#valyrian character

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Home — Nav — Wanted — Plot — Houses — Apply — Discord

The eldest son of Ser Clement Celtigar and his second wife, Lady Elinor Massey, Arthor is 20, and recently received his knighthood. Arthor is known to be intelligent and a capable leader, but brash in tense situations that often get him into social and political troubles. A close friend of Prince Jacaerys since their adolescence and one of his stewards since both came of age, Arthor further takes after his grandsire the dashing charm he was known for as a young man and his equally magnetic and magnnimous personality.

We are a No-Dance!AU and politics, family, and court-drama focused RP. To join, check out our main site, and find out who our court would like to see most on our Most Wanted page, send us a raven with any questions and once you're ready apply, and then join us for plotting and OOC-chat on our Discord!!

Arthor is particularly wanted by his older sister, Lady Calla Celtigar, and close friend Crown Prince Jacaerys, as well as by Ser William and Lady Lacey Vance, Ser Robin and Lady Teora Grafton, Ser Kermit Tully, Lady Elinda Massey, Ser Garmund Hightower, and Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

Note: Character traits, faceclaim, and details are suggestions and can be reworked to a certain extent if discussed with the current members of the RP!

[thewatcher0nthewall]

"Dance with me then"

[lonelymagpies]

Finished working on this bad boy here! 😩 it was exhausting but so fun as well? I loved designing an armor for him with the MHW artbook on my lap, very nice experiece, would recommend💕

[helaenarts]

“Lord Aenar’s daughter Daenys of House Targaryen known forever afterwards as Daenys the dreamer, had foreseen the destruction of Valyria by fire.

When the Doom came twelve years later, the Targaryen were the only dragonlords to survive”

She has so much aura and she rode Balerion too 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[artist-ellen]

The Queen of the North

Potentially random illustration but I had the idea in my head and a new brush I wanted to try out…. So… here we are (*´▽｀*). Keeping with my theme of revisiting parts of previous designs and adding them to backgrounds/scenes. I also want to keep challenging myself, and going for more painterly styles is very much out of my comfort zone. What do you think? I had a bit of fun, learned some things, tested some things out, maybe I’ll try more in this style? (And before you ask yes I know there are supposed to be weirwood leaves, I didn’t have the energy to include them, that’s just the way it is).

I am the artist! Do not post without permission & credit! Thank you! Come visit me over on: instagram.com/ellenartistic or tiktok: @ellenartistic

[kada-kade]

Here- have a rushed Ashara Dayne before my trip to Poland. Not pleased with it, but I have nothing better to post

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Beneath the Dragon’s Eyes”

Rhaenys Targaryen x Female Reader (+Meleys)

wc : 2700+

cw : older woman x younger woman // also, they make out in front of meleys, hence the name // a touch of fluff and a sprinkle of spice

finally took matters into my own hands muahahaha 😈 i love my red queens so gotta include both of them, and ofc, rhaenys speaking high valyrian 😮‍💨

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Zephyrs in Driftmark can be unforgiving at times, especially in the break of dawn. It crawls through little gaps from the castle’s stone walls, running its frigid fingers over every part of your body that is left exposed by your thick covers. One cursed touch of it, and immediately, the shivers come in a tidal wave, iciness crashing down your frame the way waves break the sandy shore.

Peeved to be so rudely awaken, you burrow deeper into bed, pulling the covers over your head to hide in your warm, little cocoon. Still, the trembling persists as though your early morning visitor has left a piece of itself behind in the very depths of your core, for coldness continues to swell from within. On your temples, your blood throbs so fiercely in your veins to the point that you think they may pop any moment now, an awful sensation that is well-nigh torture.

A part of you is inclined to believe that such is the punishment for the sin you have committed yesternight, but even if it is to be the case, the better part of you harbour not a dot of remorse. Why should you when there still lingers traces of her presence, subtle but certainly detectable on the delicate piece of fabric that is presently held close to your chest, a keepsake. Admittedly, not willingly given. Rather, stolen in a moment of irrepressible desire. But a keepsake nonetheless. The handkerchief is simply a square piece of cotton cloth, elegantly lined with lace, as white as milk, but her initials, in blood-red cursive, are embroidered on one corner of it.

Pressing the soft material to your nose, and drowning in the faint scent of sea breeze and firewood that is uniquely and so undeniably your Princess Rhaenys’s, conjure up memories from last night. Within the secrecy of your room, one of the privileges of being the Princess’s Handmaiden, with the stolen little piece of herself nestled over your nose, your fantasies have gone uncontrollably wild. Teeth biting lips, fingers journeying south, sweat blooming into beads, body writhing in ecstasy. Suffice it to say that by the time you drift off, you are thoroughly drained. Only the sea scented breeze catches wind of the name that sweetly, thickly drips down your lips in a sacred whisper, and the moon, the sole witness to the rivulets that shimmer on the inside of your thighs beneath its silvery light.

A cascade of warmness that envelops your body at the mere thought of your lady is all it takes to fend off the cold. Cheeks rosy and ears buzzing, you suddenly feel very feverish. By the side of the bed, a window sits on the wall, the clouds beyond the frame drenched in artistic reds and oranges at the hands of the slowly rising sun, and in need to cool off, your fingers curl around the latch to push it open.

Your respite is fragile, short-lived, shattering like a glass on impact, once an eddy of wind, strong and sudden, swirls into your humble dwelling. The intruder leaves everything untouched other than your little keepsake that is stolen right under your nose. Slipping through your fingers, it flutters akin to a bird preparing for take off, before being escorted through the window, and you watch, a gasp on your lips, while the relentless breeze sends the precious piece of your lady flurrying down, and down, and further down. Your heart drops along with the handkerchief by the time you realise where it has disappeared into.

In your haste to retrieve your prized possession, you have forgone, or rather completely forgotten, the decency to slip into something more suitable for the weather. With a simple nightdress precariously hanging on your frame, your bare feet pad through the winding halls and down the grand staircases as you slip past bustling servants, too engrossed in their respective works to pay you any mind. By the time you reach the entrance to the crypt, you observe from behind a pillar. Only when you have made certain that the two dragon-keepers are locked in an animated chatter do you emerge from your hidden spot, running past them in a blur of movements.

The bowels of the castle are off-limits to many servants save a handful of guards and the dragon-keepers. It is after all home to Meleys, the Red Queen, Princess Rhaenys’s beloved dragon.

Amidst your descent into the foreboding darkness, the beast inside your chest pounds against its cage, wild and frantic. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of dragon, and there, in the shadowy depths of the cavern, you can outline the form of Meleys, her scales shimmering like rubies in the faint glow as she appears to be slumbering, coiled and relaxed. Granted, you have feasted your eyes upon the dragon from afar with no small amount of wonder whenever your Princess takes her out for a flight across the ocean, but it is only given that you will be hypnotised by such a spectacle right before your very eyes, the sheer magnitude and majesty of the Red Queen filling you with intense awe.

A sudden, swift whoosh of her tail sends something aflutter into the wind, and the sight of it spills ice along the length of your spine. Caught on a jagged stone, between you and the dragon, is your lady’s handkerchief.

You have just barely plucked the delicate fabric between your fingers when a low, rumbling growl, seeming to come from the very bowels of the earth itself, shakes you to your core. Slowly, you unstick your eyes from the ground only to find twin orbs of molten gold locked onto you, burning with such malice and ferocity that the force of it alone sends you stumbling back. She rises, hackles raised, and only when a person emerges from behind her large body do you understand why the dragon is being so alarmed.

“Daor, Meles!”

(No, Meleys!)

You are in equal parts absolutely terrified of the doom looming over you, and ridiculously enamoured of your lady’s mother tongue reaching your ears in a tentalising caress.

“Ryptēs. Lykiri.”

(Listen. Be calm.)

One colossal wing unfolds, a protective barrier shielding her rider from you who she deems a possible threat.

“It’s alright. She’s not a threat.”

You can see from where you sit in a sorry little heap, still frozen on the ground, that Princess Rhaenys’s hand has planted firmly against her dragon’s side, offering reassuring strokes that seems to effectively pacify the massive creature. Little by little, her red wing lowers to fold gracefully against her side, and in doing so, reveals to you your lady, comfortably dressed in her dragon-riding attire. There is a steely edge to her face, lips pursed, and gaze stormy when she turns to look at you.

“What, pray tell, do you think you’re doing here?”

So, she demands, and you stand before you answer, or at least, you try to, but the suddenness of it encourages a dizzy spell that has you wobbling on your feet. That has been your foolish mistake for you have offered the doom, that is silently, solemnly observing you, one wrong move, and one is plenty enough of a sign for her to finally descend upon you. With a snarl, scary and sinister, the red queen takes a step forward.

“Lykiri, Meles. Rȳbās!”

(Be calm, Meles. Focus!)

Helplessly, hopelessly, you swoon over your Princess, who has placed herself between her handmaiden and her dragon, her body a firm wall of protection before your own.

“Lykiri.”

(Be calm.)

Once again, the delicious pulse of her voice flows in the form of High Valyrian, gentleness and authority intertwined as she quells the anger of the dragon with a string of melody that effortlessly spills forth her lips, accompanied by a delicate touch of her fingers on the dragon’s impressive snout. Despite your circumstances, you cannot help but stupidly find the gesture endearing.

“Demās.”

(Sit.)

As oblivious as you are to what your lady is saying, you hang on her ever word, enthralled, and so, too, is Meleys if the way she stops her grumbling to instead sit down on the ground is anything to go by.

“Hegnīr. (Good.)” And with a press of your lady’s fingers, elegantly long and delightfully lithe, that are bestowing gentle caresses along the plane of her cheek, the dragon emits a sound, not akin to the growls from before but a happy noise, supposedly the closest thing to a purr she can manage. “Hmm…ñuhys meles darys. (Hmm…my red queen.)”

Once her dragon is settled, you become the focus of the Princess’s attention, or rather, the object of her ire. “You’re not supposed to be here.” She scolds, her stony-eyed gaze pinning you in place. “And what have you got there?”

Following her eyes, you find that they are resting on your hand, grip, white-knuckled tight as fingers curl around the handkerchief, her handkerchief, for dear life. “It’s- I- uhmm-” Silently, patiently, she studies you as you try but fail miserably to stammer out an explanation, for the words get tangled in your throat.

One footfall of her boots brings her closer to you.

One more and you will be able to feel her breath on your face.

Her gaze, although just as intense, has begun harbouring a touch of softness as those fingers, which have served as one of the focuses of your fantasies, lock around your wrist, thumb of her other hand tracing the embroidered initials. “This is mine.” She speaks matter-of-factly. “Why do you have it?”

Your eyes are cast to the ground, roaming over every bump and ridge of rock, anything but her face, and so, with her hand still fitted around your wrist like a snug bracelet, she tugs you, not unkindly, merely as a means to draw attention. “Eyes on me.”

How are you to resist a direct command from your Princess? A command to feast your eyes upon the mesmerising planes and valleys of her face no less.

It comes to you as easily as breathing, admiring the little lines bracketing her lips and the delicate crow’s feet below her eyes, and enjoying every moment of it, but not so much having your soul laid bare beneath her hot scrutiny. The brilliance of her stare gives rise to goosebumps on your body, the little hair on the back of your nape standing when you hear Meleys in the background. The dragon levels you with those twin suns of hers, pools of liquid gold that shimmer with curiosity, in return for the peek you have sneaked. Her stare is both mesmersing and terrifying. A strangled little gasp tumbles out of your lips, whereas a thrill that simmers low in her maw seems to vibrate deep within your bones.

“Fear not.” Your lady’s face gravitates towards you, but a whisker away. “Meleys wouldn’t touch a hair on your head unless I say so.”

“But me on the other hand, hmm,” Middle and fore finger touch a lock of your hair as she whispers in your ear. “I’m not quite sure.”

“I- I’m sorry, my lady. It smelt of you,” You swallow, warm and fuzzy. “-and it was so inviting, and I couldn’t help myself.”

A pad of a thumb traces the bone of your cheek, before opting to pluck your chin between forefinger and a thumb. Gingerly, she angels your face until your gazes collide. “Oh, I bet you couldn’t.”

She watches you intently, her eyes roaming over every feature on your face, and despite the cheeks that are dusted cherry red and the sorry little thing swelling painfully inside your chest, you glory in her attention, soaking every droplet of it.

Dainty and delicate in appearance, her lips call out to you, a siren’s song, and just as you are entertaining the idea of throwing all caution to the wind to chase after the forbidden temptation, they fall upon you.

No amount of wildest dreams can hold a candle to the real experience. Smooth and soft, her lips are the sweetest thing you have ever had the pleasure of consuming, but underneath it all is an addictive spiciness, you quickly discover, once a velveteen tip of a tongue licks the swell of your lips. No sooner has the delicate bud unfurled like a flower in bloom than the ravenous snake slithers inside in search of sweet nectar.

An arm has twined itself around your waist, pulling you against her body, kiss intensifying as teeth nibble and tongue tangle, and with a choked little noise, your hand descends upon your lady’s shoulder.

In the haze of it all, you cannot help but appreciate her hair, a cascade of white satin falling beautifully down her shoulders, which you braid every morning and comb every night. A knit appears between your brows. Clearly, her hair is fashioned. Although, you do not remember putting these particular braids on her head.

“You didn’t send for me to have your hair done.” Fingers toy with a lock of hair, perpetually drenched in moon glow. “Who did these, my lady?”

“I can manage a few braids myself, dear girl.”

A nip on the delicate underside of your chin proves to be a dizzying distraction.

Meanwhile, blossoms of her kisses have branched off to your neck, lips closing around the little notch on your throat. Like dewdrops blooming on leaves on a misty morning, specks of perspiration has appeared on your forehead. She sucks once, and your spine arches. Another, and with a trickle of gasps down your lips, your body curves deeper into your lady’s.

“You’re trembling.” She breathes into the hummingbird flutter of your pulse, voice throaty and hot, and you feel it on your skin more than you hear it. “Is it the cold?”

“No,” Her hand tugs one part of your chemise down, and doing so leaves your shoulder bare. “No, Princess. It is you.”

“Hmm.” Lips glide across your skin, planting firmly on the slope of your shoulder, and sucking the flesh into the hot cavern of her mouth until it is red and rosy and deliciously raw.

Then, she arises, thumb outlining the fleshy swell of your lips, dewy and kiss-swollen, before opting to cradle your face in the palm of her hand. A ghost of a smile that blossoms on her lips is such a sight for sore eyes. You drink it in like a parched man.

A beautiful mess, the Princess has left you, and she takes her sweet time relishing her masterful craft.

“Gevie.”

Her mother tongue makes a delightful reappearance, this time solely for your ears, and you are but butter in her arms, melting from the sultriness of her cadence alone.

“What does it mean, my lady.” Your gaze, doe-eyed and love-struck, finds hers. Her amused little grin is not easily discernible, but all too familiar with the nuances of the Princess’s expressions, you find it in those enchanting browns, in the soft little lines on her face that becomes just a touch vivider. “Beautiful.”

“I’ve found myself wondering what my touch would do to you-” Her gaze moves to the stolen keepsake that still resides within your grasp. “-if this flimsy, little fabric was capable of making you moan my name so reverently in bed.”

The knowledge that she is aware of your deed breeds excitement, sends tingles down your spine. A twinkle of anticipation has appeared plain as day in your eyes, and to your pleasant surprise, a chuckle spills forth her lips, deep and dizzying.

“But perhaps another time.” She drops a kiss atop the little arch of your nose, and your eyes slip shut, full of bliss. “And keep the handkerchief. I’m sure it’ll be more useful in your hands than it is in mine.”

A feather light touch has found home on your naked shoulder, a gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings against the deep purple bloom that her mouth has so exquisitely painted on your skin. With a hum, she fixes the chemise so that the evidence of her doing lies hidden beneath the fabric, away from prying eyes and gossiping servants.

“Come. Let Meleys rest. She has had enough entertainment for one day.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[praparuru-ume]

My beloved OC Aenyr during different stages of his life.

[amber-laughs]

catelyn throwing her blanket off her with ned’s cum still running down her legs in front of maester luwin vs Jon being ass naked dripping wet in front of alliser thorne, othell yarwyck and bowen marsh STOP calling each other names! neither of you have any fucking decorum

[readorsigh]

The biggest problem with ASOIAF fandom is everyone always thinks their takes about characters and storylines they're less invested in/actively dislike are 100% accurate and correct and without any bias

[snake-berry]

Bethany Bracken, prior to her execution

"I found her in such lamentation and heaviness as I never saw no creature, so that it would have pitied any man's heart to have looked upon her."

i hath returned from my faraway travels, to post once more...

anyways yeah drew bethany in a slightly diff style than usual! even if shes an awoiaf footnote i am obsessed with her partially bc she is so obviously inspired by catherine howard (my forever fave of henry viii's wives). so yes hope u all enjoy my cornplate fanart. also justice for bracken women!

[thewatcher0nthewall]

Asha Greyjoy

[daenerysstormreborn]

The whole concept of left brain/right brain isn’t super solid but I think it’s the most accurate way to describe the difference between Arya and Sansa’s skill sets. I think with training either girl could be a politician or a warrior. I think they both could’ve survived if their roles were swapped. Both have demonstrated the ability to adapt.

Arya specializes in the concrete and logical, in immediate observations and perceptions, and intuitive reactions to those. Arya is quick on her toes and great at making on-the spot assessments and reacting appropriately. She’s extremely observant and perceptive and these things come very naturally to her. She’s great at learning language, but isn’t said to write poetry and doesn’t take marked interest in story or songs. Her focus is typically on her immediate environment and current situation. She doesn’t spend time ruminating or crafting distant future lives for herself. She is alert and attuned to the facts and the present.

Sansa is more abstract and artistic, focusing on the qualitative aspects of life, engaging in creative pursuits. She loves the romantic and fantastical and is more attuned to ideas and concepts than the facts of her immediate surroundings. She absorbs history and heraldry and has a knack for aesthetics and mastery of her native language (i.e., writing poetry and being an eloquent speaker. Learning new language is “left brain” whereas mastery of your native language is “right brain.”), but isn’t said to be very good at math and her romanticized lens inhibits her perception of fact at times. She has a vivid imagination and spends a lot of time ruminating on her past and conjuring fantasies of idealized futures, comparing her own life to familiar narratives instead of being 100% present in her surroundings.

Which isn’t to say these skill sets are mutually exclusive to the girls. Arya can be very creative (she is excellent with performing and getting into roles as a faceless man) and Sansa can be quick on her toes (like when she saved Dontos). These skill sets also are not opposites and the girls do not “complete” each other. Both are full complete people on their own who are learning to apply their natural strengths to navigate their worlds.

What’s interesting to me is that they’re both a little aimless right now for different reasons relating to what I described above. Arya is great at taking action but doesn’t have a vision of her ideal future (at least not that we’ve seen) so she doesn’t know where to go next. Her biggest desires are “go home” and “go to the wall to see Jon” but those aren’t options to her so she ends up a bit directionless, traveling across the ocean and becoming a faceless man because she has to do SOMETHING because she’s a doer, but doesn’t know what to do. Meanwhile Sansa has goals for her future of being a lady with a loving husband and a family, but she is not a doer and doesn’t know what steps to take to escape her current situation, so she goes along with Littlefinger’s plan. Arya has inertia but no direction and Sansa has direction but no inertia

Of course, for both girls, age and and trauma are factors in them going down the paths they’re on and I expect that we’ll see them both grow!

[helaenarts]

Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys marriage ceremony on Dragonstone beach, 6 BC

I like to imagine that in this marriage they were all equal and Rhaenys and Visenya were were as married to each other as they were to Aegon 🤭

!!!!! I Hope yall will enjoy this piece as much as i enjoyed drawing it !!

This is my take on Valyrian fashion preconquest already a bit tainted by westerosi culture !

[artist-ellen]

A Stark Family Portrait

Oof this was both nostalgic and painful to pull together. It hurts the same way being an adult watching 'Anastasia' hurts, we know she never saw her parents or siblings again. All that's left is the semi-abandoned castles and portraits sort of hurt.

Oh and I forgot to mention it on Ned's redesign post but way back when I read the first book, when season 1 was a twinkle in GRRM's eye, Ned was my favorite character. I am a sucker for honorable protagonists and was devastated. Who was your favorite character in book 1/Season 1?

I am the artist! Do not post without permission & credit! Thank you! Come visit me over on: instagram.com/ellenartistic or tiktok: @ellenartistic

[kada-kade]

My baby bang princess Lana Lannister and also my first digital art piece- wow