prince doran martell

TW: scopophobia, eye horror, gore, death, spiders

MAG192 MARTIN: What’s wrong with him?

ARCHIVIST: Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s the pupil of The Eye.

MARTIN: Meaning?

“Oftentimes spirits who manifest physically outside the Fade– be it willing or no– will find themselves in a state of shock once confronted with the nature of our reality.” And in that confusion, demons were made. Solas remembered his own waking, distantly, so as to guard the fragile pieces of his already fractured heart. Each breath had threatened to choke him, his limbs hung like lead without the buoyance of dreams, but those were nothing compared to the resounding silence. How dead and cold the world felt around him, how it closed in with every tortured breath. “I wonder if they share anything with the trauma these elves endured.”

It was a feeble thought, he had found the answer himself years ago. These elves were flesh and blood, the Fade could not touch them as it did spirits, but he had felt the pain of spirits torn forcibly through Rifts and woken himself to a changed world. He knew how close he came to losing himself in that first tenuous year, if not to despair then his own wrong-headed pride. The only difference between himself and Fade spirits was that at the end of it all he was still left standing.

Solas’ head snapped up from the grave of a fallen sentinel, roused from his drifting by Doran’s question. He had been asked it before, always by elves with faces framed by god’s blood. A question which had compelled him more than any prayer. “I do,” he answered, strength returning to his tone. With so much in doubt, to return to this one certainty emboldened him. “Until my last breath.”

“ I can imagine that it must feel very similar ... And it would feel like a slow death,” And after all that, perhaps death did not seem so terrible to them. The Exile pressed down on the dirt, patting it tight around the base of the seedling. Perhaps this is the fate of all elves. All the Dalish clans, and all those living in human cities. They were slowly dying, and will one day yearn for a complete release. No, there has to be a way to move forward. To rebuild, or even to create something anew -- far greater than what came before.

The Exile studied the other elf, letting Solas’ answer hang in the air between them. Wisdom stirred in his mind, as if she was torn and anxious. Again the Exile felt that he was facing a puzzle, rather than another person. The conviction in the other’s voice, the depth by which those words were spoken, hinted that Solas had a plan. And just then, another piece in the puzzle twisted into place.

𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙿𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙴, despite being a man grown, despite being about to embark on the biggest adventure of his life, entrusted with a mission that will change the sort of the war and of the kingdom itself — despite it all, at that moment, Quentyn feels like crying and has to fight to avoid tears to roll off his eyes. The last thing he needs at that moment, as he says his father goodbye, unsure whether he’ll return victorious or at all, is to appear weak in front of him.

« I’ll make you proud, father. » Are the words he says — and he’s glad his voice doesn’t betray the emotional turmoil he’s going through. For once. This could be the last time they talk, for what they know — but Quentyn doesn’t want his mind to wander to that eventuality yet again. He, instead, reaches forward to put a hand on his father’s hand. Again with a promise he doesn’t know if he can keep, but he can at least hope so. « I will return with the dragon queen and her dragons. »

There was nought left to say. And so the Failing Prince nodded his head and let his son go. His gaze felt elsewhere, unable to bear to look at Quentyn’s face. No, this must be done. They must risk all before their plans can bear fruit. 

She’d married a grumpy, unromantic old man. How was it that he could make her so very happy? Cersei did not understand it, how she could love him as much as she did.

But she did, very much so. And so with a laugh she rose from the bed and followed Doran out of the bedroom and walked down the stairs beside him. “I don’t think romance and necessity should go together, grumpy.”

“This does make me feel I made the right call not getting you that massive teddy bear.”

He laughed, “ A teddy bear huh? Good idea, maybe i’ll get that for you,” His legs did struggle to hold both his weight and that of the tray -- and seemed close to buckling as he stepped slowly down the stairs. But the journey to the kitchen was a short one, and he was soon sitting at the table again, relief apparent that he didn’t drop the tray. That was stupid he knew, he shouldn’t push his legs like that.

It was silly. And sentimental. She knew that and she knew, really knew, what all of it was worth. She had known that since before she had ever married Robert but…

Something about Doran, her husband, wanted her to be silly and sentimental and to love him and to give him gifts that proved that and she knew it was stupid but she honestly didn’t care.

The kiss to her cheek and the promise that he did love her too had her flushing and she leaned in to capture his lips for a peck before he could escape properly and she watched as he opened his gift.

“Of course, you think I would willingly go into a bookstore.” She teased as she laid down and put her head on his shoulder. “The important thing is the kids are out all day, just you and me.”

Doran scoffed, dissolving into a chuckle, “ So you have been conspiring for a while. Orchestrated everything in minute detail, from my sister to our children, so that we can have a Valentines day, hm?” At that, he turned to kiss her on the top of her head, “ Thank you love. This is sweet, even if it is wholly unnecessary,” 

@theeldestsun​ liked for a starter form the scale-ly baby 

[Prince.]

            Drogon was infront, he always was, And on his back sat the Little Dragon Queen. Freshly wed, and on her way to claim what is hers. On either sides of the magnificent beast flew his siblings, Viserion to the left, and Rhaegal on the right. three sets of massive wings had spread out over the sky, cutting off the sun’s ability to shine upon her children, they had Shrouding the Dornish welcoming party in darkness. what a scene it had been. a display of power like no other. Daenerys wanting the Dornish to understand she was doing them a favor. not the other way around. 

            A stark contrast it is then, that the cream and gold one, has curled his long body around a massive Orange tree. He finds the warm sand to be a comfort as he borrows into it, his scales warm and covered in the kisses of the sun. so warm indeed that he’s yet to light his new favorite spot ablaze. Simply shifting is enough. to heat him once more. 

            Where he had looked relaxed, almost like a cross between a snake, and a cat, in a stripe of sunlight, his head shoots up, clear golden eyes fixed on the old man infront of him. and the gentlest of the dragons release a low hiss in warning. ‘Don’t get any ideas’ he seems to say. he knows who this man is. under the smell of age, and illness is the scent of his new step father. This is the Prince of Dorne. and so black bared teeth are hidden once more. 

            A Voice, clear as crystal manifests within Doran’s mind. as the massive lizard frees himself of his tree, and instead begins to slither around the Prince. “You have mummy’s blood too?” 

The Prince could not help the breathless smile that cracked across his face upon the sight of the cream-and-gold dragon. Viserion, was it’s name. It shimmered majestically as it coiled and curled around the orange tree. The way it did so was akin to a cat -- so much so that Doran began to think of dragons as large, scaled and winged cats. This is perhaps why he felt such a daring to approach Viserion. Even Areo, who was pushing his chair, seemed tense.

The dragon stirred and unfurled itself-- crawling closer, “ Here is enough, Areo,” And with that the Captain took three steps away. The Prince returned his gaze to the dragon -- and it was then did he hear a ringing voice. No, this voice was not heard -- but thought, in his own mind. But it wasn’t his own thoughts. Shocked, Doran’s mouth hung agape. What was that voice? Gods, was he going mad?

“The internet.” Cersei dead-panned as she stayed where she was, kneeling on the bed. “It is an amazing trove of interesting facts, kind of like a library only you don’t have to get up and go to it.”

Her voice was fully of snarky wonder, waving her hand through the air to enunciate the point. “And it’s valentine’s day, it’s something that normal people celebrate so I understand if you haven’t heard of it.”

A moment later, her hand came up to move a loose bunch of golden curls behind her ear. “And I thought I would, I don’t know, do something nice for you. So, yes. Breakfast in bed, and I wanted it to be warm so here.”

She picked up the plate and put it between them on the bed between them before she turned back to the table and picked up the gift. “And I didn’t spend much on this, so don’t get your hopes up.”

It was a book, because honestly what else would she get Doran? Elia had been a great help when it came it, something to do with the Silk Road and trade and honestly after a while the back of the book had made her feel sleepy.

“And,” Cersei cleared her throat while holding out the wrapped book. “I love you.”

“ Give me some credit. I have indeed heard that humans do celebrate this silly occasion called Valentines Day,” He grumbled in return, hiding his smile. Really? Cersei was giving him a Valentine’s gift? What was this? High-school? But he had to admit that as incomprehensible and unnecessary as this gesture was, it was sweet. 

So, he pushed himself to sit up a little more, hands on plate as Cersei reached for the gift, “ Hah, and I love you too,” Doran gave her a smile and a kiss on the cheek before accepting the gift. It was rectangular, topped with a bow, and he took a moment to unwrap it, “ The Silk Road, huh?” 

Yes, he’s seen this book displayed on the front shelves of every bookshop he has stepped into the past two years. His curiosity had been piqued, yes, but never enough for him to actually pick it up himself.