u/Illustrious_Narrator

*"Shield Wall!"*

The command was less a shout and more a desperate rattle in a thousand throats, swallowed instantly by the wet thud of iron meeting linden wood. At Ethandun, the air was a thick, choking soup of salt-sweat and the iron tang of fresh slaughter.

King Ceolwulf of Mercia stood in the red slurry of the front line, his lungs burning as he heaved his sword through the press. To his left, the West Saxons under Alfred fought with the cold precision of men who knew they were winning a kingdom; here, in the Mercian center, they fought like men who knew they were being used as a human shield. Earl Guthrum's "Great Heathen Army" broke against them in waves of fur and filth, their axes shearing through shields until the mud beneath Ceolwulf’s boots was no longer earth, but a mash of gore and shattered bone.

Death didn't come for the King with the dignity of a poet’s song though. It came in the form of a bearded Dane’s broadaxe, catching him mid-breath as he slipped on a patch of spilled entrails. The blade bit deep into the shelf of his shoulder, a sickening crunch of mail and collarbone that sent him to his knees in the filth. Ceolwulf looked up, his vision blurring, seeing not the face of his killer, but the distant, golden dragon of Wessex fluttering safely on the hill while his own men were butchered to buy Alfred’s peace. He died with a gargle of Mercian soil in his mouth, his crown rolling into the muck to be trampled by the boots of fleeing cowards and advancing Northmen alike.

When the crows finally settled on the field, the world had changed. Alfred’s ink had done more damage than the Viking steel, carving Mercia in two and gifting the eastern heartlands to the heathens to sate their hunger. In the drafty halls of Tamworth, the King’s daughter stood alone, her father’s blood-stained signet ring heavy in her palm.

She was no longer the girl who chased hounds through the high grass; she was the Myrcna Hlæfdige, the Lady of all Mercians, a title that felt like a shroud. Her lands were a carcass, the Danelaw a jagged wound across her maps, and her people were little more than a buffer between the Wessex king and the Viking axe... as if the Mercians themselves were the Watling Street.

Inside her own Witenagemot, the air was thick with the scent of treachery. Her Ealdormen watched her with eyes that calculated her dowry rather than her strength. They whispered of "protection" and "necessity," their hands twitching toward their own sword-hilts while they waited for her to stumble. To them, she was a placeholder, a womb to be bartered to the highest bidder or a puppet to be manipulated while they knelt to Alfred’s shadow. She watched them back, her spine a column of frozen iron, knowing that the men who called themselves her kin were simply waiting for the right moment to pick her bones clean.

Then came the heathen. He arrived not with a treaty, but with the arrogant gait of a wolf entering a sheepfold... a man who bore the scars of a Saxon childhood but the cold, predatory gaze of a Dane. He was a gift of the tides, a warrior whose loyalties were as murky as the Danelaw fog, yet he was the only one who didn't look at the Lady and see a victim.

The Lady of all Mercians would call him dog; she would call him a godless savage and spit at the shadow he cast across her floor. But as the vultures circled closer and the West Saxon grip tightened, she realized that a heathen’s blade might be the only thing sharp enough to cut the noose Alfred had tied around her throat... and the only heart she could find true love in.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heya! I hope the long, winding prose tempts you enough to explore our rich history. A story set during the time of Alfred and his dream of one England. I'm looking for someone who loves history and the world-building that comes with it. We would take the roles of the Saxon-Dane and the Lady of Mercia (as our main characters) while we write a host of other side characters to explore how the Mercia takes what was always theirs and more.

If you haven't guessed it yet, it's loosely based around the Saxon Diaries with a mix of canon and original content. So if you are ready for something very long-term... for a story full of love, warring, politicking, and grit, I'd love to brainstorm some ideas with you on where we'd take the story.

"Shield Wall!"

The command was less a shout and more a desperate rattle in a thousand throats, swallowed instantly by the wet thud of iron meeting linden wood. At Ethandun, the air was a thick, choking soup of salt-sweat and the iron tang of fresh slaughter.

King Ceolwulf of Mercia stood in the red slurry of the front line, his lungs burning as he heaved his sword through the press. To his left, the West Saxons under Alfred fought with the cold precision of men who knew they were winning a kingdom; here, in the Mercian center, they fought like men who knew they were being used as a human shield. Earl Guthrum's "Great Heathen Army" broke against them in waves of fur and filth, their axes shearing through shields until the mud beneath Ceolwulf’s boots was no longer earth, but a mash of gore and shattered bone.

Death didn't come for the King with the dignity of a poet’s song though. It came in the form of a bearded Dane’s broadaxe, catching him mid-breath as he slipped on a patch of spilled entrails. The blade bit deep into the shelf of his shoulder, a sickening crunch of mail and collarbone that sent him to his knees in the filth. Ceolwulf looked up, his vision blurring, seeing not the face of his killer, but the distant, golden dragon of Wessex fluttering safely on the hill while his own men were butchered to buy Alfred’s peace. He died with a gargle of Mercian soil in his mouth, his crown rolling into the muck to be trampled by the boots of fleeing cowards and advancing Northmen alike.

When the crows finally settled on the field, the world had changed. Alfred’s ink had done more damage than the Viking steel, carving Mercia in two and gifting the eastern heartlands to the heathens to sate their hunger. In the drafty halls of Tamworth, the King’s daughter stood alone, her father’s blood-stained signet ring heavy in her palm.

She was no longer the girl who chased hounds through the high grass; she was the Myrcna Hlæfdige, the Lady of all Mercians, a title that felt like a shroud. Her lands were a carcass, the Danelaw a jagged wound across her maps, and her people were little more than a buffer between the Wessex king and the Viking axe... as if the Mercians themselves were the Watling Street.

Inside her own Witenagemot, the air was thick with the scent of treachery. Her Ealdormen watched her with eyes that calculated her dowry rather than her strength. They whispered of "protection" and "necessity," their hands twitching toward their own sword-hilts while they waited for her to stumble. To them, she was a placeholder, a womb to be bartered to the highest bidder or a puppet to be manipulated while they knelt to Alfred’s shadow. She watched them back, her spine a column of frozen iron, knowing that the men who called themselves her kin were simply waiting for the right moment to pick her bones clean.

Then came the heathen. He arrived not with a treaty, but with the arrogant gait of a wolf entering a sheepfold... a man who bore the scars of a Saxon childhood but the cold, predatory gaze of a Dane. He was a gift of the tides, a warrior whose loyalties were as murky as the Danelaw fog, yet he was the only one who didn't look at the Lady and see a victim.

The Lady of all Mercians would call him dog; she would call him a godless savage and spit at the shadow he cast across her floor. But as the vultures circled closer and the West Saxon grip tightened, she realized that a heathen’s blade might be the only thing sharp enough to cut the noose Alfred had tied around her throat... and the only heart she could find true love in.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heya! I hope the long, winding prose tempts you enough to explore our rich history. A story set during the time of Alfred and his dream of one England. I'm looking for someone who loves history and the world-building that comes with it. We would take the roles of the Saxon-Dane and the Lady of Mercia (as our main characters) while we write a host of other side characters to explore how the Mercia takes what was always theirs and more.

If you haven't guessed it yet, it's loosely based around the Saxon Diaries with a mix of canon and original content. So if you are ready for something very long-term... for a story full of love, warring, politicking, and grit, I'd love to brainstorm some ideas with you on where we'd take the story.

"Shield Wall!"

The command was less a shout and more a desperate rattle in a thousand throats, swallowed instantly by the wet thud of iron meeting linden wood. At Ethandun, the air was a thick, choking soup of salt-sweat and the iron tang of fresh slaughter.

King Ceolwulf of Mercia stood in the red slurry of the front line, his lungs burning as he heaved his sword through the press. To his left, the West Saxons under Alfred fought with the cold precision of men who knew they were winning a kingdom; here, in the Mercian center, they fought like men who knew they were being used as a human shield. Earl Guthrum's "Great Heathen Army" broke against them in waves of fur and filth, their axes shearing through shields until the mud beneath Ceolwulf’s boots was no longer earth, but a mash of gore and shattered bone.

Death didn't come for the King with the dignity of a poet’s song though. It came in the form of a bearded Dane’s broadaxe, catching him mid-breath as he slipped on a patch of spilled entrails. The blade bit deep into the shelf of his shoulder, a sickening crunch of mail and collarbone that sent him to his knees in the filth. Ceolwulf looked up, his vision blurring, seeing not the face of his killer, but the distant, golden dragon of Wessex fluttering safely on the hill while his own men were butchered to buy Alfred’s peace. He died with a gargle of Mercian soil in his mouth, his crown rolling into the muck to be trampled by the boots of fleeing cowards and advancing Northmen alike.

When the crows finally settled on the field, the world had changed. Alfred’s ink had done more damage than the Viking steel, carving Mercia in two and gifting the eastern heartlands to the heathens to sate their hunger. In the drafty halls of Tamworth, the King’s daughter stood alone, her father’s blood-stained signet ring heavy in her palm.

She was no longer the girl who chased hounds through the high grass; she was the Myrcna Hlæfdige, the Lady of all Mercians, a title that felt like a shroud. Her lands were a carcass, the Danelaw a jagged wound across her maps, and her people were little more than a buffer between the Wessex king and the Viking axe... as if the Mercians themselves were the Watling Street.

Inside her own Witenagemot, the air was thick with the scent of treachery. Her Ealdormen watched her with eyes that calculated her dowry rather than her strength. They whispered of "protection" and "necessity," their hands twitching toward their own sword-hilts while they waited for her to stumble. To them, she was a placeholder, a womb to be bartered to the highest bidder or a puppet to be manipulated while they knelt to Alfred’s shadow. She watched them back, her spine a column of frozen iron, knowing that the men who called themselves her kin were simply waiting for the right moment to pick her bones clean.

Then came the heathen. He arrived not with a treaty, but with the arrogant gait of a wolf entering a sheepfold... a man who bore the scars of a Saxon childhood but the cold, predatory gaze of a Dane. He was a gift of the tides, a warrior whose loyalties were as murky as the Danelaw fog, yet he was the only one who didn't look at the Lady and see a victim.

The Lady of all Mercians would call him dog; she would call him a godless savage and spit at the shadow he cast across her floor. But as the vultures circled closer and the West Saxon grip tightened, she realized that a heathen’s blade might be the only thing sharp enough to cut the noose Alfred had tied around her throat... and the only heart she could find true love in.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heya! I hope the long, winding prose tempts you enough to explore our rich history. A story set during the time of Alfred and his dream of one England. I'm looking for someone who loves history and the world-building that comes with it. We would take the roles of the Saxon-Dane and the Lady of Mercia (as our main characters) while we write a host of other side characters to explore how the Mercia takes what was always theirs and more.

If you haven't guessed it yet, it's loosely based around the Saxon Diaries with a mix of canon and original content. So if you are ready for something very long-term... for a story full of love, warring, politicking, and grit, I'd love to brainstorm some ideas with you on where we'd take the story.

"Shield Wall!"

The command was less a shout and more a desperate rattle in a thousand throats, swallowed instantly by the wet thud of iron meeting linden wood. At Ethandun, the air was a thick, choking soup of salt-sweat and the iron tang of fresh slaughter.

King Ceolwulf of Mercia stood in the red slurry of the front line, his lungs burning as he heaved his sword through the press. To his left, the West Saxons under Alfred fought with the cold precision of men who knew they were winning a kingdom; here, in the Mercian center, they fought like men who knew they were being used as a human shield. Earl Guthrum's "Great Heathen Army" broke against them in waves of fur and filth, their axes shearing through shields until the mud beneath Ceolwulf’s boots was no longer earth, but a mash of gore and shattered bone.

Death didn't come for the King with the dignity of a poet’s song though. It came in the form of a bearded Dane’s broadaxe, catching him mid-breath as he slipped on a patch of spilled entrails. The blade bit deep into the shelf of his shoulder, a sickening crunch of mail and collarbone that sent him to his knees in the filth. Ceolwulf looked up, his vision blurring, seeing not the face of his killer, but the distant, golden dragon of Wessex fluttering safely on the hill while his own men were butchered to buy Alfred’s peace. He died with a gargle of Mercian soil in his mouth, his crown rolling into the muck to be trampled by the boots of fleeing cowards and advancing Northmen alike.

When the crows finally settled on the field, the world had changed. Alfred’s ink had done more damage than the Viking steel, carving Mercia in two and gifting the eastern heartlands to the heathens to sate their hunger. In the drafty halls of Tamworth, the King’s daughter stood alone, her father’s blood-stained signet ring heavy in her palm.

She was no longer the girl who chased hounds through the high grass; she was the Myrcna Hlæfdige, the Lady of all Mercians, a title that felt like a shroud. Her lands were a carcass, the Danelaw a jagged wound across her maps, and her people were little more than a buffer between the Wessex king and the Viking axe... as if the Mercians themselves were the Watling Street.

Inside her own Witenagemot, the air was thick with the scent of treachery. Her Ealdormen watched her with eyes that calculated her dowry rather than her strength. They whispered of "protection" and "necessity," their hands twitching toward their own sword-hilts while they waited for her to stumble. To them, she was a placeholder, a womb to be bartered to the highest bidder or a puppet to be manipulated while they knelt to Alfred’s shadow. She watched them back, her spine a column of frozen iron, knowing that the men who called themselves her kin were simply waiting for the right moment to pick her bones clean.

Then came the heathen. He arrived not with a treaty, but with the arrogant gait of a wolf entering a sheepfold... a man who bore the scars of a Saxon childhood but the cold, predatory gaze of a Dane. He was a gift of the tides, a warrior whose loyalties were as murky as the Danelaw fog, yet he was the only one who didn't look at the Lady and see a victim.

The Lady of all Mercians would call him dog; she would call him a godless savage and spit at the shadow he cast across her floor. But as the vultures circled closer and the West Saxon grip tightened, she realized that a heathen’s blade might be the only thing sharp enough to cut the noose Alfred had tied around her throat... and the only heart she could find true love in.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heya! I hope the long, winding prose tempts you enough to explore our rich history. A story set during the time of Alfred and his dream of one England. I'm looking for someone who loves history and the world-building that comes with it. We would take the roles of the Saxon-Dane and the Lady of Mercia (as our main characters) while we write a host of other side characters to explore how the Mercia takes what was always theirs and more.

If you haven't guessed it yet, it's loosely based around the Saxon Diaries with a mix of canon and original content. So if you are ready for something very long-term... for a story full of love, warring, politicking, and grit, I'd love to brainstorm some ideas with you on where we'd take the story.

"Shield Wall!"

The command was less a shout and more a desperate rattle in a thousand throats, swallowed instantly by the wet thud of iron meeting linden wood. At Ethandun, the air was a thick, choking soup of salt-sweat and the iron tang of fresh slaughter.

King Ceolwulf of Mercia stood in the red slurry of the front line, his lungs burning as he heaved his sword through the press. To his left, the West Saxons under Alfred fought with the cold precision of men who knew they were winning a kingdom; here, in the Mercian center, they fought like men who knew they were being used as a human shield. Earl Guthrum's "Great Heathen Army" broke against them in waves of fur and filth, their axes shearing through shields until the mud beneath Ceolwulf’s boots was no longer earth, but a mash of gore and shattered bone.

Death didn't come for the King with the dignity of a poet’s song though. It came in the form of a bearded Dane’s broadaxe, catching him mid-breath as he slipped on a patch of spilled entrails. The blade bit deep into the shelf of his shoulder, a sickening crunch of mail and collarbone that sent him to his knees in the filth. Ceolwulf looked up, his vision blurring, seeing not the face of his killer, but the distant, golden dragon of Wessex fluttering safely on the hill while his own men were butchered to buy Alfred’s peace. He died with a gargle of Mercian soil in his mouth, his crown rolling into the muck to be trampled by the boots of fleeing cowards and advancing Northmen alike.

When the crows finally settled on the field, the world had changed. Alfred’s ink had done more damage than the Viking steel, carving Mercia in two and gifting the eastern heartlands to the heathens to sate their hunger. In the drafty halls of Tamworth, the King’s daughter stood alone, her father’s blood-stained signet ring heavy in her palm.

She was no longer the girl who chased hounds through the high grass; she was the Myrcna Hlæfdige, the Lady of all Mercians, a title that felt like a shroud. Her lands were a carcass, the Danelaw a jagged wound across her maps, and her people were little more than a buffer between the Wessex king and the Viking axe... as if the Mercians themselves were the Watling Street.

Inside her own Witenagemot, the air was thick with the scent of treachery. Her Ealdormen watched her with eyes that calculated her dowry rather than her strength. They whispered of "protection" and "necessity," their hands twitching toward their own sword-hilts while they waited for her to stumble. To them, she was a placeholder, a womb to be bartered to the highest bidder or a puppet to be manipulated while they knelt to Alfred’s shadow. She watched them back, her spine a column of frozen iron, knowing that the men who called themselves her kin were simply waiting for the right moment to pick her bones clean.

Then came the heathen. He arrived not with a treaty, but with the arrogant gait of a wolf entering a sheepfold... a man who bore the scars of a Saxon childhood but the cold, predatory gaze of a Dane. He was a gift of the tides, a warrior whose loyalties were as murky as the Danelaw fog, yet he was the only one who didn't look at the Lady and see a victim.

The Lady of all Mercians would call him dog; she would call him a godless savage and spit at the shadow he cast across her floor. But as the vultures circled closer and the West Saxon grip tightened, she realized that a heathen’s blade might be the only thing sharp enough to cut the noose Alfred had tied around her throat... and the only heart she could find true love in.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heya! I hope the long, winding prose tempts you enough to explore our rich history. A story set during the time of Alfred and his dream of one England. I'm looking for someone who loves history and the world-building that comes with it. We would take the roles of the Saxon-Dane and the Lady of Mercia (as our main characters) while we write a host of other side characters to explore how the Mercia takes what was always theirs and more.

If you haven't guessed it yet, it's loosely based around the Saxon Diaries with a mix of canon and original content. So if you are ready for something very long-term... for a story full of love, warring, politicking, and grit, I'd love to brainstorm some ideas with you on where we'd take the story.

The night sky bled.

A red wound split the dark above the Dothraki sea, trailing fire as it went, and Daenerys Stormborn thought it fitting that the heavens should weep crimson tonight. For Rhaego, she thought. Only for him. Her son, her little stallion, gone before he had drawn breath. Traded for the hollow thing that had once been her sun-and-stars.

She had no love for Drogo. She would not pretend otherwise, not now, not at the end. He had taken her when she was but a girl and weeping in a tongue she did not yet know. He had given her a son, and then he had suffered the maegi to steal that son away. 'Let him burn', she thought. 'Let the maegi burn beside him. It was the only justice left to her.'

Doreah had set the eggs upon the wood, as Dany had bid her. Three stones of cold flame... one cream-and-gold, one forest-green, and the one her hand kept returning to, black as basalt with veins of scarlet. They were the only pieces of home she owned, though she had never known the home from which they came. There was only the house with the red door, and the lemon tree beneath her window, and Ser Willem's rough kindness before the world had gone hard.

She climbed the pyre.

The wood was warm beneath her bare soles. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her dreadful song from her bindings, but Dany did not hear her. She lay down between the eggs and folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, and she was a small girl again.

The wooden dragon. She had whittled it badly from a soldier's gift and blackened it with hearth-soot. Morghul, she had named the thing after Balerion, of whom Viserys would whisper when he was kind. Valar morghulis- All men must die. She had not understood those words as a child. She understood them now.

The torches kissed the wood.

Heat broke upon her like the breath of a god. She did not scream. Fire didn't affect her for some reason. 'I will find my son in the night lands', she thought, 'and beg his pardon'. The fire took her hair, and her gown, and still she did not open her eyes. Let the world burn behind her. She had no further use for it.

When at last she opened them, dawn was lying across her face.

Something warm slithered against her breast, and she looked down. A serpentine neck rose, scales black as fused basalt, and a pair of deep violet eyes met her amethyst ones. In her lap, the cream-and-gold one chittered, drunk on warmth. The green one lifted its narrow head from the ash and looked up at her, as a child looks at its mother.

She rose. The khalasar rose with her, rubbing smoke from their eyes, half-believing. A breath filled her chest, the first true breath of her life. The bleeding sky had not wept for the dead. It had ridden ahead of dragons, and she had been blind. Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reborn.

---

Hope the prose above gave you a taste of what I'm after. I know the Dance is what everyone's writing right now, but I want to go back to the roots -- to what made me fall in love with this universe and pick up writing in the first place. I'd love to rewrite Daenerys' conquest with someone, and more than that, I want to actually explore Essos before we ever set sail for Westeros. Cross the Bone Mountains and follow the Steel Road to Kayakayanaya, see the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, walk the ruins of Old Valyria, brave the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, or court allies in Braavos.

I'm 24M, looking for a writing partner who adores worldbuilding and character work, isn't shy of war, politics, scheming, the cost of crowns and is up for a slow, intense romance between our leads (one of whom is Daenerys, of course). I'm comfortable playing M or F, so I'm open to anyone opposite- MxF or a sapphic FxF, which I'd genuinely love. Your character can be canon, an OC, even an isekai premise if that's your thing.

What am I looking for?

• Someone who absolutely loves a good mix of world-building, politicking, intense romance, warring, and drama.
• We’ll each play one main character and include other side characters as needed.
• I’m patient and would never push you for replies, but if you’re going to be away for a while, I’d love to know about it.
• I absolutely adore OOC chatting; I hope we can get to know each other and become friends! It helps keep the roleplay sustainable for the long term and makes it so much more fun to share headcanons, memes, interludes.
• As for reply length, I usually write anywhere from 500-2000 words per post depending on the prose set. I’m not a stickler about word count from you, but I do hope for enough content to help us push the story forward together.

If any of this sparks something, send me a message and I'd love to write this with you.

The night sky bled.

A red wound split the dark above the Dothraki sea, trailing fire as it went, and Daenerys Stormborn thought it fitting that the heavens should weep crimson tonight. For Rhaego, she thought. Only for him. Her son, her little stallion, gone before he had drawn breath. Traded for the hollow thing that had once been her sun-and-stars.

She had no love for Drogo. She would not pretend otherwise, not now, not at the end. He had taken her when she was but a girl and weeping in a tongue she did not yet know. He had given her a son, and then he had suffered the maegi to steal that son away. 'Let him burn', she thought. 'Let the maegi burn beside him. It was the only justice left to her.'

Doreah had set the eggs upon the wood, as Dany had bid her. Three stones of cold flame... one cream-and-gold, one forest-green, and the one her hand kept returning to, black as basalt with veins of scarlet. They were the only pieces of home she owned, though she had never known the home from which they came. There was only the house with the red door, and the lemon tree beneath her window, and Ser Willem's rough kindness before the world had gone hard.

She climbed the pyre.

The wood was warm beneath her bare soles. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her dreadful song from her bindings, but Dany did not hear her. She lay down between the eggs and folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, and she was a small girl again.

The wooden dragon. She had whittled it badly from a soldier's gift and blackened it with hearth-soot. Morghul, she had named the thing after Balerion, of whom Viserys would whisper when he was kind. Valar morghulis- All men must die. She had not understood those words as a child. She understood them now.

The torches kissed the wood.

Heat broke upon her like the breath of a god. She did not scream. Fire didn't affect her for some reason. 'I will find my son in the night lands', she thought, 'and beg his pardon'. The fire took her hair, and her gown, and still she did not open her eyes. Let the world burn behind her. She had no further use for it.

When at last she opened them, dawn was lying across her face.

Something warm slithered against her breast, and she looked down. A serpentine neck rose, scales black as fused basalt, and a pair of deep violet eyes met her amethyst ones. In her lap, the cream-and-gold one chittered, drunk on warmth. The green one lifted its narrow head from the ash and looked up at her, as a child looks at its mother.

She rose. The khalasar rose with her, rubbing smoke from their eyes, half-believing. A breath filled her chest, the first true breath of her life. The bleeding sky had not wept for the dead. It had ridden ahead of dragons, and she had been blind. Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reborn.

---

Hope the prose above gave you a taste of what I'm after. I know the Dance is what everyone's writing right now, but I want to go back to the roots -- to what made me fall in love with this universe and pick up writing in the first place. I'd love to rewrite Daenerys' conquest with someone, and more than that, I want to actually explore Essos before we ever set sail for Westeros. Cross the Bone Mountains and follow the Steel Road to Kayakayanaya, see the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, walk the ruins of Old Valyria, brave the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, or court allies in Braavos.

I'm 24M, looking for a writing partner who adores worldbuilding and character work, isn't shy of war, politics, scheming, the cost of crowns and is up for a slow, intense romance between our leads (one of whom is Daenerys, of course). I'm comfortable playing M or F, so I'm open to anyone opposite- MxF or a sapphic FxF, which I'd genuinely love. Your character can be canon, an OC, even an isekai premise if that's your thing.

What am I looking for?

• Someone who absolutely loves a good mix of world-building, politicking, intense romance, warring, and drama.
• We’ll each play one main character and include other side characters as needed.
• I’m patient and would never push you for replies, but if you’re going to be away for a while, I’d love to know about it.
• I absolutely adore OOC chatting; I hope we can get to know each other and become friends! It helps keep the roleplay sustainable for the long term and makes it so much more fun to share headcanons, memes, interludes.
• As for reply length, I usually write anywhere from 500-2000 words per post depending on the prose set. I’m not a stickler about word count from you, but I do hope for enough content to help us push the story forward together.

If any of this sparks something, send me a message and I'd love to write this with you.

The night sky bled.

A red wound split the dark above the Dothraki sea, trailing fire as it went, and Daenerys Stormborn thought it fitting that the heavens should weep crimson tonight. For Rhaego, she thought. Only for him. Her son, her little stallion, gone before he had drawn breath. Traded for the hollow thing that had once been her sun-and-stars.

She had no love for Drogo. She would not pretend otherwise, not now, not at the end. He had taken her when she was but a girl and weeping in a tongue she did not yet know. He had given her a son, and then he had suffered the maegi to steal that son away. 'Let him burn', she thought. 'Let the maegi burn beside him. It was the only justice left to her.'

Doreah had set the eggs upon the wood, as Dany had bid her. Three stones of cold flame... one cream-and-gold, one forest-green, and the one her hand kept returning to, black as basalt with veins of scarlet. They were the only pieces of home she owned, though she had never known the home from which they came. There was only the house with the red door, and the lemon tree beneath her window, and Ser Willem's rough kindness before the world had gone hard.

She climbed the pyre.

The wood was warm beneath her bare soles. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her dreadful song from her bindings, but Dany did not hear her. She lay down between the eggs and folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, and she was a small girl again.

The wooden dragon. She had whittled it badly from a soldier's gift and blackened it with hearth-soot. Morghul, she had named the thing after Balerion, of whom Viserys would whisper when he was kind. Valar morghulis- All men must die. She had not understood those words as a child. She understood them now.

The torches kissed the wood.

Heat broke upon her like the breath of a god. She did not scream. Fire didn't affect her for some reason. 'I will find my son in the night lands', she thought, 'and beg his pardon'. The fire took her hair, and her gown, and still she did not open her eyes. Let the world burn behind her. She had no further use for it.

When at last she opened them, dawn was lying across her face.

Something warm slithered against her breast, and she looked down. A serpentine neck rose, scales black as fused basalt, and a pair of deep violet eyes met her amethyst ones. In her lap, the cream-and-gold one chittered, drunk on warmth. The green one lifted its narrow head from the ash and looked up at her, as a child looks at its mother.

She rose. The khalasar rose with her, rubbing smoke from their eyes, half-believing. A breath filled her chest, the first true breath of her life. The bleeding sky had not wept for the dead. It had ridden ahead of dragons, and she had been blind. Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reborn.

\-------------------------------------

Hope the prose above gave you a taste of what I'm after. I know the Dance is what everyone's writing right now, but I want to go back to the roots -- to what made me fall in love with this universe and pick up writing in the first place. I'd love to rewrite Daenerys' conquest with someone, and more than that, I want to actually live in Essos before we ever set sail for Westeros. Cross the Bone Mountains and follow the Steel Road to Kayakayanaya, see the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, walk the ruins of Old Valyria, brave the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, or court allies in Braavos.

I'm 24M, looking for a writing partner who adores worldbuilding and character work, isn't shy of dark themes (war, politics, scheming, the cost of crowns) and is up for a slow, intense romance between our leads (one of whom is Daenerys, of course). I'm comfortable playing M or F, so I'm open to anyone opposite- MxF or a sapphic FxF, which I'd genuinely love. Your character can be canon, an OC, even an isekai premise if that's your thing. If any of this sparks something, send me a message and I'd love to write this with you.

The night sky bled.

A red wound split the dark above the Dothraki sea, trailing fire as it went, and Daenerys Stormborn thought it fitting that the heavens should weep crimson tonight. For Rhaego, she thought. Only for him. Her son, her little stallion, gone before he had drawn breath. Traded for the hollow thing that had once been her sun-and-stars.

She had no love for Drogo. She would not pretend otherwise, not now, not at the end. He had taken her when she was but a girl and weeping in a tongue she did not yet know. He had given her a son, and then he had suffered the maegi to steal that son away. 'Let him burn', she thought. 'Let the maegi burn beside him. It was the only justice left to her.'

Doreah had set the eggs upon the wood, as Dany had bid her. Three stones of cold flame... one cream-and-gold, one forest-green, and the one her hand kept returning to, black as basalt with veins of scarlet. They were the only pieces of home she owned, though she had never known the home from which they came. There was only the house with the red door, and the lemon tree beneath her window, and Ser Willem's rough kindness before the world had gone hard.

She climbed the pyre.

The wood was warm beneath her bare soles. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her dreadful song from her bindings, but Dany did not hear her. She lay down between the eggs and folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, and she was a small girl again.

The wooden dragon. She had whittled it badly from a soldier's gift and blackened it with hearth-soot. Morghul, she had named the thing after Balerion, of whom Viserys would whisper when he was kind. Valar morghulis- All men must die. She had not understood those words as a child. She understood them now.

The torches kissed the wood.

Heat broke upon her like the breath of a god. She did not scream. Fire didn't affect her for some reason. 'I will find my son in the night lands', she thought, 'and beg his pardon'. The fire took her hair, and her gown, and still she did not open her eyes. Let the world burn behind her. She had no further use for it.

When at last she opened them, dawn was lying across her face.

Something warm slithered against her breast, and she looked down. A serpentine neck rose, scales black as fused basalt, and a pair of deep violet eyes met her amethyst ones. In her lap, the cream-and-gold one chittered, drunk on warmth. The green one lifted its narrow head from the ash and looked up at her, as a child looks at its mother.

She rose. The khalasar rose with her, rubbing smoke from their eyes, half-believing. A breath filled her chest, the first true breath of her life. The bleeding sky had not wept for the dead. It had ridden ahead of dragons, and she had been blind. Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reborn.

-------------------------------------

Hope the prose above gave you a taste of what I'm after. I know the Dance is what everyone's writing right now, but I want to go back to the roots -- to what made me fall in love with this universe and pick up writing in the first place. I'd love to rewrite Daenerys' conquest with someone, and more than that, I want to actually live in Essos before we ever set sail for Westeros. Cross the Bone Mountains and follow the Steel Road to Kayakayanaya, see the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, walk the ruins of Old Valyria, brave the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, or court allies in Braavos.

I'm 24M, looking for a writing partner who adores worldbuilding and character work, isn't shy of dark themes (war, politics, scheming, the cost of crowns) and is up for a slow, intense romance between our leads (one of whom is Daenerys, of course). I'm comfortable playing M or F, so I'm open to anyone opposite- MxF or a sapphic FxF, which I'd genuinely love. Your character can be canon, an OC, even an isekai premise if that's your thing. If any of this sparks something, send me a message and I'd love to write this with you.

The night sky bled.

A red wound split the dark above the Dothraki sea, trailing fire as it went, and Daenerys Stormborn thought it fitting that the heavens should weep crimson tonight. For Rhaego, she thought. Only for him. Her son, her little stallion, gone before he had drawn breath. Traded for the hollow thing that had once been her sun-and-stars.

She had no love for Drogo. She would not pretend otherwise, not now, not at the end. He had taken her when she was but a girl and weeping in a tongue she did not yet know. He had given her a son, and then he had suffered the maegi to steal that son away. 'Let him burn', she thought. 'Let the maegi burn beside him. It was the only justice left to her.'

Doreah had set the eggs upon the wood, as Dany had bid her. Three stones of cold flame... one cream-and-gold, one forest-green, and the one her hand kept returning to, black as basalt with veins of scarlet. They were the only pieces of home she owned, though she had never known the home from which they came. There was only the house with the red door, and the lemon tree beneath her window, and Ser Willem's rough kindness before the world had gone hard.

She climbed the pyre.

The wood was warm beneath her bare soles. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her dreadful song from her bindings, but Dany did not hear her. She lay down between the eggs and folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, and she was a small girl again.

The wooden dragon. She had whittled it badly from a soldier's gift and blackened it with hearth-soot. Morghul, she had named the thing after Balerion, of whom Viserys would whisper when he was kind. Valar morghulis- All men must die. She had not understood those words as a child. She understood them now.

The torches kissed the wood.

Heat broke upon her like the breath of a god. She did not scream. Fire didn't affect her for some reason. 'I will find my son in the night lands', she thought, 'and beg his pardon'. The fire took her hair, and her gown, and still she did not open her eyes. Let the world burn behind her. She had no further use for it.

When at last she opened them, dawn was lying across her face.

Something warm slithered against her breast, and she looked down. A serpentine neck rose, scales black as fused basalt, and a pair of deep violet eyes met her amethyst ones. In her lap, the cream-and-gold one chittered, drunk on warmth. The green one lifted its narrow head from the ash and looked up at her, as a child looks at its mother.

She rose. The khalasar rose with her, rubbing smoke from their eyes, half-believing. A breath filled her chest, the first true breath of her life. The bleeding sky had not wept for the dead. It had ridden ahead of dragons, and she had been blind. Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reborn.

-------------------------------------

Hope the prose above gave you a taste of what I'm after. I know the Dance is what everyone's writing right now, but I want to go back to the roots -- to what made me fall in love with this universe and pick up writing in the first place. I'd love to rewrite Daenerys' conquest with someone, and more than that, I want to actually live in Essos before we ever set sail for Westeros. Cross the Bone Mountains and follow the Steel Road to Kayakayanaya, see the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, walk the ruins of Old Valyria, brave the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, or court allies in Braavos.

I'm 24M, looking for a writing partner who adores worldbuilding and character work, isn't shy of dark themes (war, politics, scheming, the cost of crowns) and is up for a slow, intense romance between our leads (one of whom is Daenerys, of course). I'm comfortable playing M or F, so I'm open to anyone opposite- MxF or a sapphic FxF, which I'd genuinely love. Your character can be canon, an OC, even an isekai premise if that's your thing. If any of this sparks something, send me a message and I'd love to write this with you.

The night sky bled.

A red wound split the dark above the Dothraki sea, trailing fire as it went, and Daenerys Stormborn thought it fitting that the heavens should weep crimson tonight. For Rhaego, she thought. Only for him. Her son, her little stallion, gone before he had drawn breath. Traded for the hollow thing that had once been her sun-and-stars.

She had no love for Drogo. She would not pretend otherwise, not now, not at the end. He had taken her when she was but a girl and weeping in a tongue she did not yet know. He had given her a son, and then he had suffered the maegi to steal that son away. 'Let him burn', she thought. 'Let the maegi burn beside him. It was the only justice left to her.'

Doreah had set the eggs upon the wood, as Dany had bid her. Three stones of cold flame... one cream-and-gold, one forest-green, and the one her hand kept returning to, black as basalt with veins of scarlet. They were the only pieces of home she owned, though she had never known the home from which they came. There was only the house with the red door, and the lemon tree beneath her window, and Ser Willem's rough kindness before the world had gone hard.

She climbed the pyre.

The wood was warm beneath her bare soles. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her dreadful song from her bindings, but Dany did not hear her. She lay down between the eggs and folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, and she was a small girl again.

The wooden dragon. She had whittled it badly from a soldier's gift and blackened it with hearth-soot. Morghul, she had named the thing after Balerion, of whom Viserys would whisper when he was kind. Valar morghulis- All men must die. She had not understood those words as a child. She understood them now.

The torches kissed the wood.

Heat broke upon her like the breath of a god. She did not scream. Fire didn't affect her for some reason. 'I will find my son in the night lands', she thought, 'and beg his pardon'. The fire took her hair, and her gown, and still she did not open her eyes. Let the world burn behind her. She had no further use for it.

When at last she opened them, dawn was lying across her face.

Something warm slithered against her breast, and she looked down. A serpentine neck rose, scales black as fused basalt, and a pair of deep violet eyes met her amethyst ones. In her lap, the cream-and-gold one chittered, drunk on warmth. The green one lifted its narrow head from the ash and looked up at her, as a child looks at its mother.

She rose. The khalasar rose with her, rubbing smoke from their eyes, half-believing. A breath filled her chest, the first true breath of her life. The bleeding sky had not wept for the dead. It had ridden ahead of dragons, and she had been blind. Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reborn.

-------------------------------------

Hope the prose above gave you a taste of what I'm after. I know the Dance is what everyone's writing right now, but I want to go back to the roots -- to what made me fall in love with this universe and pick up writing in the first place. I'd love to rewrite Daenerys' conquest with someone, and more than that, I want to actually live in Essos before we ever set sail for Westeros. Cross the Bone Mountains and follow the Steel Road to Kayakayanaya, see the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, walk the ruins of Old Valyria, brave the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, or court allies in Braavos.

I'm 24M, looking for a writing partner who adores worldbuilding and character work, isn't shy of dark themes (war, politics, scheming, the cost of crowns) and is up for a slow, intense romance between our leads (one of whom is Daenerys, of course). I'm comfortable playing M or F, so I'm open to anyone opposite- MxF or a sapphic FxF, which I'd genuinely love. Your character can be canon, an OC, even an isekai premise if that's your thing. If any of this sparks something, send me a message and I'd love to write this with you.