#the rhoynish and dorne

[horizon-verizon]

It is said that, amongst the Rhoynar who came to Dorne with Nymeria, eight of every ten were women ... but a quarter of those were warriors, in the Rhoynish tradition, and even those who did not fight had been hardened during their travels and travails. As well, thousands who had been boys when fleeing the Rhoyne had grown into manhood and taken up the spear during their years of wandering. By joining with the newcomers, the Martells increased the size of their host by tenfold. When Mors Martell took Nymeria to wife, hundreds of his knights, squires, and lords bannermen also wed Rhoynish women, and many of those who were already wed took them for their paramours. Thus were the two peoples united by blood. These unions enriched and strengthened House Martell and its Dornish allies. The Rhoynar brought considerable wealth with them; their artisans, metalworkers, and stonemasons brought skills far in advance of those achieved by their Westerosi counterparts, and their armorers were soon producing swords and spears and suits of scale and plate no Westerosi smith could hope to match. Even more crucially, it is said the Rhoynish water witches knew secret spells that made dry streams flow again and deserts bloom. To celebrate these unions, and make certain her people could not again retreat to the sea, Nymeria burned the Rhoynish ships. “Our wanderings are at an end,” she declared. “We have found a new home, and here we shall live and die.”

A World of Ice and Fire, pg. 25

[bardsansa]

queen myriah nymeros martell, newly crowned, at the coronation of her husband, king daeron ii. 184 AC.

visenya and rhaenys, alyssa velaryon, the six wives of maegor, alysanne, aemma arryn, alicent hightower and rhaenyra i, helaena, jaehaera, daenaera velaryon, daena the defiant, naerys

[atopvisenyashill]

every time someone does “valyrian culture was more egalitarian than andal culture” discourse i point to the fact that jaehaerys invented the doctrine of exceptionalism and was an evil misogynistic menace to every woman he knew, how visenya was not the ruler of their house despite being older, and how the vale which is STEEPED in andal culture & chivalry & the seven regularly has their houses ruled by women in a way that almost no other region outside of dorne has ntm having the ONLY ruling lady of a paramount house INCLUDING VALYRIAN AND FIRST MEN HOUSES and also i start shrieking

[ginger-danica-snapps]

Orphans of the Greenblood

A request fill.

[dulcewrites]

I think Myrah would be more mad than Aemond if Baelor got arrested🤔 like Aemond is privileged, and grew up w aegon he knows about ppl having bad times or how easy someone can lose themselves if not careful. But Myrah, she comes from a brown family (in my mind I hc her as Latina) she was raised a certain way, so her son getting arrested is disappointing but also devastating bcus she knows she raised him better than that

Oh for sure. I think it would be a sobering moment for her as a parents. It calls into question something she sort of feared before they had kids. On one hand, she enjoys and appreciates the fact that the world is her children’s oyster. They will be able to do and see things she never could at their age. But with that comes the stipulations of losing touch and expecting money to get you out of problems.

Her upbringing (as a woc) would color not only the way she moves through the world, but also how she navigates her relationship with Aemond and motherhood. The Aegon piece is interesting as well. Because though Aemond was never been one to get into serious trouble himself, he probably learned how to make things go away through his parents (mainly Alicent) dealing with Aegon :/. It would change the way he looks at things versus myrah.

As well as Aemond just being around people that are used to throwing money at problems. He probably went to a boarding school or belonged to a country club his family did. He’s a lawyer (in this universe). viserys owns a big company or is even a Wall Street guy; Alicent came from a wealthy family. Opposed to myrah/her Myrah’s parents. Myrah is an artist/art curator for a gallery. I see Amal being a hairdresser and Gerald maybe works in accoutanting or teaching.

Myrah would blame herself, and wonder if she let them get away with too much. Or let the money and privileges seep in too much. Especially with Baelor who she tends to side with because of his relationship with his dad.

[navree]

gonna be honest i cannot imagine a nymeria spinoff ever getting off the ground, just because hbo is an american company that, like most western media, caters primarily to an american audience, and telling an american audience "guys look at this story about the mayflower and the pilgrims but this time they're Ethnic" seems like a very poor business move

[blissfulphilospher]

I saw a post of @very-straight-blog and I agree!

People need to know this!

According to the ANDAL LAW the succession should be like this in HOTD after Viserys I and this is what Greens wanted in the book

Aegon II — Jaehaerys (rip little prince) — Maelor the Missing — Jaehaera — Aemond — Daeron the Daring — Rhaenyra — Aegon III — Viserys II — Visenya (if she lived) — Helaena (in case everyone above her die) — Daemon — Baela — Rhaena — Rhaenys (if everyone with Targaryen surname die)

Not including Strong Boys because like it or not they are bastards and shouldn't be in line of inheritance. They could have been if Rhaenyra married Harwin. She didn't.

Also wanted to specify that ANDAL LAW is better than Valyrian and Northern. Only second to RHOYNISH LAW and Targs in this era hate Dorne. It's funny if they adapt their laws.

According to the Valyrian, Jaehaera, Rhaenyra and Helaena will come after Daemon and his sons. (I am saying this after reading the mess of Maegor's rule and Jaehaerys calling GC 1.)

And this is Alicent, House Hightower and majority of Westeros' religion.

She didn't sinned or betrayed anyone by having him crowned, her son has the right to the Iron Throne. His ascension should not have been a misunderstanding, he has the right to the throne and there is a reason history remembers him as the king.

[themotherofblood]

mene payi taabahiyan | d.t x reader

part one | masterlist

synopsis; inspired by the song O bedardeya. The aftermath of Baelon being engaged to reader, you and Daemon battle through the fall out and the agony of it all

smut warning: unprotected, hate fuck (kinda? more like sad fuck) exhibitionism, against a tree.

There was no air left in the Throne Room, your hand clammy against Baelon’s hand clasped over yours. You were sure that if your hand had not rested against the larger palm of his - you would fall, face flat - a deer learning to walk again, your legs had begun to lose its function. How were you to bow with honour and nor could you look at your brother. Baelon pulled you down with him, as the static noise of applause finally filled your ears, the madness that was to follow lingered in your mind. Lords and Ladies took turns approaching both Targaryen princes, Daemon shuffled his way out of the Throne Room, leaving his new bride to be flushed and irked. Baelon received appraisals on your behalf as people simply put your blanked nervousness as you being overcome with emotions. 

Your own lack of breath might have left you looking maniacal, your brother Quentel followed you out, his larger legs easily catching up to your hasty steps, his palm yanking you back. While his own heart ached seeing your distraught face, your broken pleas finally graced your lips. “wh- why wasn’t I told?” your bottom lip quivering “I won’t fight this, but why?”

“It was always the deal, my children would have but my sons cannot, sweet sister,” he tucked a piece of your hair behind, “You will be Queen-” his eyes coated with concern “it would end the wars, once and for all,”

“I wanted Daemon, it was Daemon,” you nibbled at your lip to stop your tears, “I love, Daemon,” you pulled yourself away from him, finding no strength within yourself as you ran for the stables. Whisking past all attendants and guests, fleeing from the turmoil that wasn’t just the Red Keep but within you. The gown you wore pushed against your chest as you looked for Nysa, the stable boy looked startled as he knew no better than whether to help you or stop you. You raced past the gates, Nysa galloping with all her might as you tore through the streets of King’s Landing to its exit. 

Even with all the air whistling through your hair, your body found it lacking there of, all you knew was you couldn’t pretend to be shy nor accept congratulations for something that should have never happened to either of you. Baelon wanted no woman(very verbally), you  knew of this; why would he? If your devotions for Daemon were any testament, how would you find one to bring your skin ablaze like he did yours. For once, perhaps in the goodness of your heart you thought of Rhae Royce, Daemon would chew her apart if he acknowledged her presence in his bloodline at all. Your heart aching for all four of you, tied to a bargain that neither of you benefited from. All for the Realm, all for the King. All for peace. 

The moon’s milky light lit the damp leaves lining the woods, the darkness was no challenge nor fear to you than the turmoil you already were in. This time you wanted to run, truly run and yet you couldn’t ride Nysa all the way to Dorne, you couldn’t hide behind the viper’s nest if you wanted to. For all you know, it might ruin Dornish relations with the Realm for good, as each Prince or Princess made of hot Rhoynish blood would find something to squabble over. You could stop this once and for all, no more dragons blasting fire on your homeland, no more dead brothers on pyres. 

You stopped right at the edge of the Kingswood, shuffling off your saddle as you twisted Nysa’s reins on your palm. Leading a much confused animal to the dark forest, she an animal yet found herself aware of your sorrow. Smaller fireflies along with the moon gave you a sense of direction as you walked deeper in the darkness, your gown catching onto twigs that you paid no mind to, you wanted away from here, you wanted to go far away…with Daemon. Oh, Daemon

He might have beaten his hands bloody against a sparring dummy, which in truth he did. After weaning himself away from his new betrothed, he stomped down to the courtyard, screaming and shuffling off weapons to the ground as in rage he punched a dummy. The pain tearing through his knuckles. Much of his attention was occupied by brutalising a sack of leather and cloth, nothing mattered to him. You stood there, shoulder against his father and refusing to look at him as if you knew, perhaps you knew. If you didn’t, he knew you, your rage and your heart. You would have pulled away but you never did. 

You walked along him, you were no longer his, his lover, his princess. You were the princess royal now, you would be the Queen now. Sat below a man who swore to never touch another after Daemon's mother died, his mother. All the rules he broke yet he couldn’t understand what he did to deserve this, like air pulled from his own lungs - he knew not how to breathe, how he was without you. 

The sound of hastened anklets echoed past the halls, very distinct anklets, the only anklets in all of King’s Landing. You hurried fast, a blur of yellow silk hurtling past the dim walkway towards the stables, it took a while for Daemon to realise who it was but when he did. His eyebrows pulled to a tight frown as he found himself mindlessly following behind, you long gone until he mounted a brown mare of his own. Galloping towards the Dragonpit, hoping to catch a glimpse of you from the skies, no horse could ever outmatch the affliction for speed Nysa had. 

Caraxes swayed in the air like the Wyrm he was named, flying lower to find his rider’s lover. The shuffle of trees below, lining right under the green of the Kingswood, Caraxes landed himself right at the edge. Daemon lit a torch, you should have never ventured into these forests alone. Even in the pain, he couldn’t not worry, you were his responsibility until you said the words with his father at the Sept. You would always be his responsibility. Daemon waked into the dark, much aware that his dragon looked behind to prevent any harm coming to him, he knew where you would be. Where you’d always sit with your legs tucked together, only this time he wasn’t sure you were of yourself. 

You sat at the edge of the hill, tears coating your face. The silence in you had engulfed yourself and began to cause you more pain, so far lost in the relentless hammering of your heart against your chest you couldn’t pay mind to rustling in the woods. Perhaps it was a boar, waiting to have you pummelled to death so your physical body would be just as mangled as your mind was. Instead out poured the silver of your lover’s hair, eyes weary as he looked around to find you, and found he did. You waited for his eyes to soften like they always did when he saw you but they never did, the tight frown his eyebrows curled to never ease. Even in the darkness, the glow of his anger that glimmered within the purple of orbs was apparent, violent and unforgiving. 

The cries you wanted to form words now were long gone and the angered lecture Daemon was to present you with, too was long gone. With many stressors felt, not a word shared between the two of you. Such silence wasn’t comfortable, nor was it seductive. It was painful, like a white hot iron rod met human flesh, it stung and it stained. Daemon resorted to pacing as you turned back to the blackened scenery, rustles of his footsteps against the leaves and the night call of grasshoppers within the bushes only added to the comical misery of it all. 

“We refuse it, we refuse it and we wed each other at Dragonstone,” Daemon rambled, groaning the harder he thought “grandsire cannot wed us if we are already wed to one another, he won’t compromise his deal with the Seven.” He scoffed at the thought of it, it sounded bitter, resentful. 

“And have you, exiled? Much less my head on a spike,” you said, speaking only the truth of the matter for King Jaehereys had done much worse to his own blood for evading his orders. It was a fine thought yet a foolish one, to be wed and then be exiled away to Essos to live your lives as you see fit. Though you understood Daemon, if not his grandsire he would come to resent you for the pain of losing his family would eat at his wounds sooner than later. 

“What do you propose we do then, huh!” He yells, full throated, it echoed through the woods. His eyes wide and breath hot, his frustration bubbling to a tipping point. “Do you want to be Queen, forsake us for this…this farce?” 

“Do not yell at me Daemon!” You scolded him back, finger pointed hot at his face as you stood up to approach him. The Gods themselves would have found this argument rather entertaining, for their evil devices have now put you in this predicament: “this… marriage was a political arrangement, my brother gave his word!” 

“Oh fuck his word, you cannot mean it,” he groaned approaching you with much haste, his fingertips digging into your forearms “he is my father, father!” Even in the glow of the moon, gloss over the lilac of his eyes remained apparent. 

“Don’t you - I,” you rambled, yanking yourself away from his turmoil because to thicken the air around you “don’t you think I know that, I know that!” you shook your head, there wasn’t a way out of this. Not without hurting your family and by extension putting your House in jeopardy. “It would soften over many political troubles, Daemon truly.” 

“Just keep your mouth- you are mine, you are mine and I am yours,” his eyes furious and glaring, his already bleeding heart being gaped open of its wounds by your words “say it, damn it.” he reached forward once more to yank your head back, he couldn’t handle you not looking at him. Yet he regretted seeing the torn frown spreading on your face, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. There was a vicious sense of destruction covering the anger his sorrow was turning to. The words that fell after weren’t him, but perhaps the fires within him “we could let them talk, couldn’t we princess? Let them know the sweet Martell flower sullied with dragon seed? Hmm,”

“Who would want a soiled Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” his nostrils flared, his words rarely sounded sharp in his own head until a sharp slap rang down his ear, the sting radiating through his cheek. You pushed him away, on the verge of losing any last shred of composure holding your body on your feet. 

“Fuck you Daemon,” you scoffed, chest heaving as the two of stared each other down, the moments away filling both your souls with such harrowing empty, a punishment worse than the black cells of the Keep. You wouldn’t survive this, you couldn’t. This time you charged at him, fingers digging into his jaw as you stood on your feet. Pressing your agony onto him through your lips, his own weight directed you backwards to the bark of the tree behind you. 

Your lips never once left one another, the tasted of salted tears mixed with the taste of spiced wines on both your lips. Palms wet, as you pulled one another closer, not close enough - it wasn’t enough. That if you were to end this love, let it destroy you both once more. Daemon’s hands shuffled lower, skilled and hasty he felt the silks of your small clothes. His fingers swiped over your clothed core, perhaps your conscience swatted your moral back into you as you protested. You couldn’t, not her and not with the apt protection of lemon heads. 

“Please,” Daemon whimpered, whimpered. Something you had never heard, when you pulled away you realised it was not just your own tears you had tasted. His forehead rested against your own, his breath hot against your lips. 

You rested your head back on the bark, stroking the back of Daemon’s head. “Take me, take me Daemon,” you said, what other consequences were left to suffer than the fate you now had to face. You pulled at your skirts, bunching them at your hips as Daemon returned to lay his salacious affections upon your neck, letting his fingers yank down your small clothes as your fingers did his trousers.

You upper back nearly rubbed raw as you indulged into the arms of your lover, his head buried in your shoulder with your legs wrapped around his hips. The sweet sensitive tingling between your legs only made you cry harder as you pressed your lips against his temple “I’ll never love again,” you weeped, choking on your words as another moan ripped through your body. 

“I’ll never live for anyone but you again.” he groaned, rutting his hips harder against yours as he chased his completion. His fingers rubbing tight circles upon your pearl, hoping to perhaps feel your cunny clench him empty one last time. The small yelps of pleasure echoed through the woods, the rustling of the leaves in the wind shielding this moment, frozen and intimate. You were sure search parties would be sent out to find you in no time. Your teeth sunk into the velvet pad upon Daemon shoulder, muffling the pleasure moans mixed with your tears as he snapped his hips to completion. 

For the days to come, you succumbed to the orders of courts. Picking flowers and fabrics, being told what you liked, in which Baelon visited once to agree upon the fabrics of his doublet for the wedding. His late wife’s signet ring still adorning his little finger, you weren’t sure how any of this might take place. Were you to kiss at the altar and never see each other again? Baelon spoke of having you sailed to Dragonstone, said you might find comfort there but not once did he speak to you. 

You had been summoned to the Small Council chambers once, to discuss a sensitive matter, one that wouldn’t have come to pass had the Old King not been so incessant about the number of heirs he had, with merely four left on the roster, your duty had only just begun as the Council demanded of a bedding ceremony. Their words had been far more colourful, painting all the reason why a room full of men should witness the deflowering of a young princess. Your body was rigid, there was nothing to deflower, you were no maiden and they would know. Baelon protested, palms slamming into the Council table with his fingers pointed at his father. This ordeal, painful as it is, he defended you, spoke of your honour and yet refused to let his soon to be wife suffer such humiliation in the name of customs. 

You supposed the temper Daemon inherited had been apparent in that moment, as the proper Prince Baelon, spewed tinted words of his abilities to couple and create a child. The discussion dwindled to this, they wouldn't watch but remain in the chambers to ensure the deed was done and inspect the sheets. There wasn’t going to be a fight about this. You monotone motions as you followed your routine of lacing your arm with his as if you were to entertain together. You stopped him and he still escorted you to your chambers, you couldn’t look at him. They would find nothing. 

“Daemon and I,” you began with a stutter, pulling yourself closer to step away from any onlookers “we -“ you shook you head, willing the words onto your lips “they won’t find blood.” 

“They will,” Baelon’s voice stern yet understanding, you opened your mouth and closed it yet again. His silence willing you to believe whatever he might have devised to save your shame. “I have yet to apologise to you,” he hung his head. 

“And I you,” you said moving away from the doorway of your chambers, Baelon looked to you confused. “It is no easy thing, you are forsaking much for the Realm,”

“You are wise darling,” he patted your palm rested on your knee. “I’ve watched you grow in these halls, you will be my wife in name, yes. You needn’t be afraid of me,” he gave you a tight lipped smile, a broken giggle tore through you and perhaps in weeks someone finally saw the pain you were in. After your night in the woods, Daemon drank himself silly in the tavern’s of Flea Bottom, with a fortnight he earned the title of the Prince of Flea Bottom. 

Daemon’s wedding was to resume first, while his bride to be still seemed aloof to the tensions around her, Jaehereys had the City Watch contained to keep his grandson from running away, though hidden somewhere deep in the city. Daemon returned the night before his wedding, only to tear apart his chambers in a drunken rage, refusing to marry Rhea Royce still, how you often wished you were a Prince or Lord, then even you could exclaim you distaste in such a manner. Baelon tried to contain his son, rumours swirled that one could hear the proud Prince weep to his father, the reason unknown and many speculated that Rhea was too old for Daemon's tastes. How you wished it were true, that age is what kept Daemon so curt to his betrothed.

The night before the wedding, you couldn’t sleep as you paced or lounged staring at a wall the entire night, you were willing him to come to you. He never did, having fled to the brothels once again, you picked apart the embroidery on your shift the entire night. The sun peaked through when you realised sleep hadn’t visited you once. Your handmaidens took much care in dressing you, the hems of gowns dropped, more conservative. You looked at yourself and you couldn’t find yourself, merely the shell of the lady you were meant to be, the Queen. 

The procession had gathered in the Iron Throne, parts of the court divided between the Throne Room and the Grand Sept where Daemon should have been an hour ago, the people of King’s Landing flocked to the streets to witness yet another royal wedding. Perhaps catch a glimpse of the bride to be or their notorious Prince. The halls called to you as you ventured towards Daemon's apartments, your own betrothed away from the feasts and sure to be barking sense into his son. The thrashes and sound of darkened protests could be heard from three floors below. 

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Daemon bellowed, jangles of armour followed after as he screamed and fought. Jaehaerys too had been in his rooms, the King ordering his grandson be hauled to Grand Sept. You hid behind a seated section, watching as the King slowly descended the steps. How could a man cause such strife within his family and continue on? 

For much love that you adorned each other with, instead of earning each other’s names, destruction came knocking down your door. You regretted it, the second the image of Daemon’s face reddened with anger graced you, the urge of running away creeped up with bile around your throat. Jaehaerys already departed for his wheelhouse, leaving just you, Daemon and Baelon in the corridors. The small interruption of your figure popping from behind the curtains allowed Daemon to truly yank himself off the Kingsguard men. 

It felt merciless, far too merciless as you stood in front of him. Bound to duty instead of him, yet you wanted him still. Daemon had wanted to hate you, for nights since your last encounter in the woods. You were deceitful, you were merciless in your decision. Fucking away any memory of you on painted whores and yet he couldnt, noting was soft enough, nothing was you. His lover, his cruel lover, you were subjecting him to this misery while you quietly lingered on your own. Heart of stone behind the yellow of your dress but your eyes still wet, he didn't need your pity as he shook his head, praying that seeing him in his maroon doublet would fill you with sense, mayhaps flee why you still had the chance. Even at six and ten, for you? He would cut through his grandsire’s Kingsgayrd like meat. You approached him, cautious and stiff, your arms engulfing him once more, just once more. 

“Please go Daemon, without anymore quarrel,” you whispered in his ear, squeezing him harder. Even in the warmth of your embrace, his heart shattered, scattering to a million tiny pieces. Taking the final honour, he never expected you to, he expected you to fight for him, fight for your love and here you twist the knife harder in his green wounds. He went rigid, he lifted his head from your shoulder. Purple eyes, lifeless purple eyes looking over your face with one sorrowful smile. He pressed his lips to your forehead pulling away, the Kingsgaurd stood ready once more to drag Daemon to the Sept but this time he walked, his princely stride thudding down the steps without a second look to you, his tyrannical lover with your black heart. A decision of much political gravitas, your loyalty to your house, earned you nothing but the carnage of black burning bodies of what was you and Daemon. 

Having witnessed the worst of it, the words Rhea and Daemon shared, their hands wrapped together, the gold and red woven cloak of House Targaryen upon her shoulders, the kiss that sealed their union in front of the eyes of the Seven, “cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder” the High Septon had said, could your future be anymore cursed then it already was? What was the next worst thing, your death? Mayhaps his? The feasting said and done, Daemon not once made any efforts to dance with his bride as he revelled in his cups, Rhea, the poor lady made an offer and attempts to perhaps ease the scowl settled on her husband’s face to no avail. His daggered eyes steadily remained on your figure, conversing and laughing, laughing with other ladies of the court. Many of whom flocked around you to perhaps make your roster of ladies in waiting. 

The worst of it was Daemon resuming to his bedchambers to find Rhea, dressed in her corsage, dressed to stir his loins. A good bride awaiting to be bed by her noble husband, he didn’t mean to be curt but all he could do was scoff at her, a beautiful maiden and all he could think of was you. He couldn’t bed his new wife with the same indelicate manner he did with the whores of Silk Street. As he turned to leave, Rhea, annoyed by right, held onto his forearm “please, it is improper not consummate- we have to,” she urged him, feeling the brunt of what she had shrugged off for weeks. Her husband did not want her. 

“I don’t have to do anything,’ Daemon yanked his hand free before leaving Rhea alone to sleep through her wedding night. 

The days after followed the same, ships loaded in for the royal wedding for every inch of Known World. Your gown finished and resting in your receiving chambers, you too rested under the loopy haze of Nightshade prescribed by the Maesters, the misery apparently resulted in you forgetting to eat, or even having much water or wine. Your head pounded for days as you were thrusted up like a doll in front of the mirror, your gown being altered, the veiled being fitted and the gowns for formal receptions after. As ladies in your bedchambers giggled and gossiped, feasting on candied lemon cakes, your mind so heavily focused on the lace across your waist. You fell, gasps and attendants rushing to your aid as you laid unconscious on the stone floor. 

Baelon was the first to be informed about his bride to be’s condition, your brother Quentel there after, when Daemon finally returned from the brothels, stinking of ale and far more salacious than when he left. As Daemon heard of your fall, his feet were quick towards your chambers. The curtains pulled to shield away the light of day, you laid rested against a mount of pillows. Aemma sat next to you, a book comically rested against the hard swell of her belly as her other hand caressed your head.  Daemon curled his lips inot his mouth as he approached your sleeping frame. 

When Aemma spotted him, she gave him a sympathetic smile as she kept stroking your head. Even in your sleep a frown framed your angelic face, Daemon wanted nothing more than to soothe it away but his heart still held its resentments. He looked up to his good sister, opening his mouth to speak but she knowing all too well of his queries, filled him in. 

“I hadn’t realised she was hurting so,” Daemon whispered, your palm clutched in his hands as he stared up at your face, the frown, the darkening under your eyes. He should have seen the agony but in his own selfish ideations he didn’t. “We don’t have much liberty in these matters Daemon, she cannot whore or break things as you do,” Aemma lectured Daemon, tutting at him as he shuffled a little too hard.  

“I was so consumed by her decision, I didn’t see why she made it,” he said sadly, still rubbing circles onto your palm. Aemma lightly chuckled. 

“Us women never have a choice, it was already made for her she had to adhere to it with a stiff lip,” Aemma said, looking down at you with melancholy. 

Daemon returned to his own bedchambers that night, still lingering in the thoughts of the conversation he had with his good sister, a woman learned and wise that lectured some sense into the prince. “Us women never have a choice,” any other prince of reason would respect the predicament their lover had put themselves in but Daemon was going to make a choice for you. A choice maligned by all the laws of Westeros, his name forbade him to do so, but he wouldn’t be his mother”s son if he didn’t. He dressed himself in armour and armed himself with Dark Sister. A boy, making the choice of a man as he pushed open the passage door from his bedchamber and made hasty steps towards yours.

Your sleeping form, just as warm and dazed as he left your moments before. This time he bent down down to kiss away the frown on your face before wrapping the black blanket over your body and scoping you up. A darkened bundle of bones and flesh in his hand, his love, his heart he smuggled through the walls of the Red Keep. His heart hammering against his chest, as skirted past the watchful eyes of the night guard. He walked with you in his arms, a hood pulled over his head to shield away the glaring blonde of his hair. 

“Ñuha dãrilaros?” the dragonkeeper questioned as he looked at Daemon with you covered in black blanket, he would question some more until Daemon glared at him 

“If you do not wish to be fed to Caraxes, get the fuck out of my way,” he sternly whispered, though the strong effects of nightshade kept you under, he didn’t want to test his luck any further to night. With much care, Daemon bundled you closer to him as he fasten you to his saddle, and tightened the blanket around his waist “sovetes,”

Come morning, the private council called was a rage,a missing prince and princess. Daemon, though finding comical responsibility, left a note. Jaehearys in his old age coughed orders of bounties, as Baelon read over the written note by Daemon, one written with haste and yet with perfected penmanship. “Forgive me father,” Baelon began to chuckle, putting away the parchment as he couldn’t process the hilarity of the situation. All he could think of was Alyssa, Daemon was her son, through and through, defiant, fiery. A dragon. Jaehaereys began to bark at Baelon over the fit he had been in, “come now, father,” he coughed to halt his laughter “what did you think would have happened?”

Jaehaerys near the end of his life might have passed right there, having felt the rage he did with Saerra he never understood why his kin must always go beyond his orders, always. “My son has become more a man than I am, there throw a feast,” 

“He has a wife, he must return!”

“Unless you wish to outlive Viserys and I, this is one crime you must let go unpunished!” this time Baelon raised his voice, “for once, think about my boy and not about the Realm,”

Daemon had not planned where he would head, but Westeros wasn’t his home for now. You were, just as you always would be. 

[catofoldstones]

Martell Week: Day 7 - Favourite Headcanon: Water Magic

I had heard about this headcanon that the Martells could have water magic powers like the Targaryens have fire powers in the form of dragons. Their ancestors worshipped the Rhoyne river and its turtle god, had populations that were water witches, etc. Dorne has been known to resist Targaryen rule by simply vanishing. Not to mention their Rhoynish ancestors are said to have magical powers that they draw from the river. So the Martells may have some remnants of that magic. It’s been my favourite headcanon of the House ever since!

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

https://www.tumblr.com/myimaginationplain/719391604220248064/brideoffires-qayaamat-brideoffires-its-hard?source=share

What is your opinion on this post?

OP, the problem with the argument that Targaryens or Valyrians were corrupted by Andal culture is that the Targaryens were conquerors. Putting aside how asinine it is to claim that the conquered culture corrupted the conquerors, even if the conquerors had to adopt some aspects of the culture they conquered in order to be accepted as the ruling class, that is entirely on the conquerors. No one forced Aegon I to conquer Westeros, that was on him. They could very well have stayed on Dragonstone doing their thing-- no one was really bothering them up to that point. Even supposing that Valyrian culture was this utopia of gender equality (which, let's be clear, it certainly wasn't), if that was an aspect of their culture that they deeply valued, then perhaps the Targaryens should have thought twice before doing the whole violent conquest thing.

As for the arguments from the main series, they seem to miss the forest for the trees. The takeaway should be that people will twist historical events to suit their own narratives, and that works in both directions. The Rhoynish came to Westeros to flee the Valyrian empire and at the time of the Dance Dorne wanted nothing to do with either Rhaenyra or Aegon, and the Westerosi certainly wanted absolutely nothing to do with Dornish customs. Arianne arguing from a Dornish point of view nearly two centuries later that Rhaenyra should have been queen is unsurprising, but that logic can't be applied to anyone alive at the time of the Dance. Rhaenyra claiming to follow Dornish custom in 129 AC would have been political suicide. It's also unsurprising that Stannis considers her a usurper. To him, what she attempted to do would be akin to what Renly attempted to do to him. Remember, the Targaryens actually excluded women to a greater degree than even the Andals did. Andal custom never held that women cannot rule, only that in the order of succession they come after their brothers. But that's all neither here nor there. Everyone in the main series citing the Dance of Dragons is doing so to fit their own agenda. Let's not forget, Myrcella is not a valid claimant to the throne either, regardless of her gender, and there are reasons why putting her on the throne only creates more problems rather than solves them, which is, ironically, similar to the case of Rhaenyra.

[goodqueenaly]

Hello, I've got a question about an old old post of yours (https://asoiafuniversity.tumblr.com/post/123345670592/hello-we-know-that-ariannes-plan-to-crown-mb) about the queenmaker plot.

Well mostly about the punishment of Sylva Santagar. I think I got really confused because while reading for the first time somewhere along the way I assumed that Sylva marrying lord Estermont was equal to her being disinherited? Like Arianne would be passed over if she married Viserys or the Ynys Yronwood situation. So i got really confused about her punishment being considered light. Is that a thing in Dorne that if an heiress goes to live with her husband, instead of him coming to her, she sort of forfeits her rights or did i extrapolate complete nonsense from these examples? And if she's still an heiress to Spottswood and her father died before lord Estermont would she be able to leave her husband and go back home and rule?

I'm sorry if you've answered something like this before and I hope the link works

It’s important to remember that Arianne’s fear of being disinherited by her father was not only based on the relatively dynastically (not to mention personally) unimpressive marriages Doran was (ostensibly) trying to arrange for her. As Arianne herself admits to Arys Oakheart, at fourteen Arianne had discovered Doran’s infamous letter to Quentyn, promising that “one day you will sit where I sit and rule all Dorne”. Nor did Arianne believe she lacked proof of Doran’s unwillingness to recognize her as his true heir: her main responsibility in Sunspear, as she complains, was “feasts and frolics, and the entertainment of distinguished guests”, and she was only “summoned twice a year” to the Water Gardens (compared to the oft-visiting Oberyn). So in Arianne’s mind, all the evidence in front of her suggested clearly that Doran did not want her to succeed him as Princess of Dorne: he had explicitly promised the inheritance to her brother, he gave her no actual power to act in his name (the way any other lord or prince might with his heir), and the only husbands he appeared to consider for her were old, often relatively politically weak non-Dornish men - in other words, husbands who would not have the power, the influence, or the local interest to fight for her rights in Dorne following Doran’s death.

Moreover, while GRRM noted that “[t]he vast majority” of Dornish noble families follow the absolute primogeniture established by Nymeria, the author specifically noted that there “[m]ay be a few stony Dornishmen in the mountains who go their own way, those least touched by the Rhoynar”. The Yronwoods, I think, would fit perfectly within that exception: perhaps the foremost family among those “stony” Dornish who according to Yandel “have the most in common with those north of the mountains and are the least touched by Rhoynish custom”, and the family which defiantly styles itself as “the Bloodroyal”, clinging (in the fashion of so many-real world monarchies) to an obsolete, specifically pre-Rhoynish royal title. Therefore, I am not remotely surprised if Ynys Yronwood was never (so long as brother Cletus was alive, anyway) considered the heiress to Yronwood (though it’s unclear whom Anders Yronwood believes is his heir now, or would if he (likely) has not yet learned that his son is dead).

By contrast, there is no evidence that merely by marrying a lord, even a non-Dornish lord, Sylva Santagar has automatically forfeited her inheritance rights. Indeed, even in non-Dornish Westeros, where inheritance is far more universally (and often more strictly) male-preference, women do not as an absolute rule lose the ability to inherit; after all, dynastic marriages with heiresses would be rather pointless if that were the case. Arianne herself acknowledges this standard, informing Ser Arys that “Casterly Rock will pass to the boy [i.e. Tommen] as well, through his lady mother”. Given that we see Dornish ladies who have legitimate children (and therefore were or are presumably married), I doubt Dornish law, generally more favorable to female inheritance anyway compared to the rest of Westeros, views marriage of heiresses as a bar to those heiresses becoming ladies in their own right. Nor do we have any evidence that Ser Symon changed his will to designate another successor, or specifically pass over Sylva (as we see with, say, the late Lord Wyman Webber in “The Sworn Sword”).

Now certainly, what is true in law does not always translate to practical application, and that could be the case here as well. By being married to a “foreign” lord, and becoming by that marriage the lady of an island somewhat remote from mainland Dorne, Sylva has been physically, politically, and culturally separated from her Dornish homeland. Would the rest of the Santagars, and whatever local aristocratic powers are in the area of Spottswood, see Sylva at the time of her father’s death as still the obvious heir to Spottswood, or would she appear as a “foreigner”, an Estermont, compared to say another potential Santagar heir? There’s no evidence suggesting that would necessarily happen, of course, but I’ve speculated on a similar potential with the marriage of Jocelyn Stark, and I think this consideration could come into play as various Stark restoration factions debate Sansa’s claim. Likewise, the sheer physical distance between Estermont and mainland Dorne generally, not to mention wherever Spottswood is specifically, could mean that, if there were a scenario where an unscrupulous Santagar relation decided to seize Spottswood himself on Ser Symon’s death, he could install himself as the Knight of Spottswood potentially even before Sylva was aware her father had died, and consequently potentially putting her on the back foot in asserting her claim (compare, say, Rhaenyra at the outset of the Dance, or the real-world Empress Matilda).

As far as what Sylva would do in the event of Lord Estermont’s death (probably sooner rather than later) … I think that would depend heavily on Sylvia’s personal and political connections with both Estermont and Spottswood at that moment. Assuming the Widow’s Law is still extant and more or less unchanged in modern Westeros (though assuming anything about the Widow’s Law is uncertain at best), Sylva would at least have the right to live at Estermont for the remainder of her days, with her marital household and income intact. However, whether or not she would want to is far from certain. Would Sylva have had a child or children with Lord Eldon, and would she (and/or the new powers that be at Estermont) have wanted this child or these children to be raised as Estermonts of Estermont or as Santagars of Spottswood? Would she herself have felt at home on Estermont, or would she have wanted to return to her birthplace? Would she have wanted to inherit and rule at Spottswood at that time, or would she have been content to spend the rest of her life at Estermont? All of this is a matter for speculation (though maybe we’ll hear a bit more, if only indirectly, about Sylva’s current mood at Estermont, in TWOW, given that our Aegon’s forces appear to have landed and made some headway on the island).

[horizon-verizon]

Yes, of course, because we all know Moorish Spain is actually a climate. Stop being so racist, and admit that the Martells are brown people.

*EDITED POST* (9/6/24)

Also, refer to this post from now on.

I never said Spain was a climate, though? I said that it has the climate of an arid region and yes climate does affect culture (food, dress, etc.) which in turn inevitably will shape the ethnicity's distinguishment from others.

Yes and no: yes, because they were obviously darker and had more Rhoynish roots than say the Dornish Fowlers and Daeron I thrust the exonym of "salty" on them; but no, bc almost all Dornish, including the Martells, practice the Faith and spoke the Common Tongue and Dorne is mean to be a Spain analog, not a PoC country/people.

If being a league of your own makes you "brown" or "PoC", sure. But in-story AND real modern =/= medieval race. Westerosi racial definitions =/= real, modern racial definitions. And the circumstances under which we'd recognize racial oppression simply don't exist in Dornish-nonDornish interactions and history.

The entity that is "Dorne" mimics/an analog of not a PoC nation or people but a white European one: Spain. Brown people are not European--by phenological skin color, sure sometimes, like Greek and Spanish and other Med peoples, sure...racially, no.

A) what GRRM has said:

B)

Definitions of racism:

(Google) - prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism by an individual, community, or institution against a person or people on the basis of their membership in a particular racial or ethnic group, typically one that is a minority or marginalized - the belief that different races possess distinct characteristics, abilities, or qualities, especially so as to distinguish them as inferior or superior to one another (Merriam-Webster) - a belief that race is a fundamental determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

VS

Definition of xenophobia (Merriam-Webster):

fear and hatred of strangers or foreigners or of anything that is strange or foreign

Xenophobia specifically refers to a person or group having an “outsider” status within a society.

Racism relates explicitly to race or ethnicity, whether the person or group has “outsider” status or not.

We have and can use them interchangeably, but it's still important to remember that the difference in the Westerosi context is that xenophobia does not come from a context of systematic oppression.

Notes:

I am arguing all of this in mind of the argument people make that Rhaegar abandoned Elia because he thought her his racial inferior and Lyanna her racial superior, which is false bc such notions are not present or supplied by a ra cially oppressive state.

"race" and ethnicity are already strange in the ASoIaF world, anon. "Stranger" even than real events where different people with different religions define themselves what their ethnicity is, and what makes them a separate people during times of constant intermarriages and cultural influencing (Anglo-Normans and Spain).

Race is not ethnicity.

Climate absolutely affects how an ethnic group creates its tools, clothing, food, accessories, medicine, religious beliefs (animism), language, and literature or oral storytelling (what does "heat" vs "cold" usually signify and mean to that society, winds, etc? esp in connection to their religious beliefs) -> ex. the ironborn (who are not Andal by ethnicity nor First Men) a sea versus storm god and associating storms and winds as "evil" due to the dangers of storms to fishermen, sailors, and their reavers; Culture absolutely gets its legs and structure from the people's physical needs and surroundings. The region can indicate climate and climate gives us a clue into what region(s) we are talking about.

While climate doesn't equal ethnicity, it has a heavy influence on many physical and cultural features that hegemonic forces use to create their racial categories according to what legal and social hierarchies they want.

For the Martells and Dornishpeople to be PoCs exactly like the PoCs today in real life, there kinda has to be a history of a) the Dornish having been assimilated into Westerosi society/infrastructures and made subordinate to the "white" Westerosi b) actual systematic oppression against the Dornish from the nonDornish, and Dorne has been able to maintain its independence from Westeros pretty much since Westeros' inception. Even after Daeron II married Myriah Martell, the Martells and the Dornish still worked as their own principality rather than a region totally under the control of the Westerosi monarchy. There was no colonization or successful imperialist campaigns on Dorne. Like the Targs, Dorne is "queer" not more for skin color nor religion so much as the Rhoynish traditions towards gender equity--at least regarding succession and leadership--and sexuality.

C)

First, neither I nor ozymalek claimed that climate alone equaled ethnicity nor race.

This is what was said:

wales (historical influence more than cultural or ethnic)

spain and palestine (in terms of climate) [me: really, "region" and how climate will affect food, clothing, etc]

moor-influenced spain (ethnicity; rhoynar influence on the region paralleling that of moors)

1.

ozymalek seems to say that GRRM wants us to think the Andal-Dorne and Rhoynish melding is inspired by a "Caucasian" European country with a history of interacting and sometimes intermarrying melding into/from communities of African Muslims and Sephardic Jews, but this time a lot more successful and actually ending with a whole new state called "Dorne", as GRRM has not written of any racial strife in Dorn itself. 

The Welsh, Scottish, and Irish fought and resisted the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms--that would become the kingdom of England sometime in the 900s--when the Western Saxon kings conquered and took control over the others for a long time, and they were ethnically different from these people, with their own customs, language, etc., with even their own language. Even today. They are all also racially considered "white" globally, while in their own local English vs Irish (for example) were racially categorized as inherently different from Anglo-Saxon-Norman descent peoples and racially categorized and conceived of as inherently different from Protestants in the U.S. upon their immigration until they themselves adopted whiteness-defined. In those Cetlic groups that make up most Irish clans of "yore", you find suggestions of women having a lot more political influence and activity than their ancient Roman and later Saxon 900 A.D. counterparts. Similar to how the Dornishmen have very different customs regarding sexuality and women from other Westerosi, but not exactly the same. So while the Wales inspiration is there, so is the Spanish history of cultural influences from Moorish and Jewish people.

And even though Spain has its Muslim African influences historically, we still think of Spain as a white, European country--if we want to go with race instead of ethnicity.

Spain and Wales both are European, they have separate ethnicities, but the people are considered racially white by some people's definition of "whiteness": be descended of/be raised as Europeans or just Northern Europeans (the "English" islands, France, all Nordic regions, Germany); not be Jewish/have any other religion other than Christianity (Dorne is of the Faith); and look pale enough to be taken as if you were just descended from N.Europeans. Race is weird and a false thing we nevertheless live by.

Yes, the lords of Westeros at Daeron II's court, especially the Stormlanders, looked askance at the Dornishmen peoples filling up the court and several favored positions both because they felt they hadn't dominated the Dornishmen quite yet, the Dornish did not practice the misogyny that they had encoded in their customs, AND they wanted those positions themselves, using the warring to argue that the Dornishmen didn't deserve those positions. Yes, it is similar to how white Americans call against Mexicans, Caribbean, and South Americans "taking all our jobs" or "intruding" previously Stormland/Reachmen spaces/having what they thought of as their privileges. Such things also happened between Normans and Anglo-Saxon barons before and after the Norman Conquest, and both these groups were European/racially white, as well, and are obviously coming from xenophobia. The Dornish are not a systematically marginalized racial group in Westeros.

Before it's brought up, "Southron" Andal-descent lords don't totally play well with Northern old god worshippers and consider themselves very different culturally, yet they have also intermarried for centuries with Andal peoples before the Targs--they are supposed to be analogs of pre-Irish migration (19th century) Northern England, which had strong linguistically Old Norse influence from Viking contact in the 9th and 10th centuries. Most of northern and eastern England was part of either the Danelaw or the Danish-controlled Kingdom of Northumbria. It doesn't really make them any less "white" nor less intended as such and it's clear that Northerners are more considered "Westerosi" or can be closer to the "whiteness" because they are not too different in the cases of sexuality and primogeniture.

2.

ozymalek also seems to say that the Rhoynish were only like the Moors in that their arrival and joining with the Martells resulted in the previously only-Andal Martells' culture and political structure changed and was redefined without erasing it altogether:

metal-working with iron which was better than the "steel" Andals/pre-Nymeria Martells/pre-Rhoynish Dornish had

equal primogeniture and gender rule in the Martell succession

paramours' higher regard

the toleration of homosexuality

Rhoynish language shaping esp Martell and other Dornish's pronunciation of the Common Tongue differently (they still actually just speak the Common tongue and use it as an official language like the nonDornish lords)

Arrival and practices. (Arrival of Moors - the arrival of the Rhoynar).

I don't agree that the Rhoynar are not PoC, but yet again, we moderns consider Spain and its kingdoms racially white and European by region and appearance.

3a.

The Dornish (mostly those who live near or in the Red Mountains, whom Daeron I called the "Stony" Dornishmen like the Wyls and the Vulture King) are also like the Welsh vs English/Anglo-Saxons in that like the Welsh, they warred and get/got into skirmishes with the other Westerosi kingdoms (Westeros is analogous to "England") and lords often. Not even culturally, just those warring behaviors tied to resistance against occupation and political hegemony into cultural subsumption and the usual fighting over resources/space/territory. From both perspectives the resisiting and makes up a lot of what culturally defines Dornishmen.

First Meria Martell resisted the first 3 Targ conquerors, insisting on their Dornishmen independence and determination to remain so.

Then to Dornishmen and Dornish marchers consistently warring with Stormlanders, Reachmen, reach marchers, and Stomlander marchers for resources, revenge, and "glory".

And then the smallfolk resisted Daeron I after most of the nobles were subdued, leading to the final ambush that killed Daeron I.

Aegon IV's complete failure to even enter Dorne with his mechanical wildfire-throwing structures collapsed on themselves in the Kingswood.

They never, not once, considered themselves part of the later "Westerosi" realm, that territory ruled by a unifier monarch. Yet they practice the same religion and think of themselves as more Andal as well (I believe since there's no indication of them rejecting an Andal identity), without thinking of themselves as true subjects of the Westerosi crown. Way before the Targs reached Westeros. At the same time, the Andals (Catholic and white, "N.EU" analogs) and the First Men themselves came from Essos, the "orient" of the ASoIaF world .... and their political structure is still favorable towards men holding power. But the Andals came from the northwestern part of Essos with their sigils, Faith religion, the importance placed on swords indicating male strength, and female subservience to that. How do we define all those FM and Andal lords who are not Dornishmen, anon? (We'll have to ask GRRM what is up here. And, you know, open a history book.)

Daeron I was the one to create "stony" vs "sandy" vs "salty" racial categories for Dornishmen, exonyms for the sake of nonDornish people to categorize Dornishmen. For now, it would seem that there is no true giving away of privileges to stony versus subjugations against sandy or salty Dornishmen. Because, once more, there is no systematic marginalization of the Dornish people who don't even think of themselves as "salty", etc.

3b.

What made people ethnically "different" in most medieval mindsets had more to do with religion or being a noble versus a nonnoble than skin color. Until maybe the later 1490s and beyond (when EU was really beginning its colonizing legs and coming across non-Christian groups far from EU), skin color was more a sub-element than the prime one that defined what made people different for a long while until people actively began using skin color alone to connote spiritual purity and assigned a moral being to skin color....which is the origins of racial concepts we understand today, the modern conceptions of race. And most Dornishmen just so happen to be Andal Faith worshippers.

The Martells are not totally like the Wyls, Daynes, Fowlers, Yronwoods in some cultural practices (because the Rhoynish influence is less the more north you go in Dorne, and some northern Dornish or Dornish marcher can go by Andal male primogeniture) but even that is vaguely told and we don't know what "influence" shaped what stony practices and how.

We get a look into how they do not look the same across different regions from a non-Dornish, Targaryen perspective:

The trouble in ASoIaF is that because the Andals were supposedly white Catholic analogs who still originated from an Asian/Mediterranean-analogue continent...how are we supposed to view the other Essoi peoples? The Valyrians were pale and had pale hair with violet eyes yet they lived on a peninsula surrounded by waters as if they were ancient Mediterranean-inspired. (Greek-ish city-state controlling the lands around them, like Athens or--more likely--the city of Rome is what we may think Valyria is like, except times 100 because they had dragons and were one "city".)

Here is a QUOTE describing the Rhoynar before the Valyrians attacked them. Are they Mediterranean, or Indus River Valley-inspired? If Med, they are white. If Indus River, they are not. If both, what then? (I think they are PoC, the Rhoynar, by modern definition of race [not ethnicity, it's obvious they have completely different ethnicities]).

Because again, ethnicity, then race, doesn’t really work the same when it comes to non-Summer Islanders-Westerosi peoples--Summer Islanders and Westerosi. Summer Islanders are definitely Black-Pacific Islander analogs and we actually see how the Westerosi treat them and refer to them like how Europeans referred to and treated nonChristians black people. "Black Pearl" Bellegere Otherys, also known as the Black Pearl of Braavos and that Summer Islander man who visited King's Landing's court to get political support for his own interests, how Cersei, an Andal nonDornishman Westerosi and a westerlander, thinks of him. There is no real racial category for the summer Islanders in ASoIaF, they are just called Summer Islanders, and "Black" refers to their darkness of skin color alone, not a racial category.

But because the Rhoynish-Andal Martells, Fowlers, Daynes, Wyls, etc. still have the Seven (Catholicism) as their faith and cultural categorization was more about religion than skin color in real-world medieval Europe...well it seems that the Westerosi nobles would have considered the Martells Westerosi "enough" by-class-religion-and-proximity, especially after Daeron II got the Dornishmen to be more integrated into the Westerosi kingdom. (Despite, again, their Rhoynish-custom-influence and not wanting to be a part of the Westerosi political state/territory to be ruled by a king as if they weren't their own autonomous realm that the Martells rule as autonomous rulers, as some people argued for the black Velayrons of HotD).

D)

Mediterranean/South European white people like Greeks, Italians, and Spaniards have and are imagined to have “olive” skin. Just because they are darker than the image of a Northern European, doesn’t mean that they aren’t white..because they are still European and do not come from colonized non-EU regions.

They are, yes, racially categorized differently at different times of world history, but it really took ground in legal organization and close-quarter social interactions AFTER THE 18th century! Eugenists and American nativists (and people today) categorized them and Greek people as the "black" Europeans and Jewish people as "not white".

[atopvisenyashill]

one thing i’m real convinced of i just don’t know WHEN it’s going to happen is the “broken neck.” my evidence for this is all the creepy bog magic already there, “dead faces in the water”, and you don’t have a place called the neck without breaking it lol. plus a parallel to the broken arm/the stepstones - break the neck during the second big war involving northern magic.

what i’m curious about here is that we’ve gotten a few mentions not just of the swamplands bog magic aspects of greywater watch, but also the water magic of the rhoynar. and in fact, there are rhoynar descendants of nymeria’s ships who shipwrecked and never left in the stepstones specifically. then, in twoiaf, we have a maester who explicitly compares dorne to the north. i know these parallels between them exist for a Lot of reasons but i kind of hope we’ll get more weird magic surrounding this. like, the way fire magic seems to be fire magic, it doesn’t matter whether you believe in r’hollor or the fourteen flames or nothing at all, you either have the juice to do fire magic or you don’t! so what if there’s a bit of crossover in this area, when the neck “breaks” - a dornish and northern person both doing very similar magic that gets the same results? or someone who is studied in Both cultures being able to piece together the ~missing piece~ needed for magic to happen?

[bucknastysbabe]

Half-mad with lust

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen/Reader

Tags: Aegon is a drunk asshole, vaginal sex, switch!Aegon, Dornish!reader, some oc’s made for ~immersion~, targs everywhere, other HOTD characters mentioned, dirty talk, tit sucking, power dynamics, general filth

Synopsis: The princess Aliandra Martell’s lady-in-waiting attends a royal tourney with her. She expects to bed a lord, but not the wayward dragon prince. Aegon won’t forget to ever disappoint a Dornish lady again.

Find me on ao3 at secretsun :)

The tourney celebration was soon to be in full swing. It was in honor of Prince Aegon’s children Jaehaerys and Jaehaera’s second name day. Bannermen and houses from all over the Seven Kingdoms had come. Even the queer folk of the free cities and the feathered ebon-skinned men of the Summer Isles. All to celebrate the twins making it past the perilous years of toddling.

Dorne and it’s people were on rocky terms with the Targaryens, but would come up for a grand tourney. You were a lady-in-waiting to the young princess Aliandra Martell. As an Uller of Hellholt you were of noble heritage and chosen to be the girl’s guide since you were young. It had been wonderful so far— you’d been all over the world with the precocious princess.

The royal in question bounced on her sand steed, ranting about handsome knights. You nodded along, keeping your eyes peeled for the familiar red and yellow colors of your house. They had not sent you any letters of late. House Uller did not have the best reputation, known for being merciless and the slayers of Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes. Your family tended to keep up in the sand next to the stinking sulfurous Brimstone. Noble house Dayne or proud Yronwood would be more like to show up besides the Martells.

The hand had promised the Martell’s a sumptuous tent in the Kingswood. The men-at-arms would have to camp in lesser circumstances. Aliandra’s wide brown eyes turned to you, asking, “Do you think you’ll find a comely knight to bed?” You laughed brazenly and chided, “Keep that language to a minimum m’lady— we’re out of the Marches. Among noble and decent folk’.”

Aliandra giggled and the knight next to you snorted under his helm. The kingdom outside of Dorne worshipped pious gods and stuck to stuffy rules but acted the opposite. Even at Sunspear rumors swirled of the tension between the Targaryens and Hightowers at the Red Keep. The weak King Viserys kept a blind eye and claimed Rhaenyra as his heir. How Rhoynish of him.

Your party slowly made it’s way down the King’s Road, surrounded by vassals of House Martell and it’s men. The Red Keep loomed in the distance and the crystal towers of the Sept sparkled under the sun. You could hear the voices from the throngs of people set up in the fields outside the city’s walls. You scrunched your nose at the stench of the city and the Blackwater.

Aliandra snarked, “You grew up next to the Brimstone why are you green?”

You sniped back, “Sulphur is much more palatable than dead fish and swine.”

“House Martell and it’s members, it’s an honor!,” came a voice.

Lyonel Dayne, the castellan of Sunspear laughed under his breath, “Of course they send a Dornish to welcome the Dornish.” Ser Criston Cole in the white cloak of the Kingsguard arrived on a sturdy courser. His handsome face beamed at Aliandra. He announced, “Warm welcomes from the on behalf of the Targaryens to my countrymen and Princess. Follow me to your tents please.”

Lyonel nodded brusquely and motioned for everyone to follow. Ser Criston asked the young Princess, “Why are you not in a litter or wheelhouse m’lady?”

Aliandra flirted easily for a young girl, coyly remarking, “A Princess of Dorne rides with her people.”

The crowd murmured in agreement, Cole lauding her bravery. Tall banners of the three headed dragon littered the grounds along with many others of the great houses down to the smaller nobility. Your lips quirked up at the sigil of the Direwolf— even the frigid northmen came. A grand tent was erected with the familiar symbol of a sun pierced by a spear. Aliandra cheered, “How beautiful! Anserys make sure to decorate it…more at home!” The mute Lyseni servant nodded from behind, a cart loaded down with costly silken pillows and woven Myrish rugs attached to his horse.

Lord Dayne helped the Princess down and her Martell cousin assisted you from your gelding. Taron smirked down at you, his dark skin gleaming in the hot sun. He murmured, “Say, you might need to hide now. I don’t know how the Dragons might feel of an Uller in their nest.”

You rolled your eyes and lamented, “It’s been years Taron, begone you fool.”

The castellan barked orders at the men and servants while Aliandra awed at the sights around. She tugged on your silken sleeve and asked, “Can we take a walk around? C’mon hellmaid!“ You laughed at her crude nickname and ushered the girl to move along. There was some time to be wasted before the quarters were set up.

You stood silently while the girl chatted up some of the great houses; Lannister, Arryn, and Stark. The Tyrells sniffed and looked the other way. You had to pull the Princess away from her glaring at the Baratheon party. Lord Borros had made the marches bloody many times. Walking by a babbling stream she said, “I’d like to meet the Targaryen’s already. Or the Velaryons. Make me a Queen someday!”

You laughed bitterly, “I’d run away little Ali. Queer folk, marrying into eachother and claiming themselves closer to god than men. Their own Septon doesn’t condone it but obeys or will be eaten by Dragons.”

“Oh! Dragons! I hope to see one! I’ve heard Prince Aegon’s Sunfyre is the most beautiful one of all. Or Vhagar!,” she grew quiet, “No not that one.”

You frowned slightly. Hellholt stood but the desert around was still so scorched in places it had turned into black glass. Vhagar and Balerion had turned Dorne into a fire pit for many a moon. Your father told you stories of the Dragon’s Wroth. You’d rather see the dragons from a distance. Aliandra bounded over a couple of mossy rocks, causing you to snatch the dark girl.

“Don’t get filthy now, we have a feast to attend tonight foolish Princess!”

Later on you had idly watched, offering advice as the handmaidens dressed Aliandra. She looked beautiful as ever, clad in burnished orange silk. The sigil of her house was delicately painted on her sleeves. Gold rings adorned her hands and wrists, and a small circlet topped the swath of black glossy hair. They smudged her dark eyes with kohl. You murmured sweetly, “Breathtaking my Princess. Once you’re of age I think more lords will line up than Rhaenyra’s ball ages ago.”

Aliandra smugly did a twirl, batting her eyes in the mirror. She declared, “I will conquer a dragon tonight.” You laughed again, tucking your own glossed hair behind an ear. The Princess of Dorne had picked out your outfit to your chagrin. The dress was handsome but was very low cut. Which was no problem in Dorne, but the Crownlands might differ. You were grateful for the airiness of the gown, as it was muggy outside.

The silks of your dress were layered with the fiery colors of Uller. You wore thick gold jewelry with rubies and citrine. Aliandra’s old wet nurse

provided you with a perfume of citrus, it reminded you of the oranges and sour fruits outside of Sunspear. The princess herself doted on you, applying kohl to your eyes. She huffed, “Find yourself a lord for the night! I want gossip.” You acquiesced, “Sure sure, maybe I’ll entice old Lyonel. I’d like to see his sword of the morning.”

The pair of you descended into giggles. One last brush up and your party was led to the set up for the feast. There were fine ironwood tables set up facing the dais adorned with dragons. The royals sat their with their blonde hair and purple eyes— save Rhaenyra’s curious sons and the Hightowers.

A dwarf announced, “Hailing from the desolate unconquered lands of Dorne! The Princess Aliandra of House Martell. Accompanied by Ser Lyonel Dayne and her motley party of southron deviants!”

The crowds laughed and the King clapped his hands in glee. The princess took it in stride, giving a saucy wink to the crowd. She nodded at a servant. Now stepped forward the child spoke evenly, “I bear gifts for the young dragons.” The squat boy kneeled with a large box. Ser Criston grabbed it and handed it to princess Helaena who was smiling softly.

She opened the gift. It contained two child sized coats of beautiful white fur. Helaena nodded and thanked the princess. Aliandra announced, “Two fine coats for drafty weather. Made of the little Valyrian lemurs from the great forest of Qohor.” The king Viserys rasped, “How wonderful, thank you princess.” The queen lifted her cup. The rest of the Targaryens seemed unphased.

Unfortunately your table was next to the proud Lannisters. Somehow Lord Jason’s ego rubbed off on the young Martell. You sipped your wine and halfheartedly listened to the lion lord’s tales. Your eyes wandered around. On the dais the King was suspiciously now gone. He looked ill earlier. Princess Rhaenyra smiled coyly as the infamous Daemon whispered something in her ear. Her brown headed boys chuckled about something. To the left the queen held a pinched face next to the hand.

The second son Aemond Targaryen glared about the crowd, his one eye piercing. Helaena bounced her youngest child. Your eyes widened when they met with purple. Prince Aegon stared right back at you. His full lips quirked up and violet glassy eyes seemed to take off your clothing. You were not going to bow to this drunken dragon.

You raised one brow daringly, the prince’s eyebrows furrowing back. One of his ringed hands pushed back his platinum hair. You brought your hand up and blew a kiss at the prince with hooded eyes. His once blasé expression morphed into a lecherous grin. He mouthed, “A dance later?” You mouthed back, “I would hope so.”

The prince blushed and turned away when one of his family said something. You gulped your wine and sniggered. The prince may have a reputation for whoring but he’d never lain with a Uller. Taron whispered, “Have I had too much strongwine or I just saw you and Aegon Targaryen eye-fucking?”

“Mayhaps Taron, mayhaps,” you replied enigmatically.

A jaunty tune started to play as lords and ladies filtered out to dance. Aliandra lept up with you behind. Jason Lannister offered his hand to the princess graciously. You waited for the great houses to pair up before getting in line. You partnered up with a comely knight bearing the sigil of House Bracken, sullen and intense. Round and round you went breathlessly until you met the violet eyes from earlier.

“There you are,” Prince Aegon mused. His hands followed yours in a pattern. You replied, “Here I am your grace.” The pair of you twirled in the throng of people. From a distance you could hear your princess’ childish giggle. Aegon inquired, “You’re not a Martell, what house? Gods know you all wear red.”

Slight uneasiness warped your voice when you managed, “Uller of Hellholt.”

Aegon laughed, a manic sound. He sneered, “Ah- the burners and dragon slayers from the stinking river.” Your eyes narrowed as his warm hands pinched your waist. He smelled of herbs, smoke, and sweet wine. You jabbed, “So that makes your family the sister-fucking usurpers then?”

Aegon’s full lips split into a grin as he twisted you round and pulled your back to his chest. He hummed into your ear, “Maybe Sunfyre and I can take a trip to Hellholt and see if it still burns? I like you, much more fight than the usual lady.” He nipped at the shell of your ear. The nobility danced on around you. “You must not know what they say about us your grace,” you craned your head to stare, “Half of the Ullers are half-mad, and the other half are worse.”

“Fine with me,” Aegon said. You raised up to bite his lip playfully. You drew blood and threw yourself into the throngs of people, spinning through the crowd to evade detection. The prince gasped and touched the now-throbbing flesh. He licked at the blood and shivered, his interest in you fully awakened.

Aegon zig-zagged through the crowd, shrugging off old Hobert Hightower in his pursuit. He caught a glimpse of your fiery dress and shoved a lad in the bronze colors of House Royce aside. You turned to beckon him with a wink, the prince huffing and calling out, “Quit playing hell spawn!”

“After you dragonspawn!,” you laughed.

He chased you to the edge of the encampment. The creek you walked along with Ali still babbled on in the darkness. You tripped on the silks of your dress, stumbling forwards with a squawk. Prince Aegon swept you up into his arms with a delighted cheer. You playfully struggled against him, stamping a foot down on his own. Aegon yelped and grabbed a fistful of your hair, craning your head painfully.

With a delighted moan you relented. The silver prince growled, “Done with your games now?” You breathed, “I think so- the chase just gets the uh, blood up Hm?” You tilted your hips back into his straining member, the other’s violet eyes falling shut with a groan. Aegon’s hands pinched at the yielding flesh on your hips and ass. His lips found their way to the sensitive column of your neck.

You impatiently uttered, “Your grace? Are you going to hump me like a green boy or fuck me senseless? I can tell you’re used to pillow houses.”

Aegon’s lips stopped and he sucked in a breath. In hurried jerks he shoved you down to the ground. You groaned as your face was shoved against the cold loam of the ground. He hissed from behind, “You Dornish are insolent— I’d have your tongue for speaking to your prince like that!” Gloved hands hiked up your dress, exposing you to the cool breeze. You gasped and bit out, “You love it,” you tossed your hair, “Someone to show you how to actually work your cock.”

Aegon shoved himself to the hilt in your sex, the pair of you crying out. He started a brutal pace, gripping your ass roughly. He growled into your ear, “I doubt your kind cares, you’re bred to be sluts. Shut the fuck up and take it.” You rolled your eyes and clenched down on the Prince, him making a weak noise in response. Your fingers dug into the ground as he pounded into your most sensitive spot.

You replied, much breathier than intended, “Do you even know what a clitoris is?”

A pinch to your swollen button was his response.

R’hllors blood red fires please.

You bucked back against Aegon’s eager pumps, whining in pleasure. One of his ringed hands curled into your hair, pulling roughly. Your lashes fluttered and you clenched again, the Prince abusing your wet cunt. One of your hands drifted between your legs and rubbed at your clit. Aegon yanked harder and slurred, “Slut.” You could feel his thighs tremble against your own.

Your moans pitched up when he used a hand to bend your back further, sliding his cock impossibly deeper. You hissed, “C’mon and make me come your grace, fill me up.” Aegon’s hips stuttered and he suddenly released— hot spurts of come painting your cunt. He groaned throatily, pressing his hips tightly against your cheeks. Your mouth set in a thin line at his early climax.

He slid out of you with a wince, falling onto his back with a silly smile. He waved a hand and haughtily laughed, “Not much of a difference between you and the Sands on the street of silk.” You clambered onto your haunches, hot anger filling your chest.

You’d show the bratty Prince.

Quickly you turned and straddled the drunk Targaryen. One of your slim hands encircled his throat, the bangles on your wrist clinking in the night air. His purple eyes widened and the smirk fell off his plush lips. Your other hand pulled out a small blade from the layers of your dress and held it to his pale throat.

You grinned down at him, watching the fear and lust wrestle in his expression. You darkly whispered, “I’d say you are no better than any other green boy looking for something exotic, cumming so fast. You owe me, your grace.” Aegon’s soft cock stirred to life against your weeping opening, him gaping at you.

You laughed, “What? Nothing to say? Not very similar to your namesake.”

He leveled, “Put down the blade.”

“Ask nicely.”

A thin whine left his lips, his cock jumping again. He begged, “Please m’lady— put down the blade. I’ll play nice.”

You carefully laid the shank down, giving his pretty throat a warning squeeze. You leaned into his face and smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Aegon’s full lips. He moaned softly, squirming under your powerful thighs. You cooed, “That wasn’t so hard. Princeling just needed a firm hand.” You nipped at his swollen bottom lip again, before sliding your tongue in.

His hands moved to your thighs, so gently as if he were asking permission. You groaned against his lips, “No farther.” Your tongue danced against his own, lips slotting together eagerly. Aegon’s hands twitched as he fought for purchase. He failed with an aborted whine when you gingerly suckled on his tongue.

Moving downward you mouthed against his jaw and murmured, “You have such pretty skin, I think I’ll mark it up.” Aegon’s head and cock jerked eagerly. You sucked a blooming mark into his throat, rutting your hips downward at his soft noises. Soon a necklace blossomed on the thin skin in mottled purples and reds. Aegon’s dick leaked against your own sex needily. He pled softly under his breath for you.

You asked meanly, “Does the dragon prince want my pussy?”

He sniveled, “Please, please, need it.”

You licked a salty tear up and slid down the top of your dress, exposing your breasts. Aegon’s eyes bugged and his fingers dug into the meat of your thighs. He begged again, “Oh please- let me have a taste- I’ll be so good.” Thumbing at his cheek you grinned down at the poor thing. It’s always the ones who strut around like an inflated peacock who cry under a little pressure.

“Since you’re being so nice now, sure.”

He eagerly pressed his face into your tits, sucking at a nipple. You moved his hand to the untouched other bud, the prince thumbing and pinching. You took the moment to slide onto his flushed cock, throwing your head back. Aegon moaned around a nipple, his eyelids fluttering in ecstasy. You rode him at a brisk pace, angling your hips forward for more stimulation.

You moaned, “That’s a good fucktoy, see how much better it is when you’re not a brat?”

Aegon babbled something incoherent, completely under your spell now. You slapped his cheek, the flushed skin turning redder at the contact. You hissed, “Speak whore.” He mewled, eyes glassy with lust, “Y-yes fuck it’s s’good!” You shoved his platinum head back to your swollen tits, yanking so hard some hair came out.

“C’mon and make me come this time,” you moaned.

You were close, just from your intense bouncing and Aegon’s wide watery eyes. He weakly cursed you, “D-Dornish witch- fuck!” He obediently rubbed a thumb in circles on your clit, bucking up into your tight cunt. You cried out and trembled as your belly tightened. Your flesh erupted in goosebumps as you milked his flushed cock, releasing with a deep groan.

Aegon sobbed at the feeling of you gush around him, shaking with the intensity of it all. He pleaded, “Ah- ah- lemme’ cum again I’m so fucking hard!” Your fingers and thumbs dug into the vessels on his mottled neck and assented, “You can come silly boy.” He bit his lip bloody again, whimpers and sobs escaping as his seed splashed inside of you. Some escaped from the fullness of your pussy, mixing with older spend and your own release.

Your thighs clamped down on his slim hips again, a smaller orgasm wracking your frame. You gutturally moaned his name and fell forward, still sheathed onto his twitching cock. You laughed at his struck expression, the Targaryen’s face turning into a pout. You gently kissed his abused lips and slid off of the Prince, more spend leaking out and staining his fancy breeches.

He gazed up at you as you sat onto the moist ground next to him. Aegon asked, “Wha- what are you doing?” You dusted yourself off and stood up on coltish legs. With a shrug you replied, “I have to get back to the Princess. She’s going to be ecstatic when I tell her the dragon prince cries like a bitch.” You began your way back to the camp, Aegon staring at you like a lovesick wench. He squawked, “Don’t leave! I have my own tent! Please!”

You called over your shoulder, “The tourney lasts a week, I’m sure I’ll see you in the morn.”

Princess Aliandra waited in her cot, glaring at you petulantly. She questioned, “Who have you been carousing with?” You smirked and whispered as you poked her nose, “I’ll let you guess tomorrow. He’s already smitten.”

Seeing her dark eyes widen when Prince Aegon spilled his wine on his doublet at the sight of you made your morning. You idly looked at the man, eyeing his high collared shirt. He cursed under his breath but his violet eyes were soft. This would be a fun week for you.

[aegor-bamfsteel]

Hey Aegor, hope you’re having a good day. I was wondering, do you have any headcanons for the what the Riverlands accent(s) would sound like?

Hey anon, I hope you’re enjoying your day.

GRRM usually uses accents to indicate class (usually smallfolk) and nationality (usually Essosi). People with Essosi accents considered “light” are Alayaya, Moreo Tumitis, Moqorro, the Widow of the Waterfront, and Tycho Nestoris; these people probably often deal with “Common Speech” (which would more properly be called “Westerosi Andal”, as both the First Men and the Rhoynar have distinct languages) Westerosi. There are some Westerosi mentioned to have accents: Alleras (who is half-Dornish, said to have a “soft Dornish drawl”), Timeon (“Dornish drawl”), Harwin (“frosted accents of the North”), Arya Stark (at least in Braavosi), Gerris Drinkwater (at least in Volantene), Kem (Flea Bottom), and Sigorn (a thick Old Tongue accent). However, it’s all but stated that the nobility have their own accent, probably learned from Maesters and Septons/Septas, as Rohanne Webber can tell Dunk is of the smallfolk and Roose Bolton and Alleras can tell Theon and Sam are highborn by the way they talk. This accent makes them unidentifiable by region to at least other Westerosi, as Alleras isn’t able to tell Sam is from the Reach. Therefore, it’s likely the higher nobility of the Riverlands (or at least those educated by maesters/septons) would have adopted the accent.

The smallfolk sometimes speak with by eliding initial/middle/final vowels and consonants (Ex: eliding “than” before comparisons like mor’n/better’n, c’n, t’, y’see, thank’ee, “hunnerd” for hundred, t’other, o’ for “of”), using other verb or adjective structures (Ex: “don’t he” for “doesn’t he”, “none” for “any” among other double negatives, “should of” for should have, “might be” for “may be”), or another sentence structure (Ex: “that lord, he did”). GRRM doesn’t try to vary this up between kingdoms, but what’s interesting to me at least is that the Free Folk and Ironborn can have these speech patterns regardless of status (Ex: Tormund, Erik Ironbreaker), which could mean the “smallfolk accent” is actually the original way of speaking the Westerosi Andal “Common Tongue” as spoken by native Old Tongue speakers, just handed down over the generations, and the “noble” version (without all the letter dropping) was adopted to standardize the language to go along with corresponding Common Tongue literacy. Other nobles, such as Axell Florent and Boros Blount, also do some letter dropping, but Septon Meribald doesn’t, so while pattern of speech is seen as a class indicator by some of the nobility, it’s not necessarily a hard rule.

Now, going away from canon where everything is pretty straightforward (noble/nonnoble, Westerosi/Essosi), irl accents are determined by settlement patterns and isolation. It makes a lot of sense that the North (relative isolation, Old Tongue influence) and Dorne (isolated by the Red Mountains, Rhoynish influence) would have a distinct regional accent, and less sense that the Iron Islands wouldn’t have one (given how they’ve historically made thralls of the North, Riverlands, and now raid the Stepstones and Basilisk Isles, plus their relative isolation and strong cultural distinctiveness). Meanwhile, the Riverlands touch all of the other Kingdoms except for Dorne (and the Iron Islands, which they’ve had a lot of unwelcome contact with), with a history of entire conquest by both the Stormlands and Iron Islands, and partial conquest from the Westerlands and Reach, not to mention pressure from the Vale Mountain Clans. It would make sense that the regions closest to the other kingdoms would have similar accents (Ex: the people of Piper lands sound Westerlander, those near Maidenpool sound more Stormlander, areas settled by the Ironborn such as Harrenhal could sound more Ironborn), barring maybe cases of isolation (Ex: the people on Frey land wouldn’t speak like Northerners due to the Neck blocking regular access to the lands north, same with the Mountains of the Moon blocking regular access to the Vale), meaning the Riverlands is the most accent-diverse region in Westeros due to its centrality.

Going even further away from canon, if I assume that Westerosi speak US American English (an assumption because: the author and I speak it, the British Isles accents the shows use is an anachronism that isn’t even that old but just sounds “proper” to Americans, and because Americans haven’t been in the USA that long it means there isn’t as much accent diversity over such a large area as the British Isles and we know GRRM values simplicity. People from other countries or with more imagination would probably translate a Riverlands accent differently), and the Riverlands are analogous to the Midwest, then the northern Riverlanders plus the Blackwoods would speak Inland North (Northern accent analogous to that of Eastern New England), the areas around Seagard and Harrenhal might sound more Western Pennsylvanian (Iron Islands accent analogous to the Chesapeake/outer Banks), the Central Riverlands would speak Midlands or Ozarks, and the Southern Riverlands might speak with the Piney Woods variety of Southern accent (Stormlander accent analogous to the varieties of Texan) (examples in linked videos). No, it doesn’t make a great deal of sense to translate the accents this way given the different settlement patterns, but it’s roughly reflective of the kingdoms that shaped the Riverlands, and it’s just a fun headcanon anyway.

I imagine Aegor Rivers had a different accent—slower, deeper “mumbly” register, more elisions, similar to the Ozarks maybe—from the Crownlander Targaryens, which is very clipped and “precise” due to a doubling down on the “noble” accent at Daeron II’s court (think the Transatlantic accent that’s often used in older Hollywood movies) and it’s just another thing the court mocked him for, as a sign of his “lack of education”.

[jedimaesteryoda]

"He told about Prince Garin, I remember, the one that I was named for." "Garin the Great," offered Drey, "the wonder of the Rhoyne." "That's the one. He made Valyria tremble." "They trembled," said Ser Gerold, "then they killed him. If I led a quarter of a million men to death, would they call me Gerold the Great?" -AFFC, The Queenmaker

Arianne thinks herself Nymeria when Daenerys is actually the image of Nymeria: a ruling warrior queen from the east who after years of wandering leads her people on ships to Westeros to escape slavery, married three times and remains undefeated on the battlefield.

Arianne is more Garin the Great: the Rhoynish prince/ess who leads their people to war and after some initial success, loses to invading Valyrian dragonlords.

Garin dismissed Nymeria who warned him and the other Rhoynish princes that they could not win a war against the Valyrians. Garin led his people, and after a few tactical victories, Nymeria's warnings proved correct when an army of 300+ dragons descended from the sky and burned his army. He died in a golden cage as his city of Chroyane was destroyed with his only release being the Rhoyne flooding the city and turning the festival city into the Sorrows, an uninhabited, plague-infested ruin.

His story is effectively a lesson on arrogance and the foolhardiness and dangers of blindly going down a path to avoid confronting the inevitable, harsh truth. As is often the case in these stories, he took the path that ultimately did lead to the destruction of his city and the absorption of the Rhoynish lands by the Valyrian Freehold, the exact fate he tried to avoid.

It was ultimately Nymeria who accomplished what Garin could not: preserve Rhoynish independence against Valyrian domination. She also proved to be a successful military leader winning all her wars and crushing her enemies in Dorne.

Arianne's desire is less noble than Garin's given he was defending his homeland while Arianne is getting involved in the game of thrones. When Daenerys inevitably reaches Westeros, Arianne will learn Garin's lesson the hard way when she chooses to fight the last living dragonlords to keep her crown and avoid confronting the truth that Aegon is a false pretender. While Dorne will once again be conquered by an invading warrior queen.