Princess Elia Martell Of Dorne For Martell Week

The Swiftfoot Maid | Chapter 1, a snippet

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“You’re a good dancer,” she said suddenly, eyes darting away too quickly as he startled and missed a step.

Edric caught her gaze, then swept them back into rhythm. “Thank you, my lady. I spent many years in King’s Landing, where even squires are expected to know their steps.”

“Grace-footed, then,” she acknowledged with a lift of her sharp chin. “But does that make you swift-footed?”

“No, my lady. I have never been the swiftest, nor the strongest.”

A crease came between her dark brows. “Then how is it you expect to defeat me?”

You were right, he scolded himself. You are a fool. But he only smiled lightly. “Fortune, perhaps.”

“I’ll not be shamed by defeat at the hands of fortune,” Arya scoffed. “No, I’ll not be shamed by defeat at all.”

Edric didn’t speak for a moment. He only moved in time with the music, with her. For all her steel and storm, she felt rather slight in his arms. It was almost enough to forget she’d speared a man through the heart that very morning. Up close, he could see the faintest powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Soft, like a kiss the sun forgot to take back.

He imagined she liked to spend her days beneath the sun.

“If I may be so bold,” he said at last, pivoting them through a swell of harp strings, “if fortune fails to favor you, how could it shame you to be bested? There are many great men vying for your hand. Sons of the kraken and the flayed man—warriors in their own right.”

“Courteous of you, to call them great,” she muttered. She searched his face, curious and sharp, her stormcloud stare pinning him in place. “And what of you, Lord Dayne? Are you a great man?”

“I…” Edric faltered, searching himself for the answer. The hearthfire roared at his back, swallowing the clangor into its molten breath. The moment nearly slipped—but he caught it. Remembered. Fallen and Reborn. He straightened. “I am Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Descendant of the Kings of the Torrentine. Kin to the great Ser Arthur Dayne. Blood of those named Sword of the Morning, wielders of Dawn.”

Just for a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flash of surprise cross her eyes. But it vanished quick as lightning. Then she struck with a smirk.

“Ah, but you are not Dawn’s wielder, are you?”

Más dibujos sin terminar porque ya no me importa nada

Aegon (VI) & the Apple of Discord

Cast: Aphrodite!Shiera, Hera!Rhaenys, Athena!Visenya, Paris!Aegon VI

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Undaunted now, Aegon turned his face to look upon the deathless goddesses: Rhaenys, gilded in splendorous regality; Visenya, ablaze with noble might; and Shiera, sweet with tender blooms and all the foliage of spring.

The fated son of Rhaegar lamented that not all could win. But still, one pleased him more.

“Of winning all are worthy,” began Aegon the shepherd-prince, before turning his clear-eyed gaze upon the goddess of love, “but—”

“Young Aegon.”

Bright-eyed Visenya, swift to sense the shifting tide, stepped forward before the offending verdict could fall. She took the youth by the hand, smiling. “Leave Rhaenys, and heed not Shiera—but look toward me, who aids the prowess of men. Come, and I will bestow upon you battle wisdom unrivaled and immortal skill in war.”

Aegon moved to speak, but Rhaenys the Queen claimed the moment for herself.

“Dear child of fate,” said the queen of gods, “elect me, and I shall make you king of the Nine Free Cities. Pentos, land of your false father. Braavos of the Hundred Isles. Myr, where art and learning flourish, and Qohor, where iron bends to no one. Norvos, Lorath, Lys. Proud Volantis in the south. Tyrosh, the city of color.”

White-armed Rhaenys raised her scepter high, a golden crown glittering in her gaze. “War is the burden of the ruled. A king commands with but a word. Elect me, and you shall stand above all thrones.”

Great was their desire for victory, Wisdom and Queen plying the Judge’s favor with the wondrous gifts of their domains. The Judge wavered, uncertain—for how could one choose between the valorous heart and power over men?

Sweetly, Love smiled.

“Forget weary war, sweet Aegon. Cast aside your thoughts of crippling crowns. Do not let such gifts ensnare you. I speak not of Rhaenys nor Visenya, for mine own realm is greater still. For what is conquest without beauty to inspire it? What is kingship without a woman’s heart to share it?”

Shiera Seastar reached forward and brushed a stray curl from Aegon's brow, her rosy fingers feather-light. Her touch lingered like a promise. Behind her, the Charites and Horae sang a song of love and doom so sweet it ached.

“It is naught but ash, dear one. And so my gift shall be of love."

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Snippet from Godspun, Prologue.

“You don’t know anything about what I’m trying to do.” 

“No?” Danyel leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “Is that not what I’m helping you do at this gala of yours? Fighting at a diplomatic event, of all things. You and Tomix really were cut from the same cloth—always charging ahead, as if the only way to fix the past is to destroy your own selves in the process.”

Lyanna Stark’s world was dappled in a grey-green patchwork of shadow as she trotted beneath the trees of the Kingsroad. When she emerged from the brush, the land burst into gold. Sunlight kissed leaf and lake alike, scattering across the Gods Eye and gilding its endless surface with a million white diamonds. The air was sweet with wildflowers, dotting the new green grass like tiny yellow stars fallen to earth. Spring had sighed its first breath upon the Riverlands.

And there, before the great expanse of water, stood Harrenhal. Five monstrous stone towers rose from the plains, grasping at the sky like the twisted charred fingers of an ancient giant. Lyanna gave a shiver. It was said Aegon the Conqueror himself had flown atop Balerion the Black Dread, roasting old Harren Hoare alive within the tallest of the five spires. 

The towers glowed red against the night, Old Nan had told her, as red as Aegon’s fury. The dragonfire was so hot the very stones melted and flowed down its walls like candlewax.

She believed it. The castle stood like a ruin now—great, yes, but lumpy and misshapen. It was sad, Lyanna decided. She would have liked to explore the castle before it was burnt.

A pale white blur darted past her.

“Race you to the gates, Lya!” shouted Benjen. Her brother dug his heels into his snowy mount, spurring the mare forward with a great laughing whoop that bounded across the warm southern breeze.

“Benjen, wait!” she protested, but the young pup was already too far gone to hear. Lyanna chewed her lip. Normally she’d be off already, racing after Benjen. Racing past him, she sniffed. She was the best rider in the north. Well, her and Brandon.

She twisted in her seat to look back at their retinue, streaming with white banners emblazoned with the grey direwolf of Stark. Hundreds of flying wolves seemed to snap and snarl as wind rippled through their cloth. Leading them was Brandon, tall and proud as ever atop his sleek black destrier. But there was no fire in his handsome Stark face, and he did not urge his horse forward at their brother’s challenge as he would have once.

It was Brandon who’d lifted her atop her first saddle. It was Brandon who’d secreted her out into the wolfswood against the will of their lord father, teaching her the way of spur and rein. A pair of centaurs, Barbrey Ryswell once called them. Barbrey had meant it as a jab beneath her teasing lilt, she was sure, but still the words had made Lyanna flush with pride. Now it only filled her breast with a hollow grey ache.

Yes, usually it would be her and Brandon racing—if not for the shadow that seemed to hang over him. Over them both. You should be happy, Lyanna scolded herself. You’re finally on a great adventure. And yet.

Suddenly the sight of the Stark heir sent a flash of spite scorching through her blood. How dare he brood. Brandon had betrayed her. Brandon and Father both. Her jaw clenched. This wasn’t the usual joyful fire that rushed beneath her skin urging her to ride; this was anger, pure and sharp as winter's bite.

Without a word, Lyanna put spur to horse and burst after Benjen. The wind tore at her cloak and lashed at her cheeks as she leaned into a ferocious gallop, but it couldn’t blow away the memory that had so soured her mood.

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Rewrote the entire first chapter of A Crown of False Spring. 10/10 would collapse right now.

Harrenhal art by Lino Drieghe and René Aigner.

lyanna <3

— David Foster Wallace, E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction

Azor Ahai (don’t come at me i’d kill for her)

Princess Shireen Baratheon

𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝑜𝑓 𝐻𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛

𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒐: "Growing Strong". 𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒍: Is a golden rose on a green field. 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔: Members of the family tend to have curly brown hair and brown eyes.

Lords Paramount of the Mander and the liege lords of the Reach. House Tyrell is a large, wealthy house, its wealth is only surpassed among the Great Houses by House Lannister. The Tyrells control much of the agriculture in the Reach, making them influential players in the politics of Westeros.

Unlike most other Great Houses, the Tyrells never ruled as kings. Instead, they trace their line of descent through the female line to the legendary Garth the Gardener, the mythical first King of the Reach reigning in the Age of Heroes, and the son of the equally mythic Garth Greenhand.

After the fall of House Gardener, the Tyrells rose to prominence by supporting Aegon I Targaryen. In return for their loyalty, they were granted the title of Wardens of the South and became one of the most powerful houses in Westeros.

During the reign of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Tyrells hosted the famed Tourney of the Field of Roses.

As the Dance of the Dragons began, Lord Lyonel Tyrell was an infant, and his regent mother was judged likely to align the Reach with the House's "overmighty" bannermen, the Hightowers, and the greens.

However, House Tyrell decided to take no part in the war. The Tyrell bannermen, on the other hand, were split during the war, with men of the Reach fighting on both sides. Later Ser Ulf White attempted to claim Highgarden for himself, as House Tyrell had taken no part in the Dance and he believed they should be considered traitors.

During Robert's Rebellion, House Tyrell stayed loyal to King Aerys II Targaryen. Lord Mace Tyrell's forces achieved victory against Lord Robert Baratheon at the Battle of Ashford.