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When asked about what Dorne was like, Mariah Martell had to think before answering and then, even as she did, she could not say if her answer was a truthful one, if the visions flashing through her mind were an actual memory or something that only came to her in dreams. She was barely four when she had been smuggled out of her father’s stronghold, a refugee running from the war that was already knocking on their door. The war that would soon become known as the Conquest of Dorne. Blissfully short-lived, Mariah would think later. But now, she only knew that memories faded, died, left her with so few things to cling to. Even her parents’ faces became a blur, let alone Sunspear. Her world became her mother’s family, the people with silver hair and purple eyes that she was so different from. Her world became the marble palace in Lys and the streets and squares Septa Ulandra took her to every afternoon.
Until the walks were suddenly stopped. Until the night was full of screams and shrieks, and the white steel of swords that Mariah saw as her grandmother carried her through a long gallery overlooking a yard before they entered a tunnel running under the earth itself and a torch hissed when the septa lit it, to better light their flight, the second in Mariah’s young life.
When, a few days later, they returned, no one spoke of this night adventure and the silence drew until Mariah was no longer sure that it had ever taken place. Had it? Or had it been another creation spun by her dreams, much like the Sunspear that she was losing to the mists of oblivion?
She would only realize how much she had actually retained in her memory when she returned. But nothing was like she expected. Memories and concoctions clashed with a reality that was fractured, twisted beyond any imagination. Nothing could have prepared the now eight-year-old for the sight that greeted her at her return; nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the ruined shadow city and the wails as, close to her path and the guards taking her from the harbour to the Old Palace, a crowd had gathered, silent and foreboding, as another secret grave dug by the invaders was being uncovered, the women wept and one of them, elderly, was tearing at her hair as the skeletons were being dragged out. And nothing could have prepared her for the way that the man who was her father would not look at her, not after the first bout of joy. Mariah leaned over the cradle of the little brother who had been born in her absence, trying to make sense of this new world that had offered her nothing good this far. She so wished that she could have stayed in Essos!
The babe was staring right at her with eyes that were black like hers. Not like the eyes of their Lysene kin. Mariah smiled at him. “Hello, you,” she said softly. “I hope you grow up healthy.”
“He must,” her father said, grimly. “Because he is destined to rule over Dorne one day.”
“I’ll have to do so much to compensate you, my lady,” the Targaryen prince said softly.
Mariah gave him a look of surprise before remembering that she should ask demurely and unobtrusively. It would not do to show straight-forwardness at the third day of their acquaintance but actually, in the very first one they had the chance to speak privately. She lowered her dark lashes and did not see the disappointment crossing those purple eyes of his. “Compensate me, Your Grace? What for? Any maiden in this realm would be beyond thrilled to marry into your House.”
“Aye,” he agreed softly. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You aren’t a maiden of this realm. And you lost your life, the way it should have been. Surely a compensation is due. It’s only that I’m not sure I’d be able to offer an adequate one. But I am ready to spare as many years trying as needed.”
So he understood. There was a warm feeling in Mariah’s chest that took her aback… and disappeared when she looked at him. What could compensate her for the future she had lost? For her rightful place on the throne in the Tower of the Sun?
But he did not quite understand.
What could compensate her for his own flaws? She had liked him greatly when they had met as children, a storm throwing her and her mother at Dragonstone. He had made a fine companion – he still might make one. In fact, Mariah was almost sure that he would. But as a man? He was so very unimpressive. Not tall. Not muscular. Pale. Soft-voiced. It was true that she would not have preferred his father, for all Aegon’s handsomeness, but still… she had lost her birthright over this?
“My lord father was a charming man,” Baela Targaryen, Lady Velaryon told her somewhere about the second week after her arrival, as Mariah’s ladies bustled around them, arranging the gown that she would wear in two more weeks.
“So I’ve heard,” the girl replied but Baela’s next words were drown into the shriek of the main seamstress who surged forth to save a piece of particularly magnificent pale creamy satin from being stepped on. The small stout woman was glaring in a way that actually made Milona Ladybright step back.
Baela smiled. “You must forgive her,” she said. “The women have been sewing day and night to prepare your wedding attire, ever since you set foot at this end of the Prince’s Pass.”
“Why not before?” Mariah asked.
The seamstress looked outraged. “Because I could never sew a gown for a princess whom I have not seen with my own eyes, my lady! I was there to see you and then, I came back on a horse behind a man – I can tell you it wasn’t a nice experience! But I knew what would suit you.”
For the first time, Mariah gave the wedding gown a look of real consideration. It was not red, of course, for this was not a colour for a bride. It was not blue or green which, honestly, suited her best. But the creamy white would make her look innocent and gleaming at the same time, toning down the swarthy undertones of her complexion. Mute her. Mariah looked first at the seamstress and then Baela and realized that they did not understand at all. For them, it was natural to tone her down. Mute her.
Did Daeron think so as well? For all her fears, the possibility that he might find her unattractive had never crossed her mind. But she was, in fact, the darkest woman in this court, if one did not count the desert ones of her companions. Would she be deprived not just of her inheritance but the joy of being found beautiful and desired?
“You were talking about your father, my lady?” she asked because she would not, she would not think of this.
“I was.” Baela’s beautiful and terrible face softened in its good part. The burnt one stayed immobile as always. “He was a man of adventures. A man all women desired. A warrior and conqueror. And he threw all of us away for the possibility of a glorious death.” She smiled bitterly.
Mariah did not know what to say. She had heard of Prince Daemon, of course she had. The man every woman had desired. Even Queen Alicent herself, it was said…
“Did you love him, my lady?” she finally asked, not knowing what else to say. She loved her own father dearly and understood the dreadful situation that he had found himself in, even when secret resentment rose within her breast.
“I did,” Baela replied. “He would have killed an army for me… but this wasn’t the same as staying there for me.” Her hand went up to her ruined cheek. Her eyes glittered like amethysts, cold, yet somewhat distant. She leaned forward. “Listen to what I’m going to tell you, Mariah Martell: Daeron is a hundred times better than my father. Do you hear me?”
Mariah did not doubt that this was true. But a good man was not enough to make a young girl’s heart beat faster. She supposed she should be grateful for getting this Daeron instead of the first one, the one who had tried to have her abducted from her Lysene grandparents to take her as a hostage and betrothed and thus secure his power over Dorne. She was grateful. But this did little to ease her misery as she waited for her wedding night.
Not the day of the wedding, though. As the day filled out and waned, she felt as happy and elated as never before. She was the very symbol of a peace that had not been even dreamed of for thousands of years. She would wear the crown of queen to this entire continent, save for her own proud country. She was envied and admired by everyone. Yes, she felt as radiant as she looked… and she was saved the custom of bedding, a thing that she thanked the King most sincerely, if silently.
But then the music faded as she walked down the long halls, followed by her Dornish companions, the ones she had been given here, and a crowd of ladies she did not know at all. The celebration became more distant with every step she took until it turned into a whisper, a shadow, an echo of a day that might have been the most glorious one in her life but was about to end, to be followed by what every woman expected with fear…
Daeron closed the door behind them with a firm gesture and Mariah giggled, imagining how the ones left in the hall strained their ears. They would have much straining to do, because Daeron was not in a hurry to take her to bed. Instead, he handed her a plate of fruit and cheese. “I noticed that you didn’t eat much at the feast,” he said and Mariah blinked, suddenly realizing how hungry she was. “Are you going to tell me what it was like to grow up in Dorne?” he asked.
“It was good and nice, and bitter,” she heard herself reply and wanted to stop but couldn’t. He had asked, after all. “It felt odd to be trained in the matters of ruling knowing that I would never actually do it.”
Fool, fool, fool…
But Daeron did not look insulted. He even smiled. “Well, I’m glad to hear this, Princess. It’s good to know I won’t have to educate you from the start. And I really think you may find life here not so lacking. My aunts are among the Hand’s most trusted advisors, even if they don’t hold any official office.”
But I was going to hold one, Mariah thought even as she smiled. To her surprise, her smile was a genuine one. It felt good to see him so eager.
But when the things came to their main duty this night, she was about to scream. The twist of his spine was so evident. Mariah knew what this meant. It meant that he could not do the things other men did. He could not carry her to bed – in fact, he’d be lucky if he got to lift their babes when they had those! He could never accompany her on a ride with the speed she loved. He would get twisted and deformed and… and she had lost the life that she should have had to get instead the life of a man who would get progressively ill and it was so unfair.
Of course, none of these thoughts showed on her face. She was too well-trained and honestly, Daeron was just so good to her that she would hate herself if he came to know. And precisely because she did not want to give herself away, she did not reach out to hold him in her arms as he held her. She knew that should she touch the deformity, she would recoil.