Chapter Text
I.
King’s Landing, 206 AC
In the afternoon sun, the snap of banners in the wind could easily be mistaken for the wings of dragons. Yet everyone knew that the dragons were long gone and only men remained in their stead, shadows of something greater. Still, the red and black banners of the dragon snapped above the lists as an ever-present reminder of the permanence of the realm’s overlords.
Princess Alyria Martell had only been in King’s Landing for three days and already, she longed for the clean horizons and freedom of Dorne. It was the second day of the tourney in King’s Landing and the city had dressed itself in splendour, despite the lingering smell of sweat and sweet wine. King’s Landing pressed in on itself like a fevered dream, the air thick with both ambition. There had been curious eyes upon her – upon all of them – since they rode in. It seemed that it mattered little that King Daeron had taken her aunt Myriah as his wife and that her own father had married Daeron’s sister, Daenerys. It mattered even less that Daeron had filled his court with Dornishmen. They were still foreign to these northerners, but Alyria did not shrink before their gazes.
Let them look, her lady mother would have said, let them cast their eyes upon the sun and be blinded. That had motivated her choice of attire: burnished orange silk with copper threading, sleeves cut to bare her forearms and a thin golden circlet above her brow. It was scandalously light by the standards of the northern court but Alyria had not come to assimilate into some veiled culture. No, she had come to King’s Landing with her father to celebrate the name day of a Targaryen princeling. Which one, she did not care to remember, but her father had insisted upon her attendance in fear of leaving Dorne in the hands of his one child born of sun and sand. What else was to be done with her? She was five-and-twenty – old enough to rule but too dangerous to place anywhere. In a world that bent to dragons, Alyria was a trueborn child of Dorne, raised between Sunspear and Starfall.
She turned her gaze towards the royal pavilion, eyes falling upon the silver-haired King Daeron and Queen Myriah. Despite sharing their darker features, her aunt wore her husband’s colours and her hair was styled in a northern fashion favoured at court. The sun dims in the north, Alyria thought with a faint crease touching her brow, and as though summoned by the weight of that thought alone, Queen Myriah lifted her gaze. Breaking the composure of her status, her aunt inclined her head and raised two fingers to beckon her.
Alyria cursed under her breath, nodding to acknowledge her and aware of the subtle shift in attention as she passed. The silk walls of the royal canopy stirred in the breeze, casting rippling shadows across the carpets within. The conversations of this pavilion were louder to her now.
“You should smile, husband,” Jena Dondarrion, the fire-haired wife of Baelor Targaryen, murmured as a knight nearly unhorsed himself. “They will think you disapprove of the festivities.”
“I disapprove of poor riding,” Baelor replied lightly.
Jena laughed softly, and as Alyria drew closer, she heard her coughing behind her hand. She saw the Prince’s attention snap to his wife and the pale woman’s sympathetic smile back at him, “I am well. Do not glower at a passing breeze. Enjoy this.”
The man relaxed a fraction, and when Alyria stood before them in the pavilion, she sank into a graceful curtsey before the reigning monarchs.
“Your Grace.”
Queen Myriah extended her hand, bidding her rise but that was all of her formalities for her niece. Instead, the Queen stood before and cupped her face in her hands and spoke with a gentle tone, “You grow more like your mother with every passing year. Come. Sit with us, won’t you?”
Alyria took the offered seat at her aunt’s side and immediately felt the weight of eyes settle upon her shoulders. Jena Dondarrion, who up close was a great beauty despite her pallor, studied her openly with a sharp gaze. Then, she too smiled, “You have brought the sun with you, Princess. We welcome your company, it is a pleasure to see you at last.”
“Princess Jena, the pleasure is mine.” Alyria’s expression remained warm as she turned to the woman, granting her the courtesy of undivided attention. But when her gaze lifted and met Baelor’s two-toned eyes, the warmth gentled into something more restrained, a quiet deference to his rank. They had met twice before and both times, she had been but a child staring up at the man who cut a large figure. Baelor was her cousin, through his mother and her father, but she had never known him to be like family. The Prince of Dragonstone was a song, a myth and a hope for a better future, and so, she nodded in respect, “Prince Baelor.”
“Princess Alyria,” he spoke softly, his gaze lingering as if to measure her worth as a woman. Did he remember her? Gods, she had last been to King’s Landing ten years prior and had been a brat of a girl. Alyria averted her gaze and thankfully, Myriah spoke again. “Tell us, sweet thing, does my brother see you looked after in Dorne? You are looking well.”
“He does, Your Grace. My father ensures I want for nothing,” a faint curve touched her lips. It was true enough. Maron loved his firstborn, but Alyria was two things: a political enigma and a reminder of her mother, Nysera Dayne. She did not want for anything, yes, but her father equally did not know what to do with her now that he had a brood of dragons. Alyria forced a quiet laugh as she spoke freer than she perhaps should have, “He claims that remaining unmarried in Dorne has made me willful.”
“Here I thought all daughters of Dorne were willful,” King Daeron said with a smile, a simple jest to show his fondness for her people.
Queen Myriah took her husband’s hand and replied sweetly, “It is why the rest of the realm never quite knows what to do with us.”
That evoked a response from Baelor, a twitch of his mouth that revealed the ghost of amusement before discipline smoothed it away. Beside him, Jena reclined against the cushions and pulled her storm-grey shawl closer despite the warmth. Baelor kept his eyes upon her for a moment longer before he added, “Perhaps the realm would do well to learn. Dorne has endured longer than any other who presumed to tame it.”
Alyria dared to look at him then, lifting her chin to meet his gaze as he spoke so low it felt almost reverent. The Prince of Dragonstone regarded her with a steady attentiveness, as though she were a cipher he meant to unravel.
“Dorne has endured indeed,” she agreed gently, her voice steady. “Though we are slow to yield, we are steadfast when we do. Much like a willful daughter, I suppose.”
Queen Myriah chuckled softly at that, clearly pleased. Her words were a courtesy, nothing more than a response to the conversation and yet… there was something unspoken that lingered in the brief quiet that followed.
“I am glad to see King’s Landing has not dulled your candor, Princess,” Baelor added. A flicker lit his gaze – there for a moment and then, gone. Gods, she was certain he remembered their last meeting now. Time had not dulled the memory, it seemed. Though her words were simple now, they settled between them with unexpected weight.
A horn sounded from the lists below, calling the knights back to their places and the crowd stirred. Baelor straightened and turned back towards his wife, the moment folding neatly back into propriety. Their eyes shifted to the tourney, to the purpose of her presence and the shattering of lances below. Then Jena coughed, sharp and sudden, and Baelor had been quick to place a gentle hand upon her back while another signalled discreetly for water. There was an ease in the movement, a quiet devotion and it was enough to have Alyria turn away from them as the rest of the tilt passed in courteous conversation, and nothing more. When the next round began, it seemed wise that she excuse herself to retreat to her appointed seat among the Dornish retinue, returning to the golden hues of her own house where the sunburst of Dorne blazed defiantly against the sea of red and black.
✦ ✦ ✦
As the sun dipped lower and the shadows stretched long across the city, the tourney had given way to feasting. The Red Keep hosted those of noble lineage as music spilled from the Great Hall and the mingling scents of honeyed figs and roasted boar carried. Drunk, the high lords and ladies of the north were far more amiable, and it was not long before Alyria was pulled into dances and passed goblets of Arbor red. The ladies of the court began to speak more with her, to play with her dark tresses and speak on the fashions in Dorne. All the same, knights from high houses swore they would claim her the queen of love and beauty on the morrow and that in doing so, they too would be unbowed, unbent and unbroken. In the morning, perhaps they would go back to seeing her as a once enemy and foreigner but tonight, she was no different to them. Alyria endured their slurred words with careful smiles and a gentle placement of a hand that did not seek to be pulled into a dance circle.
When she evaded the press of bodies and the hollers of knights, she found herself able to breathe alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The air was cooler outside, the salt wind tugging at her hair as she leaned against the stone balustrade. She thought again, what was to be done with her?
The door to the balcony opened behind her, and Alyria did not startle for the voice that spoke was measured, gentle. “Ah, you flee the celebration too, Princess?”
Over her shoulder, she saw that it was Baelor who stepped into the fading light. His attire had changed since earlier and in a manner, he looked almost unburdened. Younger. The twilight softened his features and made him look more familiar, more Dornish than he had looked at the tourney. He came to stand beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them that befit both of their status. With such proximity, the lines at the corners of his eyes were more visible now. He was six-and-thirty, she remembered. Just over ten years her senior, not old but not young either.
“Yes. But I have reason,” she said with a polite smile. “Were the lists not in honour of your own house, my prince?”
He made a soft noise, like a huff of sorts. “You are correct. Perhaps that is my reason.”
“My lady wife has retired,” he added, not prompted. Alyria noted his careful tone, the way he was compelled to explain his wife's absence. “I have almost fulfilled my duty before I can depart too. Just a while longer.”
“Then we are both fugitives to time,” she said, turning her gaze from him to the Bay. Alyria spoke softly, “I hope Princess Jena was not… taxed by the demands of the tourney. Perhaps upon its close, she would benefit from time in the Water Gardens?”
Baelor exhaled, “The Water Gardens. Yes, I think the southern air may suit her.”
“It suits most,” she was quick to reply. Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable but certainly charged. Below, torches flickered along the quay, and the revelry from inside was growing louder.
“You do not care for King’s Landing?” Baelor turned, examining her as she looked out to the waters. From the corner of her eye, she could see the gentle curve of his lips. It was a careful smile, restrained. Dignified.
Alyria met his gaze, returning his smile softly as she shook her head. “I think I’ve always found it stifling. Loud. Bleak.”
“The city is the seat of House Targaryen. Do you think us loud and bleak too?” The question was edged, but the way he said it, with a touch of humour in his voice, suggested that something was searching beneath it.
“No,” Alyria considered her next words. She could have offered diplomacy, but instead opted for honesty, “My siblings are half-dragons. I suppose I expected flame and hunger, but I have come to realise that is not the case.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him, “You are disappointed?”
“No,” she repeated, this time her lips twitching up in a smile as she spoke with him. “The dragon burns all it touches. It is better for all when it is soothed and stifled like the rest of us.”
For a heartbeat, the air became charged between them. Baelor was nearer than she realised; idle movements had brought them closer than they had started. Still, the distance between them was tangible. Enough to not draw eyes or be the subject of questions and yet… his gaze lingered on her a fraction longer than it should have. It was a scan of her visage, innocent enough.
“You… still speak boldly, Princess,” Baelor spoke softly. Then, he made a comment that surprised her: “Wilfully.”
“It is a virtue in Dorne.”
“In King’s Landing, it is… noted.”
Alyria smiled at that, leaning against the parapet as she scanned him now. His mouth curved – barely. It was not quite a smile, though it was something warmer than the careful composure he usually wore. Baelor was familiar indeed, more Dornish than the others of his name. Perhaps that was why she had always been so loose-tongued with him, so unadulterated with her words.
“This city has many things to note,” she said lightly. “It rarely understands them.”
“No. It rarely does,” he quietly agreed.
Then silence again settled between them, but this time it had changed. The evening breeze moved along the terrace, stirring dark strands of her hair and the silk of her dress. Her own tresses tickled her cheek and in an idle act, she brushed her hair behind her ear. Baelor had not moved his gaze towards the water, his eyes watched her. Not boldly, not improperly. Just watching instead of speaking thoughts aloud. From within the Red Keep, a servant’s voice echoed calling for the Prince of Dragonstone. The distance between them remained as an easy space for courtesy, for duty. As if recalling himself, Baelor straightened slightly.
He inclined his head, though his voice remained quiet when he spoke, “I should return.”
“Of course,” Alyria bowed her head in respect.
Baelor hesitated for a flicker of a moment before he spoke, “I am glad you came north. Dorne has felt too distant of late.”
There was no title in his words, no forced courtliness. Baelor spoke as a man with a quiet sincerity in his words that settled between the two of them. Dorne had been distant from here – in miles, in custom, in temperament. Yet in this moment beneath the fading light, the distance seemed smaller.
“Distances tend to lessen when one is willing to cross them,” Alyria said softly.
Baelor was quiet for a moment after she spoke, then a soft sound escaped him – another quiet huff of laughter. It was more than amused, as though she had said something truer than either of them had intended.
“Good night, Princess Alyria.”
“Prince Baelor,” she bowed her head again and the music swelled from inside as the door opened, then subsided when it closed. Alyria lingered along with the cool breeze, the salt in the air and the relief of solitude when she so yearned for home. She did not question why the evening felt altered, nor did she name the subtle thread that stretched from ten years before now. It was a meeting, nothing more.