in her dragons path, though it admittedly did take her longer to reach the mouth of the pits, it was not too long before the sound of hoofbeats against the sodden ground filled the courtyard. Two of the three that she had spent her heart so worried over burst into her line of sight, sharply altering their course once spotting her. “Rickard! Slow down, you are asking for a fall.” There was no bite in her tone as her eldest threw himself from the saddle and wrapped his arms about her waist - much to his brothers displeasure - who was only a hairsbreadth behind and slower to dismount. “Mother, the integrity of the win is more important than broken bones.” Rickard argued surely, refraining from raising her brow Rhaenna kissed his chilled forehead, her palms cupping his cheeks as she peered into his mischievous hues. “Did your father tell you that?” Inquiring suspiciously sure he didn’t know the meaning of the word integrity, the unimpressed tone did not go unnoticed between her two boys. Rhaegar strategically stepping forward to take his brothers place, wrapping his arms around her and burying his frosted cheeks against her chest. “Yeah right before he called me Rickard again.” Smothering her amusement with a sigh, the princess curled her fingers in the soaked silver locks of her youngest. “It is lucky he has you to remind him, then.” Rhaenna retorted diplomatically, struggling to keep her features straight as she dropped a kiss onto the crown of his head.

The trio did not have to wait long before the remainder of their party arrived - though Rhaenna would not have guessed from the grizzling of the two boys beside her. Rhaegar still nestled under her arm as Rickard hovered closely with his mothers palm against his shoulder as he pretended it was not there for the men to see. Excitement coursed through her veins as her silver prince rode towards them, “Hello handsome.” Rhaenna called happily, watching him dismount with renewed interest. “Mother you already said hello to me.” Rickard mocked, his father's grin painting his features. “Oh, then this must be for you then.” Not missing a beat, Rhaenna dragged his closer and peppered kisses across her sons forehead - much to his obvious distaste. Red as a beet and flustered Rhaenna finally released him, studiously ignoring Rhaegar’s laughter, she finally nodded and ordered them both to the castle to find warmth and clothes that were not soaked and weighed with the dirt of the road.

“He is just like his father,” The princess finally stated once the twins had departed, moving closer to him as she stepped into the long missed embrace of her husband. Encouraging Valarr’s lips to meet hers, in order to smooth the ache he had bestowed upon them since his departure, showing how much she had missed him. “How was Kings Landing? And father?” Locking her fingers together at the base of his neck, Rhaenna fitted herself against him, steel gaze softening against the amethyst hues that peered back. “And what is all this I am hearing about integrity and broken bones?” Raising her brow meaningfully, showing little of the amusement she had before.

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VALARR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Jun 13 2018, 04:31 AM
Quote
N/A is Offline
20 years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
Targaryen
Summerhall
Prince



Home had never proven itself an attainable concept in the past. King’s Landing had been a settlement. A piece of infamous architecture full of people, of different faces on each occasion. It boasted a comforting branch of blood, of men who stood as uncles, a vast expanse of friendships and fallouts. Throughout his childhood however he’d come and gone so often, spent so long casting his sights upon matters afar, that it had never quite aroused in him the sensation of emotion a man had once described to him upon seeing his home after an extended period of time elsewhere. After careful consideration he’d decided that it was a person, nothing more, nothing less, able of provoking such sentimental warmth and not a soulless concoction of marble and stone. This steadfast opinion in which he’d vowed himself immune to the attachment of a building had fast become void. Once the possession of Summerhall fell upon his shoulders and he’d found his pregnant wife settled inside he could not deny himself the truth that all at once the castle had transformed into something of monumental value. As it came to stand before him adorned in the familiar damp sheen accustomed to the Stormlands, Valarr found his heart stirred beneath his chest coming to quell an insatiable yearning he’d forced himself to ignore. Where he’d once found himself most content in the visitations of keeps afar he now found himself called with earnest back to Summerhall and in that moment upon his horse casting his gaze upon the open gate he’d have wished himself nowhere else.

The decent came with natural elegance, even upon his horse the Prince held himself with such regal posture that a book might have balanced atop his crown for the entire passage into the stone pathed yard. For his entire life he’d emitted a vibrant aura, the kind that could produce a sense of eternal warmth, that promise that perhaps a single smile could melt the threat of winter from the lips of a Northern man. Forever a look of wistful ease. Before he set a glance to his soaked sons Valarr felt himself casting the world aside; for in an instant it disintegrated to leave Rhaenna stood before his mount with an air of white-gold lighting the edges of her beautiful face. When he’d been addressed on the matter of wedding his sister the Prince had held no reservations despite the protests of Lords across the Kingdoms robbed of the chance to match their own brood to a dragon. If anything he’d found himself besotted with the idea, no man would have stood good enough for Rhaenna in the Silver son’s superior opinion, no man an equal and so to him it had made perfect sense that he be all that another could not. After-all he’d found little interest in the women he’d become acquainted with, those whose fathers guided their hands to his under the guise of tournaments or celebrations. In politeness he’d forever lift his mouth in a welcoming smile, he’d caress their hand with a lingering kiss perhaps even offer a dance - but it was nothing more than a noble gesture.

With his tunic flattened against his chest, the downpour forcing the material to outline each visible crevice beneath the surface, Valarr dismounted his horse. Brushing the droplets from his face he’d smooth the cast of white from his forehead until it drifted in forming curls against his crown. Before he could speak he found himself grinning at his son’s comment, the sharpness admirable as he found the laughter smoothing from his tongue in a blissful moment of thankfulness. How perfect was the sight before him? The most enchanting woman in Westeros sculpted from marble, smoothed with moonlight, lips of a reddened peach cradling his pride, his mischievous heirs. Nothing could have been more appealing. “My beautiful Rhaenna.” If it was a greeting or a statement he wasn’t certain, but it came as factual, the compliment besieged with infatuation as he found himself unable to bring himself to look upon his retreating children and instead stepped forwards to extend his hands about her waist. “Perhaps in mind, but he’ll break a thousand hearts just like his mother.” Meeting her lips came without prompt, without thought or temptation. It was a motion, one in which he embraced, encouraged and delighted in teasing. It seemed a lifetime since he’d felt the delicate softness, the likeliness of silk against his mouth, the taste of her tongue an opium he’d bask in for a lifetime, an addiction he’d make no attempt to dissociate from; even the cold rain couldn’t cool the sudden rush of warmth beneath his flesh.


Control deserted him as he found himself incapable of resisting the urge to brush his hands against her waist, stencilling across the slant of her hips before rounding to cup the swell of her rear as if refreshing the image he’d savoured in his mind. It hadn’t changed, the firm taunt cushion content to fit against the width of his conjoined palms, how he delighted in the sensation of pulling her closer in such an embrace, urging the damp cloth masquerading her breasts to entangle against his own. How he’d longed for the closeness. Thought of her soft breath in his loneliness in a bed to large to be alone. As she withdrew from the kiss he felt his heart deflate, the stark realisation of starvation so sudden upon his mind that for a moment he didn’t quite comprehend the question. Instead he leant forwards once more, demanding her mouth for a second longer, just another moment and then a moment more. Was he at fault for missing his wife? He could sense the looks upon his back, the men grinning in his footsteps, if his children had still been present he could imagine their disdain. But under the excitement setting his skin alight in a rash of intense heat he couldn’t quite rob himself of the reconciliation due to an audience.

After realising the excitement in himself was something that would not be appeased, he forced his head back a fraction of an inch - begrudged although he didn’t announce it. Instead he grinned, an almost dope like smile, one that didn’t quite fit his polished charm and instead held the sincere warmth of a first-crush. “Kings Landing is as it always is, full of politics full of people who hate each other laughing over wine whilst scheming some unimaginable downfall of their dinner-date.” Pausing he’d blink a raindrop from his lash, the single engorged bead running down his cheek to melt amongst his smiles, “Father is well, he seemed far happier when entertained with a thousand questions from our sons. I believe he would have quite liked them to remain there — perhaps that will be where Rickard squires.” As he spoke he found himself leaning forwards, overcome with a compelling impulse to press his lips against her throat, the single gesture extending into four as he finished with a single lingering touch just beneath her ear, “Everyone asked for you — Aelix especially. He misses you — I think he needs your advice on a certain Tyrell.” It had been alluded to in passing conversation, it was hard to coax such secrets from his youngest brother. “Broken bones heal, losses are permanent and so we must do our best to win and then at least take pride in failure.” And there it was again, the bright alarming grin so famous in his childhood that one couldn’t quite imagine the terrors behind it.

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