Arthur Dayne - Blog Posts

Highborn sisters and brothers Part 3! Finally with our dearest asoiaf twins :D Cersei and Catelyn are basically just grown-up versions of their (eldest) daughters.

The Dragon Queen

Y/N is the sister of Rhaegar they were engage to be married. But things happen

Mindless ASOIAF doodles. 15yo sadboy Rhaegar, Aerys Targaryen wandering the halls in nightclothes because evil prophetic dreams tm are driving him insane (literally), a very uninpressed 15yo Arthur Dayne as a squire (sometimes I headcanon him as Barristan s squire. If only to make so that sadboy R. had a friend before 20). I think I'll do some fun illustration with these three as soon as I choose the definitive design.

Art by @adelikashere for A Crown of False Spring. The best birthday gift ever.

It was… a girl-child. He’d not misjudged; even whilst standing she was a tiny slip of a thing. A strange thing. Her coltish frame was wrapped in a dove-grey gown, streaked with soil and trailing like mist about small bared feet. Dark chestnut hair tumbled loose and tangled past thin shoulders, framing windburnt cheeks flushed rosy with chill. Her eyes were sharp and wild, her teeth bared—and in her hands a tree branch, raised like a sword! Not a little doe then, thought Arthur. Then, a break in the clouds. A shaft of dying light broke through the clearing, striking the crown of the heart tree with sudden radiance. The deep scarlet leaves flared and shimmered like bloody embers. And there, half-lost amongst the high fronds, something swayed. A shield. Upon it, the painted face of a weirwood, grinning wide and red.

Towering far above the rest, the heart tree's bone-white bark flashed stark against the common green brush that sprawled across Old Harren's grounds, gleaming a cold alabaster as bright as his own cloak. Leaves spilled from slender grasping limbs like a million splayed hands dipped in blood. And upon its trunk, a face.

The visage had been slashed deep. If it was the work of man or god, Arthur could not say. Crimson sap oozed from slanted eyes like ancient tears, frozen dry upon pale drawn cheeks. It watched him with knowing disdain. A weirwood, he thought in awe. The last one standing below the Neck.

It was then that he saw the supplicant. A slight figure knelt before the heart tree, head bowed low in prayer. Slim as a winter sapling, and so still he might have mistaken it for carved stone. Scarcely more than a smudge of shadow upon the hard earth.

At the stir of their footfalls, the figure trembled slightly, then hopped to its feet with the swift grace of a startled doe and whirled.

It was… a girl-child. He’d not misjudged; even whilst standing she was a tiny slip of a thing. A strange thing. Her coltish frame was wrapped in a dove-grey gown, streaked with soil and trailing like morning mist about small bared feet. Dark chestnut hair tumbled loose and tangled past thin shoulders, framing windburnt cheeks flushed rosy with chill. Her eyes were sharp and wild, her teeth bared—and in her hands a tree branch, raised like a sword!

Not a little doe then, thought Arthur.

Then, a break in the clouds. A shaft of dying light broke through the clearing, striking the crown of the heart tree with sudden radiance. The deep scarlet leaves flared and shimmered like bloody embers. And there, half-lost amongst the high fronds, something swayed.

A shield. Upon it, the painted face of a weirwood, grinning wide and red.

Arthur froze.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from A Crown of False Spring, Chapter 4.

a few asoiaf faceclaims

Lyanna Stark, Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar Targaryen

Rhaegar faceclaim stolen from @jacaeryspilled x

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lyanna had seen them both at the opening feast—wept, even, to the prince’s sad song—but up close they were almost otherworldly. Ser Arthur’s enameled steel armor was the color of milk, chased with gold, and from his shoulders trailed the snowfield cloak of the Kingsguard. The only spot of color on him was a lavender jade clasp inlaid with a white sword crossing over a falling star. Above his back rose the pale hilt of Dawn. The knight was tall, just as tall as the prince, but he was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders. His short-cropped hair was black as a raven’s coat, his strong jaw darkened by the shadow of a new beard. A slight crook to his nose was his sole scar; the quiet mark of a man who had bled and risen still.

The Warrior come to life, her mind whispered. Benjen will be green with envy to learn that I have seen the knight he so worships, and from so near.

At his side, the crown prince was almost Ser Arthur’s inverted twin. Where his knight donned white, the prince wore black. He was in the colors of his royal house: a black velvet doublet with a scarlet half cape draped across one shoulder, clasped with a silver three-headed dragon brooch with little rubies for eyes. The Targaryen dragon also adorned his crown, rearing fiercely along the slender gold circlet above his brow. Beneath it spilled a long wave of silver-pale hair. The face it framed was exceedingly handsome: beautiful, almost, with his straight nose and fine cheekbones that told a tale of golden blood. But it was his eyes that spoke the loudest. They were cousins to Ser Arthur's, a solemn pool of indigo just a shade deeper than his knight's spirited violet. And so... melancholy. 

I wonder why he is so sad, thought Lyanna. He is the crown prince, yet he looks as if he has scarcely known a scrap of joy...

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Descriptions from A Crown of False Spring.

Arthur Dayne arrived on the jousting field with the dawn. Above him, the sun's first flush sent pale fingers of light stretching across the eastern sky, turning Harrenhal’s charred towers into shadowy grey wraiths that drifted among the mists. Only birdsong accompanied his steps.

He had always been an early riser, much preferring the sun’s call to some squire’s. Sleep was no generous mistress to the Kingsguard, nor a frequent visitor. Duties, though, they bore in spades. Charged with protecting the king and his kin by day, the White Swords were expected to serve just as diligently by night.

The task had never troubled Arthur. Duty and discipline called to his blood. It did, however, trouble the king. Too Dornish, Aerys oft complained of him, though he just as oft forgot his mislike when faced with Arthur’s fair skin, so unlike the dark sandy Dornishmen of his imagination. Mad kings cannot be expected to be learned men, he supposed. But of late it seemed the king remembered well enough, and his disdain for Arthur’s Rhoynish blood had earned him a night’s reprieve from guarding his door. With the queen and Prince Viserys forbidden from attending, there was no need to stand watch over them either. Prince Lewyn, as usual, guarded Rhaegar and Elia.

A rare respite—lighter duties, and the luxury of greeting the new day unwearied.

Now Arthur mounted his white courser with a quick pat to the mare’s flank. She was a good horse and swift, but he missed the long-necked sand steeds of Dorne. Dawn, too, he missed. The ancient milk-pale greatsword felt more right in his hand than any tourney lance, but such was the duty of a white cloak: protect the king, keep his secrets, obey his commands. Today's command was to entertain.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from A Crown of False Spring, Chapter 2.

Tourney at Harrenhal art by René Aigner.

Arthur and Ashara Dayne 💫

Commission for the lovely @troiades ! Such a joy to work with and I'm so happy I got to draw these two together💕!