The sky was clear in King’s Landing, the atmosphere light, as the Crown Prince strode out of the Red Keep. His indigo eyes were fixed upon the ever-milling crowd outside, curious at the activity and fuss that seemed to be taking place. It was to be an exciting day, as he was to meet Lady Elia Martell, his bride-to-be. He had no say in it, and lived off rumors of her, her brother, and the Martell family.
Exotic, unlike the rest of Westeros, or so he was told. At least not half as likely to stab him in the back as those of the West, nor as boring as those of the North, but still, he held concerns over this, and they escaped him in a sigh as he finally came to a rest outside of the Red Keep, besides a statue of a dragon, one of three that graced the stairs up to the Red Keep. He stood at the central one that graced the two sets of stairs. The other dragons flanked it. “What is it?” A blue-eyed knight asked the prince.
He did not answer immediately, but set his lyre down and pulled himself up onto the pedestal where the dragon rested, sharing the space besides its raised, clawed hand. He reached his hand down, and the silvery lyre was handed up to him, “I am merely concerned of this arrangement, Ser Selmy,” he answered, as he settled the lyre on his lap and then started to pull the long strands of silver hair back. “I know that we are distantly related and that is why my father has arranged this,” after all, the Martells married into the Targaryens ages and ages ago, “yet I am not certain it is a good match.”
“You haven’t even met her!” The Kingsguard said, “You must give her a chance, your grace.”
“I will,” he promised, hair finally tied back with a black string so it wouldn’t get in the way of his playing. The sky may be clear, but the breeze was still a nuisance. “Is it true, though? Is she fragile?” What he heard of the Martells usually suggested anything but fragility. He heard of the great strength and cunning of her brother, Oberyn. He heard of Doran and how the man was well-traveled, and married a woman of Essos. All that he heard of Dornish women, too, seemed to tell him that this one should be spirited and free-willed, and yet every rumor suggested she’d be as willful as a Frey.
He did not want a servant. He did not want someone as his own mother, Rhaella, weak-willed and defeated. As much as he loved his mother, it was hard to look upon her most days. “I do not know, your grace,” Selmy answered him honestly, “I have not met her myself, but Lord Steffon Baratheon searched high and low for a suitable bride for you.” As he saw the melancholy look enter the prince’s eyes, he suggested, “Don’t you know the song of the Dornishman’s Wife, though?”
A smile teased on his lips at that, “Mm, I may know that one,” he said, and his fingers strummed over his lyre, the strings, before they found the ones he wanted and they started to strum the familiar melody, improving his mood a bit as the wind continued to blow.
He was grateful he hadn’t worn his black armor, though the black tunic was doing him no favors that day, but at least his slacks didn’t match – red instead. It may have been winter, but it was still too warm in King’s Landing. Of course, the white ravens had only recently flown to announce the change of the seasons. It was not thought to be a long one, at least. It would be a mild winter if the Gods were good, which they had been of late. The winters had been short, though many, the seasons shifting quickly, but it gave them plenty of time to prepare the harvests.
Before he could part his lips to sing, though, a feminine voice did.
“The Dornishman’s Wife was as fair as the sun
And her kisses were warmer than Spring
But the Dornishman’s blade was made of black steel
And it’s kiss was a terrible thing.”
Rhaegar did not cease vibrating the strings, but his eyes sought the unannounced companion, and they fell upon a woman with long, auburn hair, and wildfire eyes, and a similar color scheme to his own in her dress. The guards near her wore the colors of House Hetherspoon – if the spoon on some of their armor didn’t give it away. They were expected. His mother, Rhaella, had met the Hetherspoon woman while the Tourney for Viserys three years ago went on in Lannisport, though he did not recall her.
His lips quirked upwards more as she sang along, before he stilled the strings with his hands, and shifted down from his pedestal. “Lady Aemilia Hetherspoon, I presume?”
Lady Aemilia Reyne smiled at the Prince’s greeting, and bowed her head, but not her form, before him, “You presume correctly, Your Highness,” she greeted, before she lifted her eyes back up to his indigo orbs – the purple of his home. Traits always carried, like the green eyes of the Western lions, or manes of red. “I apologize for disrupting you, we only just arrived.”
“Nonsense, it is good to know my mother has found a woman who actually has talent for song, and not just someone trained in it.” There was a difference to Rhaegar, and the woman nodded her agreement.
“Too many highborn women sit at their harps and sing when they shouldn’t, ever, but I digress.” She was not there to see him, nor did she desire to linger. The road had been long, and she knew the guards that had accompanied her were looking forward to leaving her side just as well, to enjoy the brothels and bars of King’s Landing, before they would return to Hetherspoon lands. “I should not keep your mother waiting.”
“Ah, no,” he glanced then to Barristan, “I should await my betrothed, do you mind showing her the way from here?”
“Princess Elia Martell is arriving today?” She already knew who the betrothed was to be. The woman made it a point to stay informed. Yet, she had not known she would arrive that same day. “Is Prince Oberyn to be with her?” There was an undeniable excitement in her voice at the question, and one of the guards wearing the spoon let out a groan at the question.
A muttered, “Please, no.”
His wish would be denied. “Spoon!”
The Red Viper had rushed ahead of his own entourage, separating from his sisters when he saw the familiar Sigil of House Hetherspoon. “Viper,” her grin could have almost been called poisonous as she turned fully to face him.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, “Do not tell me you are here to court the prince as well?” He jested, though his eyes roved over the prince then, “Not that I would blame you at all….” Ever the bold one, even when it was unappreciated. Or perhaps, especially when it was unappreciated.
Rhaegar fluttered his lashes, uncertain how to react or how these people tied together, while Barristan Selmy seemed equally confused.
“No, I am entering into Queen Rhaella’s services,” she answered the man. Both of his dark brows rose, and a smile touched his lips, but he didn’t speak the mischief in his gaze.
Highly inappropriate to speak of their shared interest in poisons when it came to her service to Rhaella, right in front of the prince, but the man would not deny his curiosity. He did snap out of it when he heard Barristan clear his throat. “Prince Martell….” Barristan addressed, “You are familiar with Lady Hetherspoon?”
“We have some common interests in exotic foods and pretty men,” Oberyn answered cheekily, before he stepped back and then, more properly, bowed before the prince, “I do apologize, I got caught up in seeing an old friend,” he said, “Your Grace, please forgive my insubordinance, and allow me to introduce my sisters,” for even the bastard was a sister to him. It meant nothing to him that she was not trueborn, she was his blood, and deserved that same respect.
Exotic, unlike the rest of Westeros, or so he was told. At least not half as likely to stab him in the back as those of the West, nor as boring as those of the North, but still, he held concerns over this, and they escaped him in a sigh as he finally came to a rest outside of the Red Keep, besides a statue of a dragon, one of three that graced the stairs up to the Red Keep. He stood at the central one that graced the two sets of stairs. The other dragons flanked it. “What is it?” A blue-eyed knight asked the prince.
He did not answer immediately, but set his lyre down and pulled himself up onto the pedestal where the dragon rested, sharing the space besides its raised, clawed hand. He reached his hand down, and the silvery lyre was handed up to him, “I am merely concerned of this arrangement, Ser Selmy,” he answered, as he settled the lyre on his lap and then started to pull the long strands of silver hair back. “I know that we are distantly related and that is why my father has arranged this,” after all, the Martells married into the Targaryens ages and ages ago, “yet I am not certain it is a good match.”
“You haven’t even met her!” The Kingsguard said, “You must give her a chance, your grace.”
“I will,” he promised, hair finally tied back with a black string so it wouldn’t get in the way of his playing. The sky may be clear, but the breeze was still a nuisance. “Is it true, though? Is she fragile?” What he heard of the Martells usually suggested anything but fragility. He heard of the great strength and cunning of her brother, Oberyn. He heard of Doran and how the man was well-traveled, and married a woman of Essos. All that he heard of Dornish women, too, seemed to tell him that this one should be spirited and free-willed, and yet every rumor suggested she’d be as willful as a Frey.
He did not want a servant. He did not want someone as his own mother, Rhaella, weak-willed and defeated. As much as he loved his mother, it was hard to look upon her most days. “I do not know, your grace,” Selmy answered him honestly, “I have not met her myself, but Lord Steffon Baratheon searched high and low for a suitable bride for you.” As he saw the melancholy look enter the prince’s eyes, he suggested, “Don’t you know the song of the Dornishman’s Wife, though?”
A smile teased on his lips at that, “Mm, I may know that one,” he said, and his fingers strummed over his lyre, the strings, before they found the ones he wanted and they started to strum the familiar melody, improving his mood a bit as the wind continued to blow.
He was grateful he hadn’t worn his black armor, though the black tunic was doing him no favors that day, but at least his slacks didn’t match – red instead. It may have been winter, but it was still too warm in King’s Landing. Of course, the white ravens had only recently flown to announce the change of the seasons. It was not thought to be a long one, at least. It would be a mild winter if the Gods were good, which they had been of late. The winters had been short, though many, the seasons shifting quickly, but it gave them plenty of time to prepare the harvests.
Before he could part his lips to sing, though, a feminine voice did.
“The Dornishman’s Wife was as fair as the sun
And her kisses were warmer than Spring
But the Dornishman’s blade was made of black steel
And it’s kiss was a terrible thing.”
Rhaegar did not cease vibrating the strings, but his eyes sought the unannounced companion, and they fell upon a woman with long, auburn hair, and wildfire eyes, and a similar color scheme to his own in her dress. The guards near her wore the colors of House Hetherspoon – if the spoon on some of their armor didn’t give it away. They were expected. His mother, Rhaella, had met the Hetherspoon woman while the Tourney for Viserys three years ago went on in Lannisport, though he did not recall her.
His lips quirked upwards more as she sang along, before he stilled the strings with his hands, and shifted down from his pedestal. “Lady Aemilia Hetherspoon, I presume?”
Lady Aemilia Reyne smiled at the Prince’s greeting, and bowed her head, but not her form, before him, “You presume correctly, Your Highness,” she greeted, before she lifted her eyes back up to his indigo orbs – the purple of his home. Traits always carried, like the green eyes of the Western lions, or manes of red. “I apologize for disrupting you, we only just arrived.”
“Nonsense, it is good to know my mother has found a woman who actually has talent for song, and not just someone trained in it.” There was a difference to Rhaegar, and the woman nodded her agreement.
“Too many highborn women sit at their harps and sing when they shouldn’t, ever, but I digress.” She was not there to see him, nor did she desire to linger. The road had been long, and she knew the guards that had accompanied her were looking forward to leaving her side just as well, to enjoy the brothels and bars of King’s Landing, before they would return to Hetherspoon lands. “I should not keep your mother waiting.”
“Ah, no,” he glanced then to Barristan, “I should await my betrothed, do you mind showing her the way from here?”
“Princess Elia Martell is arriving today?” She already knew who the betrothed was to be. The woman made it a point to stay informed. Yet, she had not known she would arrive that same day. “Is Prince Oberyn to be with her?” There was an undeniable excitement in her voice at the question, and one of the guards wearing the spoon let out a groan at the question.
A muttered, “Please, no.”
His wish would be denied. “Spoon!”
The Red Viper had rushed ahead of his own entourage, separating from his sisters when he saw the familiar Sigil of House Hetherspoon. “Viper,” her grin could have almost been called poisonous as she turned fully to face him.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, “Do not tell me you are here to court the prince as well?” He jested, though his eyes roved over the prince then, “Not that I would blame you at all….” Ever the bold one, even when it was unappreciated. Or perhaps, especially when it was unappreciated.
Rhaegar fluttered his lashes, uncertain how to react or how these people tied together, while Barristan Selmy seemed equally confused.
“No, I am entering into Queen Rhaella’s services,” she answered the man. Both of his dark brows rose, and a smile touched his lips, but he didn’t speak the mischief in his gaze.
Highly inappropriate to speak of their shared interest in poisons when it came to her service to Rhaella, right in front of the prince, but the man would not deny his curiosity. He did snap out of it when he heard Barristan clear his throat. “Prince Martell….” Barristan addressed, “You are familiar with Lady Hetherspoon?”
“We have some common interests in exotic foods and pretty men,” Oberyn answered cheekily, before he stepped back and then, more properly, bowed before the prince, “I do apologize, I got caught up in seeing an old friend,” he said, “Your Grace, please forgive my insubordinance, and allow me to introduce my sisters,” for even the bastard was a sister to him. It meant nothing to him that she was not trueborn, she was his blood, and deserved that same respect.
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