The princess had been prepared for him to lash out at her. Her father had never taken such challenges lightly, even if they came from those closest to him--and whenever her own anger had been fanned to life, hot and blazing, her father had never once answered with anything other than his typical wildfire rage, uncontrollable and all-consuming. Therefore, what her intended responded with--a measured, almost amiable tranquility--was perhaps the last thing Aeranys could have predicted.
Still unmoving in her defiant stance as he encroached upon her, she took in his steady words as they fell from his lips. Her mercy and kindness might be seen as weakness, and so he would ensure that those would did not fear her would fear him. Her lips pursed, and a streak of bitterness passed through her.
Fear. Was fear so necessary? Aeranys knew what a court ruled by fear looked like; she knew what a family ruled by fear looked like. She wanted no part of that. Intent on spitting forth those acerbic thoughts, she opened her mouth--only for her voice to leave her at his next words.
The name of the soldier--Croll Sand.
“He didn’t even scream… much. He is fortunate that I have a steady hand,” he told her placidly. His eyes probed her face, and despite the way her blood had gone cold, her expression did not give way to her emotions. Perhaps she should have known better than to think that he had simply given the order. After all, she had seen him, a demon ravaging the battlefield--and yet, to think that the hands that had often been offered to her over the past few days had carved out the poor soldier’s eyes… Aeranys no longer knew what to say. The prince seemed to pick up on this, turning back towards the corridor that led to the hall they had left, asking if there was anything else she wished to say. Dinner was getting cold. Wordlessly, she joined him, striding back towards the feast that awaited them.
Mere minutes ago, the princess had tossed away all thoughts of what the lords and ladies of Dorne would think of her, but as she sat back down at the table it was clear that she would now have to face the consequences. “Well, you know that he didn’t just execute them right?” a lord was saying, blind to the way the Targaryen princess’ eyes shot to him. She was quick to look back away, however, pretending not to hear. Unfortunately, no matter how skilled of an actress she might have been, it did not stop their poisonous words from crawling into her ears.
“I thought he burned them with wildfire?” the conversation continued, and she could smell it on the air again. Twisting, burning, sickly green. She could hear the screaming.
“One of them, anyway… the other…”
The other. Brandon Stark, he meant. She didn’t need the lord to continue speaking to know how it had all happened. He’d called for his father even as the noose had tightened, until his words had become nothing but gurgles. Every digit of his hand had trembled with strain as he desperately reached for the longsword just out of reach--
Clink. The entire hall went deathly silent, syllables fading into ash even as they were spoken. Released from her nightmare-like memories, she too turned her gaze first towards the weapon that had been placed abruptly onto the table, then towards the prince, who pretended that he had done nothing of the sort. His golden eyes met hers for a split second as he drank from his goblet, ignoring the stares of all others. Though his eyes left hers, Aeranys continued to stare, now her turn to scrutinize his mask-like expression for a hint of what lay stirring underneath. In the background, the conversation cautiously began again, the topic readily changed to some other juicy scandal in Westeros.
She looked to the knife that lay before them--a small knife, but unique and distinct in design. Fangs of a snake decorated the hilt, overlooking the blade that glinted sharp in the light. She’d been too caught up in the nightmarish memories that she had not even seen where he’d produced it from, but having been so acutely aware of the conversation that had been going on, she’d immediately caught on to the effect that the knife had.
If they do not fear you, I will make certain that they fear me, he had told her.
She had no love for the fear he inspired. Even when he had come to Greenstone as her savior, a scourge to be released upon those who had held her captive, she had felt nothing but horror and indignant fury at the fear he wielded. Only moments prior, she had condemned it in her heart. And yet, for the first time, she felt as if he had come to her aid, cutting her free with that knife called fear. The emotion that was conjured forth felt much like relief, like gratitude; at the same time, however, she could not help but be disgusted by her selfish hypocrisy.
Her fraught emotions were interrupted by a voice as high and sweet as a silver bell, calling her to attention as it did the prince beside her. It was Nymeria, the girl she had seen collapsed in the dust, a mess of tears and sweat as she begged her cousin to relent. Her face, which had been warped by strain, fear, and exhaustion, was now looking up at the same young man without a trace of those emotions. Holding her bewilderment at bay, she discreetly watched as the girl managed to persuade her cousin into braiding her hair like a nursemaid might--watched the prince pull her up onto his knee, the very picture of an indulging caretaker. Happily, she hummed a tune to herself as she occupied herself with fiddling with her folded parchment figures.
It was almost like the scene she had witnessed in the morning had been nothing but an illusion. However, the next exchange that passed between the cousins proved that it had not been a strange figment of her imagination. There was no hesitation as they spoke of the events of the training. There was no fear from the girl; there was no cold dismissal from the prince.
Now, she couldn’t help but look directly at the strange scene unfolding before her.
Sharp-eyed little Nymeria was quick to notice. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she crooned, having assumed that the princess had been looking at the folded-paper birds she held.
“Very pretty,” the princess agreed amiably. For a season, Elaena had been absolutely taken with amusing herself by folding a variety of things from parchment--dogs and cats, castles and roses. She had attempted to fold a dragon for her mistress, but the young girl had never been able to craft the complicated shape, only producing something that resembled a misshapen swan. The memory brought a faint smile to her lips.
“I wish I had hair like yours,” Nymeria continued, her dark eyes enviously resting on her pale locks. “That would be
really pretty.”
“Is that so? I think they’re prettier in your hair, actually,” she disagreed gently, smiling. “It’d be hard to see the birds in hair like mine. In yours, they stand out beautifully.”
The girl’s smile widened in turn, her round eyes resting on her curiously until Oberyn Martell took his seat on the other side of the prince, looking positively fed up. Favoring the cup of wine over the platter of food that awaited him, he grumbled complaints to his nephew, who hardly seemed alarmed. Politely, she turned her attention to her food, pretending not to hear their exchange until a familiar name was uttered.
Ashara. Ashara Dayne, Arthur’s younger sister. At first, Aeranys had been glad to hear that Ashara would be Cersei’s lady-in-waiting, thinking that she would be at the Red Keep. Unfortunately, Rhaegar had moved himself and his bride to Dragonstone not long after, whisking the Dayne girl away with them. It was strange indeed to think of her betrothed, braiding Ashara’s dark hair just as he braided his little cousin’s. As the young girl pressed a grateful kiss to the prince’s cheek before scurrying away, heedless of her father’s pleas, Aeranys wondered what Ashara would say about the Dornish Prince whom she had grown up with. Would she defend his honor as strongly as Arthur had? There was no way she would be able to know now, even though she was in Ashara’s homeland; she was far away, no doubt still one Dragonstone, taking care of the abandoned Lannister and her son.
She had only held Joffrey briefly when he’d been presented at court. The princess wouldn’t have been able to hold him for long anyhow, seeing as he’d been as fussy as he was healthy. From the moment he’d been taken from his mother’s arms to be placed into the queen’s, he’d started screaming, red-faced and angry. He hadn’t relented when he had been passed to Aeranys, and she’d barely been able to brush his fine, blonde hair away from his scrunched eyes before Cersei had reached for the wailing babe. Surely, he would be much bigger now.
A blonde head reminiscent of Joffrey’s suddenly poked up at their table, big blue eyes intently peering at the prince--much to the exasperated relief of the Red Viper. Only uttering a “when?,” she disappeared as quickly as she appeared after she had obtained the answer she had wanted from her oldest cousin, ignoring her father’s cries just as her sister had previously.
Swearing, the Red Viper rose to his feet. “Pray the Father sees fit to bless you with sons, Mors,” he muttered, leaving them with a hurried farewell to chase after his youngest. She watched him go, amusement lurking behind her polite facade. He certainly had his hands full with the spirited girls. Aeranys knew well what the ladies of King’s Landing would think of them, but she could not help but hope that they would remain just so when they grew into women.
“Actually,” her betrothed began at her side, “I wouldn’t mind daughters. Would you?”
Having turned to dutifully heed his words, the princess blinked in surprise. She had never been asked to consider daughters. Sons, on the other hand, had been of the utmost importance. As the only daughter of the royal family, she had well understood that the paramount duty of a wife, particularly of an important family, was to produce an heir and a spare. Daughters, at best, were political pawns--at worst, proof of a failure. Daughters weren’t meant to inherit, but to be raised to be the wife of a man who could, then to be the mother of a son.
But not in Dorne.
Dorne loved her daughters, prized them as well as her sons. The ruler of Dorne could very well be a woman as well as a man. Her daughters were free to be whatever they wished; a fierce warrior or a cunning flower in silk veils. As that recognition settled within her, she met his intense golden gaze. “If they would be anything like your cousins, milord, I believe I would very much like to have daughters,” the young woman answered, and even she was startled to hear the strange warmth that lay hidden in her voice.
Dinner ended without any other event, that was, until they rose to retire and the prince retrieved the odd knife from where it had been put on display. “So what was it you were saying about the wildfire?” the question came rushing back out, as if a seal had been lifted. The gruesome conversation took its natural course, but luckily, she was not forced to listen any further. Locked in perfect poise as ever, Aeranys left behind the gossiping lords to enjoy the horrors they hadn’t witnessed in person. If they had, she knew they would never speak of it so gleefully.
A small figure waited for them within the halls--little Tyene, who had a goat with her. A pet? It certainly was not a typical pet to be had, but… As the young girl spoke with the prince, it seemed clear enough that the goat was not a pet, but to serve some other purpose. What that purpose was, she could not divine. She bid the young man and his charge good night, watching them walk off together, hand-in-hand. “Is he big enough?” Tyene asked innocently.
“Yes, Tyene. Good choice,” she heard him say.
Big enough for what? Though nothing concrete came to mind, a veil of unease fell over her. It was put aside, however, when Ser Devran spoke up.
“Would you like to visit with Ser Laenor before retiring for the night, Princess?” he asked. “He has been clearer today, and asking for you.”
Princess Aeranys turned to the handsome knight, briefly regarding him with an assessing look. After what had occurred the night prior, it was unexpected for him to suggest such a thing. Had the prince instructed him to do so? Or was he simply being a dutiful keeper? It was difficult to say. “Yes, then I believe I shall,” the Targaryen girl responded politely, though her pale eyes remained guarded, giving nothing away.
*********
The knock was quiet, almost apologetic, but the sound immediately roused him from the doze he had lapsed back into. “Y...yes?” he called out weakly, his voice still hoarse. The maesters had told him that the smoke had damaged his throat, something he himself could confirm. They had assured him that in time, he would recover his voice, but he had yet to see such signs.
The door creaked open slowly, revealing the slight figure of the princess. “Milady,” he breathed, struggling to pull himself up into a sitting position as she came to his side.
“No, there’s no need for that,” Princess Aeranys told him, a dainty hand at his shoulder to stop him. Giving in, he allowed himself to return to his former position, lowering himself into the pillow. “How do you fare tonight, Ser Laenor?” she inquired.
“Better, milady,” he replied, taking in the sight of her. It felt like ages since he’d seen her last with a clear head, and she looked so different now, in flowing Dornish silks and her long hair gone.
“I’m sorry for waking you,” she apologized, but the knight shook his head.
“These days, I do little else than sleep, milady,” Laenor explained wryly. “It is a welcome thing to be able to do something else.” The long hours he spent sleeping was partially out of need, but also because there was little else he could do. A maester would come morning and evening to change his dressings, to check on his ruined stump of an arm and the burns that traversed his body. He was brought breakfast, lunch, and supper, and then he would be left to solitude. Fortunately, he’d been in a drugged haze for the majority of the time, but as his condition improved, the maester had been attempting to wean him off of milk of the poppy.
It mattered little. Regardless of whether he was clear of mind or deep in the swamp-like pull of potions, when he was not asleep, his thoughts always wandered back to her. She had come to him the night before, that much he remembered. He didn’t remember much of what they had spoken of, but the memory of her candle-lit face and the featherlight weight of her hand had stuck within his unravelled mind.
He watched her as she seated herself onto the simple chair beside his bed, his gaze never once leaving her. In his brief visits to court as a boy, he’d admired her from afar. Like any noble boy he’d been half in love with her, the sort of childish infatuation that simply sprang from the fact that she was a beautiful princess who would never be his. A frivolous, fleeting thing. That’d been all.
When he’d turned fifteen, only half a year before Prince Daeron fell ill, he had been brought to court to squire for his eldest brother. Everything had changed then. After a hard day of training, he had been heading back when he’d stumbled across the sight of the princess stepping out onto her balcony. Without thinking, he’d come to a stop to watch like a man under a spell as she stood there, looking out into the sunset. Perhaps thinking herself to be alone, she had let her iron-clad composure slip. Her perfect smile had faded away and her shoulders had slumped ever so slightly, a sad, wistful longing glinting in her eyes--and all at once, she’d been the most loneliest, loveliest thing he’d ever seen. He’d wanted nothing more than to protect her, to make it so that she might never look so weary and sad. To achieve that dream, he’d become the youngest member to join the Kingsguard.
And yet, every time, he’d failed to protect her.
Her hair was carefully arranged tonight, but he remembered what had concerned him so the previous night. “How have you fared in Dorne so far, milady?” he began cautiously. “Has Prince Mors been kind to you?”
“Of course,” the princess responded serenely, dodging past what he truly wished to hear about with expert ease. “I admit the politics of Dorne elude me, but I will learn in time.”
“And your betrothed, milady? He hasn’t been...ungallant?” Laenor asked once more. She paused, seemingly taken aback by his bold question, and the blonde knight rushed to explain. “You were hurt when I saw you last night, milady. You were not hurt the last time I saw you in the stable.”
“I was injured during the siege, by a soldier,” the princess explained patiently, but the way the words left her lips sounded practiced, as if she’d spoken them before. “‘Tis nothing but a bruise, Ser Laenor.”
“Forgive my impertinence, but...if your betrothed were to be ungallant, you would tell me, would you not, milady?” the young man pressed, an edge of desperation slipping into his tone. “I serve
you; I’ve been bound to protect
you. I do not answer to Prince Mors.” Even as he spoke, he knew it was silly. Absolute folly--as if he could do anything now, as a cripple. It was a terrible, frightening prospect, and yet, he could not stop the wave of worry that washed over him.
“Thank you for your concern, Ser Laenor,” she assured him, her voice soothing--but it only sounded distant to him. “But he has not been ungallant towards me.”
The young man sighed, knowing he couldn’t insist any further. “That is a relief to hear, milady,” he conceded, though he was far from convinced. Perhaps the princess did not know, but he had watched over her for nearly six years; for most of those six years, she had been deeply unhappy. Princess Aeranys might have been adept at putting on a brave face, but he had come to understand the depths of her emotions--and now, he feared for her. He feared she would only grow more lonely and unhappy, and he would be absolutely powerless to stop it.
