The blazing disc that had graced the sky above was nowhere to be seen by the time they left the festivities, hand-in-crook, greeted only by the nighttime quiet. Still, she didn’t mind the silence, her ears having been battered by greetings and pleasantries of the many, many nobility of the Dornish court. Briefly, she allowed her eyes to slide shut, her chin tilting up ever-so-slightly as a cool breeze washed over them; a small moment of reprieve in a night that had offered her none.
“Are you curious?” the question came from the prince, breaking the quiet. She turned her gaze up towards his golden eyes.
Curious? Yes, one could say that Aeranys was curious--about quite a few things from this night alone, in fact. The green-eyed beauty who had turned away with tears in her eyes; his strange laxness when it came to his younger sister; the way he would go so abruptly from courteous prose to shattering the grand communal farce of propriety; the exchange between the prince and Lord Gerold Dayne that had all at once been cryptic and far too illuminating…
These she would have questioned him about--and more--had she been a creature more daring or foolish. Alas, her mother had taught her to repress such base impulses. “Milord?” the princess replied instead, her voice carefully bemused and innocent.
“The wager Gerold spoke of. Would you like to know what it was?”
Ah, the wager…“If you would not mind, milord,” she answered politely. The Dornish prince proved to be rather willing, and the young woman listened attentively as she should as he began to explain. Her painstakingly catered expression, however, turned briefly to genuine eagerness at the mention of Arthur Dayne and the rush of fond memories the name ignited within her. Arthur, Rhaegar’s closest friend, who had been like a third brother to her. Of course, he’d spent more time with her oldest brother than with her, but he’d always been kind to her, and Aeranys had appreciated how he managed to brighten her brother’s solemn mood.
“Arthur liked to paint me as the hero in every story, even when I didn’t deserve it,” the prince continued with the cadence of a storyteller. “So, of course, he used to say that I would be given a kind and good noblewoman for wife, maybe an heiress from across the narrow sea like my father, or a Princess like his father before him.” Yes, that sounded like the Arthur she knew; ever loyal and noble, he was indeed the sort to see the good in others. “Gerold, on the other hand, would insist that I would choose a very different sort of woman. Someone as… indelicate as myself.” ‘Indelicate.’ That had been a sentiment her brother would’ve shared. In fact, the horrific adage that came afterwards--monsters don’t make mothers of maidens, only meals--rang in tune with what Rhaegar had said.
Only a dragon can weather dragonfire.It seemed that Lord Gerold and Arthur had never come to an agreement other than to disagree. In fact, she distinctly remembered a similar argument with Arthur jumping to defend the Dornish Prince’s character one tourney years prior. It’d been a bloody sight, an unfortunate event that had somewhat dampened the festivities. Rhaegar had called it a disgrace, while Arthur had insisted it was an honest mistake, and as for Aeranys, she had focused more intently on getting the two to stop quibbling. In truth, she hadn’t known what to believe back then, but now, after she had witnessed the devastation of Greenstone, it was difficult to keep the same neutral stance she had once so innocently held.
A goodly princess or an indelicate monster. So that had been the reason Lord Gerold Dayne had at first admitted that Arthur had won the wager. And yet, her husband-to-be had replied--
“I haven’t decided who has won yet,” he repeated the sentiment, his eyes holding her gaze meaningfully, and yet, it irked her. Lord Gerold’s remark came bubbling up within her mind:
Do tell me when you have reached a final judgment about your betrothed. ‘A final judgment,’ like a prize filly to be weighed and measured, to be quantified and classified. All her life, she’d been held up against the measuring stick of the ideal princess and bride, taught to desire nothing more than to be judged in the manner they had spoken of--and yet, perhaps for the first time since she’d been a rebellious little girl being admonished for her unruliness, she felt herself chafing at the idea.
“Maybe both,” the Dornish Prince proposed.
“Maybe neither.” The words flew from her lips before Aeranys had quite realized it, a barbed challenge unbefitting the gracious lady she had been raised to be. Immediately realizing her misstep, her gaze flicked downwards and away, hiding the hot lurch of emotion that had sprung up within her under a delicate curtain of lashes. “Milord,” she added, the honeyed word spoken in a tone so laden with demure humility that it could soften any defiance that had come before it.
Luckily for her, it seemed that her little retort had not stirred any unrest within her betrothed as they continued down the halls of Sunspear--much to the princess’ relief. She was being petty, Aeranys chided herself mentally. Hadn’t she let go of that childish struggle against her upbringing long ago? It was only to be expected for her value to be weighed in such a way. After all, she was but a commodity to be bartered with, to be traded and bought. A princess for an army, a bride for an alliance. That was her purpose, her role in this game, her
duty. There was no place for tantrums or juvenile upset when it came to duty, she reminded herself.
When they came to a stop, however, it was not at her own quarters, or any other place she recognized. As the prince went on to explain that her surprise lay within the room, she couldn’t help but feel the familiar swell of dread come over her. “Don’t be too long,” he told her, the quiet words ringing more of a warning than anything else, and the almost gentle expression on his face did little to assuage the growing anxiety she felt. With one last farewell, the dark-haired prince left her, striding down the corridor and disappearing around the corner. She stood there, acutely aware of Ser Devran’s presence in the shadow. Like a shade, he repeated his absent liege’s words to her.
Taking a breath, she placed her hand on the door, hesitantly pushing it open. She carefully inched into the room, her eyes probing the gloom. It was a simple room, but in the far corner, someone lay in a bed, white-blonde hair glinted dully in the candlelight, falling over a pale, gaunt face--and her reluctance fell away as she recognized the figure.
“....Ser Laenor!” she gasped.
“P-Princess?” the knight gave a start, jerking upwards in his bed before cringing in pain. Biting back a hiss, he unfurled gingerly onto the sheets as the young woman hurried to his bedside.
“I-I’m terribly sorry Ser Laenor, I’ve disturbed your rest,” Aeranys apologized, “I didn’t mean to startle you, I just…”
“No, milady...You didn’t...” he murmured with obvious effort, and she realized that he must still be taking some sort of draft to keep his pain at bay. Nonetheless, the rush of relief that surged through her was palpable. As a matter of fact, she realized that she was far more moved to see him now than she had been down in the cellars of Greenstone. Her head had been filled with nothing but their escape and survival; there’d been no time for relief, not when nothing could yet be ensured. Now, safe from bodily harm in Dorne but still so very far from home, it felt special indeed to be reunited with the one person who had made the harrowing journey with her. Her moment of joy, however, quickly turned to quiet horror as she got a better look at the knight before her.
No one had told her about the burns.
She’d seen the manse up in flames, a sight that had nearly caused her heart to stop. It had been with Septa Oranea’s help that the Dornish troops had been alerted of Ser Laenor’s whereabouts, and she’d been assured that he’d been promptly rescued, alive and recuperating. Reasonably, it made sense that he wouldn’t have escaped all harm from the fire, but…
There were few places on his skin that had remained unblemished by the fire. The stench of burnt flesh overcame her, and she immediately felt ill. Whether it stemmed from his salved injuries or from the depths of her wildfire-fueled nightmares, she could not say, but she swallowed her nausea and ever-so-carefully placed her fingers over his only hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed in a shaky whisper, for there were no words left to offer him. “I’m
so sorry, Ser Laenor.”
However, it seemed that in his sleep-muddled haze, something else had utterly caught his attention. “You’ve been hurt, princess,” he muttered, staring at the ugly bruise that was on display with a furrowed brow. “Who’d dare to do such a thing…?” His concern over a measly little bruise when he was covered in burns could’ve made her laugh if it wasn’t so upsetting.
“This is absolutely nothing,” she reassured him gently, finding her composure once more. “You should be worried about yourself, Ser Laenor.” Still fixated, he reached for her with an unsteady hand, his fingers hovering over the bruise for a contemplative moment. His fingers then turned to clumsily tease her pale hair from its arrangement, covering the mottled injury from sight. Only then did the tension in his face fade, and he let out a deep sigh as his hand fell back to his side.
For a stretch of time he was silent, looking as if he would slip back into slumber, but before his eyes could close, his head lolled towards her. “I will forever treasure them as a badge of honor, milady, as proof of my time in service to you,” he declared gravely, a flickering spark of lucidity in his sea-green eyes. “Even if...I should be dismissed and sent back to Driftmark as a cripple…” his words grew slower and slower as his eyelids too grew heavier. “Never…will I...”
She stayed by his side as he succumbed to the call of sleep, and though his expression had grown slack, the knight looked as small and utterly alone as a sickly boy confined to his room. Five years ago, she had kept a similar vigil at her brother’s bedside as the fever destroyed him from the inside out, until he had breathed his last--but this vigil was not meant to head towards such a morbid end. Still, she found she didn’t have the heart to leave the knight who had never looked at her with anything but devotion in his eyes. She remained there until she no longer could--until Ser Devran came to collect her, silent but accusation heavy in his gaze. She too answered in only silence, making no attempt at any sort of apology as she rose from her seat as strode out of the chamber.
As she was escorted back to her chambers, her thoughts wandered briefly to the prince’s parting words. Would his trusty knight go running to his master to report that she had stayed past her welcome? Her lips pressed into a thin line. If he’d wanted her to be so exacting with her time, she thought to herself, perhaps he should have stayed with her in person.
*********
While her betrothed had toiled away at the training grounds, fending off steel, she had been fending off steel of a different sort. She had been beset with a flood of seamstresses not long after her morning meal; consequently, she’d been forced to spend the rest of the time standing as a living doll in the center of the room while they measured and stitched, draping bolt after bolt of the finest silk and cloth. It was a mind-numbing ordeal, but not an unfamiliar one. Her mother had commissioned a gown for the ceremony, a beautiful dress of silver and white--but it was difficult to say where it was by now. Perhaps in the vault of a Stormlord, or already in the hands of some trader halfway across the Narrow Sea. Though she hadn’t felt much attachment to the gown, she found herself wishing it had survived the journey, if only to spare herself one more fitting.
Of course, the princess never uttered one complaint or made her weariness known--even when one unwitting seamstress accidentally stabbed her with a pin.
However, by the time Ser Devran came a-knocking to whisk her away, the young woman almost felt inclined to thank the knight. As usual, he’d been somewhat vague when it came to explaining where they were headed, but soon enough it was clear that they were headed towards a training area of sorts. Even from a distance, she could hear shouts and cries of the youngsters training. The sounds grew louder and louder until they turned the corner--just in time to see the Dornish Prince send two small figures crashing into the dust. As they squirmed and struggled, she realized that the two children were the same little girls she had met the night prior; Oberyn Martell’s daughters.
It only took an extra second for it to dawn on her that they were crying, sobs running ragged with their laboured gasping--something that instantly alarmed her. For all the years she’d spent as a wishful spectator on the sidelines, watching her brothers and other lordlings receive their training, she had never once seen them reduced to such tears. Despite this, the knight at her side, the Master-At-Arms, nor her intended seemed to pay much mind to their distress. They looked on as if this was nothing but the norm, to be expected. She watched in mute shock as the girls begged the young man for reprieve, only for him to step threateningly towards her. The poor girl-child flinched back, as if she was expecting a kick or a cruel blow, and she felt her throat constrict at the fear in her dark eyes. Yesterday she had thought that even Mors Martell was soft on his younger sister and little cousins. She’d even thought that perhaps he liked children. Yet, how could he do such a thing to these girls?
It appeared that the Dornish Prince had caught sight of her, for he handed off training to the Master standing nearby, approaching them shortly after with a genial smile and a bow, which was nothing short of jarring. He thanked her for joining him, and she forced her own pleasant smile onto her lips. “But of course, milord. It is always a pleasure to be in your company,” the princess replied, ever-dutiful despite the way her gaze kept wanting to stray back to the exhausted girls.
Aeranys stole one last look at the two girl-children as she was led away, watching them continue their training on quivering legs. Was this how he always treated them?
Her wandering thoughts, however, were immediately reined in the moment her betrothed tossed a question her way. “Did you attend any councils in your father’s court?” he asked, a preposterous question to pose had he known anything of King Aerys’ policies. Of course she had not. Only Rhaegar had ever been invited to council meetings, and even that had not started until he had left boyhood behind.
“My father kept many learned lords as advisors--” she began, always one to rephrase unseemly statements to soften them, but she was soon to be cut off by the prince.
“You will attend many in Dorne,” he intoned, his voice leaving no room for any arguments about the matter.
“Of course, milord,” she deferred obediently, though in truth a streak of unease had wormed its way into her. Out of all the many, many wifely duties her mother had taught her to perform with perfection, sitting in on council meetings had never been one of them. It was true that in the past, Targaryen wives had often advised their husbands as any other high lord, or even been the driving influence behind their actions--but it had not been the case for several generations. Her mother had little to teach her on the matter, since she had never been allowed to be part of the council, either. Perhaps things might have been different had she been destined to be a queen, but from her birth, it had been decided that she’d be a princess and a wife, no more.
No sooner than they had reached the foreboding doors that presumably led to the council chamber, her intended abruptly excused himself, only leaving behind the promise that he would be back shortly. She turned to watch him stride off, wondering if he’d left some document of import behind in his chambers, but the mystery was soon to be solved when Ser Devran opened his mouth. “He does that for your sake,” he commented.
“My sake?” she repeated. The insinuation finally dawned upon her and Aeranys almost didn’t catch the wry laugh that threatened to escape her. “Oh, I see,” she instead remarked politely, nodding. It now made sense why he hadn’t bothered to offer her his arm, choosing instead to walk a distance away from her. Out of all the things, that was the one thing he feared would offend her? Why, as a child she’d return to her keepers flushed from riding, hair full of straw and face streaked with dirt, sweat, and worse. It was a peculiar thing indeed for the young prince to think nothing of sending hapless innocents adrift into Shipbreaker Bay and razing an entire island to the ground, and yet still feel compelled to wash up before he would have to sit next to her. Strange and unreadable, truly.
However, as the knight pushed the grand pair of doors open before her, the princess knew that now was not the time to dwell on her betrothed’s contradictions. Like it or not, she would be attending her first council meeting.
Taking in a breath, Aeranys squared her shoulders and stepped inside. A circle of unfamiliar faces stared back wordlessly, looking rather unimpressed. Fortunately, with a second look, she could pick out a few she recognized from the string of introductions the night prior. What did surprise her, however, was the fact that a good number of them were female, something that was unheard of back in her own court: another reminder of the fact that she was in a very different environment to the one she had grown up in. Still, she would have to strive to adapt to what would be her new home.
Smiling pleasantly despite the frigid undertone within the room, she greeted them graciously, taking care to address the ones she knew by name as she made her way to the smaller of the two empty chairs that remained. Their response was lackluster, with a smattering of forced greetings and nods of reluctant acknowledgment, but it did not shake her amiable demeanor. “Prince Mors will be here presently,” she reassured them, promptly answering the silent question in the air. No one moved or spoke up, eyeing her as if she was naught a child who had lost her way and stumbled into a place she did not belong, but the princess feigned ignorance. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she maintained the poise her mother had ground into her bones, a benign smile firmly in place like a shield.
For once, she hoped that the Dornish Prince would return soon.