Lady Sara Dayne has spent half a lifetime beneath the shadow of the Hightower, all violet eyes, Dornish silk, and secrets sharp enough to draw blood; Ser Gwayne Hightower has spent just as long pretending he does not want her, even while taking comfort in the arms of men and wearing insolence like armor against a father who would sooner see his heir obedient than happy. They have kissed, quarreled, parted, returned, and circled one another through courtly marriages, whispered scandals, forbidden desires, and the slow gathering of dragonfire, two beautiful creatures forever caught between friendship and hunger. But as Alicent's green court hardens around them and war turns old loyalties into weapons, Sara must decide how much of herself she will surrender for the man she loves, while Gwayne must choose whether he would rather remain his father's son or finally become his own. In a realm where women are traded, men are taught to lie about what they desire, and love is most dangerous when it refuses to behave, the star of Dorne and the tower of Oldtown may yet discover that some hungers cannot be buried without becoming ghosts.

visenya targaryen was the root of half of king viserys' problems, his own brother daemon was the root of the other half [daemon targaryen x targaryen!oc] [house of the dragon] [discontinued]

Born from a queen's death and a king's cowardice, Princess Vaemma Targaryen grows beneath the red stones of the Keep like a pale and poisonous flower, all moonlit beauty, silver hair, and venom sharpened by years of consequence denied. She is not fragile, not petulant, not some trembling little princess breaking cups for sport; she is worse, a woman who has learned that rank can make cruelty charming, that beauty can turn malice into music, that no one dares strike the king's unwanted daughter no matter whose blood she draws. To Viserys, she is the living wound he cannot bear to look upon; to Rhaenyra, the sister born from their mother's butchered body; to Alicent, the first child who ever truly needed her, and therefore the one she loves, spoils, and finally sacrifices. When Vaemma is promised to Lord Ormund Hightower, proud lord of Oldtown and sworn enemy of dragon arrogance, she expects another man to bend beneath the weight of her name, her face, her dragon, her royal rot, but Ormund is no courtier trembling in perfume and candlelight. He is stone, steel, tower-shadow, and judgment. He looks upon the Pearl Dragon and sees not a goddess, but a beautiful, vicious thing that has never once been made to answer for itself. Their betrothal is no love song, but a knife drawn slowly across silk: Hightower piety against Targaryen excess, discipline against indulgence, consequence against a woman who has mistaken impunity for power. And as the realm blackens around them, Vaemma must learn the one lesson no one in her father's court ever dared teach her... dragons may burn men alive, but even dragons can be brought to heel.