desire

( gong jun, cis male, he/him ) HARK! I believe the heralds are announcing the arrival of VORRIAN MARTELL, the 28 year old,  CROWN PRINCE of DORNE. They are known to hold loyalty towards DORNE/THEIR HOUSE and little birds sing of them being DEVOTED & COMPOSED. When one dreams of them, images of citrus groves and the distant sound of fountains, a sun-and-spear sigil stitched over his heart, and a dagger with a gilded hilt, always in reach comes to mind . However their PRIDEFUL and CALCULATING nature can make for difficult times. Time will only tell what their true intentions are. { rose, 27, they/she, pst, none }

the prince hated to admit it, after longing for travel for so long, but he missed his home dearly. sunspear was a city of light and color; dragonstone felt carved from shadow. the stone beneath his hand was cold — a chill lingering even in torchlight. in dorne, the walls would still be holding the day’s warmth long after sunset.

vorrian exhaled slowly, gaze fixed upon the dark sea beyond the narrow window. the narrow sea did not shimmer as the summer sea did. it churned; restless and unforgiving. waves struck the cliffs below with a violence that felt perpetual, as though the island itself was forever bracing against assault.

“even the air feels different,” he murmured, almost absently. “in sunspear you can smell citrus groves from half a mile away. here it is only salt…and smoke.”

he glanced toward sylvenna then, the faintest hint of dry amusement touching his expression.

“i suspect you would hate it.”

dragonstone had been abundant with noise since their arrival, but tonight the castle seemed to breathe differently — servants moving more carefully through the halls, whispers traveling faster than footsteps. news traveled quickly in a court full of nobles, but dragonfire traveled faster still.

vorrian stood near the open balcony doors of their assigned chambers, eyes fixed on the waves which crashed steadily against the cliffs, indifferent to the spectacle of men learning the limits of their courage. or their foolishness.

the second son of lady hightower had apparently believed himself capable of speaking to a dragon.

he rested one hand against the carved stone railing, expression as composed as ever, though the set of his shoulders had grown subtly rigid.

“the announcement of these betrothals,” he stated thoughtfully, “followed almost immediately by a dragon burning a noble’s son…one could almost mistake it for a demonstration.”

the words lingered in the air for a moment before he spoke again. “tell me honestly, mother, when you agreed to these matches did you expect the courts to see it as a union of equals? or do you suspect the king intends them to see something else entirely?”