Open Wide, Show Me Your Teeth
Series Masterlist
~ ' * ' ~ | 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢 | ~ ' * ' ~
w.c 800
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In which a letter arrives from King's Landing, for your hand.
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Everyone oft’ spoke of the Targaryen Dynasty and their queer customs; their traditions still tethered to Valyria of Old, and the mysterious nature that shrouded the culture.
Records of Old Valyria were not made public to anyone outside the bloodline, not even for the nobility of Westeros. Every text, script, and story was either repossessed by the Kingsguard at the behest of one King after the other, or burned in the foreign libraries that held them— expunging the information before it could ever reach any outsiders; reach a non-Targaryen.
It propagated the distrust that the smallfolk and nobility alike held for the fearsome former Dragon riders, creating a large disconnect that even the deepest of pockets through trade or most comely of faces through marriage alliances could not bridge.
And it was oft’ spoken of their even stranger appearance, with almost every Targaryen deathly pale of skin and lightly-colored in features— as well as their physiology being held in regard of being beyond the mortal norm:
All Targaryens seemed to hold an undeniable strength. Even now, without their dragons to dominate a battlefield on their behalf; all those of the blood of Valyria who fight, seem to do so with an undeniable power; an ability to avoid hit after hit with an extreme agility, while simultaneously delivering the most fatal of strikes.
To follow their boundless strength and agility was their seemingly perfectly imperfect appearances; with their ages showing well on their faces — too well, some would even say; with signs of old age or of a life half-spent not visible on their skin.
And the even more strange and hushedly spoken about facet was the fate of women and men who married into the Targaryen family.
Men of separate bloodline would bewed Targaryen women — who were ethereal and alluring in both appearance and behavior — and be found dead from drowning in cups after cup of wine, driven to the drink, or disappeared entirely in some unnamed ‘battle’, never to be seen again.
Women of separate bloodline would bewed Targaryen men — strong, capable, and ferocious, nearly beastly, in nature — and die horrifically birthing Targaryen heirs, with rumors spreading from midwives and maids alike of noble Ladies dying; ripped open from the inside out— or dying stricken, gaunt, and shells of their former figure and comeliness.
Like their very souls had been drained from their bodies, sucked clean by some vicious Beast or The Stranger alike.
Some women persisted, however, like the Lady Myriah Martell of Dorne; who had wed her husband King Daeron II and proceeded to birth for him four, healthy, strong sons. And the Queen Myriah, whom the last time she had been seen in public, seemed otherworldly, her brown eyes of Dornish blood holding almost a red undertone, much like the red-based purple of all Targaryens.
Otherworldly was the perfect word to use to describe the Targaryen bloodline.
When you’d come of age, and it was time for you to wed, you’d been paraded around Highgarden, your mother and Septa keeping you dressed in your finest and prepared for all the suitors of other notable houses who arrived to deliberate potential offers of betrothal and marriage. Your father, the Lord of House Tyrell of Highgarden, met all potential suitors with politeness, courtesy, and great consideration of political alliance; trade, army, advantage, wealth, and benefit to Highgarden if their betrothal was in fact accepted. You were his only daughter, and therefore; an advantageous political pawn to garner more power for House Tyrell through whatever family he ultimately decided to wed you into.
You had been in one of the many gardens, shrubs and grass a lush green, flowers almost in bloom with the impending spring, and the sun not too striking. Your mother and Septa sat not too far off as you conversed over tea tightly, yet politely, with a prospective young Lordling that had travelled from a smaller known House to make an offer for your hand. Your father was in discussion with the little Lordling’s father, discussion of treasury, alliance, and other such things when a maid appeared in the aired archway of the Garden.
“My Lord,” she had called out to earn your fathers attention, dipping for respect, her eyes wide and alight with an unnamed emotion; excitement? Anticipation? She cast her glance to you quickly before stepping further into the garden and towards your father.
Clutched in her hand was a scroll.
The wax seal was a deep black, laced through with blood-red.
And there was no need to verbalize who the letter was from.
House Targaryen.
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This work was created without the usage of AI. I (limeranceincarnate), the Author, do not permit the usage of this work in creating any AI software or bots, nor in being shared or re-uploaded to any other websites.
