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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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 not shy of a spark, dollario <3
DORAN MARTELL
 Posted: Jul 12 2017, 11:29 AM
Quote
nica is Offline
55 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Martell
Sunspear
Prince


note: this occurs in 272 AC when doran was 24, and met mellario (16) for the first time
T
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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MELLARIO MARTELL
 Posted: Jul 22 2017, 10:28 PM
Quote
Solace is Offline
47 years old
DORNE
Martell
Norvos
Essos
Princess


It was warm, and the streets were crowded to the point of it being stifling. It was always busy, always full of merchants and weavers, but today was different. In celebration to one of their gods, everyone was out in their finest. Mellario was no exception, having picked her finest golds, deep blues and indigo to wear. It was modest, of course, with a higher neck line and a flowing skirt, but she had picked one that connected along the middle, leaving her sides open to the air, allowing a little relief from the heat. Aero looked on, his eyes never truly leaving the scene before them. His bald head was glistening above, and he spoke to her in quiet words, but loud enough for him to be heard none the less.

"The dances are not as interesting as they where last year." He said, and Mellario kept her head covered by the deep blue of her scarf, and she chuckled to him. Her hair was let down around her, an air of mystery about her as she looked on. But it was around this moment that another deep sound of Noom came from above, and Mellario sighed. A sign for people to return to prayer. But it was a festival, so while the Bearded Men decended back up the great steps to their temple, Mellario stayed seated upon one of the great steps along the side, wide and deep enough to sit in, but she still could easily stand should the need arise.

It was then that she saw a bright flash of gold and orange, and her eyes fixated upon the man standing below her. He was dressed like the sun, and Mellario dipped her head to the side, her jewelery clinking against one another - draped headpiece with earrings and necklaces with earrings - As she looked on. Aero knew that look. It was one of the moments that Mellario's natural curiosity was getting the better of itself. He could see the man as well, but Mellario was never good at being subtle. "Who do you think that is?" She asked him, nodding to the man below with the other nobles of Norvos. His curling hair, his handsome figure...he was so different then the other men surrounding him. They were all dressed in the dark colors of Norvos. But he shone out like the sun. A freash breath of air in the forest.

Mellario stood up then, beside Aero as she noticed his eyes beginning to look around. It was overwhelming, seeing the dancing bears and the exotic dancers. Perhaps it was too much for this obvious foreigner. But as he turned around further, their eyes met. It was like seeing the sun for the first time. The amber eyes of the man locked onto her own green eyes, and she felt her breath stop in her lungs, her eyes widen, a small smile crossing her lips. He was incredibly handsome. She had never seen some one with such dark, curling hair, or amber eyes, or some one who dressed in golds and jewels. He was with her family - she could see that in some ways - and she ached to be closer. If it wasn't for proper decorum, and that she would never be able to speak to him in public, she might have decided to walk down those steps to him.

But in that moment, Noom sounded with Narrah and Nyel, and People around her shifted. She did as well - if only to move out of the way of them with Aero. People were starting to head home now, from the festivities, and Mellario grasped Aero's upper bicep with gentle fingers, and she looked at him. He already knew what she wanted, but she asked anyway.

"Ask him who he is. Tell him my name. Bring him to the alley." She had asked him, and he was gone within a moment, down the steps and to the man. Aero's voice was too quiet for her to hear, but hidden behind the other women, she had slowly began to move downward, towards the man. Aero's eyes caught her as she shifted along the groups, and moved along the way to a more discreet place where she might be able to speak with the man in private.

"Prince Martell, if you would follow me." Aero spoke calmly, the deep voice of an Norvoshi attempting to speak in Westerosi was different, where the melodic sounds of Norvoshi still reigned. He moved passed the prince, towards the alleyway, waiting for him to follow. But while the bustling streets where still moving with others, Mellario stood patiently within the confines of the Alleyway. Her eyes met Aero's, as he spoke to her.

"Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, my Lady." was all he said, and it was within moments that the amber eye'd man stood before her, and Mellario almost forgot how to breath. So different this man was to her, so exotic and bright like the sun, but not as warm as theirs. He shined, more so than the emeralds and sapphires that she wore. Her gems paled in comparison to him.

"Prince Doran, This is Lady Mellario of Norvos. You are already acquainted with her father, Lord Kennar of Norvos, I believe?" Aero spoke, and suddenly, her father's hurried whispers to the cooks, the orders of the house, the sudden need to buy more expensive items to impress made much more sense. Her father was entertaining royalty from across the sea. She was taking a risk meeting him, but she would do so just for the chance to meet this golden man.

"The pleasure is mine." She spoke calmly, though her heart raced at seeing him, and she bowed before him, her dark hair tumbling from its place behind her neck, her scarf moving as well in the moment, so as she stood, it dropped ever so slightly to show more of her tan features and deep green eyes.

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DORAN MARTELL
 Posted: Aug 16 2017, 11:20 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
55 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Martell
Sunspear
Prince


Perhaps, in a different place, in a different time, Doran might have questioned the man who prompted him to follow him to an alleyway. However, the Dornish Prince had tasted many fine, spiced wines that day, had drunk deep from the cups of nasha that unfamiliar hands had passed to him. And he was young. Despite the fact that men said Doran had been born old, he was still a young man; fearless, invincible, immortal. And so, he followed the Norvoshi from the teeming throng of the man's countrymen to a quiet alcove nestled between tall buildings painted with gem-tones, and wreathed with ivy, flowering and making the air heavy with perfume. The atmosphere was already a heady one; and the strange spices mixed with the strange songs and the indolent blooms made Doran feel as if he'd had far more to drink than he had (which had already been a prodigious amount. He was, after all, Dornish.) And then he saw her once more, and the world seemed to still; the clanging of Noom, Narrah, and Nyel the only sound that broke through the sudden calm that seemed to come over Doran.

The man's voice broke through Doran's fog, and the Prince nodded, remembering his graces, the manners his mother had bored into him from the time he could string two words together. "Yes," Doran replied, "He has been gracious enough to accommodate myself and my retinue during my stay in Norvos, and has been a most welcoming host." His amber eyes returned to the woman, wrapped in silks of indigo and blues, and her bow, at once graceful, the lines of her form moving in harmony, and clumsy; the motions unfamiliar to her. Upon her returning upright, those whispering silks were brushed aside by some God's hand, revealing the dark tumble of hair that lay beneath, the sun-kissed skin, the rosy cheeks. He merely stood, struck mute and still for a moment, before recalling his manners once more, and bowing in kind, though his bow was shallower, and brief, in remembrance of their respective stations. "No, my lady, the pleasure is my own," he replied, a slight smile touching the curvature of his lips, turning the corners of his mouth upward. However; it was unlikely that any who did not know him would recognize the smile for what it was, so subtle was the gesture.

How had he missed this woman? He had been in the home of Kennar of Norvos for a few days' span; had the range of the man's opulent manse, from its gardens and fountains, to the marble-lined halls. But Norvos, Doran had noticed, was far from home. These people preferred to closet their women, to hid them away from prying eyes with silks and wigs, with separate rooms and halls. In Dorne, it was much the opposite. Women had just as much say in matters of home and state as men, and just as much visibility, if not more so. Men from cooler climes called Dornish women wanton; that the spicy foods preferred in the desert land inflamed their lusts, made their tempers burn brighter, set their passions aflame. But Doran had always been raised with what was perhaps a radical concept elsewhere: that women had the same desires men had, the same capabilities, the same power. Mother, father, sister, brother, the desert swallowed all whole with no regard as to their physical differences. "This place is beautiful," Doran said, in an attempt to maintain the dying sparks that was conversation. His Norvoshi was rough, uncultured, tainted by his formal knowledge of High Valyrian and his informal knowledge of the tongues of other Free Cities. Each city claimed its own tongue, and each one was unique, though similarities flowed through each tongue; each was built upon a like foundation, and improvised upon from that beginning.

None of this knowledge saved Doran's stumbling words, however; the accent was too Volantene, the dialect too archaic. Thus, he reverted back to Westerosi for his next words, apologizing. "My apologies; my tutors were remiss in my study of the languages of Essos. Were we to trade banter in the Mother tongue, High Valyrian, I could hold my own, or even in my ancient mother tongue, Old Rhoynish, I would sound less like a stumbling child." He shrugged, the gesture less dismissive, and more apologetic, a nonverbal way to say 'Well, I tried.' He was babbling. More words had spilled from his lips in the past thirty seconds than he'd said in a day to his own companions. Where was that impassive calm that he embodied so effortlessly? That subdued intellectualism that imbued his every motion? He'd always been one to observe, and act later, and only after he deemed it absolutely necessary. What had changed here? And yet...he couldn't stop. The urge to speak, to prolong this meeting, this moment was there, in a way it had never been so before. "Regardless, I hope we find common ground."
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MELLARIO MARTELL
 Posted: Dec 22 2017, 12:46 AM
Quote
Solace is Offline
47 years old
DORNE
Martell
Norvos
Essos
Princess


He stood against the cool white of the stone of the ally, the shadows in varying degrees of colors from the hanging fabrics and stained glass from the sun. Even though he shone like the sun in his golds and oranges, he seemed to exude his own light source from their dark corner, and she was a moth being drawn to the flame of his presence. But Mellario held herself back from stepping too close to him. He was speaking with Aero, and she could understand him perfectly enough, her eyes dancing like the forests around them and her heart was still pounding in her chest as his warm eyes met hers again.

Mellario wished that she had more talent for these sorts of things. That she had the capacity and the will to learn, but she wasn't given the opportunity, and she had always been raised to keep her questions to a minimum. But he was from Dorne! from Westeros, and a prince at that! the knowledge that he knew could fill countless books of her questions and ideas. But instead, she stayed with a small grin on her lips as he spoke. Her father was a good host, hiding his daughters and wife away from the retinue. Her mother would have a fit if she knew that Aero was willingly putting her daughter in harm's way - with her reputation. the thought thrilled her heart again and she listened as he spoke again, mentioning the place was beautiful - it was, but it was only Norvos - and he seemed a little distracted or perhaps troubled. The beautiful shape of his furrowed-browed made her want to touch it, and she instinctively took a small step forward but kept her hands at her side. He was a sculpture or a painting. Beautiful when looked up close and one could see the imperfections, how few they where.

He began to speak again, and Aero could see the confusion that crossed Mellario's eyes and perhaps her dismay as well as the man she was speaking with began to talk in another language. She turned her eyes towards Aero as Doran spoke, and looked back to him. The words coming out of his perfect lips were incomprehensible and she was at a loss for what to do in that moment. Like attempting to speak Myrrish for the first time, and failing. Aero only chuckled a little as Mellario's green eyes quickly turned to her confidant, and spoke easily enough to the Prince.
"You must beg her pardon, Your Highness. The Lady Mellario does not speak a word of Westerosi. " He explained, and he turned towards Mellario and spoke to her Norvoshi easily. "He can't speak Norvoshi very well. He can speak High Valyrian better." He turned forward as Mellario's ease once more filled her face, the panic that once was there now gone and replaced with excitement and ease.

"I'm trained in Valyrian but it isn't my strongest. I haven't had the chance to speak to many people in it." she replied back in fluent Valyrian before she turned her eyes towards Aero who looked at the sky, and then back at her. It was a signal that it was getting late. But that mattered not to Mellario. She was going to stay with this handsome prince as long as she could. She liked the sound of his voice, and the way he looked, and the way he even spoke. There was authority there, and yet kindness, but she also could tell he didn't talk this much before - he seemed more serious than this - but that mattered not to her.

"I pulled you from your retinue - I apologize. I am not normally this bold when speaking with strangers or guests of my father." She struggled a little with the valyrian, but it was the effort she put into it that made Aero's eyes soften. She was putting on a very good front. But he knew her long enough to know how nervous she was around the man in front of her; Unlike anything, he had ever seen her before. A butterfly nervously going near the flame of Dorne.


YOUNG MELLARIO (Melisa Asli Pamuk)
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