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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 been declared on the Stepstones, 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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 The Brave & The Bloodied, OPEN
YSERA TARGARYEN
 Posted: Dec 3 2017, 10:19 PM
Quote
KP is Offline
19 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Manwoody
Dorne
Princess


She had done her duty as a Dornish woman by protecting Elia Martells son. Prince Aegon Targaryen was safe, and will live to see the birth of his child and to live another day. Ysera, however, hadn't been sure of her own survival in that fight to get Aegon into the inner city, as her injuries had built upon one another until she was nearly crushed to death from debris caused by a scorpion that had failed to hit one of the various dragons in flight above them.

The fear that had flooded her soul and body in those moments, when she truly believed that the Stranger was going to take her, was a feeling she will never forget for the rest of her days. Nor will she forget the feel of her head snapping back and pain ricocheting through her skull, and hearing things inside of her crack. How everything sounded so wrong, and how she couldn't breath. Her chest had been locked tight, and how she had wondered if her ribs had broken and punctured her lungs. Some had been broken, but luckily none had harmed her lungs according to the maester.

She remembered how heavy her eyes had felt, like paperweights, and how wet her face had felt. Even now she wasn't sure if it had been due to blood or tears, but certainly she honestly thought that she was dying. Her grasp on consciousness had failed, but had regained it several times before reaching the relative safety and care of a maester. She knew not who who had gotten her to safety, but remembered feeling hands on her, dragging her out of what would've been her tomb. Carrying her, rushing her to safety. Asking her to hook an arm around his next and to hold on when she had next regained consciousness. The answer, they discovered, was yes - one. The other one wouldn't move. It dangled limply from her shoulder, disgustingly so.

And then they handed her over to the Maesters and healers, and Ysera truly felt the Strangers presence in what felt like days in their care.

Ysera looked over at the others in this medical tent through her one good eye. Her right one was swollen completely shut from the contusion on her cheek, and while they had attempted to put up a screen of some sort to give her "privacy", Ysera had promptly took it down. This was war, and she would not get any special treatment. She didn't want it. She didn't dare sit up though, for moments of the sort sent pain shooting through her chest. Her back and hips were bruised, various parts of her were bound and immobilized, her ribs were wrapped and it still hurt to breathe but at least she was still alive. That she will heal, and while there are sure to be some lasting damage naturally, Ysera had been told she will be able to live a relatively normal life. Oh, and still be able to have children, as the Maesters had so enthusiastically told her as though that was all she should care about in.

Closing her good eye, Ysera gave a little sigh as to not cause any sharp pains in her, her mind forming hundreds of questions. Did they win? Did Aegon get into the inner city? Where were her brothers? And her Matarys? Where they even still alive? As quick as that question bloomed in her dead Ysera shut it down, not even wanting to think of that possibility. She opened her good eye once again, gazing around the tented room, before gazing upon another figure, though their identity was hard to decipher. "Glad to see someone else is awake in here," She murmured, mustering up what smile she could to the individual, squinting at them with her good eye to figure out who they actually were.
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VALARR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Dec 4 2017, 11:02 AM
Quote
N/A is Offline
20 years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
Targaryen
Summerhall
Prince




War was beginning to feel a lot less heroic than it had in the Stormlands. It had been difficult then, but nothing compared to the chaos that had unfolded in Tyrosh. It had been something different altogether, something of biblical proportion. Even now beneath the delicate lull of what he imagined could be the last of the opium stores beneath the frost, he could still taste the dull reminiscence of salt. It had been an endless trail of conflict after conflict, one ship after the other, hulls ablaze, the violent shrill echo of Ghiscar wailing overhead. It had been fool-hearted luck that himself and Luce had conquered their capture, a one in a million chance of survival, the odds had never seemed more stacked against them. Half drowned, already injured, choking on the sea-water still rattling in his chest. He didn’t even like the ocean, he wasn’t a sailor, wasn’t even the best swimmer. But at least he was a swordsman, all that training while his siblings had been sailing above the clouds in their youth had prepared him better than he’d imagined. Ghiscar, Luce and those endless hours soaked in sweat had saved his life.

It wasn’t a comfortable bed, but observation was a must; or so he’d been informed. So instead of being padded in comfort he’d been left to sweat beneath the effects of his pain-relief amongst others he hadn’t identified. The Prince couldn’t quite decide what was more painful, the unbearable spasms ricocheting through his being each time he moved an inch or the vivid images of the pale-men marching through the ice that came to him as clear as the room itself each time he fell asleep. It was hard to admit that each time he fell into another daze he found it harder to wake himself, as if something was pulling him down into binds he couldn’t free himself from… like the current dragging him further into the dark. It was however somewhat amusing, in a masochistic kind of manner. Injured again. Near death again. Perhaps he should have been born a Lannister with more lives than a cat. Sheer luck perhaps? Fate? Favour from the Gods? Of course it had benefited to see the ambush before it had happened. But alas it might have been more favourable to see the capture. But then who was he to complain? He’d live. Perhaps. Was it still touch and go? He couldn’t quite recall what had been muttered through the fog of his hearing.

Pushing himself further against the feathered cushion, the King’s youthful shadow would prop his head a little higher in some vain attempt to peer across his shoulder. Even that however brought a hiss to spiral from his lips, the sound violent as it tore between his teeth and clutched with vehemence to the tip of his tongue. It was an ache he’d experienced before, the same kind which had shattered his chest when he’d taken the arrow for Alea. But this time it was everywhere, like fire, an incessant burning washing again and again across his flesh. Choking up a sudden cough, a mouthful of spit would spill from his lips chased with an irritable groan. Was this not worse than death? Then again he was accustomed to the sensation of burning, he’d always felt it, in his dreams. It wasn’t the person he recognised, for the world still swam in a blur of exotic colours, vibrant and sickly in their kaleidoscope of change, but the voice of his twin’s wife. What were the chances? His mouth twisted in amusement at the thought, a small smirk pulling at his mouth, reminding him that at least for all the injuries he’d obtained across his body his face didn’t hurt at all. “Well what kind of brother would I be if I let you get lonely, you still got all your limbs over there? All your toes? They’re important you know.” His tone wasn’t quite the same as it had been, instead of its usual soft charm it came with grit, a cold gravel ground through the swollen mound of his throat… it sort of reminded him of his twin.

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YSERA TARGARYEN
 Posted: Dec 6 2017, 11:17 PM
Quote
KP is Offline
19 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Manwoody
Dorne
Princess


For a moment, she thought it was Matarys.

It sounded like Matarys, for the briefest of moments, and Ysera was surprised to find herself relieved at the thought that he had survived. Sure, the two of them certainly didn't see eye to eye on many things and their marriage had been the will of others, but that did not mean Ysera didn't care somewhat for her northern husband. But the words weren't Matarys, and as Ysera focused on the figure she saw not dark curls but pale blond. Valarr. The twin brother of her husband, who looked like nothing of her husband and certainly differed in personality as well, at least from what she had heard. Curiously, Matary's had seemed to have purposely kept Ysera from spending much time with Valarr, which had certainly gained her curiosity.

And from what she had learned, it sounded as though she and Valarr would get along plenty well.

Her chuckle was cut short by a grunt of pain, pain shooting throughout her chest, a grimace forming on her features. Or what features that could move and wasn't swollen and horrendously bruised, which was very little of her face. Fuck the gods, laughing hurt, her broken ribs painful with her movements to sit up, to allow her a better view of her goodbrother. "Yeah, still all here." Ysera replied, her voice higher than usual as she strained against the pain. "How 'bout you? Got all your limbs still? If not, I know where to find some extras." Dear Gods she was being morbid and a bit disturbing, but after all she has been through during this war and assuming that Valarr had seen quite a few things as well, Ysera assumed that it will be alright.

"Ahh, there you are." Ysera's good eye focused on her goodbrother, and was slightly jealous by the fact that his face wasn't swollen or bruised or injured in the slightest. Some have all the luck. "And i'm sure Matarys will be thankful for you keeping me company," Ysera responded, before a snicker escaped her lips before being ended with a groan of pain. "Though, in knowing him and the fact that he's done quite the job at keeping us from having much of a conversation, he'll probably be worried as well." She had certainly observed that with her husband, and had always smirked behind her husbands back whenever he had avoided that conversation. It had always provoked a bit of a verbal fight between the two of them, his ice versus her fire.

While she did not love her husband, Ysera could not say that she was at least somewhat fond of him and at certain times she certainly lusted over him every now and then whenever they got into a heated argument. And in this moment, of thinking of him, she wondered where he was and a worried frown formed on her lips. May his Old Gods and her New ones protect him, for she was certainly too high strung and short tempered to be a widow.

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VALARR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Dec 7 2017, 04:06 PM
Quote
N/A is Offline
20 years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
Targaryen
Summerhall
Prince




Weren’t they quite the pair? Choking and spluttering on their own injuries, two proud warriors reduced to nothing more than sacks of beaten meat. It could have been worse of course, he could have shit himself. The idea, as sickening as it was, brought a wheeze that might have once been a laugh to pass in silence from his lips. Still able to find amusement in the most dire of situations, still a man of unusual ease; or at least a man who appeared as such. As the colours passed through his lids in a haze of strange smoke, the Prince strained to focus, narrowing his violet stare with determination on his Dornish kin. “I might need a few fingers, mine are fucked. You’d think a fellow man would have the decency to snap the left hand, it’s just bad manners.” A feigned huff would pass through his nostrils as he’d flare them in faux irritation, his gaze shifting to look upon the crooked digits withered against the bed. That was his fighting hand, his bow-string hand, his fucking hand; his best hand of all two hands he possessed. His favourite hand. The right hand. Of course there were injuries that would cause the maester bigger concerns, but that one… that one felt personal.

“Here I am, a human pin-cushion. I’ve had more swords in me than a woman in a whore house.” As soon as the words left his mouth he could hear his brother’s embarrassment, he could almost imagine the mortified expression carving itself into the marble of his fair face. Naturally that didn’t phase the silver son, as far as he was concerned it wasn’t a woman with a soft stomach and delicate countenance in his presence, but a soldier and he’d speak to her as he would them. “He has made a point of veering you from me, I can’t quite imagine the reason.” Without a doubt the reason would be the irrational impulsive manner in which he could turn a conversation and his lack of self-control when it came to teasing his darker-half. That of course was often forgotten, for he was far better known for his charm to all but the siblings who knew him best. After all, it was just them and those he’d shared a bed with who’d heard his screams in the night.

It was a strange thought to think of Matarys, to think all of a sudden in a moment of realisation of Visenya, of Aelix and Aegon. Each of them had been bound in armour and taken flight to face the war on a foreign front. To think of Luce, where had Luce gone? Rhaenna. All in an instant he found himself clenching his teeth, willing the flush of panic to ease from his torn chest; the flesh maimed almost beyond recognition. In that moment the sea-water washed against his cheeks, the bile of ocean thick against his throat as he recalled the taste, recalled each gulp he’d swallowed and choked upon. If he’d disliked the ocean before it was an impassioned hatred now. Shaking the thought from his mind and barring his teeth down in a fevered clench he’d find a wave of calm, his breathing shallow through the gentle heave of his stomach; each inhale threatening to break the wound which sat in vulgar prestige upon his waist. “He’s just scared you’ll like me better.” It took a moment to gather himself, but when he spoke again it came with a comforting lightness, as if they weren’t two broken bodies amongst the dying. “Or I’ll say something inappropriate.” Which wasn’t a case of perhaps but when. “I bet he wasn’t pleased you came here, he worries too much. Actually he worries enough for the both of us, that’s why I don’t have too. But don’t tell anyone, that’s my secret.”

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YSERA TARGARYEN
 Posted: Dec 18 2017, 03:30 PM
Quote
KP is Offline
19 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Manwoody
Dorne
Princess


The absurdity of the situation was laughable, if laughing wasn't so painful at the current moment. Ysera rested her head back against the cot that she was currently trapped in, in far too much pain to attempt to crawl out. Besides, not knowing who all was around she would most likely be yelled at or forced back into the damned cot. And then somehow, somewhat, Matarys would find out and Ysera was not in the right shape for arguing with her husband or with anyone at the present moment. "They get your sword hand?" Ysera questioned, wanting to make sure she heard right. It was a smart move, taking out the enemies sword hand as very few are as skilled with their opposite hand as they were with their dominate one. Take out their sword hand, and then take them out. "Sure we can find a few, though they won't be much of a matching set."

Oh how dark and twisted her mind was.

But how refreshing it was to have someone speak to her as an equal, and her goodbrother certain rose in favor as Ysera let out a bark of a laugh. Yes, it brought in another wave of pain to sweep through her body, but it was well worth it though it took a few moments for her to speak. Raspy coughs racked her body, and Ysera wondered if the Maester had been right when he had stated that none of her ribs had punctured her lungs. "But its far less enjoyable and at least they're getting paid." Ysera finally added, her lips twisted in a rueful smirk. "I believe its something along the lines of someone being a bad influence upon the other, though who would be influencing who is entirely up for debate."

Ysera heard his breathing become shallow, and panic surged through her. Shit, was he dying? Was her goodbrother and the twin of her husband dying, so close but yet so far from her? Swears swept through her mind, and in grinding her teeth together she did the thing she hadn't wanted to do early and sat up. Instantly her head swam and her knuckles that weren't wrapped and immobilized were white against the edges of the cot, gripping onto it for dear life. But, once her vision focused on her goodbrother, which was saying something since she had only one good eye seeing as how the other was swollen shut, because damn the Seven she needed to keep an eye on him like she had kept an eye on Prince Aegon.

There will be no Targaryen's dying under her watch.

"Oi, no dying." She said through gritted teeth, her good eye taking in the sight of Valarr Targaryen before her. Shit. Shit. If this was how Valarr, the silver prince, looked then she did not want to know how terrible she appeared. Shit. "Got too much to live for to die in this forshaken place. A family, a wife, a...special friend - can't die now." Yes, even Ysera had heard whispers of Valarr Targaryen having a paramour, but she hadn't seen the fuss in all of it. So he had a paramour, so what? It was natural for people to have paramours, at least in Dorne, and any child of those unions were at least the result of passion instead of duty.

And then Matarys was brought up, and how he wasn't pleased that Ysera had come to fight. That was the understatement of the century. "He's very much against the idea of me fighting in any shape or form, so naturally he was displeased with my attendance here. Of course, not like his displeasure in it would keep me away from this, not with so many others of Dorne being here." That had been an argument, with Ysera flat out telling him that she was going no matter what he said or did to prevent it. He thought that, as a woman, she was inferior and weaker than he was, and it infuriated her to no end. "If he wanted a submissive wife, he should've married a Northern woman." She muttered under her breath, eyes blazing with her anger.
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VALARR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Jan 8 2018, 02:58 PM
Quote
N/A is Offline
20 years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
Targaryen
Summerhall
Prince




Peculiar wasn’t it, how fate could bring two people together in the strangest of circumstances. After dozens of fitting gatherings that might have been an environment for conversation, it was an encounter of war that would bring them into their first proper exchange. Valarr never had been one for taking the easiest options. She was everything his twin wasn’t, or at least he could make such an assumption based on their current whereabouts and conditions. Impulsive he imaged, outspoken maybe, assertive? He wasn’t sure. No matter, he couldn’t help but think the woman condemned to the bed beside his own was the perfect match for his sensible, intellectual twin. A quiet girl would have bored his mind, without stimulation he’d lose interest and be nothing more than polite and courteous. A warrior, now that was someone who’d set his brother’s heart aflame. In time at least. “Indeed, I can use the other… but it’s not the same.” Even with the recognition of the potential direness of the situation the Prince seemed somewhat indifferent, almost accepting of the broken exterior he now bore. No man could ever claim The Shield of the Marches hadn’t fought for his King, for his people and that somehow made the consequence of war on himself worthwhile.

“I’d make them out of gold, Valarr and his Golden Fingers. Doesn’t sound too bad right.” There was a smirk residing upon his mouth, the curve breaking between his cheeks with the peacefulness of amusement. It felt strange to feel happy when the entire length of his being ached with each strain of muscle or twitch of skin. As the coughing proceeded his statement he found the gentle smirk bursting into a gleaming beam, the one he’d been infamous for in his youth. The child with a smile brighter than the Dornish sun. “Don’t choke over there, death by laughter would do you no justice.” For a moment he wished he could sit upright and clear the mist from his gaze, to talk to her as he should have so long ago, without the restriction of pain threatening to seduce him into an eternal scream, to escape the struggle to speak each word with the rasp of his gravelled voice. “I’d say you, I’m quite the innocent, if you don’t count my bastard son, long-term affair with a servant girl and inclination to do stupid things.” There was humour in his voice, an almost sing-song quality which wove with the elegance of silk into the air and flitted there for a long moment after he’d finished speaking. It was a shame such a beautiful sound had been marred with the hoarse cough which followed.

At his words he found himself blinking, remembering for that strange moment he would no doubt now be a father. He didn’t even know if it would be a son, perhaps somewhere beyond the ocean his father cradled a daughter on his behalf. No doubt fair haired, perhaps even as silver as his own. Though he hoped it would be blonde, free of the stigma of baring the banner of a Targaryen bastard. Not that it mattered to him, he’d love whatever waited for him all the same.

Once the silence subsided and he pulled himself from the ocean of his mind, of the darkness lapping him like the current which had coaxed him beneath, Valarr managed a half-hearted smile. The heave of his chest calmed, the tension which had enveloped him easing until the quiver of his erratic heart rattled on to a tame thud. “Death doesn’t want me, it keeps spitting me out. Sometime I think someone could cut my throat and I’d bounce right back up. Though I don’t intend to test that.” Tilting his head into the comfort of his cushion he’d allow it to support his neck, easing his abdominals which had throughout the conversation begun to throb as whatever opium he’d been given seemed to be sweating out of his system, leaving nothing but a frightful gloss like sheen upon his skin. “Good, you should be able to fight if you want. If Visenya can go off and fight, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able too.” Of course he could understand the resistance to the idea, the dangerousness war entailed. But if someone had been raised to fight, was good at fighting, then what did it matter what was between their legs? One day they’d all have to fight anyway, he’d seen it, in his dreams within the creeping cold. “I’m glad he didn’t, he would have been miserable, he just doesn’t know it yet. When I can move again, I’m hopeful I’ll be able too eventually, you’ll have to fight me. I’d like to see what you can do.”

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