Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken: The Chronicles of Elia Martell, Part Two
~278 A.L.~
It was like Oberyn to laugh at her discomfort.
“And you thought you’d be able to live in the North,” he remarked, a tad smugly, while Elia attempted to control her shivering.
“Ability has nothing to do with it,” she managed to retort. “Cold is cold; acknowledging it doesn’t mean I haven’t the ability to live with it.”
“A fierce statement, one that would probably be more impressive if you didn’t look so miserable,” he laughed once more before putting her hand on his arm and guiding her towards the castle proper. “And besides, Storm’s End is no Winterfell. It’s much worse there.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea why you keep nattering on about the northern match,” Elia smiled her most genial smile and dug her nails into his arm, though she doubted he could feel it through his thick cloak. “You really should learn to let things lie, little brother. And if you insist on carrying on as such, our dear Lady Mother may reconsider the north, just to teach you a lesson.”
“Your threats need improvement, sister mine,” Oberyn’s lips twisted up into a smirk. “However, your delivery is much improved.”
He looked down at her then, turning his smirk into something infinitely more affectionate. The improvements did not stop at her delivery of threats, as they both know. The Lady of Dorne had announced their invitation to the tourney at Storm’s End just a month past, and that month had not been easy. The Lady had a daughter to put on display, and looking closely at Elia, she had found that daughter wanting. Elia was too pale, too frail, too sickly, and too thin. A woman needed curves, the Lady explained, along with a healthy blush to the cheeks and a twinkle in the eye.
Elia’s eyes were often tired and dark, and her skin too pale for that healthy pink blush. She wasn’t nearly as thin as the Lady proclaimed, but her body was more sharp angles and tight skin than it was soft and curvaceous. Her greatest feature was her hair, a thick mane of black shine that fell down her back in curls. The hair, the Lady insisted, must be taken care of.
But also the diet and the remedies. The maester was sent away, his mutterings on the build up of humours and heavy blood ignored completely. Along with him went the leeches and the potions, something Elia lamented not for a minute. However, her Lady Mother’s newfound dedication to the medical knowledge of Norvos was less than well-received. Gone were the fruits and salads Elia preferred. In their place were plates and plates of meat, with bits of cheese and bread here and there to accompany it. The Lady insisted her daughter eat everything set before her, and that was often more than what Elia would normally eat in a day, let alone one meal.
The change came with fights and refusals, and ended with icy commands and stern looks. Elia’s stomach handled the change not as well as the Lady liked, and the first week was fraught with arguments and an abundance of nausea. Elia could concede that her mother’s new regimen had yielded results. She not as tired all the time, and she had put on some weight, but the smell of meat was now enough to make her stomach roll.
Her Lady Mother believed the trade to be adequate. Elia, wisely, held her tongue.
In front of the Lady, that is.
“I’ll be as fat as an auroch at this speed,” she complained, hand running over the flat of her stomach. “And if she insists on feeding me so much, I’ll be sick again-this time on purpose.”
“Well, at least the bleedings will stop,” Oberyn’s eyed a passing buxom serving girl, though Elia wasn’t sure if it was the girl’s figure or the wine jug she carried that drew her brother’s attention.
“Stop it,” she chided him gently. “You’re not here to indulge your usual perversions. You’re here to keep me company, while all this dreadful pageantry is trumpeting about.”
“You’re the only person I’ve met to hate a tourney.”
“My bloodlust is sadly underdeveloped for a Dornish princess, I know,” Elia tugged her brother closer, tilting her head just slightly so to rest it against his arm as they walked. “And if you cared a whit for my health, you would sit in the stands and bother me more about the northern match instead of what you’re actually doing.”
“I’m the one competing, and your health is in jeopardy,” that damnable smirk was back on his face. “You’re becoming increasingly selfish in your old age.”
She pinched him for that, hand slipping inside his cloak and fingers viciously twist a bit of skin through his shirt. Oberyn straightened his back, the only indication of his discomfort, and continued to ogle passing girls, be they servant or not.
“That will get you into trouble with an indignant father or two,” she warned, though most decidedly unconcerned. Oberyn would do what he wanted, and there was little hope of changing that. But Elia must do her sisterly duty in some fashion or the other.
“And that will get you trouble whether you go looking for it or not.”
Elia followed her brother’s gaze. She recognized the red and gold of the banners and her stomach turned on the spot. She pulled gently on Oberyn’s arm, trying to discreetly turn him in the opposite direction before a situation could arise. The whole castle was already buzzing about the icy encounter between the matriarch of Dorne and the patriarch of the Rock. And her little brother would only, and quite happily, add to the fire.
“Remember how cold and frail I am?” she prodded him when he failed to follow. He looked down at her then and she smiled as softly as ever. But her eyes held a warning, and perhaps a touch of their mother, because he yielded without complaint.
Her triumph was, however, painfully short lived. A pack of lions had detached themselves from the group and made to intercept them. Elia would like to avoid a confrontation, but she refused to run away.
Let them come, she thought, the words a bit too bitter to say out loud. Let the lions come and roar-that's all they're good for, after all.
Oberyn seemed unworried, as he would since it was Cersei Lannister and her little ladies all approaching. He was assessing his bride-not-to-be, and Elia saw a dim gleam of approval there. And though it annoyed her fiercely, she could not fault him for it. Even now, at eleven, the little lady was something beautiful to behold. From her golden curls to her emerald eyes, Elia could see how enchanting the girl would be in a few years time.
"Princess Elia, Prince Oberyn," the girl smiled a truly feral smile, dipped ever so slightly in the tiniest curtesy.
"Lady Cersei," Oberyn nodded formally, inclined his head towards her and the others behind her. A slight titter started up in the back of the crowd. Elia bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at all the blushes and wondering looks her brother garnered for such a small gesture. He was not particularly handsome, not like the Lady Cersei's twin, but she had heard of the mutterings about the exotic appeal of a Dornishman. And Oberyn with his dark eyes, black hair, and olive complexion was most differently exotic-to these ladies at least.
Lady Cersei had turned towards Elia, clearly waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. Elia donned that familiar gentle smile, stepped into the role of sweet, soft princess as easily as she stepped into her slippers every morning. She said nothing, but dipped down into a curtsy even smaller than Cersei's own. She kept her eyes locked with the younger girl's, remembered her visit to Casterly Rock just two years past, and wondered if the girl always seemed so abhorrent or if it was merely the reminder her father’s insult that turned Elia’s stomach so.
“How have you been, these past years?” Cersei batted wide, innocent eyes at Elia. “You left so abruptly from the Rock-we barely had time to say our proper goodbyes.”
And if the girl thought Elia didn’t know how to play this game, she was sorely mistaken.
“Have no fear, Cersei my dove, your father did not let us go without the finest farewell the Rock could manage.”
Oberyn did not bother to cover his snort of amusement. There was a slight flash of anger in those pretty green eyes before the younger girl recovered.
“Yes, my father is a man of high standards. He would have seen you off in the manner befitting the lords and ladies of the Dorne.”
“Prince,” Oberyn corrected, a touch of boredom to his words. “And princess. The lords and ladies of the Dorne are different houses.”
His tone implied the girl should know that, and she was stupid for forgetting it. The lioness stood up straight, a slight squaring of the shoulders that told of her indignation. But before she can respond, another of her group spoke suddenly.
“How lovely it must be,” the child said with a sigh. “I mean, to be a princess forever.”
To that, Elia could not help but smile. “It can be quite pleasant, on occasion.”
Cersei smiled, bared her teeth like a lioness must do when they see easy prey in their midst. "To be a princess forever, yes that sounds wonderful. But I imagine that to be a queen for most of your life would be infinitely better."
Elia tilted her head slightly, her previous smile slipping and sliding until it was a perfect echo of her brother's smirk. "Imagine you must, for what would you know of being either, Lady Cersei?"
The lioness dropped her smile and seemed ready to quarrel. That lovely pale skin was now stained with large red spots and the girl's nostrils positively flared. One of her little friends tugged hesitantly on her sleeve. The little lady of Lannister slapped away that hand and retreated to her father's party in an angry swirl of silken skirts.
Elia merely waved one hand lazily in farewell.
"You enjoyed that," Oberyn whispered into her ear.
Elia laughed. "So did you, little brother."
“What was not to enjoy? You complain too much of mother’s interference-I think it’s finally doing you some good. I wager I could strap some armour on you and put you on a horse, and you would unseat every lord in the land this day.”
She rolled her eyes. “How like a man, to think one needs a lance and a horse to unseat an opponent.”
He gave her a pained look. “Ugh, but now you sound just like mother-do stop.”
He tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm before she could respond. Elia laughed softly as he led her back into the castle proper, her laughter turning to sighs as the cold was left somewhat behind.
Oberyn glanced down at her, an unhappy frown replacing his smirk. “You’re not dressed for this weather, sister. Haven’t you any thicker cloaks? You’ll not last five minutes through the joust in that silk sheet.”
“Now who sounds like mother,” Elia chided gently, though she quickly abandoned the teasing when Oberyn managed to look even more disapproving. “Stop making that ridiculous face. I haven’t worn this for its decorative appeal. It’s the thickest cloak I have. It seems mother and I greatly underestimated how cold it would be.”
“You’ll be nothing more than ice by the end of the day,” Oberyn looked immensely put out. “You better stay inside the castle-“
“I will not,” Elia dug her nails into his arm once more, a firm look of resolve on her face. “Has that altercation with Cersei Lannister already slipped your mind? The girl is vicious and arrogant. I will not give that golden brat the slightest opportunity to say that I’m hiding from her or her father. I’d rather die of cold than let that happen.”
“And you think I’m overly proud.”
“I’m not overly proud; I have the exact amount of pride befitting a princess of Dorne.”
Laughter broke out at her statement, though not from her brother. Elia did her best not to stumble, tried her best not to show how startled she was. She was desperate to fight off the blush, knowing that the paleness of her skin made it all that more prominent. Oberyn, the unhelpful lout, was too busy laughing with their eavesdropper to even consider her discomfort.
A quick glance behind her and she was momentarily relieved. She wasn’t sure how she failed to recognize her uncle’s laughter; it was almost entirely the same as Oberyn’s obnoxious bellow. She wrinkled her nose at said uncle, though it seemed an irritated niece mattered not a whit to Prince Lewyn Martell.
Or to the men gathered just behind him.
Elia managed to pull a smile from deep down inside and did her best to put the serene southern princess shine to it that she worked so hard to perfect. Whether or not she was successful, she could not say. Not one of the men smirking at her discomfort gave her any sort of indication.
She dropped into a curtsy, more for the reprieve than any haste to propriety. She pinched Oberyn on her way, felt her brother bend in the slightest of bows. So like him, to do the very least; she must remember to kick him sharply when they were alone.
“My prince,” she murmured softly, eyes slightly downcast as she rose from her curtsy. And then, less formally: “Uncle.”
“Ah, the weather must be truly affecting you, my dear,” Lewyn winked at her playfully. “That’s the coldest greeting I’ve ever had from you.”
“I fear I was unprepared for this type of winter. I have such little warmth to give, I thought it best to save it solely for our dear prince.”
“It appears the princesses of Dorne are as fierce and witty as its princes,” Ser Oswell Whent, if she recalled correctly, offered Elia a seemingly genuine smile before nudging the knight at his right. “You neglected to mention as such, in all your tales of home.”
Elia spared not a glance for the Sword in the Morning. “Ser Arthur has a habit of omitting important details. A malady that has plagued him since childhood.”
She wondered if any of them knew how tightly she held Oberyn at that moment, just to keep him at bay. The muscles in her brother’s arm were taut with tension; she could feel his anger, so strong it was bitter on her tongue.
They were all of them spared a spectacle by the soft smile of a dragon. “Whatever else their similarities, at least the smiles of Dornish princesses are sweeter than those of Dornish princes.”
Elia felt her lips twitch. “I’m afraid we haven’t the time to teach our princes to smile sweetly. Much of their time goes to the study of inappropriate and exaggerated boasting, and the rest is spent in practice.”
He laughed then, and it was not an unpleasant sound. Rhaegar Targaryen was more striking than handsome, and how could he be otherwise? Jaime Lannister, even only at eleven, was handsome, even beautiful in his own way. But Rhaegar had the dragon’s silvery-white hair and violet eyes that made it impossible to pass over the man. She tried her best not to let her eyes linger, though she was certain she must have failed. Oberyn’s barely muffled chuckles were only one of many indicators.
“Ah, dear prince, allow me to introduce my sister’s daughter,” Lewyn shook his head, though he never lost his smirk. “I had hoped to have left this abuse behind in Dorne, but alas my dear niece has taken to her own lessons very well.”
“So much so that the cold nature of winter entirely escaped her notice,” Oberyn picked at Elia’s cloak once more. “Have heart, Uncle. She’ll not last half the day in this scrap. We shall pass some of the joust in relative peace.”
The men shared a laugh and Elia did her best not to look too put out. Only Prince Rhaegar abstained, choosing instead to step forward while undoing the clasp of his own cloak. She hadn’t a moment to prepare, for never had the possibility of it crossed her mind. But soon enough, the prince of the realm had removed his own thick fur cloak and pressed it into her hands.
“Only a foolish man would want such a sweet smile sent away,” the prince smiled reassuringly in the face of her sounds of protest. “It is winter, dear princess; we must preserve what warmth there is.”
“My prince is too kind,” she managed to stutter.
He laughed once more, in that same pleasant fashion. “Your prince has many cloaks to spare, but Dorne has only the one princess, yes?”
Later, when Oberyn was walking her to her rooms and she was running her fingers over the red embroidered dragon at the breast, her brother confronted her outright. “You were blushing.”
She did not look at him, nor did she remove her fingers from the dragon. “It was cold, brother.”
“It was not that kind of blush.”
“You’ve become some scholar in the nature of blushes?”
Oberyn stopped, not two feet from her door, and turned her around to look her in the eye. “He’s the heir, Elia.”
“I know who he is.”
“Ah, yes, you do know. But do you understand?”
Of course she did. “Just because he is destined for a golden beast does not mean I cannot smile at him.”
Oberyn huffed, a sound of pure annoyance. “You know little of the minds of men, sister.”
She dropped his arm. “But I know more than enough about the minds of princes, little brother.”
~0~
Their Lady Mother noticed the cloak as well, though she said nothing on the matter. One lifted eyebrow and that was all the commentary the Lady of Dorne would provide. Elia was immediately dismissed to wash and prepare for the joust, a flood of maids trailing at her feet. The princess knew better than to resist, especially now, and submitted herself to their ministrations. A bath in scented water, three maids to towel her dry (one maid for her hair alone), and another two maids to dress her in her smallclothes.
Elia winced, but uttered not one complaint as the maids came forth with her dress. The voluminous skirts and tight bodices of the northern styles were not something to which Elia was accustomed. She much rather preferred the breezy silks and free flow of the Dornish dress; these costumes were far too restrictive. Even the slippers that they wore in the north were tight and pinching, and she had not a hope to switch for any of her sandals as her Lady Mother had warned her endlessly of the cold and the horror of frostbitten toes.
The dress they brought to her was not the one Mother had selected the day before. Elia frowned at the red and orange material, traced the golden embroidery with one finger while a nervous redheaded maid swore to her that the change was done at the behest of the Lady of Dorne. Elia had no real protest to make, for the dress was lovely as any other in her chest, but the green one from before had been her favourite of all the new ones.
The maids did their work well, two pulling the dress onto her frame, tying up laces and smoothing out skirts before bringing the slippers. Another maid worked feverishly at Elia’s hair, braiding an intricate net of hair at the top of her head before allowing the rest to fall down in smooth, silky curls. One last maid fluttered about in front of Elia’s face with all the face paints the Lady had recently purchased. Elia waved away much of the white pastes, her own skin already too pale for her tastes. The lip paints and the kohl for her eyes remained and when the maid stepped away, Elia’s face felt not as heavy as she feared it would.
Perfumes were dotted at her wrists and along the nape of her neck. The redheaded maid was fussing with the neckline of the dress and the modesty of Elia’s small breasts when they heard the beginnings of the argument. Oberyn and the Lady were in fierce disagreement over something, so much so that even a few of the maids were casting curious glances to the closed chamber door.
Elia pushed away her maids, impatiently tugging on the last of the rings herself and stilling for a tense few seconds while a heavy, golden necklace was fastened around her neck. The bright red ruby pendant rested nicely on the bare skin just above the swell of her breasts, but it felt colder than it should and Elia could not help but flinch when it first touched her skin.
However, the pendant and all other concerns were lost in her rush to see stop the commotion outside. She all but flew out the door into Mother’s chambers, unsurprised to see both mother and son red-faced and glaring but still confused as to why.
Oberyn looked her way, his eyes narrowing in rage. “Really, Mother? If you insist on taking up lion-baiting, can’t you find anyone else to be your bait? Why dangle Elia in front of them? Have you no better use for your only daughter?”
“Oberyn, stop it!” Elia felt as surprised as her mother looked, but she pressed on regardless. “Must you make such a scene? Half the castle can hear you.”
Oberyn shook his head. “Look at yourself! Don’t you see what she’s doing? That dress, that cloak-even the bloody jewellery is obvious!”
“She looks beautiful,” the Lady interjected, her tone calm and even now that Elia was present. “A true Dornish princess.”
“Dressing her like a dragon will only bring her further in Lannister scrutiny. You think Tywin Lannister will stand for such an obvious rebuke?”
This was getting further and further out of hand. Elia could see the servants watching with open curiosity, could hear the shuffling footsteps of the maids as they tried quietly to eavesdrop. “Oberyn, I said stop it. Why do you always do this?”
“Elia, you don’t under-“
“I am not a fool, little brother!” Elia stepped closer to Oberyn and lowered her voice to an angry hiss. “I know what this is, everyone knows what this is. But as it is, it is acceptable. The colours of House Martell-yes, red is one of our colours as well!-and a gift from the prince himself-which only a fool would neglect to wear. Our mother knows what she is doing, and if the lions are upset, let them be! They at least will have the common sense not to rage and rail like a common tavern-dweller!”
It was, perhaps, a bit too far. Oberyn’s eyes darkened in a way she was not used to seeing, at least not intended for her.
Mother sighed, a sound heavy with disappointment. “Why can’t you be a little like your brother? A man needs calm, Oberyn; some small fount of it, at the very least.”
He left after that, spine straight, shoulders stiff. Elia watched him go silently, grateful for the weight of the Lady’s hand on her shoulder for she wanted nothing more than to run after her little brother. Squabbles between the siblings wasn’t unheard of, but Elia knew their history well. She was always the first to apologize, the first to relent. But this time, it would be different-it had to be different.
“He is not a child anymore,” Mother said that which was plainly on Elia’s mind. “He must learn, at some point, or there will be no hope for him.”
Elia said nothing, didn’t even flinch when Mother promptly put Oberyn out of mind and turned to assess her daughter. “Good, but you look pale-weaker than you did in the morning. There’s a broth on the table, still hot.”
Now it was Elia’s turn to sigh. “Mother, must I-“
“Yes, you must,” the Lady appraised her daughter shrewdly, a contemplative look in her eyes. “A little red in the cheeks, and you’ll be fine-beautiful, even. But the broth is a must; it will give you strength enough to sit through the whole tourney. Finish it; I suppose I must see to your escort.”
~0~
“Smile, dear niece, there’s much talk of the sweet smiles of Dornish princesses among the jousters today. Many are eager to win one for themselves.”
Elia rolled her eyes, tugging impatiently on her uncle’s arm. “You flatter so terribly, Uncle.”
“I flatter accordingly,” Lewyn corrected, content to stroll far too leisurely along the path to the tourney grounds. The prince’s cloak kept Elia warmer than her own, but the wind was still sharp and biting as it flew into their faces. Elia longed for the covered canopy of the tourney seats, a slight shelter from the cold air, but a shelter nonetheless. And if they arrived early enough, there might be enough time to send Lewyn to check on Oberyn, who had stomped off to get armored almost immediately after the argument before.
She didn’t want to worry so much, and she didn’t want to be the one to go running after him. But Oberyn was hotheaded and brash-and about to participate in the joust. To attempt the competition with such dismal peace of mind wouldn’t be to his advantage. Elia would happily give up being right if it stopped her brother from coming to harm.
But Uncle Lewyn seemed far less concerned. “And really, we wouldn’t want all your mother’s efforts to go to waste, would we? All those eligible sons of great houses, burning with curiosity over a smile that even the Prince himself has praised with such pretty words-it’s all your mother has dreamed of for years.”
“Uncle, you make it sound like you’re bringing me to market, displaying Dornish wares. Can a tourney not simply be a tourney?”
“Niece, you know as well as I that things are never just what they are meant to be,” Lewyn faced forward, eyes squinting as if he was trying to find something particular in the distance. “And the same goes for people as well.”
She wanted to laugh. “Very true, as you are now, Uncle. Whatever are you looking for?”
“Whoever,” was the quiet correction. Elia paused mid-step, turning her head to glare suspiciously at her uncle. Lewyn merely grinned before turning around to bow before his prince. Elia dipped down into her curtsy gracefully, slipping on a soft smile for the dragon prince.
“My prince,” she murmured demurely, a tone of voice which caused her uncle to snort. She spared him a quick glare, wondering exactly what was happening here and how she had not seen this coming.
“So, you are going to brave the cold for the tourney,” Rhaegar returned her smile with one of his own. She noted that he wore a cloak that was almost identical to the she wore, the black fur and red stitching in stark contrast to his white skin and silvery hair. “May I escort you the rest of the way?”
Elia barely stifled a short laugh. She knew she looked flustered-she felt flustered, but as she moved to say her uncle was her escort, Lewyn dropped her arm and offered her hand to the prince. “I believe I have to check on my lances before the joust starts; Elia would be delighted if my lord would lead her to the tourney grounds.”
Elia did not recall mentioning anything about delight. “Lances?” she chose instead to question, allowing the prince to place her hand on his arm and guide her to his side just as Lewyn stepped back.
“Of course, lances,” Lewyn had the gall to wink salaciously at her. “You wouldn’t want me to compete with inferior lances, would you niece?”
“Never, dear uncle,” Elia returned, tone deliberately devoid of emotion. “You best go and check-my delicate nerves will be in a terrible state until you do.”
Lewyn shook his head. “The gentle Dornishwoman,” he clucked his tongue in mock dismay, bowed to his prince once more, and sauntered away.
Rhaegar smiled at her once more before gesturing that they should continue. “You are upset,” he said, curiosity evident in his words.
She shook her head. “Yes, but with my dear uncle. I fear this has him thinking that he is terribly clever, or something of the like. However, if the trade is for the pleasure of my lord’s company, then perhaps it is not so onerous.”
“Only ‘perhaps’,” Rhaegar laughed. “Your uncle is not the only Martell with a problem of cleverness.”
“Alas, I know the limits of my own cleverness far better than my uncle. For instance, though I am pleased and very humbled, I cannot understand why the crowned prince of the realm would conspire for time with a girl he barely knows.”
Rhaegar laughed, genuinely amused by something beyond her grasp. “A surprise then, very well.”
“My lord?”
“I am afraid, my dear princess, that the conspiracy is entirely your doing,” Rhaegar smiled, a teasing quirk of the lips that confused her. “After all, how can a man not desire more of the sweet smile of a Dornish princess when they’ve only been permitted a miniscule sampling?”
Elia shook her head. “I did not know, my lord, that the Targaryen prince was such a flatterer.”
“He is not,” Rhaegar conceded with easy grace. “Usually, he is not. But I fear the Martell princess is to blame. Her mere presence inspires such rare behaviour from the prince.”
“Now you are just mocking, my lord.”
“Rhaegar.”
She stumbled then, too surprised and yet not surprised enough. This had gotten out of hand and well beyond the grasp of her wits. “I don’t understand, my lor-“
“Rhaegar,” he repeated, softer than before. “Please Elia, you must call me by my name.”
“But why?”
He looked pensive, glancing at her with some strange uncertainty before pulling it all behind another soft smile. “You will understand. I promise.”
The tourney passed in a blur of confusion, thundering hooves, and splintered lances. Elia sat beside her mother, acutely aware of their proximity to both the House Targaryen and House Lannister. Red and gold to her left, red and black to her right, and she could feel Tywin Lannister’s glare burning a hole through the embroidered dragon on the breast of her cloak.
When it was over, when rider after rider had fallen, when her brother fell from his seat at the hands of the dragon prince, when that same dragon prince splintered twelve of Lewyn Martell’s carefully inspected lances, she joined the spectators in a rousing cheer for the champion. The prince smiled broadly at his people before dismounting his horse and taking the customary wreath of winter roses in hand.
Then, in front of far too many of the great houses of the realm, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen made his way through the assembled lords and ladies and placed that wreath in the lap of Princess Elia Martell of Dorne. Those who were close enough to see would later claim that the Dornish princess smiled sweetly at her admirer, even blushed prettily when he brushed a kiss to the back of her right hand.
Not much was said of how the princess kept her trembling left hand clenched tightly in her lap, or of how her whole body shook terribly the second she realized what was about to happen.
Absolutely nothing was said of how the Lady of Dorne spent the entire time staring directly at Lord Tywin Lannister, something like a smirk on her face.
It was later, at the final feast of the tourney, that King Aerys Targaryen stood in the Baratheon great hall and announced the betrothal of his eldest son to the princess of Dorne. It was an announcement that was, ultimately, quite unnecessary.
~0~
Part Three