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the last degree of reds by baqlawa
Fandoms: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
21 Feb 2026
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Summary
In the time between Aerion’s attack and Maekar’s return from the inn a day’s ride south of Ashford, Baelor visits Tanselle’s wagon in the course of his inquiries.
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Bookmark Notes:
exquisite. the greatest thing i’ve read in a while
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Bookmark Notes:
Before the show, Tanselle had bundled her long braided twin tails together with pretty blue ribbons. A shimmery deep blue like the Sea of Dorne, glinting with starlight or sunlight as seen by Lord Toland’s brave, mad fool from the parapets of Ghost Hill before he faced off Aegon of Dragonstone and bought Dorne more time with his sacrifice. Tanselle knew the songs. Uncle’s loud, frantic “Run!” was still ringing in her ears when the princeling Aerion snatched her by her ribbons, his other hand seizing her wrist. She was taller than him. She squeezed out furious and frightened tears, shamed tears, as he dragged her to her knees as though she were no more than a saddle bag, no heavier than a tourney lance. “All the royal lapdogs want a Dornish whore of their own,” he was hissing against her cheek, his spittle stinking of rare, bloody beef. “I only want one if it’s—that’s right, keep fucking screaming—if it lost its maidenhead to a dragon bite.”
By the banks of the fresh, bitter stream, the princeling talked of fire and Tanselle’s fingers. It was a cold afternoon. She had looked up from Ser Duncan’s shield at the sly rustling sounds in the misty woods. “Who’s there?” she’d challenged, the words springing out from her, unbidden, laced with fright, and got the answer, “Ah, a Dornish wench.” He told her that she need not bother hiding her drawl now that he’d heard it. Tanselle didn’t like the careless, bored way he tossed out his words at her, like crumbs to a cat. She wondered if she could get into that mouth’s accent. “Lower those pretty Dornish eyes.” He was the king’s grandson, he went on, which immediately clarified plenty of things to her. He commanded her to resume her task. He only wanted to watch. Unblinking, he lounged next to her on the grassy bank as she mixed pigments and painted over the old shield with the colours of sunset. Now and then, he would sip from a cup he’d brought down from Ashford castle. Sweet Dornish red. Her hands were perfect for a saddle, he remarked in that starchy, funny northern accent. He said he liked her long olive fingers. Her green veins. The smears of yellows on her knuckles. The streaks of oranges under her nails. The splotches of red all over her palms.
Palms up, Tanselle stretched out her arms. Jumping and running, she still wasn’t too tall inside a dragon. She fit just right.
In these ruins, the desert air was never still. Old shadows flickered and frothed and boiled the sunlight. She skipped from Meraxes’ ribs down to its belly. She danced. Tanselle knew the songs by heart. Dragon meat cooked with peppers, lemons, thyme, mustard seeds, and olive oil. Dragon eye jelly, a delicacy. The iron bolt that had pierced Meraxes’ eye and felled the beast, displayed in a sept like a holy relic. The defenders of Hellholt who had manned the scorpions were but commonborn, lowborn, baseborn yet two hundred years on they were still breathing in songs and tapestries and here amongst these ruins, each of their names learned by every Dornish child from the cradle. She would wager that this would suitably warm her north of the Red Mountains. Tanselle knew her songs by heart.
Prince Baelor cupped her calf, his leathery fingers tugging the sock securely over the flute of her ankle. “I would advise you to lay low in Dorne for a year.”
“If I may be so bold, Your Grace—”
“Are you ever anything else.” His eyes crinkled up at her, wry and warm, only a touch unsettled. He patted his knee for her other foot.
His fingertips slipped and slid past the cinched ankles of her loose linen trousers. Tanselle’s leg jolted, but the prince adjusted his firm grip round her, a rough rub and slide of skin against skin, his signet ring nipping her heel, and pulled her foot back into place.
Tanselle’s cheeks were hot.
“Your Grace must hate that, what I’ve said about wanting, well, that. But I don’t think I could lay low for an entire year. Are you saying that I shouldn’t go back up over the Red Mountains?”
Prince Baelor didn’t answer for a moment. He looked almost sad, almost wistful.
“On the contrary. After a year in Dorne, I say you may go wherever you wish. The Reach and the stormlands are not the ideal options for a Dornish girl, as I am certain you already know, but Lannisport is there. And Casterly Rock, Driftmark, Riverrun. Dragonstone. My son Matarys and his good-sister the Lady Kiera enjoy a lively court and love the company of singers, mummers, bards. You are of an age with them, besides.” He finished clothing her foot and laid it back, gently and properly, on the cramped bedroll. “I do know that when I was your age, I certainly would have loved to know that a prominent Dornish artist or two, more, served in the great courts of the realm.”
In the silence, Tanselle said, “Well, I still mean to see it through.”