𝐄𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne never truly grasped what it meant to be a high-born lady; her mother and father had sheltered her from the vipers lurking in the shadows. Yet, as fate would have it, their protection could only shield her for so long before she was cast into a den brimming with treachery. Green or Black? The choice is hers, but she finds herself drawn to the hue of violet…
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Blood & Injury
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Please be kind, this is my first post. I'm open to any writing suggestions if anyone is willing to help me imporve.💜
West of Dorne, where the Torrentine River met the Summer Sea, rose a castle upon an island at the river's mouth. This was Starfall, the ancient stronghold of House Dayne. The old tomes, dating back through countless centuries, spoke of the progenitor of House Dayne who had followed a falling star to this very isle, where he raised the proud walls of the castle.
With the heart of the fallen star, the founder forged Dawn, the ancestral blade of House Dayne. The sword was as pale as milkglass, and its strength rivaled that of Valyrian steel.
Those who bore the sword were known as the Sword of the Morning, a title of great renown and envy across Westeros. Unlike other ancestral blades, which passed from father to son, Dawn was earned through valor, not merely inherited like a worn hand-me-down.
Bound by oaths to Martell, the Prince of Dorne had decreed that House Dayne must send emissaries to King's Landing. Lord Julius Dayne, upholding the ancient tenets of his house, accepted the prince’s command without hesitation. Thus, it was that you and your brother were tasked with representing Dorne at the capital.
Lord Julius had sired three children with his wife, Elena Dayne. His eldest and heir, Rupert, was a man of eighteen summers, as just as his father and gentle as his mother. His second son, Merek, a year younger than Rupert, was the current bearer of Dawn, honored with the title of Sword of the Morning.
Julius was immensely proud of his sons, giving thanks to the Seven nightly for the blessings of fatherhood. Yet, while his sons were his pride, his greatest joy was his daughter, you. At only seven years old, you were the spitting image of your mother—a cherubic and delicate girl who had become the apple of your family’s eye.
So, imagine the heavy heart of Julius as he prepared to send you away with Merek to King's Landing. The thought of parting with you was a bitter wound, knowing the treacherous court that King Viserys Targaryen had forbidden anyone to discuss.
In that realm of shifting alliances, where honor and oaths were discarded like discarded rags, your family’s position would be precarious.
Merek, having spent the night preparing for the journey, ensured that all was in readiness. The cool breeze from the Summer Sea brushed over Starfall as night deepened.
With his hand resting on the pommel of Dawn, Merek patrolled the castle, ensuring the safety of his family. He passed his mother's chambers first, then moved on to Rupert's. When he arrived at your room, he paused to peek inside, checking if you were troubled by nightmares before closing the door quietly, reassured that you were at ease.
Merek then reached his father’s chambers and knocked softly on the door, the chill of the night air lingering on his skin. Julius opened the door, his face stern and solemn. Without a word, he gestured for Merek to enter.
The Sword of the Morning stepped into the dimly lit room. “Father, I have ensured that every corner of the castle is secure. Mother, Rupert, and our sister are all settled for the night,” Merek reported, standing tall and resolute. Julius settled into a high-backed chair by the fire, the flickering flames casting long shadows on the walls. “You have done us a great service, my son,” he said, his gaze fixed on the fire, as though seeking answers within its depths.
Merek stood in silence, feeling the weight of the moment. After a pause, he turned to leave. “If that is all, I shall leave you to your rest.”
“Wait.”
Julius’s voice, firm yet gentle, halted Merek. He turned back, noting the unusual detachment in his father’s eyes. “Yes, Father?”
“Draw your sword,” Julius commanded, his tone brooking no argument. Though taken aback, Merek complied, laying the tip of Dawn’s blade upon the rich violet carpet. “Father, what is this for?” he asked, watching as his father moved to his bookshelf and selected a volume with deliberate care.
Julius held up the book—the Seven-Pointed Star, the sacred text of their faith. “I wish you to swear an oath,” Julius said, opening the book to a page depicting the Seven.
Merek’s brow furrowed. “An oath? What is its purpose?” His question drew a heavy sigh from Julius. The elder Dayne’s gaze remained fixed on the holy text, reflecting on the nights he had spent in prayer for his children.
“I need you to swear that no harm shall come to either you or your sister. No matter what trials you face, you must make her safety your utmost priority,” Julius explained.
“Once you arrive at court, only the gods know what treachery those vipers may bring upon you and her. As emissaries of Dorne, you represent not only our house but our land. Should war arise, it will be your duty to convey where our true loyalties lie.”
“Your sister is young and vulnerable, ripe for the manipulations of those who would prey upon her innocence.” Merek’s jaw tightened at the thought, his protective nature flaring. Julius, seeing the resolve in his son’s eyes, felt a pang of reassurance; his sons had been raised well.
“You and your sister may not return to us for some time. I trust no one more than you to protect her. I implore you to act as both brother and father in my stead. Guide her with the same principles your mother and I have instilled in you and Rupert. For she will need someone she can trust above all others.” The gravity of the responsibility weighed heavily on Merek, but he could not refuse.
He bent his knee and, with unwavering resolve, pledged, “I, Merek Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, son of Lord Julius Dayne of Starfall, swear before the Seven that no harm shall befall my sister. I shall guide her as both brother and protector, upholding the principles of our house with honor and dedication.”
Julius’s grip on the book tightened, his eyes reflecting both satisfaction and sorrow as he looked upon his son. “Then it is settled,” he said softly.
When the morn came, Starfall was a bustling hive of activity. The hour for Merek and the little lady to depart was inching ever closer, and preparations had been set in motion by Lady Elena Dayne to see two of her children off. Everything was almost in order, but almost was not enough…
“Where is your sister?” fretted Lady Elena, her eyes wide with worry.
Her daughter was nowhere to be seen, and it wasn’t until her maid informed her that the girl was not in bed that she realized her daughter was gone. Merek, who had been adjusting his gloves, glanced at his mother with a puzzled look. “Has she not come down?” he asked, recalling that she was in her room the night before when he had made his nightly rounds.
Lady Elena placed the back of her hand on her forehead, feeling faint. The particularly warm day in Dorne and the bustle around the castle did little to help her condition. “She is nowhere to be found. Her maid said her bed was empty when she went to rouse her.” This information caused Merek to frown deeply. They were due to board the ship and sail to Kingslanding, and there was no time to spare.
The castle grounds were alive with the sound of servants scurrying, horses being saddled, and the clatter of arms and armor. Merek scanned the courtyard, searching for any sign of his sister. He moved with purpose through the throng of people, his hand never far from the hilt of Dawn.
Starfall’s courtyard, usually serene, was now filled with the chaos of departure. Servants loaded crates and barrels onto the waiting ship, while Lady Dayne’s voice cut through the din, directing the preparations.
Merek’s eyes narrowed as he considered where his sister might have gone. You were a curious child, often wandering off on your own adventures within the castle’s walls. “Merek!” A voice called out, drawing his attention. It was Ser Cassian, one of the household knights. “We’ve searched the keep, the stables, and the observatory. She is not there.”
Merek groaned. As much as he adored you, you could be quite the handful at times. Adjusting his armor, he walked over to his men and a few nearby servants. “Search again,” he commanded, determined to find you himself this time.
Within the sun-dappled confines of the gardens of Starfall Castle, you cowered behind a pair of ancient, towering bushes. The dawn light had barely touched the horizon when you had slipped from your bed and fled to the gardens of your ancestral home, escaping the prying eyes of guards and servants alike.
The rustling of the leaves and the gentle hum of the Summer Sea in the distance were no solace to you. Instead, your tears fell like summer rain, mingling with the dew on the grass as you faced the cruel reality of being torn from everything you had ever known.
Though only seven years of age, you grasped the seriousness of the situation with a maturity beyond your years. Your father had never been one for sugar-coated words. His bluntness about your departure to the capital city was a harsh reality you were forced to confront.
You harbored no ill will towards him; you understood the weight of duty and the demands of Martell's mandate. Yet, the thought of leaving your beloved home, the only world you had ever known, was a bitter pill to swallow.
Your mother’s place was at your father’s side, bound by duty and love, and Rupert, the heir, could not abandon his responsibilities either. So, the mantle of representation fell upon you and Merek, to bear the banners of House Dayne and Dorne at the court of the King.
As you sobbed quietly, the sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears. “Sister?” came a gentle call. You wiped your tear-streaked face and peeked through the dense foliage to see your eldest brother, Rupert. His presence was a rare comfort, a beacon in your sea of fear.
Rupert had heard of your absence from your mother and Merek and, upon learning of your disappearance, had ventured into the gardens. His eyes softened with concern as he took in your trembling form. “There you are,” he said, his voice a soothing balm.
You reached out, grasping his extended hand as you crawled from your hiding spot. “I don’t want to go,” you whispered, fresh tears streaming down your face, mingling with the remnants of your earlier distress.
Rupert knelt before you, enveloping you in a warm, reassuring embrace. His touch was familiar and comforting, a gesture you had come to rely on in moments of fear. “I know,” he murmured, gently patting your back.
His calm demeanor was a contrast to your restlessness, but it did little to ease the ache in your heart. You buried your face in his shoulder, your voice choked with a plea. “Please don’t let them take me.”
For a brief moment, the bustling preparations of the day seemed to pause, the weight of the moment hanging heavy in the air. Rupert’s arms tightened around you, offering solace as he spoke softly, “I cannot stop what must be done, but I promise you this: you are not alone. You will have Merek.” Rupert’s voice was gentle, a final attempt to offer comfort as he held you close.
You shook your head against his shoulder, feeling the dampness of your tears staining his clothing. “I do not wish to leave Starfall,” you murmured, your voice muffled. You were perfectly content within the familiar walls of your home, where you felt safe and cherished.
Rupert gently pulled you away from his shoulder, meeting your gaze with a mix of sadness and resolve. “Fine,” he said, his tone softening as if he might persuade your father to reconsider.
But then he added, “Your presence in court has already been announced. I cannot change that.” His words caused you to look down, gripping at the cloth of your night dress. “But if you truly find Kingslanding to be unbearable, send me a raven,” he said, his voice steady. “You remember how to do that, yes?”
Rupert was a prodigy in both swordsmanship and diplomacy. While Merek excelled with the blade, Rupert’s strength lay in strategy and knowledge. He had always taken a keen interest in books, and he had endeavored to share this passion with you.
From a young age, he read to you, hoping to ignite a similar love for literature. It worked; you had learned to read and write, and Rupert had taught you the art of sending messages through ravens across the realm.
You nodded, recalling his lessons with a sniffle, “Yes.” You rubbed your tear-streaked face, finding comfort in his presence. Rupert smiled, his eyes softening as he wiped the remnants of your distress from your face. “Smart girl,” he praised, his tone warm and encouraging.
He lifted you from the ground, brushing away the leaves that clung to your hair. “If you truly find no pleasure in the capital, send me a raven. I will personally see to it that you are brought back home.” His offer was a compromise, a lifeline in the midst of your fears. He hoped that his words and promises would bring you some measure of peace as you faced the uncertain path ahead.
To Rupert’s relief, you had accepted his terms, and the tears on your cheeks began to dry. He gently brushed a stray strand of your disheveled hair behind your ear, his touch tender and reassuring. “Now, shall we get you ready?” he asked with a wry smile. “The vessel departs soon, and I don’t think the King would take kindly to receiving you at court in such a state.”
His jest, though lighthearted, brought a faint smile to your lips. With Rupert’s encouragement, you allowed him to carry you back to the castle. Rupert carried you through the corridors of Starfall, your small frame nestled securely in his arms. As he reached your chamber and opened the door, he found Isla, your maid, in a state of distress.
Her eyes widened in relief at the sight of you clutched in your brother’s embrace. “My Lady! You had us all worried sick!” Isla’s voice was a mix of worry and relief. She had been frantically searching since dawn, her anxiety only heightened by the absence of her young charge.
Rupert gave a soothing hum, his hand gently rubbing your back. “Now, Moonflower, what do you say?” he prompted. Though you had been raised with a keen awareness of your station, you were also taught to treat everyone with kindness, regardless of their rank. You rested your head against Rupert’s chest, muffled but earnest. “I’m sorry, Isla,” you apologized.
Isla’s stern expression softened as she let out a breathy sigh, her smile returning. “As long as you’re safe, my lady, nothing else matters.” Rupert carefully set you on your feet, and you stood on your own, steadied by the warmth of his presence.
“Isla,” Rupert addressed your maid, “if you could please prepare my sister quickly, we are running out of time.” His tone was urgent, but still carried the caring undertone of a protective older brother.
Isla nodded briskly, “Right away my lord.” her expression turned to one of fixed efficiency as she moved to assist you. Rupert stepped back, giving Isla and you a moment to prepare. Once Rupert left, Isla quickly set to work. There was no time for a proper bath, so she undressed you and scrubbed your skin with a sponge soaked in warm, scented water and oils.
The haste in her movements mirrored the ticking clock, every stroke of the sponge efficient yet gentle. Once you were clean, Isla turned her attention to your tangled hair, carefully brushing and fixing it into an elegant updo.
She then helped you into the dress—heavy and constricting, not at all to your liking. This was the fashion of the capital, or so your mother had said.
“We’ll have to bathe you properly on the ship, my lady,” Isla murmured as she tucked a stray strand of hair back into place. The dress felt foreign and uncomfortable, and as she laced it up, you couldn’t help but grumble.
You hadn’t even set foot in KingsLanding, and already you found it distasteful. “Why do I have to wear this now? Brother Merek says we’ll be at sea for three weeks.”
Isla chuckled softly, opening the door for you. “The lady says you must get used to them. The sooner, the better.”
To you, it all seemed like nonsense, unnecessary and bothersome. When you stepped outside, Rupert was waiting, leaning casually against the stone wall. His eyes lit up when he saw you. “Don’t you look beautiful, Starlet.”
On any other day, you might have twirled for him, basking in his praise, but today was different. Today, you had no taste for such things. “I feel like I’m melting,” you murmured, pouting as the weight of the dress pressed down on you.
Rupert smiled sympathetically, taking your small hand in his. “Come now, let’s get you to the courtyard.” Together, you walked down the familiar corridors, your eyes roaming over the walls and tapestries you had known all your life. You tried to commit every detail to memory, aware that this might be the last time you saw them.
The courtyard buzzed with frantic energy as you finally arrived. Servants and guards milled about, their faces tight with concern, until Merek’s sharp eyes caught sight of you. Relief flooded his expression, but it was quickly replaced by a stern glare as he marched over, his grip firm on your shoulders.
“Do you have any idea how worried we were?” Merek’s voice was low, more intense than you’d ever heard it, his hands trembling slightly.
Rupert, ever the calm one, placed a steadying hand on Merek’s shoulder, “Merek.” his voice cutting through the tension. “Our sister merely wished to see the gardens one last time,” he explained, his tone smooth and composed, a shield to protect you from Merek’s frustration.
With your safe return, the courtyard’s chaotic atmosphere began to settle. The relief was palpable, though it did little to ease the sorrow in your mother’s eyes. Elena, her regal bearing softened by the pain of parting, knelt before you, her hands gently cradling your face. Her touch was warm, comforting, yet her gaze held a desperate intensity, as though she feared this might be the last time she would ever see you.
“My sweet daughter…” Her voice quivered, the endearment laden with unspoken fears. She had often told you tales of your brothers, how they had run wild through these same halls, and how she had longed for a daughter to calm the storm they brought.
In you, she had found that balance, a reflection of herself, but gentler, purer. “Listen to your brother. Do not make trouble, okay?” The words were almost a plea, a mother’s last wish as she pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, the touch leaving a trace of warmth that would linger long after.
You clung to her, arms wrapped around her neck, your small frame trembling as you whispered, “I’m going to miss you, Momma…” The sorrow in your voice broke the dam, and her tears flowed freely, mingling with yours.
“I will write to you often, sweetling,” she promised, her voice thick with the grief of parting. The letters would be her only solace, the only way she could hold onto the daughter she was forced to let go of. With a reluctant sigh, she released you, and before you could fully register the loss of her embrace, your father’s arms enveloped you.
Julius Dayne, the Lord of Starfall, was a man of steel and stone, but in that moment, his touch was tender, his words laced with an almost tangible sadness. “My dear girl, I hope you can one day forgive this father of yours.” His voice was hoarse, weighed down by the burden of his duty. You could feel the rough texture of his cloak against your cheek as you buried your face in his shoulder, desperate to hold onto him for just a little longer.
He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a brief moment as if trying to imprint the feel of you into his memory. It would be years before he would see you or Merek again, and the knowledge pained him deeply. When he finally let go, it was as though the weight of the world had settled onto your small shoulders.
Merek’s hand found yours, his grip firm and reassuring as he led you toward the stone steps. The ship waited below, a vessel that would carry you far from the only home you had ever known. You watched through red eyes as Merek said his goodbyes.
As the ship began to move, Starfall slowly receded into the distance, the castle’s familiar towers and walls becoming mere silhouettes against the horizon. Your mother, father, and brother grew smaller until they were just specks, indistinguishable from the stones of the shore.
A linen blanket was draped over your shoulders, the rough fabric warming you against the chill breeze that swept across the deck. You glanced up to see Merek beside you, his face shadowed with the same reluctance that tugged at your heart. “The sea can get quite cold,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the creak of the ship’s timbers.
You leaned your head against his armor, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun. “Will we ever go back?” Your voice was a whisper, the question hanging between you like a distant hope.
“One day, in the near future perhaps…” Merek replied.
Three weeks at sea had taken a toll on your constitution. The endless sway of the ship and the unrelenting motion of the waves had left you seasick more times than you could count. Each bout of illness had been met with concerned frowns from Merek and Isla, their worry etched deeply in their expressions. This was your first voyage by sea, and the experience had been far from kind.
But today, the ship's journey was coming to an end. Land was in sight, and the promise of solid ground was a welcome relief. In your cabin, Isla worked diligently, her hands deftly arranging your disheveled hair.
She wove strands into a half-up, half-down style, securing it with delicate pearl ornaments that glistened like droplets of moonlight. Her soft giggles punctuated her efforts, a rare sound of lightheartedness in the somber cabin.
“You will surely turn heads, my lady,” Isla assured you with a twinkle in her eye. Her enthusiasm was infectious, though it did little to mask the anxiety that lay beneath. The court of King’s Landing was a far cry from the quiet, sheltered life you had known in Starfall.
As Isla stepped back to admire her work, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror. The pearls sparkled against your hair, and for a fleeting moment, you could almost see the youthful beauty Isla promised you would be noticed. The vibrant colors of your new court dress only heightened the effect.
It was deemed inappropriate for someone of your tender years to adorn themselves in darker hues, so Isla had selected a lighter palette of powdery colors that complemented your youthful appearance. The delicate shades of your gown whispered of innocence and grace, suitable for the court where every gesture and appearance was scrutinized.
You looked out of the porthole, watching the distant shores of Kingslanding draw closer with each passing wave. The anticipation of solid ground had your heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
“When will we be on land?” you asked, your voice betraying the impatience and lingering unease that had plagued you through the weeks at sea. The constant motion of the ship had been a relentless companion, and you longed for the solidity of land to soothe your seasick soul.
“Tis’ only a matter of time,” Isla replied, her tone light and reassuring. Just then, a knock echoed through the cabin, causing both you and Isla to glance toward the door. “Come in,” you called, your gaze returning to the mirror as Merek stepped through, resplendent in his ceremonial armor, the gleaming steel marking his rank as Sword of the Morning.
Merek’s eyes widened in exaggerated surprise, his expression mocking disbelief. “By the Seven! Is this truly my younger sister, or have I been cursed with a vision?” he teased, a grin spreading across his face. His playful tone elicited a snort from you, and you couldn’t help but blow a raspberry in his direction, your mood lightening despite the weariness of travel.
You huffed at your older brother, eyes narrowing in playful annoyance. “No curse necessary; that’s just your reflection of denial staring back at you,” you shot back, your tone sharp but playful. Isla shot a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, whereas Merek allowed his to flow out freely.
Merek’s fingers, cool and slightly damp from the morning sea mist, pinched your cheek with a playful firmness. “Cheeky girl,” he chided, a blend of teasing affection and brotherly mischief. As he released your flushed cheek, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Come, we’re due on deck.”
He turned and strode out of the cabin, the rhythmic creaking of the ship’s timbers beneath his boots accompanying his steps. You followed him, the scent of salt and brine hanging heavy in the air, mingling with the subtler aroma of freshly baked bread and morning dew that had been carried on the wind from the ship’s galley.
As you emerged onto the deck, the view before you was a tapestry of activity and grandeur. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, its towering silhouette stark against the pale sky, while several other vessels, their sails emblazoned with the sigils of noble houses, cut through the waters beside your ship.
Merek placed a reassuring hand on the small of your back, his touch firm yet comforting. “Sister,” he said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “you must be cautious. There are many rats in the capital.” He meant it both literally and figuratively, his eyes glinting with the knowledge of the city’s darker intrigues.
You wrinkled your nose at his warning, not fully grasping the breadth of his meaning. As you stepped forward, your gaze lingered on the approaching cityscape, in your opinion, it wasn’t as pretty as Starfall.
As you approached the looming edifice of the Red Keep, a thought crossed your mind: How could a king call such an ugly fortress home? The castle's grim, unadorned walls and cold, stony façade seemed almost to mock the very notion of grandeur.
You made a mental note to keep such opinions to yourself, at least until after your family’s formal presentation to His Grace.
When the ship finally docked, you observed the bustling scene at the quay. Servants scurried about, their duties clearly defined in the flurry of activity. Isla was among them, her presence a brief solace as she directed the porters to handle your belongings and ensure they were taken to your assigned chambers within the castle.
Merek’s call broke through your thoughts, and you looked up to see him extending his hand toward you. With a nod, you took his hand, feeling his grip firm yet gentle—a lifeline in the sea of nobles and courtiers that filled the docks.
The press of people moving like a tide threatened to swallow you, and Merek’s hand became a steady anchor. As you crossed the threshold into the Red Keep, the first thing that struck you was the oppressive gloom of the interior.
The stone corridors were dimly lit, with only the flickering light of torches casting uneasy shadows on the walls. The windows, narrow and high, admitted only faint glimmers of daylight, making the halls feel even more somber and foreboding.
You noted how the torches, though numerous, did little to dispel the pervasive darkness that seemed to cling to every corner.
Eager for this ordeal to end, you steeled yourself for the task ahead. All that was required of you was to bow and smile with the unwavering cheerfulness of a well-crafted doll, while your brother engaged in the formal exchange of pleasantries with the king.
Merek stood beside you, both of you waiting your turn in a line of noble families. The air was thick with the murmur of voices and the rustle of rich fabrics as each house was presented to the king. Beside you, an attendant held aloft the banner of House Dayne, its sigil—a radiant falling star and sword on a field of lavender—fluttering slightly in the draft of the grand hall.
Your gaze skimmed over the King, who greeted the other houses with a veneer of warmth, though he was perched upon a throne crafted from swords—a grim irony given the steel that surrounded him, ensuring a distance from all who approached.
To his left stood a woman in a green gown boasting emblems of the Seven-Pointed Star, her posture and demeanor suggesting she was the Queen Consort. Closer to the throne was another woman with the same striking silvery-blond hair as the King, draped in a black gown, who you presumed was Princess Rhaenyra, the heir apparent.
The tales of discord between the Queen and Princess were not lost on you; Rupert had warned you that Kingslanding was a battleground of black and green. Merek’s hand tightened around yours, a steady anchor in the sea of your growing unease.
The rhythmic pulse of the crowd seemed to dim, replaced by the thunderous beat of your own heart. The Red Keep’s grand hall, with its towering columns and opulent tapestries, seemed to press in on you with every passing second, its grandeur underscoring the gravity of the moment.
At last, the attendant, resplendent in his ceremonial garb, moved forward, lifting the banner of House Dayne high. The fluttering of silk and the murmurs of anticipation swirled around you, mingling with the rich scent of burning torches and the faint aroma of old stone.
The herald’s voice rang out, cutting through the din with authoritative clarity. "Presenting the Emissaries of Dorne. House Dayne of Starfall, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Merek Dayne, and his sister, Lady—"
His voice faltered briefly as he glanced at you, the silence stretching like a taut bowstring before he continued with a flourish.
"—the young Lady Dayne."
Merek released your hand and stepped forward with confidence. You followed closely, your steps measured and deliberate, the echoes of your slippers soft against the stone floor.
As you reached the dais, you performed a curtsy just as you had practiced, the motion smooth but your heart still fluttered with nerves. Merek knelt before the King, and you remained bowed, only straightening when your brother did, as tradition dictated.
Your gaze remained fixed downward, your lashes casting shadows over your cheeks, as Merek began to exchange pleasantries with King Viserys. Calm and measured, carrying the practiced ease of someone well-versed in courtly decorum. Your own hands were clasped tightly together in front of you, fingers intertwined as if seeking strength in their own grip.
Your eyes drifted to Dawn, the ancestral sword of House Dayne, which hung at Merek’s right hip. The blade, forged in the heart of a fallen star, gleamed faintly in the dim light of the hall.
The sight of it brought a small measure of comfort, in this foreign and imposing place. “It is an honor to be here at court, Your Grace. Thank you for receiving us warmly,” Merek said, his words polished and courteous. The pleasantries were a veneer, a thin layer of civility masking the reality beneath—a reality where alliances were fragile, and every word, every gesture, carried a hidden meaning.
King Viserys let out a hearty laugh, the sound warm and genuine, filling the grand hall and easing some of the tension that had gripped your heart. “The honor is ours,” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with the kind of easy authority that could only come from years of ruling.
“Perhaps now, with the Sword of the Morning present, the Kingsguard and City Watch will be able to sharpen their blades and learn the true meaning of knighthood.” His words, though light-hearted, carried a weight of expectation.
The King spoke with sincerity, his admiration for your brother apparent. It was easy to see why he had managed to rule during a time of relative peace; his demeanor was one of a man who preferred unity over division, strength tempered with kindness.
You dared a glance up at him, observing the easy smile that played on his lips, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement. It struck you then, how different he seemed from the harsh image the Iron Throne projected.
Here was a man who, despite the burdens of the crown, found joy in the simple things—a laugh, a jest, a moment of camaraderie.
But even as he spoke, you couldn’t help but remember the words Rupert had whispered in warning: that in Kingslanding, beneath the pleasantries and courtly manners, lurked ambitions as sharp as the blades that made up the Iron Throne.
You lowered your gaze once more, reminding yourself to tread carefully, even in the presence of a king who ruled with a smile.
Viserys leaned forward, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his throne as he regarded Merek with a curious tilt of his head. “And the child next to you is your sister, yes?” His gaze shifted, fixing on your smaller form with a discerning eye that seemed to weigh and measure all at once.
Merek whispered your name softly, prompting you to step forward. Your head rose, meeting the king's gaze with as much composure as you could muster. The vastness of the hall, the weight of the eyes upon you, and the gravity of the moment made your heart flutter in your chest.
“Isn’t the young Lady Dayne a bit too young to be an envoy?” King Viserys inquired, his tone neither harsh nor dismissive, but curious, almost as if he were genuinely intrigued by the decision to send a child to court. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, but also a flicker of concern, as if he wondered what kind of world would place such responsibilities on someone so young.
The question hung in the air, the murmurs of the court falling silent as all eyes turned to you. Merek's hand hovered just behind your back, a silent reassurance. Though the king's words were gentle, you felt the weight of their implications.
You were no ordinary child, and this was no ordinary visit. You were here as a representative of your house, a role thrust upon you by birth and circumstance. “My sister may be young, Your Grace, but she carries the wisdom of our house. Back in Starfall, we learn early that even the youngest must bear their share of burdens.”
Viserys smiled at that, a hint of respect in his expression. “Dorne has always been a land of fierce and proud people. I’m sure the young Lady Dayne will prove herself worthy of the task.” His gaze softened as he looked at you once more, a kind smile forming on his lips. “You must have quite the spirit, young one, to stand here today.”
You bowed your head gracefully, offering a demure smile. “Your praise is far too kind, Your Majesty.” Viserys leaned forward slightly, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Come closer, child,” he ordered, his tone gentle yet firm. It was not a request but a command.
You obeyed without hesitation, taking two careful steps closer. The marble floor felt cool beneath your feet, and the vastness of the hall seemed to close in around you as you approached the throne. Lifting your gaze, you looked up at the king, meeting his eyes with a mix of respect and quiet perseverance.
Viserys studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “May I inquire how old you are?” he asked, his voice softened by genuine interest. The question lingered in the air, and you felt the attention of the entire court focused on you.
The king’s gaze was not harsh, but rather warm, as if he sought to understand the person standing before him rather than merely assess your worth. The clamor of the court seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the quiet rustle of the king’s robes and the gentle thrum of your own heartbeat.
“Seven, Your Grace,” you replied with a clear, steady voice, determined to show that despite your age, you were worthy of standing in the halls of power.
Viserys leaned back into his throne, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Seven, ey?” he mused, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. He turned his gaze to Princess Rhaenyra, who stood at his side. Her silvery-blonde hair shimmered in the torchlight as she met her father’s gaze with a knowing smile.
“Isn’t Jacaerys of the same age?” he inquired, referencing his eldest grandchild. Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes flickering to you with a soft smile. “Indeed, Father. Jace is seven as well.” Viserys looked back at you, his smile widening. “A remarkable age, it seems. It’s good to see such promise in one so young,” he remarked, his voice carrying a warmth that suggested genuine approval.
“Perhaps you and my eldest grandson will find much in common,”
His words sparking a ripple of whispers among the gathered nobles. The murmurs spread like wildfire through the court, each noble exchanging glances filled with intrigue and speculation. It was clear to all that the King and his heir had taken a particular interest in you, the young Lady Dayne from the distant Starfall.
In the delicate dance of politics and power, such favor could mean many things, but one truth stood out starkly: you were to be a companion, perhaps even a playmate, to the future King of the Seven Bloody Kingdoms.
You and Merek retreated to your chambers in the Red Keep, the door clicking shut behind you as both of you leaned heavily against the solid wood. As of now, the very thought of attending the garden party hosted by the queen felt like another chore to check off on today’s list.
Without a word, you sauntered over to the bed, your steps slow and dragging. When you reached the edge, you collapsed into the plush sheets, the cool fabric enveloping you like a cocoon. It was a brief respite from the tension that had been coiling within you all day. “My feet ache…” you whined, burying your face into the soft pillows. The slippers you had been forced to wear were stiff, cutting into your skin with every step.
Merek let out a soft chuckle as he slumped down beside you, his back resting against the bedpost. "The court is no place for the weak, little sister," he teased, though the weariness in his voice betrayed his own exhaustion.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he tilted his head back, letting it rest against the carved wood. "But feel free to relax now, or perhaps familiarize yourself with the keep?" You lifted your head from the pillow, a puzzled frown creasing your brow. "Would it not be rude not to attend the Queen’s garden party?" you inquired.
Merek stood up from his spot, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots as he adjusted the straps of his armor. He would need to change out of it for the event, but his movements were unhurried, almost deliberate. "Lest you wish to be smothered by the other noble ladies," he said, a wry smile playing on his lips, "then I would advise you to stay here. Besides, no one can fault a child for being tired or curious."
Merek had not been deaf to the whispers of the other nobles when the two of you were presented at court. The King’s interest in you had not gone unnoticed, and with it, a thousand schemes had likely been born.
King Viserys had plans for you—plans that involved befriending his grandson, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. The prospect of being drawn into the politics of the royal family was daunting, and Merek knew it. Attending the Queen’s garden party would only place you further into the spotlight, where every smile, every word, would be scrutinized and considered.
You groaned at the thought of noble ladies fawning over you, pinching your cheeks and smothering you with their false affections. The mere prospect made your skin crawl. Sprawled across the bed, you let out a heavy sigh. "I think I should like to remain here," you decided, the plush pillows beneath your head offering a welcome refuge from the world outside.
Merek nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached for the door handle. "Then I shall attend for both of us," he said, his voice laced with understanding. He turned to leave but paused as if remembering something. "Oh, and before I forget."
From within his armor, he pulled out a small book, no larger than the size of his palm. Its worn leather cover was familiar, a deep shade of brown that had seen better days. "I have something for you," he said as he walked over to the edge of your bed, holding the book out for you to see.
You turned your head lazily, your eyes narrowing in recognition. "Isn't that...?" The cover sparked a memory, and your thoughts raced to catch up. Then it dawned on you, your eyes widening in realization. "Isn't that from Rupert’s?" recognizing the book from your eldest brother’s personal collection.
Merek's grin widened, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he placed the book into your hands. "Indeed it is," he confirmed, his voice laced with a hint of defiance. You frowned at him, feeling a mix of surprise and apprehension. Rupert was notoriously strict about his personal collection, never allowing anyone to touch his books unless he was present to supervise.
The thought of him discovering this theft made your stomach tighten. "He’ll be furious with you," you muttered, clutching the book a little tighter, your voice filled with a mixture of worry and disbelief.
Merek merely shrugged, unfazed by the prospect. "Well, unless he’s willing to travel three weeks at sea or a month on horseback to retrieve something so small, then I should be fine, no?" His tone was light, dismissive, as though the idea of Rupert embarking on such a journey for a single book was laughable.
“Find a quiet place to read it,” your brother suggested before turning on his heel and departing. You watched as he left, the door closing with a soft click, leaving you alone with the book. The cover, a rich royal blue with intricate silver lining, felt cool against your fingertips.
“Tales of a Black Raven,” you whispered, tracing the title with your thumb. The emphasis on the raven’s color puzzled you, given that ravens were typically black. It was a curious choice, one that made you wonder if the tales within would reveal the reasoning behind it.
Your gaze drifted to the window, where the sunlight filtered through, casting long shadows across the room. The thought of finding a quiet corner to immerse yourself in the book tugged at your mind. You recalled that the Red Keep had a godswood, a sacred place often associated with solitude and reflection. It seemed like the perfect place to lose yourself in the tales within the book.
After a moment of consideration, you pulled the servant’s bell. Within minutes, a maid entered the room, her head bowed low, her posture stiff with deference. “You called, Lady Dayne?” she asked, her voice soft, almost hesitant. You couldn’t help but compare her to Isla.
Isla was like a burst of sunshine, her smile bright and warm, her laughter as gentle as a spring breeze. The maid before you, however, was the opposite—timid, almost fragile, as if a single harsh word might shatter her completely.
You couldn’t help but notice the differences, a review of the distinctions between Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Dorne, with its sun-soaked sands and relaxed customs, stood in opposite to the stiff and formal ways of the rest of Westeros. Your mother often remarked on it, calling the other regions “stiff as boards.”
So, perhaps it was no surprise that the help in the Red Keep would mirror that rigid formality. You softened your voice, trying to project warmth, hoping to ease the maid’s obvious tension. “If I am not mistaken, the Red Keep has a godswood, no?” you asked, your tone gentle.
The maid nodded quickly, still refusing to lift her gaze from the floor. “Yes, my lady. It is located in the northern corner of the castle grounds.” You offered her a small, reassuring smile, though you doubted she noticed it. “Good. Please lead me there.”
She hesitated briefly, as if unsure whether to proceed, then gave a quick nod. “As you wish, Lady Dayne.” With that, she turned and began to lead the way, her steps careful and measured, almost as if she feared making a mistake.
You followed her through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, clutching the small book to your chest. The castle’s majesty loomed over you, to think that this castle was built only a few centuries ago and became the capital. When you finally arrived, the sight that greeted you was unlike anything you had ever seen.
The weirwood tree stood at the center of the godswood, its pale bark almost glowing in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. Its blood-red leaves rustled softly in the breeze, creating a quiet, almost sacred atmosphere. You stared at it, mesmerized by the sight. “Pretty…” you mumbled to yourself, before quickly catching yourself and coughing to cover your lapse.
Turning to the maid, you realized you didn’t know her name. “Thank you for leading me here,” you said, your voice gentle as you inquired, “What is your name?”
“Sienna, my lady,” she replied softly, still keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, as if afraid to meet your gaze. You huffed lightly, not out of annoyance but finding, and placed a hand on hers.
The unexpected touch startled her, and she looked up at you, wide-eyed with shock. The idea that a noble lady would touch someone like her seemed almost unfathomable to her.
Once you had a good look at her face, you offered her a warm smile. “Now I can see you properly. Thank you, Sienna,” you said, this time giving your thanks with the sincerity and respect she deserved.
Her expression softened, though she still seemed surprised. “You’re welcome, my lady,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but carrying a hint of gratitude. With that, she stepped back, “I shall stay at the side, my lady.” giving you space to explore the godswood on your own.
You walked along the stone path, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the soft earth and fallen leaves. The air was cooler here, the shade of the godswood offering a respite from the heat of the day. As you approached the weirwood tree, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of reverence for the ancient, twisted giant. Its bark was smooth yet strangely alive beneath your fingertips as you settled down against its massive trunk.
With a quiet sigh, you opened the small book Merek had given you, the rich blue cover contrasting against the white of your dress. The pages felt slightly rough under your fingers, a reminder of how old and cherished the tales within were. The words began to draw you in, weaving a story as dark and mysterious as the black raven in its title.
Completely absorbed in the tale, you remained blissfully unaware of the presence high above in the branches of the weirwood. The figure perched there, silent as a shadow, observed you with keen interest. The leaves rustled softly, but you paid no heed, lost in the world of the book. Yet the presence above lingered, watching, as if waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
That is, until disaster struck.
“Huh—! Woah!”
A startled cry rang out from above, but before you could react, something—or rather, someone—came crashing down on top of you. The impact sent you sprawling against the base of the weirwood tree, the side of your forehead colliding painfully with one of its gnarled, protruding roots.
A sharp jolt of pain shot through your skull, and you winced, instinctively raising a hand to the throbbing spot. Warmth spread beneath your fingertips as you gingerly touched the wound.
A gasp came from beside you, and you turned to see a boy, who looked to be about your age, crouched nearby with wide, worried eyes. His hair was as dark as coal, and his expression was painted with guilt and concern.
“I—I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” he stammered, his voice trembling as he reached out as if to help you but hesitated, uncertain.
You blinked at him, still disoriented from the sudden fall. The boy's worry was evident in his fidgeting hands and the way his eyes darted from your injury to the blood that began to seep from the wound. His face paled at the sight, and his distress was palpable.
“Lady Dayne!”
Sienna, who had heard the commotion, came running toward you both. Her face was a mask of panic as she quickly took out a handkerchief and pressed it against your wound. The pressure made you wince as the cloth came into contact with your bleeding flesh. You pulled your hand away, revealing it stained with your own blood.
The boy beside you looked around frantically, his eyes settling on a knight draped in a golden cloak. “Ser Harwin, help!” he cried out with desperation.
The commander of the City Watch, Ser Harwin, turned sharply and strode toward you with urgent steps. His presence was commanding, his face set in a focused expression. “My prince!” he said as he knelt beside the boy, concern etched deeply into his features.
It was then that the reality of the situation hit you like a cold wave. The boy who had fallen on you, the one now scrambling for help, was none other than Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Your heart raced as you realized that you were not only in the presence of the heir apparent but had also just had a rather unfortunate encounter with him.
Ser Harwin’s gaze flickered from Jacaerys to you, his eyes narrowing with concern. “What happened here?” he asked, his voice firm yet gentle.
Jacaerys’s face was pale, his eyes wide with panic. “I-I was climbing the heart tree and fell on top of her,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “She’s bleeding!” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if trying to contain his guilt.
Ser Harwin nodded sharply, taking in the scene. He gently moved aside the handkerchief Sienna had pressed against your wound and inspected the injury. The knight's face hardened, but his touch was steady as he examined the gash on your forehead.
“We need to get her to the maester,” Ser Harwin said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “The scratch needs proper care.” With that, he carefully lifted you into his arms, his strength and gentleness apparent in his grip.
Jacaerys’s face was a mask of guilt and worry as he watched Ser Harwin carry you away. His expression only deepened as Sienna’s concerned voice broke through. “My prince, are you alright?”
Jacaerys tried to rise but winced in pain, his right foot buckling beneath him. “I… I twisted my ankle,” he admitted.
Ser Harwin’s brows furrowed as he assessed the situation. The thought of how the prince’s mother would react to this incident was evident in the knight’s stern expression. “Best you come too, my prince,” he said with a hint of urgency.
He turned to Sienna, “Help him,” Ser Harwin instructed. “We need to ensure he receives care as well.” Sienna nodded, carefully helped Jacaerys to his feet, supporting him as he hobbled with her assistance. As they made their way back to the castle, Ser Harwin led the way, to the maester.
As you were carried through the winding halls of the Red Keep, your mind struggled to grasp the absurdity of the situation. The quiet hum of the castle's corridors seemed to mock the chaos that had just unfolded.
Your thoughts were a jumble of confusion and disbelief—Prince Jacaerys had fallen from the godswood tree, landing on you, and now both of you were injured on your first day in the capital.
You clung to Rupert’s book with your uninjured hand, attempting to keep it safe from the blood that had stained your other hand. Despite the pain throbbing at your forehead and the awkwardness of being carried, a strange sense of calm settled over you.
The royal drama unfolding around you seemed almost surreal. You neared the maesters' chambers, the reality of the situation began to sink in: your first encounter with the capital had been far from ordinary.
Orywle, the maester, took one look at the scene and quickly assessed the situation. He nodded to Ser Harwin and gestured for him to set you down on a wooden table near the center of the room. The room was filled with the sharp scent of medicinal herbs and the soft murmur of the maester’s preparations.
Jacaerys, wincing with every step, eased himself into a chair while Sienna hovered anxiously nearby. Despite the discomfort, the prince’s concern for you was evident in his furrowed brow and restless movements.
Orywle’s attention remained focused on Jacaerys, his experienced hands deftly working to stabilize the prince’s twisted ankle. “It is best that you refrain from putting any strain on the foot, my prince,” he advised, wrapping the injury with a firm but gentle bandage.
Sienna, her hands trembling slightly, took the handkerchief from Ser Harwin. She carefully replaced it against your forehead, her expression a mix of worry and concentration. The pressure of the cloth was soothing, though it did little to alleviate the sharp sting of the injury.
“Hold still, my lady,” Sienna instructed softly. Orywle’s gaze shifted to you as he approached, his hands steady as he began to examine your injury. “How did this happen?” he asked, his voice calm but inquisitive.
You took a moment to gather your thoughts, the pain making it difficult to concentrate. “I had gone to the godswood to read,” you explained, wincing slightly as the maester’s hands probed the injury. “Once the prince fell, my head made contact with the root of the weirwood tree.”
Orywle nodded, his expression one of understanding. He continued his work with practiced efficiency, his touch both precise and gentle as he tended to your wound. The room, though filled with the smell of medicinal herbs and the low murmur of concern, seemed to hold its breath as the maester’s skilled hands worked to bring relief.
The door to the room swung open with a loud creak, and Merek stormed in, his face a mask of worry. “Sister!” he called out, he had came running from the garden party once he heard word of your state. Rushing to your side, his gaze quickly swept over the scene, taking in the sight of you on the table with your forehead being cleaned of blood, and the prince sitting down nervously with a bandaged right foot.
Following closely behind Merek were Princess Rhaenyra and her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon. Rhaenyra’s expression was a mix of concern and anger as she rushed to her son’s side. “Jace!” she exclaimed, her voice choked with emotion as she knelt beside him, checking the bandage with trembling hands.
Laenor remained by the door, his presence imposing yet silent as he observed the unfolding chaos with a sharp, concerned gaze.
Merek placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his face softening as he looked at you. You could barely respond, your head throbbing and vision wavering slightly. “I’m... alright,” you managed to murmur, though the pain and confusion made it difficult to fully articulate your feelings.
Rhaenyra, her attention now divided between her son and you, cast a worried glance in your direction. “How did this happen?” she asked, her voice carrying an edge of urgency as she looked to Orywle for answers.
Orywle, still focused on his work, glanced up briefly. “The Lady Dayne was struck by a root when the prince fell from the godswood tree. She suffered a blow to the head, but we are addressing it now.” He finished up cleaning your injury and gently lathered a salve on it.
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened with a mix of concern and apology, her gaze flickering between her son and you. Her distress was palpable as she stepped forward, her royal composure wavering in the face of the unfolding chaos. “Please accept my apologies for my son’s recklessness,” she said, her voice edged with genuine regret.
Merek, though his anger simmered beneath the surface, held his tongue, knowing full well the consequences of raising his voice against the princess. Instead, he offered a restrained smile, his demeanor courteous despite the turmoil within. “It was only an accident, Your Highness,” he replied, his tone steady. “Children often find themselves in such predicaments. There is no need for apologies.”
Rhaenyra grimaced, her gaze settling on Jacaerys as she chose to say nothing further, retreating back to her son’s side. Merek, with a careful touch, cleaned the blood from your hand. Orywle, the maester, handed him a small pot of balm. “Apply this to the injury to prevent scarring,” he instructed, his tone practical and steady.
Merek took the balm, his expression one of quiet resolve. Lifting you gently, he nodded gratefully to Ser Harwin. “Thank you for your assistance. We will take our leave now.” With a bow to Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, he carried you back to your chambers.
Rhaenyra’s gaze was sharp as she fixed it on her son. “What were you thinking, climbing the heart tree?” Her voice was stern. Jacaerys, his fingers nervously twisting together, avoided her gaze. The guilt etched on his face was palpable.
He hadn’t wanted to attend the garden party. The whispers of the nobles, harsh and biting, had been enough to make him dread the gathering. Despite being acknowledged as Laenor’s son, the rumors persisted.
His darker hair, so different from the silvery blond of his mother and Laenor, only fueled the gossip. He and his younger brother, Lucerys, bore no resemblance to Laenor, instead sharing more traits with the commander of the City Watch, a truth that made the whispers sting even more.
It didn’t help that the Queen Consort seemed to take a certain pleasure in the whispers that followed him. Jacaerys was weary of the endless murmur of 'bastard' that trailed after him and his mother. “I didn’t want to go to the party,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “They only judge me.”
In a desperate bid for escape, he had sought refuge in the godswood, climbing the ancient tree to find solace among its branches. It was there, from his perch high above, that he first noticed you. You had expressed no malice, only a sense of wonder as you marveled at the weirwood tree. That pure, untainted curiosity struck him as foreign, something he longed for but rarely found.
He had watched you from the tree, noticing the way you settled at the base to read, unaware of his presence. It was only when he lost his footing and fell, injuring you in the process, that he realized the cost of his flight from his troubles.
Rhaenyra sighed deeply, her fingers gently combing through Jacaerys’ dark locks. “It is still unbecoming of a prince to act as a ruffian,” she said, her tone soft yet firm.
“You will make amends with Lady Dayne in the morning. Am I heard?” Though Alicent and others might cast aspersions on her and her children, Rhaenyra knew it was paramount to raise her sons with honor and propriety.
Jacaerys nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mother.”
Rhaenyra’s expression softened, a smile touching her lips. “Good.”
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