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- 86
- Age
- 29
- Pronouns
- she/her
Lauryn Yronwood
"She is a viper, your grace, of the most cruel kind. She guards no-one but herself. Do not bring her to court. She will poison you at her first opportunity."
Arvielle Storm
"My sister is more true a Baratheon than myself at times. Name another who would dive head-first into Shipbreaker's bay with no fear? Who would sooner kill a beast with her bare hands than let it maim her? You ask what right she has to our house colours. The girl is the embodiment of our house, and if I should die, you will name her your heir."
Vie of Leng
"Last I heard, the princess Vie fled to Westeros in pursuit of a dragon. With luck, the foolish cunt will feel the kiss of fire and blood."
Rhaella Targaryen
"The bells tolled day and night for the death of the King's daughter, the Princess Rhaella. The common folk wept and left summer roses at her grave, and King's Landing remained in mourning for a full moon. I cannot remember a woman more loved. The bards will sing songs of her for years."
"She is a viper, your grace, of the most cruel kind. She guards no-one but herself. Do not bring her to court. She will poison you at her first opportunity."
- second child and only daughter of the Lord Yronwood
- twin to her brother Ryon
- sun-kissed skin, summer-sea eyes and dirty-blonde hair
- most comfortable with loose garb and a blade at her side
- protective of dorne, loathes the martells, seeks the fall of house targaryen
- guided by instinct and less by wit
- enjoys sport, riding, and drinking
- quick to anger and difficult to please
- unpredictable, wild, and unruly (a nightmare of a vassal)
Men were cowards.
Lauryn knew this to be true; it was a fact universally known to any woman with a brain. That was why they kneeled. They kneeled to Lords undeserving. They kneeled to pretenders. They kneeled to Aegon and his sisters. They kneeled to men who proclaimed themselves king because they were told to; because they could hide behind their father's name.
And they did it again.
They kneeled to a boy. They kneeled to Daeron.
A boy who had struck her father down.
A boy who had brought cowards to strike her brother down.
A boy with an army that threatened to rape her, and her cousins, and her mother.
A boy who had stripped and deflowered her lands.
A boy who had smeared the name of Yronwood with Dornish blood.
A boy.
The boy was not a coward; the men were.
So when she saw him, it was not a boy she was looking at; it was a child who had flown too close to the sun. He could no longer hide behind his dragons. There was no fire in him. Only embers remained. The dance had saw to that. She was unafraid of him. Yet a part of her most deep and hidden respected him for doing what no one else dared. The only missing part that was left was her – a portcullis that would cut him down and put him in his place – far away from Dorne, never to return again.
He may have been well-liked. So was she. Perhaps not in this court, where the Tyrell whore would glare at her and complain that she was disobedient and unruly. But she was liked in Dorne, in the mountains of her home where men had tried for years to seduce her to their beds, where women would blush beneath her gaze.
He may have been tall, but so was she. Perhaps not of the same stature, but her head was always held high for she could not show her fear. Fear. An emotion foreign to her until Daeron came. He came with blood and blades and bribes, and though she desired to fight, her father would not give; but she didn't think about that. She couldn't. She set it aside in favour of a more acceptable emotion – unbridled rage. She despised him.
She despised his lovely pale skin, and the soft silver wisps of hair born of Old Valyria. She despised the ways his eyes fell on her that day; how it scanned her body with muted curiousity. She despised that despite his men's best efforts, he did not let them touch her. She despised that her men cowered before him after the battle, and that he decided to take her in place of her brother. She did not understand why.
It was a fatal mistake on his part; she vowed to herself she would kill him.
A knife to his throat. A dornish arrow laced with poison. None of it seemed good enough. She wanted him to suffer as she had when she heard her brother had been slain. She would kill every last Westerosi. She would not bow. She would even depose her own brother if it meant her house was free.
She was older than Daeron too – not by much, but by enough. She had a year of wisdom on him, at least. She was smarter. She could find ways to outwit him. She did not need to use her body as the women around him did. She did not seduce. She did not lay with any man. She intimidated them. She could outsmart him. She could escape.
She told herself these things every night since her arrival at the Keep. She loathed the capital; hated the silly little intricate styles the women would wear their hair in. She scoffed at the clothing on their bodies – how they'd try to tempt the king when he walked by with their revealing bodices and plunging necklines. It was a truly pathetic display. She would take to loose-fitting garb any day, with a place at her thigh for a dagger. A dagger she would eventually kill him with. She'd ride to him on horseback with her long, dirty-blonde hair free and unbound by silly little clips and ties, no longer pulled back into neat and clean chignons. Her skin would be tanned as the Dornish sun again, her eyes blue as the summer sea, and her lips would form the sweetest smile before she watched him breathe his last.
She would not kneel as the cowards did. This man was not her king.
She reminded him of it too – the day he had taken her to King's Landing.
Kill me now, she had whispered on the way to the King's Road. Or one day, I will punish you.
Lauryn knew this to be true; it was a fact universally known to any woman with a brain. That was why they kneeled. They kneeled to Lords undeserving. They kneeled to pretenders. They kneeled to Aegon and his sisters. They kneeled to men who proclaimed themselves king because they were told to; because they could hide behind their father's name.
And they did it again.
They kneeled to a boy. They kneeled to Daeron.
A boy who had struck her father down.
A boy who had brought cowards to strike her brother down.
A boy with an army that threatened to rape her, and her cousins, and her mother.
A boy who had stripped and deflowered her lands.
A boy who had smeared the name of Yronwood with Dornish blood.
A boy.
The boy was not a coward; the men were.
So when she saw him, it was not a boy she was looking at; it was a child who had flown too close to the sun. He could no longer hide behind his dragons. There was no fire in him. Only embers remained. The dance had saw to that. She was unafraid of him. Yet a part of her most deep and hidden respected him for doing what no one else dared. The only missing part that was left was her – a portcullis that would cut him down and put him in his place – far away from Dorne, never to return again.
He may have been well-liked. So was she. Perhaps not in this court, where the Tyrell whore would glare at her and complain that she was disobedient and unruly. But she was liked in Dorne, in the mountains of her home where men had tried for years to seduce her to their beds, where women would blush beneath her gaze.
He may have been tall, but so was she. Perhaps not of the same stature, but her head was always held high for she could not show her fear. Fear. An emotion foreign to her until Daeron came. He came with blood and blades and bribes, and though she desired to fight, her father would not give; but she didn't think about that. She couldn't. She set it aside in favour of a more acceptable emotion – unbridled rage. She despised him.
She despised his lovely pale skin, and the soft silver wisps of hair born of Old Valyria. She despised the ways his eyes fell on her that day; how it scanned her body with muted curiousity. She despised that despite his men's best efforts, he did not let them touch her. She despised that her men cowered before him after the battle, and that he decided to take her in place of her brother. She did not understand why.
It was a fatal mistake on his part; she vowed to herself she would kill him.
A knife to his throat. A dornish arrow laced with poison. None of it seemed good enough. She wanted him to suffer as she had when she heard her brother had been slain. She would kill every last Westerosi. She would not bow. She would even depose her own brother if it meant her house was free.
She was older than Daeron too – not by much, but by enough. She had a year of wisdom on him, at least. She was smarter. She could find ways to outwit him. She did not need to use her body as the women around him did. She did not seduce. She did not lay with any man. She intimidated them. She could outsmart him. She could escape.
She told herself these things every night since her arrival at the Keep. She loathed the capital; hated the silly little intricate styles the women would wear their hair in. She scoffed at the clothing on their bodies – how they'd try to tempt the king when he walked by with their revealing bodices and plunging necklines. It was a truly pathetic display. She would take to loose-fitting garb any day, with a place at her thigh for a dagger. A dagger she would eventually kill him with. She'd ride to him on horseback with her long, dirty-blonde hair free and unbound by silly little clips and ties, no longer pulled back into neat and clean chignons. Her skin would be tanned as the Dornish sun again, her eyes blue as the summer sea, and her lips would form the sweetest smile before she watched him breathe his last.
She would not kneel as the cowards did. This man was not her king.
She reminded him of it too – the day he had taken her to King's Landing.
Kill me now, she had whispered on the way to the King's Road. Or one day, I will punish you.
Arvielle Storm
"My sister is more true a Baratheon than myself at times. Name another who would dive head-first into Shipbreaker's bay with no fear? Who would sooner kill a beast with her bare hands than let it maim her? You ask what right she has to our house colours. The girl is the embodiment of our house, and if I should die, you will name her your heir."
- bastard daughter of the lord Baratheon and [redacted] Targaryen
- pale skinned, raven black hair, violet eyes that seem almost red at times
- most comfortable in hunting garb
- enjoys sport, hunt, and animal husbandry
- fascinated with dragons, essosi animals (lions, tigers, elephants)
- self-conscious in social situations, very uncomfortable in the presence of nobles, ashamed and secretive around the origins of her birth
- protective of her legitimate brother
- unable to have children
- desires to be legitimized and see the great wonders of the world
Arvielle's breed is stag: fury, bloodlust, a mercurial temper; the epithets of her house.
Ours is the fury – she can be fury, too, like her father and brother, who fashion her more a flower.
But she is not from the Reach. She is born of the Stormlands, and it reverberates in her when she feels the hum of a Goldenheart bow in her grip. If she cannot be a stag, then she will slay one.
There is a jealousy when she watches knights clash steel to the symphony of thunderous applause. Shields splinter and split skin, men roar like dragons in flight, knights ride to honor, to glory, to fame. She sits, as a flower does, and watches.
The knights have something to prove. Her brother does too. She notes how their father watches him, whispers to him about this lord and that. He whispered too her too, once.
Sit up straight.
He's never had to say it twice.
Arvielle's breed is bastard.
Ours is the fury – she can be fury, too, like her father and brother, who fashion her more a flower.
But she is not from the Reach. She is born of the Stormlands, and it reverberates in her when she feels the hum of a Goldenheart bow in her grip. If she cannot be a stag, then she will slay one.
There is a jealousy when she watches knights clash steel to the symphony of thunderous applause. Shields splinter and split skin, men roar like dragons in flight, knights ride to honor, to glory, to fame. She sits, as a flower does, and watches.
The knights have something to prove. Her brother does too. She notes how their father watches him, whispers to him about this lord and that. He whispered too her too, once.
Sit up straight.
He's never had to say it twice.
Arvielle's breed is bastard.
Vie of Leng
"Last I heard, the princess Vie fled to Westeros in pursuit of a dragon. With luck, the foolish cunt will feel the kiss of fire and blood."
- crown princess of the empire of leng
- short for her kind (they are usually seven feet - eight feet tall) she is 5'7
- pin straight black hair, eyes like molten lava
- houses a family of tigers in her underground palace
- enjoys hunt, spends her free times in the jungles of leng
- fascinated with old valyria, spends her free time learning valyrian and understanding how to tame dragons
- her adventures bring her to westeros, where she tames a sea dragon she names Nagga
- practices dark magic, is known to make human sacrifices on occasion
- keeps a sword that glows red (through the use of magic, the sword is always scalding hot)
Determination is born of foul memory.
If she thinks back to her worst, it is her family she sees. She recalls being bound down while they burn her two sisters alive. Then, they execute her brothers: their bodies chopped into pieces and fed to the tigers. They finish with her father last: tie his extremities to horses that pull him apart at each limb.
They let her go, to run to her mother, the empress, and warn her of what will become of her legacy.
When her mother finds out, tyranny becomes the new rule. A new squadron of guard is installed in their palace. The empress seizes the weapons of the citizenry. She trusts nobody, and threatens to consort with the Old Ones nearly every day.
Vie convinces her not to.
The runt of the litter. The small one. The one who may as well be a court jester. The only reason people do not poke fun at her is because they know she is the daughter of the empress. It is unmistakable. The pitch black hair and orange eyes. The jade tiaras that sit in long, loose tresses. Her silken gowns adorned with citrine, topaz and spessartite garnets. The crown princess, after the rest of her lineage is dissolved.
She has dreams as a child. Dreams of dragons that fly with her into battle. Flying so high, that she can see shooting stars zoom fast beside her. She becomes obsessed with this dream – wills it into existence. Childhood is spent learning High Valyrian. Books on dragons are sent from all corners of the known world. Nights are spent in the comfort of her labyrinth, learning all there is on what it means to tame such a creature. The glass candle always burns beside her, and they plant her mind with visions and communicate her destiny. The message is always clear: dragons.
And dragons send her to the other side of the known world.
She knows it is the only way the Lengii will ever accept her as empress. If she arrives home on the back of the winged serpent, there will be little room for anyone to doubt her. Fire will silence her enemies. Smoke will breathe death upon them. Blood will soak the floors of their imperial complexes.
If she thinks back to her worst, it is her family she sees. She recalls being bound down while they burn her two sisters alive. Then, they execute her brothers: their bodies chopped into pieces and fed to the tigers. They finish with her father last: tie his extremities to horses that pull him apart at each limb.
They let her go, to run to her mother, the empress, and warn her of what will become of her legacy.
When her mother finds out, tyranny becomes the new rule. A new squadron of guard is installed in their palace. The empress seizes the weapons of the citizenry. She trusts nobody, and threatens to consort with the Old Ones nearly every day.
Vie convinces her not to.
The runt of the litter. The small one. The one who may as well be a court jester. The only reason people do not poke fun at her is because they know she is the daughter of the empress. It is unmistakable. The pitch black hair and orange eyes. The jade tiaras that sit in long, loose tresses. Her silken gowns adorned with citrine, topaz and spessartite garnets. The crown princess, after the rest of her lineage is dissolved.
She has dreams as a child. Dreams of dragons that fly with her into battle. Flying so high, that she can see shooting stars zoom fast beside her. She becomes obsessed with this dream – wills it into existence. Childhood is spent learning High Valyrian. Books on dragons are sent from all corners of the known world. Nights are spent in the comfort of her labyrinth, learning all there is on what it means to tame such a creature. The glass candle always burns beside her, and they plant her mind with visions and communicate her destiny. The message is always clear: dragons.
And dragons send her to the other side of the known world.
She knows it is the only way the Lengii will ever accept her as empress. If she arrives home on the back of the winged serpent, there will be little room for anyone to doubt her. Fire will silence her enemies. Smoke will breathe death upon them. Blood will soak the floors of their imperial complexes.
Rhaella Targaryen
"The bells tolled day and night for the death of the King's daughter, the Princess Rhaella. The common folk wept and left summer roses at her grave, and King's Landing remained in mourning for a full moon. I cannot remember a woman more loved. The bards will sing songs of her for years."
- princess of house targaryen
- the jewel of her family, extremely outgoing, constantly laughing, life of the party
- stands small at 5'2, slender of figure, bubbling with energy
- wears only expensive jewels / garments and keeps her hair in intricate coifs and trending styles
- silver-haired, bright violet eyes
- enjoys to sing, dance, and converse
- has a small dragon the size of a falcon (Proudwing). the creature does not grow, but she has trained it to deliver letters and gifts to her friends.
- rejects nearly every male suitor. has no desire to settle down.
- adores her family and friends, and always assumes the best of them
She is eight and ten when she tames a dragon.
Not that it needs taming, mind you. The poor sweet thing never grows. Just a tiny creature who breathes out pathetic little spits of fire and smoke. Who flies slower than a bird. Who perches itself on her shoulder and nuzzles at her cheek. The beautiful dragon has brown scales and sunset eyes. Her tail is long and feathered, and she seems to chirp closer to a bird than roar like a dragon.
Proudwing, she names her. For though the creature does not grow, she seems to fly harder than all the other dragons.
Rhaella loves her.
She sings to her almost daily. Strokes at the long feathers of her tail. Runs her thumb over the scales of her head. The dragon eventually forms such a deep bond with her that they are one in the same. She wraps about the dragon's neck gems of opal and onyx held together by golden chain. All that see Proudwing know whose dragon she is.
Proudwing brings the princess gifts between her smoky little mouth. Coins from the streets of King's Landing. Berries and pastries and sweetrolls from the kitchens. Sometimes she will bring her flowers from the gardens and Rhaella will tuck them into her hair.
As she gets older, the dragon brings her jewels. Gorgeous rubies, mother-of-pearl necklaces, shining rings and bracelets encrusted with diamonds. She enters every feast glittering in gold, spilling over with silver, and ripe with beads of gems of garnet and moonstone. She is the very vision of wealth and indulgence.
She is known as Rhaella the Regal. Never down-at-the-heel.
Not that it needs taming, mind you. The poor sweet thing never grows. Just a tiny creature who breathes out pathetic little spits of fire and smoke. Who flies slower than a bird. Who perches itself on her shoulder and nuzzles at her cheek. The beautiful dragon has brown scales and sunset eyes. Her tail is long and feathered, and she seems to chirp closer to a bird than roar like a dragon.
Proudwing, she names her. For though the creature does not grow, she seems to fly harder than all the other dragons.
Rhaella loves her.
She sings to her almost daily. Strokes at the long feathers of her tail. Runs her thumb over the scales of her head. The dragon eventually forms such a deep bond with her that they are one in the same. She wraps about the dragon's neck gems of opal and onyx held together by golden chain. All that see Proudwing know whose dragon she is.
Proudwing brings the princess gifts between her smoky little mouth. Coins from the streets of King's Landing. Berries and pastries and sweetrolls from the kitchens. Sometimes she will bring her flowers from the gardens and Rhaella will tuck them into her hair.
As she gets older, the dragon brings her jewels. Gorgeous rubies, mother-of-pearl necklaces, shining rings and bracelets encrusted with diamonds. She enters every feast glittering in gold, spilling over with silver, and ripe with beads of gems of garnet and moonstone. She is the very vision of wealth and indulgence.
She is known as Rhaella the Regal. Never down-at-the-heel.
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