OF THE TIDES @deimos-velaryon - Tumblr Blog

♛ → THE CROWNLANDS presents DEIMOS VELARYON, the RULING LORD OF DRIFTMARK & HAND OF THE QUEEN TO DAENERYS TARGARYEN MASTER OF SHIPS TO KING JAEHAERYS II. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the BLACKS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the THIRTY-NINE MALE who was LOYAL & DECISIVE before they saw the first of the flames, is now DETACHED & OBSCURE after seeing the last. they’re often associated with the mask he has accepted for his family; becoming what they need him to become, the reassuring lilac eyes of his kin, and the blades that drip with the blood of those who seek to extinguish the valyrian bloodline. ( sebastian stan )

#me; an absolute dumb dumb who never posted deimos' bio #deimos: about

rhaena--velaryon

for a moment, the somberness left as rhaena’s head tilted to one side for a brief second, her eyes narrowing in that way a little sister’s did when a brother said something obvious, an unsaid ‘do you think i’m an idiot?’. it was a look she usually saved for aemon. there was no one in this world that she was more loyal to than her family, to house velaryon and its members. it was not oaths or the desire to right the wrong that came from the first time the realm accepted a man’s claim over a woman’s that had rhaena flying the black, but the fact that rhaenyra was her aunt. even by marriage, even if the marriage was done by the time she was grown, she still called the queen her aunt and that was enough. and now she was the aunt, looking over her nephew and nieces as rhaenyra had taken her under her wing after rhaenys’ death while all the rest of the velaryons were further afield. “there is no child in this world i love more than them, deimos, and no one would defend them and our home more than i.” the words held the ferocity of a she-dragon hovering over her fresh brood of eggs, the way only a woman could feel about children she loved, even if they were not her own. in truth, rhaena knew that only her own children could supplant them in the hierarchy of her heart, and they didn’t exist yet. it was the least she could do for the memory of yna.

she recognized that her brother was being vulnerable with her, admitting without words that he was unsure if he would come back from the conflict. she appreciated that the lord of the tides allowed her to see this, after so long of watching her brother put up wall after wall with loss after loss, but now was not the time for it. not when it was too late to be anything but resolute. “you sound like you are expecting to sail to your death.” rhaena’s voice carried a tone that was almost accusatory but more so, and perhaps worse, hurt. after everything their family had suffered through, it felt like a slap in the face. she only ever got her hackles up like this when her pride was injured, but whatever tender part of her heart still existed throbbed like an unhealed wound at his words. it made her set her jaw tight. “if you have that mindset, you’ve already lost. might as well toss you into a stone coffin now.”

for all the times she considered herself rhaenys’ daughter more than corlys’, there were times it showed. mostly when she was stubborn, resolute in her decisions and ideals, or with the taste of ambition in the back of her throat. it showed now, as she stood firm and tall in front of her brother, refusing to allow a maybe exist in this moment. “these children are your legacy, deimos;” she motioned to the window, to the innocent children playing, oblivious to how on fire the world truly was. “not mine, not ‘emon’s or nellie’s, yours. you have to be here to mold them into driftmark’s future, to nurture and guide in the way only a parent can... trust me, there is no replacement for a parent when you lose them young.” there was a heaviness to the insinuation, an obvious reference to how young she’d been when their mother died, and not much older when their father passed. deimos was grown, rhaena was not, no matter what society said about a girl.

if deimos was perceptive enough, he might see the barest amount of tears in rhaena’s eyes, her own little piece of seawater gathering at the idea of losing another brother. “you will go, you will show the dornish you are not just the lord of the tides in title but in deed as you burn their hulls and drown them in sea salt and blood, and you will come home. do you hear me, deimos velaryon?” if he did not see the tear in her eye, the lord of driftmark would see it fall, barely gracing her cheek in that way only single tears could. but her voice did not crack, and there was nothing but steely resolution in her eyes.

deimos-velaryon

Deimos’ lilac eyes lingered on his sister as she spoke about his children. Rhaena was so fierce in her love for them, and that soothed the lord's heart in a way. The conviction she had to protect his children, to care for them and genuinely feel affection for them, was more than any oath she could speak before him. He had known she was the right person, the only person, he could entrust with his son and daughters, but hearing her words reassured him. “I know that to be true,” he said in a low tone, the corners of his mouth tugging up only slightly. “Thank you, Rhaena,” he said, for he took none of it for granted. His words carried gratitude, immense trust, and the relief of a man who knew his children and his house were safe in her hands.

When she rebuked him for speaking as though he were already a surrendering man, or someone heading to war with some intention to die, Deimos’ expression barely shifted. He shook his head before he moved towards Rhaena, and he let his hands rest on her shoulders. “I do not intend to die,” he assured her. “But I know what war does, sister. There is never any certainty of victory or survival”. Some might say it was a pessimist's mindset, or a defeatist's mindset, as Rhaena hinted at. Deimos had seen enough to know it was best to be a realist. His hands on his sister's shoulders were steadying and reassuring because he understood her concerns, and that her anger came from love and from fear. She too had gone through so much and seen more than one should've at a young age, when her world crumbled for the first time.

In truth, it humbled him that his sister would care for him so much. Blood ties didn't mean there was always love and friendship. He was glad that out of every sibling he had, at least he'd managed not to fully alienate Rhaena after the world hardened him and jaded him so much. Her eyes watered somewhat, and Deimos couldn't help but recall their infancy. One time or two, as a little girl, she'd tripped and fallen on the cobblestone path from the docks to Driftmark castle, and he'd wiped away the tears from his baby sister's cheeks. Proud as she was, he'd not seen Rhaena cry in a long time. Just as he did when she was a little girl, Deimos lifted a hand to wipe away those tears that were forming in her eyes.

Deimos let out a light scoff when Rhaena demanded that he return, delivering her command with more authority than a queen. A small smile found its way to his lips. He wasn't making fun of her in any way, though he did find his sister's demeanor endearing in a way. Only she could draw a reaction like that from him. “If you demand it like that, you make it hard for me to answer with anything other than, ‘Yes, I will’,” the Lord of the Tides replied. Again, he didn't wish to make promises he knew he wasn't in control to keep, but he did wish to reassure his sister. “I will fight with everything in me to return”.

#rhaena: 01 #aww; precious big bro and little sister

moonhillsunsets

the late lady velaryon had always struck mariela as a woman both gracious and sharp, with a presence that lingered long after she’d left a room. it was rare, the sort of marriage she and deimos shared, built on real affection, not just strategy. her amber gaze dipped once, briefly, to the scar that marred the lord’s collarbone, though it did not linger. “she was a good match,” mariela said softly, giving the mare’s neck another affectionate stroke. “and she’s found her way back to where she’s needed.”

a small smile tugged as he spoke of his young daughter having taken to the late lady's horse. the mare shifted its weight and exhaled heavily through its nose, the sound soft and grounded in the hush of the stables. “then it sounds like they’ve both kept each other steady,” she replied. “horses hold onto memory and feeling almost as well as we do. i imagine they bring one another comfort."

she turned to face him more fully now, brushing a stray piece of hay from her sleeve with one gloved hand. “you’ve chosen a good time,” she said, her tone gently shifting into the steadiness of a lady accustomed to decision. “we’ve a young colt with a good head and soft eyes, still growing, but patient. born of a mare who hasn’t yet given me a single unruly one. i’ll send word to have him brought to the keep. your son can meet him when you’re ready.” there was a flicker of something lighter in her expression then, a glimpse of who she’d been before the court and the council had taken root in her. “they grow fast, both horse and child. better they learn from one another.”

she pressed her lips together, letting a measured silence settle between them. “have you heard anything?” mariela asked at last, her voice low but steady. “any word of who might be behind it?” she didn’t press further, only met his gaze with a calm that belied the sharpness beneath. “i don’t mean to intrude,” she added, her tone softening. “i only hope you find the ones responsible.”

deimos-velaryon

Deimos rested his hands behind his back as she spoke of the mare. He was pleased with the good match the lady had been able to foresee for his daughter. As she told him about the young colt that could become Acheron's horse, he nodded in agreement, trusting someone as expert in the matter as Lady Egen to suggest a creature to be his son's future mount. Mariela's words resonated with him in a way, reminding the Lord of Driftmark of the days of dragonriders in his family. He and his kin bonded with their dragons at a young age for a reason, so they could grow alongside them, bonded through their experiences together, and forging everlasting trust. Horses were simpler creatures, and the bond wasn't quite as deep, but he could see how a similar principle applied. “You are right,” he said at last, nodding in agreement. Better they learn from one another. “I would like to see the young colt. Please have it brought when it suits you”.

The Master of the Tides felt the lady's eyes on him and then her question about Yna follow. Deimos' looked at her for a moment, keeping the silence, before he shook his head slowly. His expression remained composed, the usual mask of severity worn by him, but there was a gleam of something else in his violet eyes. Something raw, something burning. “You do not intrude with your question. You knew my wife, and I can imagine as someone who appreciated her, you too would wish to know who was behind her murder,” he said, his tone low and steady. “But no. I have heard nothing that lets me follow a certain path”. He had his suspicions, of course, but he knew it wasn't wise to throw accusations so flippantly at this point. But some pieces were falling into place, and his departure for Dorne promised an opportunity to shed some light on the matter.

Another moment of silence followed. Mariela Egen had dared to ask a question that she feared was intrusive, and Deimos had one in his mind that he also thought might qualify under the same category. “If I may ask a question, and forgive me if I am the one who intrudes,” the lord began, his tone slightly quieter now. “How did you speak to your sons about their father's death? They were quite young, as mine are, if I'm not mistaken”. It wasn't uncommon for families to be torn in this way, Deimos knew, yet he'd never experienced any death in the way he was doing now: a grieving husband having to measure what his children could hold upon losing their loving mother. “I find myself wondering what is best to share and what is best to withhold...” Deimos Velaryon was a straightforward man by all accounts, saying things in a way that very rarely spared the feelings of the other. But with his children, he did carry himself with a tenderness that was rare in him, and his own grief reshaped him in ways that were both familiar and entirely new to him. “It's not something I'm used to doing”.

#mariela: 01 #deimos' queue.

aemonvelxryon

"nice to see you too, dearest brother," aemon's tone was pleasant, deimos' commentary on his appearance like water rolling from a duck's back. "is it?" he shot a glance towards the window, as though checking to confirm deimos was correct, and immediately regretted it. "fantastic. i haven't missed lunch." always casual, always nonchalant, but it felt heightened around deimos, standing straight-backed as a statue of the father looking down upon him in judgement that aemon didn't care to receive.

he blinked for a second, inhaling the scent of the perfume that lingered - definitely not vivienne penrose's scent. "it's mine, actually. it's called an air freshener. the staff always spray it around in the morning," he lied, smoothly. never mind the fact the staff clearly had not even begun tidying up his quarters yet, never mind sweetening the air with whatever cloying fragrance his companion for the evening had seemingly decided to take a bath in. but he had no desire to fight with deimos, simply to slip through the conversation with what remained of his dignity intact.

but then deimos spoke of returns, and he could only mean from dorne, and aemon's demeanour shifted to something more serious. he was no stranger to warfare, but unlike some men, he did not relish in it, nor seek glory from it. "mostly," he said, with a flicker of sincerity. "nothing but a bad sunburn to show for my troubles." where aemon had fought in the desert dunes, deimos had taken charge of the waves, the way a good velaryon was expected to do. the very thought of it brought a surge of bile up aemon's throat that had nothing to do with his hangover.

he sipped the water deimos poured, begrudgingly, though he had to admit it did help his head. the war had not been the first time the velaryon brothers had been separated. in fact, they'd spent more time apart than they ever had under the same roof. even now, in the same room as one another, they occupied opposite ends of it, may as well be in different worlds. there was little point in lamenting how things could have been, had they been raised together as brothers should. there was no changing it now.

"so - not about the wedding." his tone turned lighter once more, violet eyes fixing on deimos, looking for the purpose of his visit. he did not think that visiting his wayward brother would be high on his list of priorities on deimos' first day back in the city. it was not like him to waste time with such matters, which meant there had to be a reason. "and i doubt you've come here just to drag me out of bed and tell me i look like shit. so what can i do for you, deimos?"

deimos-velaryon

Deimos did not bother to answer his brother’s flippant remark. He only watched him, stern and steady. It was the kind of silence that he wielded in a way that often weighed down others more than any reproach he could utter. Whatever lightness Aemon tried to summon with humor or nonchalance didn't quite land in the face of the immovable stillness of the Master of the Tides. And then, when his brother lied with the smoothness of a King's Landing courtier, Deimos' gaze landed briefly on the half-drained goblets that were scattered around the room. “And I suppose those are yours too?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm, his meaning unmistakable. His brother was not fooling him, but the Lord of Driftmark would not waste time in pursuit of a confession of the night Aemon had and the company he kept during it.

“You are missed in Driftmark,” he stated simply when his brother asked why he had come to see him. “Your nephew and nieces ask after you often”. His children carried the silent dread of loss, the lingering effect of having seen their uncle Aerion and their mother return to the sea within the same year. “Every now and then they ask if you are still alive, you know? And when I tell them you are, they ask if you hate home. If that's what keeps you from going to Driftmark”. It was Rhaenys who asked that for the first time on the day they buried Yna in the depths of the ocean.

The day of his wife's funeral was another prickly matter. He leaned forward slightly, eyes never wavering from his brother’s face. “You were not even present for Yna’s funeral”. Deimos did not raise his voice in the slightest, but they struck with a heaviness that couldn't be ignored. Truth be told, Deimos himself hadn't fooled himself into believing his brother would be there, despite considering it something Aemon should have done. On that day, his son hadn't asked about his uncle either, too hurt to consider adding more sorrow or disappointment to an already painful experience. But the girls had asked. He should have been there. Not only for Acheron, Aelora, and Rhaenys. For Yna too. She had been family to Aemon, and his absence that day had not gone unnoticed. Yna had shown his brother kindness, perhaps more kindness than Deimos himself ever managed. That Aemon had not stood with them that day was a wound Deimos would not forget easily, nor forgive lightly.

#aemon: 01 #deimos' queue.

aemonvelxryon

closed starter for @deimos-velaryon

it was well known amongst the staff in aemon's household that there was little point trying to rouse him from bed before noon, because it was rare that he crawled into it before dawn. only in emergencies was this a routine that was broken, and clearly, a visit from deimos was regarded as exactly that. and so, aemon was woken to be informed that his brother was waiting for him, and he had little choice but to rise.

when he eventually entered the reception room from his chambers, dressed simply in a rumpled white shirt, his feet still bare, he could not help but wince at just how bright the light was in here. his head pounded as whatever he had drank or taken the night before worked its way out of his system, and his mouth was dry. he was clearly hungover, but despite that, he was not oblivious to the state of the room they stood in. his jacket had been thrown over a harp in the corner, there was a lingering scent of a woman's perfume in the air, and half-drunk goblets were littered sporadically around the spare surfaces.

still, he managed to hold his back straight, easy smile crossing his face. "bit early for a social call, brother," he said, picking up one of the nearby goblets and draining it. what makes you bad makes you better, and all that. "must be important to bring you here before breakfast." never mind that it was closer to noon. aemon took his seat, waiting for deimos to do the same and trying to ignore the fact his head was splitting open from the inside.

the velaryon brothers were not the sort to be joined at the hip. two decades of separation, in which aemon had become his own man, a courtier of king's landing far more than a lord of driftmark, would do that. even with distance removed, the two of them had little in common.

"so," he leaned back, draping one arm along the back of the couch he had chosen to sink into. "to what do i owe the honour? if it is about the wedding, it's all in hand." if there was one thing aemon was accomplished in, it was planning a celebration.

deimos-velaryon

The Master of Ships waited for quite some time until his younger brother finally joined him. He expected Aemon to show up in a better state, more or less appropriately dressed, considering the amount of time it took him to meet him. It looked like his brother had just now rolled out of bed, putting minimal effort into hiding the fact. The Lord of Driftmark stood tall, back straight, and hands behind his back like a soldier at ease when he met Aemon's gaze. Night and day, the Velaryon brothers. Aerion had been a middle ground between Deimos' structure and Aemon's chaos, but not even that bridging presence remained.

“It's almost noon,” was the only thing he said before even uttering a formal greeting. Gods knew how Aemon ran his household and what odd hours ruled his day and nights. For him, for the rest of the world, this time was nowhere near being 'early'. Judging by the state of the room they were in, with goblets, discarded clothing, and the scent of a perfume that would never have belonged to his brother, Aemon had indulged in drink and not enough sleep. “You look terrible”. His words came out more like an undeniable statement than any form of judgment.

Deimos went ahead to look for a jug of water and poured some for his brother. There was nothing particularly caring in his demeanor as he set the goblet with water before Aemon. Nor was there any tenderness in the way he said, “I'm not here about your wedding”. He spoke in his usual calm tone, the kind that bordered on ringing stern more often than not. “Though for the sake of a peaceful union, I do hope the perfume I'm smelling is your future wife's”. The chances of it being Viviene Penrose's perfumed scent were slim, he knew. Given Aemon's reputation, it was more than likely that he was enjoying his remaining days as a man not yet wed.

“Looks like you returned mostly unscathed,” Deimos mentioned, as he finally took a seat across from his brother, taking a moment to study him, trying to locate if this war had left any damage on him. “That's good”. The Master of Ships had just docked in King's Landing the day prior, after the months it took to carry out the war against the Dornish. In some ways, it felt like a victory, and in others, a failure. Many lives had been lost on both sides, and in the end, tensions between New Valyria and Dorne remained. In all that time, he hadn't crossed paths with his brother, as one Velaryon fought on land and the other mostly at sea. Always a distance, always on different paths.

#aemon: 01

nonsimplex

#deimos: picture #i'm gonna say this is the canon look; the hair and the beard

bloodfcrblood

saella did not sit at once. she crossed the chamber with the easy, elegant steps of someone raised to be noticed but trained not to draw attention unless it served her. it was only after a breath, maybe two, that she lowered herself into the seat he offered, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate calm.

“plainly, then,” she said, eyes fixed on his. no charm, no coy deflection. only the same clarity she had seen in him: stripped of illusion, raw in its grief and intent.

“i suggest you do what your enemies never expect,” she said. “that you reach beyond the confines of crown and court and take hold of the shadows they ignore. the ones that do not answer to banners or birthright, but to coin and cause.”

she paused, not for effect, but for certainty. “i can make introductions. not to assassins or poisoners, though i suspect you’d have no shortage of either should you ask, but to men who listen when i speak. whose loyalty isn’t bought in gold, but in purpose. some fight in my ludus, yes, but not all strength is shown in the ring. some have quieter talents.”

she tilted her head, letting that statement hang, just long enough to imply things left unsaid. her voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its weight. “i do not presume to act without your leave, lord velaryon. but you and i both know justice is an illusion spun for children and fools. yna is gone. what remains is consequence. and consequence can be shaped, if one has the will.”

the firelight caught briefly on the pale curve of her cheek as she leaned forward just a touch. “tell me who you suspect,” she said quietly, “and i will help you be certain, and see it done. not loudly, not rashly. but with care. with precision. so that when your enemies fall, they will not even realize the hand that moved against them until it is far, far too late.”

saella watched him in the silence that followed, her expression composed, but beneath it, something older and colder stirred. she had grown used to the language of courts, the diplomacy of veils and smiles, but beneath all that, beneath the silks and the courtesies, she still believed in something simpler. more ancient. if you let blood spill unanswered, you invited the world to open your veins.

a strike against one of their own must be answered. not only to honor the dead, but to shield the living. to remind the dogs that valyrian blood does not run cold, nor does it run from a fight.

deimos-velaryon

Deimos watched the lady as she finally took a seat across from him. He had expected something shrewd and clever from Lady Qoherys, and she did not disappoint. And finally, she spoke plainly, wasting no words. When she finished, the Lord of Driftmark leaned back slightly, silent, weighing his options. The tides were already turning, for New Valyria would move against Dorne sooner rather than later. One needed only witness King Jaehaerys' fury in the council chambers to know his cousin would eventually throw his rock. And Deimos intended to use the ripples it caused. A sanctioned war, a declared campaign, and the Master of Tides would let his vengeance sail under rightful banners and law. It was, at the very least, an efficient vessel.

“You speak with purpose, Lady Qoherys,” he said finally, calm and deliberate, “And I listen when purpose outweighs pretense”. In his younger years, he would have been more inclined to accept everything she offered right away. Time had carved a more jaded person, however, and Deimos knew better than to jump headfirst into his every impulse and immediately fill every fiery desire to spill blood. “There will be consequence,” he stated, for that had never been in question. The manner of such consequence was what they were discussing, and the Lady of Rosby was much too keen to offer him various tools for that.

“The men you speak of answer to your coin and your cause, my lady,” he pointed out. No doubt Saella wielded those individuals with ease, yet the only currency Deimos relied on to get things done was trust and true loyalty. “The only way I could agree to any of this is if some of my men can go on that path alongside yours”. He did not deal in shadows he couldn't trace.

The Master of Ships reached for the quill beside him when she asked who he suspected. Deimos pulled a piece of parchment and was precise as he traced sharp lines and drew exact curves. What emerged were not words, but a flock of dark, inky figures. The black nightingales of House Caron's sigil. “I saw this during the attack,” he said, sliding the parchment to her. “I'm certain they're not the real culprits, but mere puppets on a string”. Deimos, as he clutched his bleeding neck and watched his wife's life pouring out of her, had heard words uttered in one of the Dornish tongues. He was certain there had to be a connection there. He set aside the quill and folded his hands, dark lilac eyes locked on Saella. “If your associates can pull on that thread and confirm who pushed them to act, then I will support your ludus. For a time,” he paused. Getting a name was not worth endless support. The two of them could agree on an acceptable, fair timeline for it later. When it would start, and when it would end. “We can discuss funding or other manner of support, if you wish. And beyond the bloodsport, you can expect my support in court, Lady Qoherys”.

#saella: 01

moonhillsunsets

setting: driftmark, prior to attending the verdant concord, mariela stops by the keep to visit deimos velaryon, whom she had sold a prized mare to for his wife. ; starter for @deimos-velaryon

driftmark was quiet, as always. the sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows over the stone courtyard. the scent of salt and seaweed lingered in the air, and the distant roar of the waves was a constant backdrop. the lady regent of moonhill entered the velaryon keep with the guide of a steward, with a quiet step, her gaze briefly taking in the familiar stone walls and the quiet hum of the place. it had been some time since she’d last walked these halls, before yna’s passing, when things had felt far more settled in an overall sense. she pushed the memory aside, folding it neatly behind the silks of her thoughts. there was no room for lingering on such things now.

her visit to deimos velaryon was not unexpected. she had done him a service not long ago, selling him one of her finest mares for his wife, yna. mariela knew the stories. she knew what was spoken of the attack that had taken her life, the grief that had settled over him like a storm cloud. yna's death was a tragedy, but there were always things beneath the surface, things that mariela could not ignore.

as they moved deeper into the keep, the scent of the stables greeted her, earthy, raw, a stark contrast to the pristine air of the halls. the mare she had sold the lord of driftmark had been one of her family's prized creatures, a favorite of hers, and though it's rider was no longer alive to appreciate it, mariela still felt a pull to ensure the mare’s well-being. it was, perhaps, a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but she knew that sometimes, the smallest gestures carried weight.

the steward had already gone ahead to announce her arrival, but mariela didn’t rush. she had no need to seem eager, and when the footsteps came, she didn’t look up immediately. instead, she murmured, “she looks well, lord velaryon.”

she turned to face the lord and unfortunately could not say the same for him, it were clear grief clung to him like a cloak, and whilst she could understand a strange sort of emptiness of losing a spouse, father to her children, someone who played a large part in her life for many years, she couldn't quiet understand the true anguish that came with a loss that was a union of love rather than duty.

deimos-velaryon

The Lady of Moonhill had waited for him at the stables. It was a fitting location to meet with her, considering the request he had. “Lady Egen,” Deimos greeted in return as he walked with his hands clasped behind his back, pausing not far from the stall where his late wife's mare was. “She was always a fine animal,” he said, voice quiet but steady. Once the lady faced him, he offered a polite tilt of his head.

Yna herself had picked the creature from among the fine stock bred by House Belmore. His wife had practically glowed when Lady Mariela visited Driftmark to deliver the mare. That was another memory that now weighed inside of him. Though Deimos Velaryon still moved about in the commanding and steady manner he always had, there was an undeniable heaviness to him, born from the grief that time had made bearable but not erased. Even the harsh line of the scar that curved across his collarbone and into the base of his neck was that constant reminder, the visible reminder of the attack that took Yna from him. The same cut had opened her up. Different pressure upon the blade, more depth as the cut was made, a slightly different positioning from the attacker's hand... each variable made the difference between him surviving and Yna perishing.

“My oldest daughter took a liking to her,” he said, glancing toward the mare, a faint gentleness threading through his voice. “And she to Aelora. You’ll be glad to know she doesn’t spend her days idle in the stalls anymore, not since the riding lessons began”. It felt right, in the end, that Aelora would find comfort in a creature Yna once loved so dearly. Deimos had even heard his daughter talk to the mare as if the creature remembered her former rider. He'd not had the heart to tell her that horses didn't carry memories like that. But it made sense, he supposed, that his child would hold on to whatever she could to keep her mother alive in some way.

“My son is eager to begin his riding lessons as well,” he mused, glancing around the stable. Every corner of Driftmark had Yna's ghost etched onto it, and Deimos had found his way of carrying that weight with more familiarity by now, as something he'd learned to survive despite the profound ache. “I’d like to acquire another horse from your family, my lady. Something suited for a young boy, not too wild for a beginner. A creature that could grow with him and be his companion when he reaches his youth”.

#mariela: 01

rhaena--velaryon

she knew this war would not really end. she knew her history, knew how the stormlanders constantly dealt with dorne, knew they hated valyrians for the burning of their keeps. it was a cycle unending, at least while one of them remained. rhaena simply nodded though. he needed this for more than just whatever jaehaerys said they were going to war for.

it was his question about dreams that made her pause, looking up at him; unbidden memories of her waking up in a cold sweat, sticking to the sheets, a scream dying in her throat. the dreams more often than not turned into nightmares, ones that stretched and exaggerated pain and images she longed to try to bury. "at times." was all she would give about the dreams. there was nothing he could do about the problem, the memories hers to bear alone. "she exists now as memory, and a hole i haven't been able to fill." rhaena's usually strong and confident voice was softer, an echo of her youth when they were surrounded by loss on all sides. when she was a girl whose greatest love was the sky and the beast that took her there.

what little brevity could be found in the air disappeared with his hand on her shoulder. she knew what the duty was. maintain peace, ensure stability, protect her brother's children. and if the gods were cruel as they were so often, become guardian of her nephew until he was the age of maturity and hand driftmark to him. the last part sounded like a nightmare. not the duty, but the reason, as she didn't want to lose more of her family. there were so few of them left now, the halls of high tide did not echo with laughter as it once did, the silence a reminder how few remained. even aemon, alive but so rarely willingly to come back.

her first instinct was to say she didn't want it, that she wanted him to stay and not go. that acheron was ten, and she knew what it was like to lose one parent young, that she didn't want to have to teach her nephew and nieces things he needed to teach them as their father. but the words died long before they found her tongue. "i know. and i will ensure its safety until you're back. because you will be back." she said it almost like a threat, words heavy and eyes staring up at him without any sign of compromise.

deimos-velaryon

Deimos' eyes remained fixed on his sister as she replied. The softness in her voice made something ache within him. It was impossible not to feel for her, with her, when Rhaena showed that side of her that was much more tender, more vulnerable. He had known that the question would make the wound that never fully healed sting once more. But silence had never done their house any favors. It was a curse of sorts that they carried: grieving and suffering in silence, letting their pain rot in the dark behind their honor, their duty, and their pride.

Rhaena had never been one to lie to him when asked something, even if the questions opened such old wounds. “It’s a hole we will never fill, I fear,” he said at last, matter-of-factly. “I don't think we are meant to either,” he added, his tone honest, lacking the usual armor the Lord of Driftmark wore. An armor he donned sometimes even with his family. Gods knew time only hardened him more and more, colder in the eyes of others, and it was through conversations like this that he sought to keep from growing so rigid he could no longer reach those he still had. For all the losses that chipped pieces away from their house, from him, it still mattered to him that his sister stood beside him.

He trusted her with Driftmark. That was never in question. But that wasn't all he was entrusting her with, however. “Take care of them,” he said. His words were not a command, but a sincere plea in his own quiet way. There was a subtle undertone of something raw and vulnerable in his tone, the kind he rarely allowed. Acheron and Aelora understood the situation more, suddenly forced to grow up despite their infancy. But Rhaenys still asked him when her mother would return. She had watched the stone coffin that carried what remained of Yna sink into the sea, and still didn't fully understand death as something definitive yet. “It shouldn't fall on you, but it has, sister. They... need guidance, and a loving figure while I'm gone,” he said. His jaw tightened for a moment, and his gaze dropped briefly to the floor before he looked up again, finding Rhaena's eyes. “Tell them only that I will do what I can to come back. Do not make promises that not even I can keep for them”. Don't promise them I will come back, was what he didn't outright say.

He didn't make promises he knew he might not be able to keep, and he wouldn't ask his sister to do it for him. Only the gods knew if they'd spare him or not. The only promise he could make, he had already sworn to his wife's coffin. That he would go to war and that he would fight with all his might. Not as a dragon, that was a part of himself long lost. No, he would fight like something older, more enduring. He was a Velaryon before all else, and he would fight with the wrath of the ocean. He would summon that relentless, merciless force and drag those who took his wife beneath the waves. He would be no Master of the Tides, but the tide itself.

#rhaena: 01

bloodfcrblood

saella did not falter, though his words, sharp and knowing, coiled around her like a net meant to ensnare. she had expected nothing less. grief had not dulled him. no, he was still as perceptive as ever, perhaps even more so now that pain had carved itself into him. she tilted her head slightly, just enough to let her amusement flicker through, the barest curve of her lips betraying it.

"then you are wise," she finally said, as though granting him a fact rather than a compliment. "aligning with house velaryon is no small thing, even now, in the shadow of loss. especially now." her voice remained poised, but there was something knowing beneath it. driftmark had suffered a blow, but it would rise again— it always did. and when it did, she intended to be among those who stood at its side, rather than apart.

"i do not ask for anything now," she admitted, letting a touch of something softer, not quite warmth, but something adjacent to it, seep into her tone. "only that when the tides shift, as they always do, you remember my house stands with yours." her lips pressed together briefly, considering. "though perhaps your support in my ludus would not be misplaced." a beat, then a faint, measured smile. "rosby may not be a naval power, but strength takes many forms. the sands of the arena are not so different from the decks of a ship, both forge warriors worth watching."

saella studied him, the way grief sat heavy in his shoulders, the way his exhaustion did not dull his mind but sharpened it into something cold and unyielding. she could respect that. she did not offer him empty words of comfort. what use were they to a man who had lost what could never be returned? no, she would not insult him with false assurances. instead, she inclined her head slightly, a flicker of agreement passing through her gaze.

"no, there can be no justice," she said, quiet but firm. "but something can be done, should you wish it so." her meaning was deliberate, left open-ended, an invitation rather than a demand. justice was a concept for the idealists of the world. men like deimos knew better. vengeance, retribution, those were things that could be seized, shaped into something real.

deimos-velaryon

Deimos considered her words for a long moment. Loyalty was a currency rarer than gold these days, and rarer still was loyalty offered without immediate demand. The Master of the Tides knew better than to be fooled by what appeared to be an auspicious tide. He turned fully toward Saella then, studying her with the same calm scrutiny he reserved for matters of court and war alike. “My house does not forget, Lady Qoherys,” he said at last, his voice low but sure. “We are old blood. We remember our oaths, whether they are born of honor, or necessity”. His violet gaze, cool and unflinching, lingered a moment longer before he moved, slow and deliberate, to his desk. He sat down and gestured for the Lady of Rosby to take a seat as well.

At the mention of her ludus, the Master of Ships laced his fingers together atop his desk. Deimos was no stranger to the spectacles of men killing men for sport, but the blood of Driftmark ran thick with salt and ocean water, not the dust of the fighting pits. “There are forms of strength my house has long chosen to leave to others,” he said, measured, but not dismissive. House Velaryon had never supported any ludus, but neither had they decried the practice. It was not in his nature, or his house’s, to rush into unfamiliar currents without reading the tides.

Her final words drew a different kind of tension through him. Not out of suspicion, but a colder, keener focus. Something can be done, she had said, as if Deimos himself had not weighed and measured his possibilities already. The Lord of Driftmark had lived long enough to know her words more likely than not meant something far from the tidy ideals of courtly justice. “Please speak plainly, my lady,” he said, voice dipping into something quieter, graver. “What something do you suggest?”

#saella: 01

rhaena--velaryon

.rv.

some part of her knew why she was summoned to that study, the one she used to soften her steps around when it had been their father's as to not attract the attention of the sea snake while he planned gods knew what. the feeling of weight low in her stomach as well as a strange choking sensation had been haunting her all day since she caught the sight of a new sea of sails being prepared in the shipyards. it was the same feeling she had all those years ago, when their ships started the barricade. there was war on the wind, taking more than just the velaryon fleet with it. part of rhaena longed for it to turn away like a storm on a strong wind, missing them and drenching some other poor island with the misery and woe, but after the attack, after burying yna and watching deimos recover, all she wanted was the kingdom of sand and sun to burn hotter than they ever knew. shame they had to rely on the prat for that.

the lady winced when the door creaked, betraying her quiet entrance. she wanted to bask in the aura her brother for a moment before the serious conversation started, to pretend to feel that quiet comfort again in the presence of her eldest brother before he became lord. but he was all lord now, her guardian until marriage, not so much the young man who would take her to see seasmoke and help her with an infant moondancer. "ideally less than the last time." rhaena moved to stand by him but a step back, arms coming up to cross over her chest, holding herself tightly in a way she would not allow any non-velaryon to see her. it helped soothe that strange stomach-throat feeling. "i know what i must do, brother. i'm the next eldest, and i don't have a way to fly after you anymore." it gnawed at her, how tightly her hands were tied in this situation, and her jaw tightened visibly. she couldn't do anything but sit there and maintain the status quo, fearing each raven spotted coming to their rookery. "plus," rhaena forced herself to relax her arms and pretend she could find enough lightness in herself to bring levity to the conversation. "if we let acheron have his way now, he'll outlaw vegetables so he doesn't have to eat them at dinner."

deimos-velaryon

Deimos stayed silent for a moment, the quiet between them filled only by the distant crash of waves and the cries of gulls circling the battlements. “Wars are never brief,” he said at last, his voice low and even. He would be gone for some time, he was certain of it. It was best for Rhaena to be ready, to know his absence would extend as much as the conflict deemed it necessary. He would sail and fight for the crown, but he had also pledged his navy to Jaehaerys for her. The Velaryon fleet would descend on Dornish shores so he could seek his justice.

When Rhaena spoke of not being able to fly after him, Deimos’s gaze fell to the horizon again, where the sun bled its final light across the sea. It had been years since their dragons perished, and yet, it still ached from time to time. “Do you dream about her?” he wondered, the thought spoken out loud. “I still dream of Seasmoke. Not as often as I once did,” he murmured before he took a deep breath. “I don't dream of flying, though. Just of knowing —feeling he's there. His mind attuned to my own”. Riding a dragon never made him feel like a god, perhaps because he was also tied to the sea, grounded below. It was the bond he missed, more than flying.

The wind stirred his dark hair, and he finally looked toward her. At her mention of Acheron, Deimos huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “He'd outlaw vegetables and bedtime in the same decree if he could”. There was fondness in the lines of his face, if only briefly. “He’ll learn in time that ruling usually means doing what you’d rather wish you could avoid”. He met Rhaena’s lilac eyes then, closing the distance so he could stand before his little sister. His gaze was steady and unflinching. “Driftmark is yours while I’m gone”. He reached out then and placed a hand on her shoulder, a steadying, warm gesture.

#rhaena: 01

wyldewillow

willow huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she turned her gaze towards the sea. “you think i care which targaryen sits on the throne?” she asked, though it was not truly a question. she did not expect an answer, nor did she need one. “the blacks killed my family, my father and siblings, and the greens killed my husband ― at the end of the day, the targaryens are all the same.” she traced a gloved finger along the balcony’s stone, her expression unreadable, lips curling with the ghost of old anger. “my father got his way, and we all paid a heavy price for it.” she finally turned back towards deimos, expression sharp, as if daring him to challenge her on this matter.

she scoffed at his remark, a slow smirk pulling at her lips, though there was no real amusement behind it. “oh, you misunderstand me entirely. i do not carry the weight of old grievances — i wield them.” she stepped closer, eyes glinting in the moonlight, voice dropping to something quieter, something sharper. “but not against you. i have little use for friendships long buried.” the words tasted like wine and ash, a truth she had long since accepted. willow had no real friends, she depended on no one but herself. “do you truly believe you are free of resentment, deimos?” her head tilted slightly, genuine curiosity in her gaze. his name slipped from her lips as an old habit. “because i think your resentment is simply better concealed than mine. you always were quicker to accept what you could not change.”

the night air pressed around them, the distant sounds of revelry carried on the wind. she had no interest in the celebrations, in the newborn prince or the court’s simpering flattery. she studied him now, tracing the lines that age and grief had carved into his features. it suited him, she supposed, this hardened version of the boy she once knew. she had always known deimos would survive, always known he was too stubborn to be swept away by war. but did surviving count for much when the cost had been everything?

deimos asked what she had always struggled with: was she more blackwood or wylde now? she still felt like the willow wylde he had known, even if she was different now, but it was willow blackwood who held the power. it was the name her children bore. “i am both, call me what you wish.” she finally answered, her voice softer than before, though no less firm. she exhaled slowly, glancing toward the hall once more before looking back at him. “i am certain we will not meet often enough for it to matter.”

there was a moment of quiet before she spoke up again. “i heard about your wife.” this time there was no bite in her voice. “i would offer my condolences for your loss, but i know how annoying those grow to be. i remember the pitiful stares, the fleeting concern from others, and then they quickly move on while you're still stuck.” willow did not think she had ever truly loved samwell, but she had cared about him, about her role as ruling lady, wife, and mother, and she had been left only as mother to a second-born son. she lost much more than her husband that day.

deimos-velaryon

Deimos listened without interruption, his stony expression unreadable beneath the flickering light of the torches that flanked the balcony. Willow’s words washed over him like a cold tide, sharp but familiar. He did not flinch at her confession of grief or the claim that she wielded her grievances like weapons. Wielded with intention or not, it didn't matter. It was a weight all the same, regardless of how it was carried. “I wish I could say we're not old enough to be relics of dead causes,” he murmured, his voice low, stripped of mockery or pride. There was no point in posturing with her, no victory to be gained. What they once held dear had already burned, and now they merely wandered the ashes.

The Lord of the Tides turned fully then, facing her in the moonlight. “You misunderstand me as well,” he said after a beat. “I don’t accept what I cannot change. I endure it. There’s a difference”. His tone was not defensive, only matter-of-fact. “I resent countless things, Willow, you're right. I just choose not to bleed from the same wound every day”. Perhaps it was a discipline honed by the sea; his ability to let the storms pass above while steering steady beneath. To bury the bitterness beneath the tide until it served a purpose. Deimos did not feed his resentment, nor did he let it rot him from within. He silenced it, kept it like a blade beneath his cloak, sharp and patient, waiting for the moment it could be drawn with purpose.

“Lady Wylde,” he decided to call her, if she didn't truly care. He studied her face as he spoke, seeing the cold strength that had replaced the fiery personality he remembered. He'd known her as Lady Wylde, and she was still that, even if he saw no remains of the girl she once was.

The mention of Yna made him look away from her briefly, turning his gaze toward the dark horizon where the sea swallowed the stars. “She would have liked your blunt honesty,” he said at last, voice quieter, less guarded. “The condolences do tire quickly. And I don’t expect the world to mourn with me,” the Velaryon lord stated plainly, knowing all too well that his family’s grief would outlast the memory of it in others. “Well, we do what we can”. He did not mean in grief only, but in life in general. Deimos looked back at her then, very much aware that the old familiarity between them was long gone, though it did not feel like talking to a stranger either.

#willow: 01

bloodfcrblood

setting: after the kingdom's return from the events in the west, in king's landing, the lady of house rosby visits the ruling lord of driftmark, to offer her condolences for his lady-wife, and her support for his house in the aftermath ; starter for @deimos-velaryon

saella qoherys stepped into the quiet hall with the practiced grace of one who understood the value of patience. the long, dark gown she wore swirled behind her like an extension of the shadows, as though she herself was a part of the gloomy atmosphere that weighed down the room. she found the lord of driftmark stood near the window, his back to her, but even from behind, she could sense the tightness in his shoulders, the rigidity of his posture. grief, anger... guilt.

she paused for a moment, taking in the scene with a calculated calm, before she moved toward him. her steps were light, deliberate, careful not to make too much noise. when she spoke, her voice was soft, full of the practiced empathy that came so easily to her. “i’m so sorry to hear of your loss, lord velaryon,” she began, her tone the perfect balance of concern and distance."

“your lady wife was a lovely woman, and i hope those responsible are brought to whatever justice you wish for them.” she continued, her tone smooth as silk, “you should know that you have my house's full support during this difficult time, my lord. should you need any resources, any assistance, I would be more than happy to offer what I can.” she let her words settle, watching him carefully for any flicker of interest. ties to house velaryon were already well established, but saella saw any opportunity to lend a hand - and perhaps seek a favor in return, one day, should she need one of him.

deimos-velaryon

Deimos did not turn as Saella entered, but his posture remained stiff, as if the weight of the world had settled across his shoulders. Physically, he couldn't stand any other way either. His body was still healing from the attack meant to end the ruling Lord and Lady of Driftmark. Only he survived it. His clothing concealed the cuts that were still healing, that were scarring in a way that the deeper wounds to his heart would never recover from. But the seas always brought new tides, and he'd learned to move with them all his life, no matter how harsh.

Her words of sympathy, though gracious, did little to ease the tightness in his chest. He did not expect comfort from her —nor from anyone— but hearing the repeated message of condolences reminded him of the world outside his grief, of the world that moved on. Of the world he had not abandoned, even if Yna had. So he finally turned toward Lady Qoherys. His expression was stern, unreadable, though there was a faint hint of exhaustion in his lilac eyes.

“Lady Qoherys,” he began, his voice steady. “Yna would have appreciated your presence here,” the Master of the Tides answered with a slight nod. His wife and Saella had been friends, he knew. Or had been friendly to each other, at least. “Your words are appreciated. Though we both know there cannot be justice in a situation like this”. There was no going back after death, and so there was no true justice that could be achieved. Only revenge or retribution and Deimos knew better than to run blindly towards either.

Deimos stepped closer to the window, his gaze drifting to the ocean where his love now rested for eternity. He saw the waving sails of the ships at the dock below, the proud seahorse of his house on their banners. He'd already spoken to the king, asking to be taken from behind the desk of a Master of Laws and allow him to return to sea. Now, as Master of Ships, he could lead the charge against Dorne, against the Stepstones. “And? Your offer is incomplete, isn't it?” he mentioned, turning briefly to look at the Lady of Rosby over his shoulder. An offer like that did not come from the kindness of the heart. “You offer any resources, any assistance. But you left you what you expect in return, Lady Qoherys”.

#saella: 01 #a million years later; sorry!

Closed starter for @rhaena--velaryon Setting: Prior to the Valyrian Dornish war. As Master of Ships, the Lord of Driftmark has pledged his navy to King Jaehaerys for the coming and is set to leave soon.

Deimos stood by the window of Driftmark’s main hall, staring out over the sea. The expanse of blue seemed endless, soothing, and yet there was also a finality to it. The knowledge that it would one day be his eternal resting place alongside his parents, his aunt and uncle, his brother, his wife. It was a heavy thought, even more so as he heard the laughter of Acheron, Aelora, and Rhaenys echoing from the courtyard below.

The door creaked open behind him, and he didn’t need to turn to know it was Rhaena. He had requested her presence here, in his study. Deimos didn’t turn around right away. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to what’s coming,” he said, finally facing his younger sister. He met her gaze with an unspoken weight between them. He was certain she could begin to imagine why he'd asked to meet her privately, what this wasn't a gathering of the Velaryon siblings that remained. “I will be gone for some time, sister”. He was leaving for duty. But he was also leaving for retribution. For some semblance of justice for Yna.

#rhaena: 01

wyldewillow

closed starter: @deimos-velaryon setting: at a ball in the westerlands, on one of the balconies. context: deimos and willow used to be friends, as they both spent time in king's landing and were around the same age. their friendship ended in a fight as tensions arose before the dance.

willow made her escape from the hall as she witnessed one of the elderly lords beelining for her. she had reached the age where lords decided she was too old for most of them, but young enough for the elderly lords who either had procrastinated finding a wife, or whose wives had already passed on. some already had children and simply wanted a companion, someone to warm their beds. others were still in need of an heir, and willow being the mother of two sons, made her a candidate for those still in need. she fled to one of the balconies, in need of air after spending hours in the stuffy hall drinking wine, and trying to avoid all kinds of small talk.

she almost turned around and went back to the hall when she saw who was out on the balcony. it had been so many years by now, and yet she had still not let go of her resentment. she had never had many friends, pushing away most people within hours, sometimes minutes, of meeting them. but deimos had been a friend before they ended up on each side of the dance. while willow did her best to keep neutral during the war as her father and husband were on opposite sides, she had fully been on the side of the greens leading up to it, and the velaryon had been firmly on the side of the blacks. it was her father who had pushed the agenda that only men should rule, and that the son would always have a right before the daughter. it had been enough to end their friendship. of course, now she would not defend any targaryen, they could all go back to their beloved valyria. she wanted the stormlands to become independent, to be free of the dominion of the valyrians.

willow slipped out as a couple opened the door to go back inside. she took a deep breath as the cool air of the evening washed over her. “so the little brat became king after all.” for the first time in twenty or so years, her eyes met that of deimos velaryon as he turned around.

jaehaerys had still been just a child when they were teenagers in king's landing. she had always referred to him as 'the brat'. she remembered how demanding and unreasonable he could be. when hugo had been nothing but a toddler, she recalled hearing word of the prince demanding to marry her if he had to wed a wylde daughter. of course, he had not cared about the fact she was already married and a mother. whatever the idea had been at the time, it had thankfully quickly been abandoned. ”i did warn you once that my father always got his way somehow. i bet you he stopped rolling in his grave and rested peacefully the moment the crown was placed on jaehaerys' head.”

deimos-velaryon

Deimos had sensed he was no longer alone in the balcony before Willow actually spoke. Her voice sounded so different now, and yet despite sounder graver than it was in their youth, it still carried him to the past. Back to a time when the world had not yet burned around them, back when the words they exchanged had not yet sharpened or poisoned. The Lord of Driftmark turned, his gaze cold and impassive, taking in the woman he had not seen in over a decade. The years had changed them both, worn them down in some ways and sharpened them in others. Still, beneath the bitterness that had settled into the lady, he could see some traces of the fierce and defiant girl he had once known.

“You must be satisfied,” he said, his tone measured, lacking the cutting edge that had accompanied their last argument. “Never mind the countless who died, at least your father got his way and found his satisfaction,” he stated back with a scoff. He ought to have expected that even after all this time, the first thing there was to say was for Willow to finally gloat. There was a pause, deliberate, as his Valyrian eyes settled on her. “I do wonder if your father would find our realm as he envisioned it,” he couldn't help but add. He did not care to be purposely petty with such a comment, the Master of the Tides merely responded with how he'd been greeted.

The evening air carried the scent of wine and sea salt, remnants of the feast inside the Western palace and the open ocean extending before Casterly Rock. There was no revelry in Deimos, however, for he did not belong among laughter and music, among monarchs celebrating a birth. He studied Willow with the same scrutiny he afforded his nautical maps and ledgers, reading between the lines of what she said and what she left unspoken. “You haven’t changed,” he remarked at last. “Still carrying the weight of old grievances as if they might serve you now”. His voice did not hold reproach, only a tired sort of understanding. Perhaps because he, too, had been forged by resentment now, but his had taken a different shape altogether.

His hands rested on the balcony’s stone railing, fingers tightening against the cold surface. There had been a time when he might have fought to find peace between them, when their clashes had been tempered by something like care. But now? Now, there was only the vast stretch of years between them, marked by war and loss. A truth, simple and undeniable. Whatever friendship had once existed had been buried beneath the ashes of the past. And Deimos, for all his pragmatism, had never been one to unearth the dead. “Is there anything else you wanted to say to me, Lady Wylde? Or Lady Blackwood? I don't know which one you prefer”.

#willow: 01

Closed starter for @lencra Setting: King Jaehaerys has expressed his rage and grief about the death of Queen Alicent. It is a matter of days before the New Valyrian forces are sent to the Marches (End of week 2 of the Valyrian Dornish war).

He saw Yna in his children. All three looked so much like her. They had her radiant skin, the shape of their lively eyes were like hers —only touched by the color of Deimos' forefathers. How he wished at least one of them had inherited her midnight gaze, fully black, so he could really see her eyes in theirs. Would he forget her eye color one day? He prayed not. Even despite his wishes, specific images of his mother, father and Aerion had already vanished. Perhaps the same would happen with Yna.

The Lord of Driftmark leaned against the railing, looking down to the courtyard, watching the maid who looked after and played with his children. Acheron and Aelora were pretending to run away from little Rhaenys, who was trying to catch them. It was evident the twins had slowed down their run to give a better chance at their younger sister to catch them. Deimos ought to be with them, instead he was walking in out of council gatherings, planning a war with his king.

For Yna, he kept thinking. In some ways, Jaehaerys' war was his as well, only he was fighting for an entirely different reason.

The Master of the Tides was awaiting to be called for another gathering, one last meeting to discuss the specifics of the deployment of his men to the Marches, and the ships that would enter via the Sea of Dorne. He heard a door open and close, and from it emerged the Queen consort, accompanied by her ladies. “Your grace,” Deimos said as he stood straight, hands behind his back, bowing his head before Jaehaerys' wife. One of the royal princes was in his mother's arms, the other carried by one of the ladies. “The princes are growing into strong, healthy boys,” he mentioned, a subtle smile as he looked at the little boys. Nephews of his. Cousins to the Velaryon children playing in the courtyard.

#a million and one years later; here's the starter #hope this works; my dear!#lenora: 01

jaehaerysiitargaryen-deactivate

The Valyrian War || The Dornish War

Timeline from the POV of King Jaehaerys II’s Realms: The Stormlands and Crownlands of New Valyria

Month 1: The Fall of Alicent

Week 1: Queen Alicent, beloved by many, dies in the infirmary, and whispers of foul play spread quickly. Her body is recovered by King Jaehaerys II, who hastily leaves the West to return to King's Landing, bringing the Queen's remains with him. The loss of the queen ignites the realm, and rumors circulate that she was murdered by someone in the West, stirring unrest among both the nobility and smallfolk alike.

Week 2: As Jaehaerys II approaches the Red Keep, the people of the Crownlands, especially in King's Landing, gather in the streets to witness the somber procession of the Queen's body. Tensions rise as grief turns into outrage, fueled by the suspicion of murder. Upon entering the Council chambers, King Jaehaerys’ grief manifests as an explosive fury. His booming rage shakes the walls of the keep, a terrifying reminder of his father’s temper. With none able to provide answers for Alicent's death, Jaehaerys demands justice, vowing retribution.

Week 3: The King sends his Stormlords to the Marches, determined to bring Dornish forces to heel. Lord Wylliam Swann and Morgan Wylde are dispatched to the front lines. However, Lord Lucerys Estermont is ordered back to Estermont lands, charged with guarding the coasts and reinforcing naval defenses, particularly against any attempted Dornish seaborne attacks. Lord Tarth, soon to join Lucerys, is to ensure no Dornish forces slip through the narrow waters. The Velaryon Fleet has not been called but has been ordered to wait for the King's orders should they be needed.

Month 2: Chaos in New Valyria and the Marches

Week 1: Chaos erupts in New Valyria as an explosion rocks the city. Smoke rises as flames consume parts of the pit, a ploy orchestrated by Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood. Panic spreads in the Crownlands as Hayford Keep is set ablaze, the work of Dastan Allyrion and Ryon Wyl, who flee to Dorne carrying critical secrets that could shift the balance of power.

Week 2: In the Marches, Dornish forces, emboldened by their covert successes, push harder against the Stormlords. Lord Wyl returns from the Westerlands, where battles have grown fiercer. He captures a Dondarrion lord, sending a chilling message to the Stormlands. Lord Deimos Velaryon, Master of Ships, strikes back in retaliation, taking a Dayne brother hostage, escalating the conflict between the two regions.

Week 3: As the fighting intensifies, Stormlords find themselves engaged in bloody skirmishes across the Marches, particularly at Nightsong, where they face mounting resistance from Dornish forces. The Crownlands are shaken by the continued unrest in New Valyria, but Jaehaerys' focus remains steadfast on crushing the Dornish threat.

Month 3: Siege and Naval Conflicts

Week 1: Lords Wyl and Fowler successfully break the siege of Nightsong, but the victory is bittersweet. The young Caron lord is found dead, though the Caron line persists through distant kin. Tensions between the Dornish and Stormlanders remain high, with neither side willing to concede.

Week 2: In the seas near the Stormlands, Dorne receives unexpected aid from the Summer Islanders, who provide ships for an attack on Weeping Town. Lord Tarth, having fortified the coastline, intercepts the Dornish fleet. The naval skirmish between Lord Tarth, Morgan Wylde, and the forces from House Swann pushes back the Dornish, who had hoped to catch them off guard.

Week 3: Battles rage at sea and along the coast, as Tarth's forces battle Wyl and his men. The clash extends inland, with the Dornish retreating.

Week 4: In the heart of the Marches, Baashir Dayne and Armaan Yronwood clash with the Unsullied forces brought by Jaehaerys. The fighting reaches a stalemate as both sides find it difficult to gain the upper hand. Just when the Dornish think they might hold the line, Silverwing, the King’s dragon, appears in the skies, casting a long shadow over the battlefield.

Month 4: The Wrath of King Jaehaerys II

Week 1: With the sight of Silverwing looming above, King Jaehaerys himself descends upon the Marches. His presence rallies the Stormlords and strikes fear into the Dornish forces. The King, a massive figure on the battlefield, fights alongside his men, leading charges against Dornish skirmishers. His dragon’s arrival adds to the chaos, as fiery devastation rains down upon the Dornish lines.

Week 2: The King’s fury knows no bounds. His dragon burns entire companies of Dornish fighters as Jaehaerys II pushes deeper into their territory. However, the Dornish forces, ever resourceful, begin to regroup under their leaders. Prince Ravi Martell, Baashir Dayne, and Doran Uller coordinate a plan to bring down the King’s beast.

Week 3: The Dornish deploy their Scorpions—massive crossbows capable of piercing dragon hide. As Silverwing flies over the battlefield, the Dornish leaders launch a well-timed volley, hoping to end the reign of fire.

Week 4: One of the Scorpion bolts strikes true. A piercing cry echoes across the battlefield as Silverwing is struck. In the chaos that follows, the mighty dragon falls from the sky, crashing to the ground in a maelstrom of fire and blood. The Dornish forces, emboldened by the death of the dragon, launch a counteroffensive, pushing back the Unsullied and reclaiming lost ground.

Climactic Moment: With Silverwing dead, the balance of the war shifts. The Stormlords, previously buoyed by the dragon's presence, now find themselves on the defensive. The death of the dragon is a turning point, but the war is far from over. King Jaehaerys, though enraged, gathers his forces, preparing for the next phase of the campaign, while the Dornish leaders, triumphant, brace for the inevitable counterattack. The realm stands on the brink of a new chapter, and the Crownlands and Stormlands brace for what comes next.

[ Note: There will be threads and the like taking placed throughout these events either set before, during, or after. All muses are encouraged to get involved, in the Crownloands and Stormlands male muses are encouraged to get involved in the skirmishes, through there is a noticeable difference low number of Crownlands Lords who came to fight. In these regions women aren't allowed to fight but women can fight their own battles through political intrigue and the like. ]

#plot: the valyrian dornish war

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