Chapter Text
The expansive bazaars of Sunspear never failed to excite those who stumbled upon it, whilst overwhelming in the same blow. Stalls of exotic fruits, many-hued silks brought in from Essos, and fragrant jasmine oils lined the silk yard, with merchants wiping the sweat off their foreheads and seafarers negotiating to pay less coin.
For Alysanne Martell, it was a place she confided in more than the likes of her kin. The constant aroma of spices and lavender, mixed with the salty sea air was something she had associated with her home since youth.
The sun beat down on the crowds relentlessly, leaving no one spared from the sharp glare. The bazaar was a contrasting sight. Women donned bright colored silks, children crept beneath stalls and mares, men gambled with carved bone dice and laid all their coins upon the cobblestone.
The steps themselves were searing with heat, something she could feel even through the expanse of her footwear.
Pushing through the tight crowds of the warrens, she found herself fighting to keep her cloak on, already tempted to throw it off and yet again feel the breeze on her skin.
“Alysanne, hold back!”
Stopping in front of a particular silk stall, she quickly halted and whipped her head back, a look of disdain creeping onto her face.
Waiting for the stranger to catch up, she leaned back onto the stall and crossed her arms, already growing impatient. The wooden stall itself was hot to the touch, and she flinched as she felt its heat through her silks.
“Are you trying to get me set upon Mors?"
“I’m sorry my Princess, but you-”
“Bloody fool, you promised! You act as if you were born clad in armour and duty. It's not so hard to say Aly. And what's with such formalities?” Furrowing her brows, Aly refused to tear her gaze from his yet squinted in response to the burning rays.
Upon his failure to respond, Aly let out a loud uncontained chuckle followed by a sly smirk, turning back around to the stall and admiring the vibrant silks. She raised her hand and softly brushed against a particularly bright purple fabric, taking it in her hand and admiring the gold embroidery laid on the neckline.
“What do you think of this, Is it too much for Coryanne?,” Aly inquired, picking up the dress and turning around yet again to face her companion.
Lifting up the dress, Aly habitually held it to herself and let it fall against her figure, lowering her chin to admire its flow.
Mors’ lips parted in inquiry, his eyes drifting to the neckline of the silk and drawing down the length of it, his brows furrowing and his lips a straight inquisitory line.
“Just in from Lys, a style worn in both Essos and Westeros,” the merchant cut in, at the same time looking her up and down and settling his gaze upon her taupe cloak.
“I bet it is,” Aly ventured with a look of pure sarcasm in her face. “How much then good ser?”
“Well, for you I suppose…10 pennies could cut it.”
Aly laughed, throwing the silk over her elbow whilst reaching for her satchel and pulling out the exact amount, handing it to the merchant and reaching back to readjust the pouch.
“10 pennies? I guess this cloak truly cut it.”
Walking deeper down the street dawned differing sights. The scent of cooked flatbread and charred peppers filled the air, whilst butchers cut their inventory and bakers readied for the upcoming buzz. What overwhelmed such remained the scent of the salty Dornish sea, wafting through the air as they neared closer to the docks. The sound of creaking wood and shouting sailors filled the air as the ports filled with trade and negotiations.
Always lined with foreign fisherman and traders, Aly thought it a great place to observe a perhaps obscure scene.
She recalled a time about two moons ago when she had laid witness to a sailor from Yi Ti spreading tales of his journey through the ruins of old Valyria, going as far as claiming he bore witness to a dragon the size of sunspear itself. The memory remained fresh in her mind, and simply ruminating upon the terrified small folk forced a smile every time.
“How could you possibly be in support of a fucking cunt on the throne? Has the heat baked your brain already?” The sudden clamor of shouting cut into Aly’s thoughts, compelling her to turn around and seek out what could only be from all the way across the harbor.
Motioning to Mors to follow behind, Aly ignored the glimpse of a suppressed groan on his face, continuing to push through the crowd carelessly. Navigating purely with the faint sound of distant voices, she suddenly bumped into a man holding a tray of goblets, knocking them out of his grip.
“My apologies!” she muttered, quietly gripping her arm and reeling in pain, habitually lowering herself to help the man. Though, the voices struck again and curiosity subdued, driving her to raise herself and continue down the very populated path. After such struggle, the faint sounds of the quarrel led her all the way to the outermost wall of the Wharves of the Shadow City. There, she froze and was met with the sight of two men, one whom looked to be a seafarer and the other a trader. The former was comfortably seated on an unsteady barrel whilst the latter seemed to be hovering over.
This part of the city was more cramped, with more bustling stalls filled with Dornish olives, bright-hued silks, and casks of imported strongwine. The smell that filled her senses was not one she was fond of, with notes of horse sweat and woodsmoke causing her to physically reel and remember why she never strayed this way.
“She was named heir by her father, the King, or have you already forgotten?” The one sitting on the barrel scoffed, casting a judgemental look on the other and raising his brows in confidence. “You Greens are all sheep, never failing to prove your abilities as witless lickspittles.”
The one standing threw him an unfazed glare, firming his stance and parting his lips.
“You’re merely a puppet on her strings. You do know that The Realms Delight would not stoop so low as to bed your baseborn self,” The few men behind him erupted in careless laughter, clinking their wooden mugs and spilling ale upon themselves and the deck, “Though, who knows. Those Strong boys surely make it hard to prove otherwise."
The grizzled men once again dissolved into guffaws, one of them completely dropping his wineskin and drenching another's leathers. So much so you would’ve thought someone had just told them that the King had died on the privy.
The one sitting did not seem amused, though was not as bothered as the trader had previously displayed.
“Fuck you and your wine-sodden usuper of a King. Why don’t you tell that King of whores that he can keep his rule over the street of silk. Though, that's all he can really handle.”
This time, laughter broke out from the left side, where the Black supporter wore a devilishly bright grin and was accepting a playful shove from his fellow deckhand. Raising his flagon, the rugged old sailor drank contentfully, feeling that he completely humiliated the Green.
Aly’s lips pursed in complete disgust at their crude laughter, her eyes narrowing underneath her secured cloak. Though she most definitely would’ve joined in on the debate and offered a very friendly perspective to the Green, she knew the possible outcome of exemplifying the quarrel and possibly putting herself in harm's way.
Just as the Seafarer lowered his wineskin and raised his arm to wipe the remnants off his beard, the trader pounced, immediately striking a blow straight to the jaw.
“You wretched spawn of a whore.” The trader moved to pin down the man just as the words left his lips.
What had merely been a verbal broil moments ago had swiftly transformed into a heated brawl, with more and more men joining in to defend their own. Aly took notice of a particular sellsword who unsheathed his blade and seemed to join in for no more reason than to draw blood.
Without warning, Aly felt a calloused hand fall grab onto her shoulder, pulling her back and putting her face to face with none other than her sworn sword. For a moment, she just stood staring at him, not yet fazed by the interruption. Without saying a word, Mors grabbed her hand and directed through the now even more populated square, keeping a firm yet painful grasp. She did not fight the grip, though believed it to be quite unnecessary.
Leading them to an empty side passageway, Mors abruptly stopped and let go of her hand, running his own through his dark waves and settling it down. Breathing a sigh of relief, he let himself down against the clay wall behind him, staring down blankly at the cobblestone and not yet uttering a word.
“Mors! What’s with you and spoiling all the fun?” Aly pouted her lips in discontent, getting on the tip of her toes and trying to glance back at the ongoing altercation. Though, being unable to see anything, she let out a breath of failure and leaned back against the wall opposite of Mors.
Seeming to finally catch his breath, Mors raised his head, looking at the chaotic crowd in the square and then back to Aly.
“Princess, respectfully, your father would have my head if anything went awry."
Aly found herself overcome by realization, apologetically offering a look of solace and understanding when meeting his gaze. She had not thought much of her own safety in the moment and had only meant to seek out an interesting scene. Though she knew that what he was saying was true, she had hoped she could catch glimpses of her childhood friend from before he swore his life to her and her family. Duty had really taken a toll on him.
“Alright then Ser Drinkwater. Why don’t you lead the way from here.”
“Shit, since when does the sun go down so fast?”
Aly practically jumped off of her horse, racing to the interior of the stable and working to quickly relieve her horse of the saddle. Finally letting it loose and taking off the reins, Aly let it down on the nearest surface and ran towards the keep entrance.
“My lord father will skin me alive, oh gods be good.” racing up the elegant stone steps of the entrance, her mind remained on her fathers possible reaction to her late arrival.
Qoren Martell was not an easy man to sway, especially towards the likes of his very own daughter.
For instance, Aly found the buzzing markets of Sunspear a compelling site, but realized that her views clashed with those of her father. He was hesitant enough to allow her the freedom of such exploration, even more so when she requested the ability to go posed as a commoner.
Her wishes, for the most part, were reluctantly granted, only with the terms that Mors Drinkwater, her sworn sword and luckily good friend, accompanied her wherever.
The large wooden, weathered door of the Sandship slammed loudly behind Aly as she made her way down the hall and towards her bedchamber, her footwear slapping the stone as she ran. The knights standing by the pillars eyed her curiously, though did not dwell much on the matter.
The hallways shifted with every turn, the floors now a delicate marble and the walls more mosaiced than ever. Passing by the maesters' study, the scent of antique parchment and lamp oil clouded her head, causing her to almost collide with the upcoming wall.
Now passing by the open windowed halls, she couldn’t help but look out at the gardens housed by the keep, the lush greenery clashing beautifully with the mosaic and woven straw mats that lined the walls. Aly would occasionally sit on the detailed stone railings separating the garden from the keep, bathing in the warm rays of the sun whilst reading up on Aegon's conquest of Westeros. Flowers of all different shapes and colors dominated the space, and the sound of the common nightingale song filled the dense garden thickets.
Feeling exhausted, Aly finally reached what seemed to be a heavy cedar door, its frame lined with hammered bronze bands and a sigil carved directly into the center panel; the sun-and-spear of House Martell.
She swiftly opened the door, slipping inside to ensure that she was not caught out in the halls.
Closing the door behind her, Aly instinctively leaned against the door behind her, placing a hand on her chest to catch her breath. The candles in her chamber were already lit, and she was met with the sight of her handmaiden.
Aly’s chambers had always been her safe space, a sanctuary ever since her youth. Clad in woven Myrish rugs, the pale marble floors reinforced a sense of wealth and elegance, whilst providing a relieving cool feel. Her favourite part had always been the balcony, a place she often confided in to read her tomes and embroider with her Septa. Built in with a low, open-work stone balustrade, the ocean breeze never failed to brush her features and relieve one during the dead of summer. The unblocked view of the Sea of Dorne was tranquil, contrasting with the chaotic flat roofs of the shadow city and the luscious gardens.
The interior of her chambers were left far from unoccupied, often clattering with texts on histories and maps displaying Westeros and the free cities across the narrow sea. In one corner sat her Lute, and on a table surrounded by deep red couches was her favourite game, Cyvasse.
She quickly headed over to her bed, kicking off her stained leather boots and shoving them underneath the silk curtains.
Her handmaiden remained standing in the middle of the room, her eyes set on Aly and harboring a serious look.
“Your father has requested your presence, Princess. He grows impatient.”
“Oh I'm so sorry Sylva, really. It completely slipped my mind.” Aly’s stomach churned, feeling even more uneasy upon sensing the tension in the room.
“The Prince already did not seem pleased, although I am unsure what the reasoning might be. Do not worry now, let's just focus on getting you ready.”
Aly’s gaze was quickly directed to her silk sheets, on top of which she noticed a shimmery teal-blue dress, adorned in glittering threads and layers of lightweight fabric. It featured a plunge neckline, and when worn, scandalously but very Dornishly revealed her defined collarbones and part of her chest. Excess pieces of fabric on the dress fell off-shoulder, coming in to the front and giving a drape effect. The silk itself was floor length, feeling cool and freeing on her legs. The sides of the torso glimmered in the soft candlelight and clung to her slim figure like a second skin.
With the help of Sylva, her tangled hair was brushed out and styled simply due to the utter lack of time. Two pieces from the front were ropebraided and pinned to the back, with a few shorter strands remaining out front. With her hair mostly down, Aly’s couldn’t help but notice the silver-gold strand of hair looking more noticeable than ever, the pale nature of it clashing with her brown locks.
“You look beautiful Aly,” Sylva now wore a vibrant smile on her face, helping Aly to her feet and admiring the Princess from head to toe.
Aly returned the gesture with a warm smile, yet it was quickly wiped off upon the sudden dawn of realization; what had her father been so upset about?
Aly found herself in a dimly lit room, the mosaic detailing of the walls yet evident. The heat of the candles radiated throughout the space, though the walls felt cool to the touch when steadying herself on the nearest pillar. Although it was a familiar sight, she always caught herself admiring it as if she’d never seen such beautiful design, the royal blues and golds clashing and contrasting. Finally setting her gaze to the middle of the room, Aly was met with the sight of her father seated comfortably on one of the gold couches, accompanied by a goblet of Dornish red and a letter in hand.
“Yes father, you summoned me?” making her way over to the couch opposite of Qoren, she lowered herself whilst working to straighten out the dress tangled beneath her.
Lowering the goblet from his lips, Qoren kept his gaze on his daughter, breathing a steady sigh and parting his lips in reluctance.
“We will be hosting a Prince of the Realm very soon. We have received word by raven that he is seeking an alliance.” His gaze remained fixed onto hers, searching for any hint at how the news was taken whilst lightly placing the paper onto the surface in front of him.
“A prince of the realm? A Targaryen you mean?” she managed to spit out, still in shock from the former revelation.
“It seems to be.”
“Well what faction do we seem to be associating ourselves with?” raising herself up, Aly leaned over the short bronze table, grabbing the pitcher and now feeling the need to pour herself some wine.
Though not directly involved with the conflict occurring in Westeros, Aly worked to educate herself on past and present politics in order to lighten the burden she faced as her father’s heir.
“That I do not know, such was not disclosed.” Aly knew that her father was not as unaware as he was letting on. She instinctively raised the goblet in her hand to her lips, taking a quick sip and feeling an overpowering sting of sweet, followed by rich notes of vanilla and honey.
“You know the complications arising in the kingdom's father. That is necessary information.” Aly felt no need to mask the look of concern creeping onto her features.
“We have no choice but to comply, Aly. This could prove beneficial for ourselves as well, do not think only of them.”
“If you are referring to their dragons, did Dorne not already refuse to bend to their will? Did we not swear to remain as unbroken as Meria herself, or have we already begun to go against everything we stand for-”
“You are but six-and-ten. If there is a possibility of a beneficial alliance around the corner, I will not allow your reckless wit to tear it down.” he interrupted, shaking his head and yet again bringing the goblet up to his lips.
“Yes, I am but six-and-ten yet I voice my concern with such a proposal father! Why are we suddenly involving ourselves with the silly quarrels of the crown? I will not have it.”
Aly was fully aware of what he meant by alliance. A possible betrothal was awaiting her fate, one that she did not believe would come so soon and, fairly, did not want to.
She knew that the current King of the Realm was Aegon II Targaryen, and that he was married to his younger sister Helaena, a queer custom even the dornish could not bear to grasp. The youngest, Daeron, was in Oldtown, and the second son Aemond was possibly securing his own betrothal in the stormlands. On the other hand, she believed that Lucerys Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, was far too young, though she did not completely rule it out. Jacaerys Velaryon, the heir to his mother’s claim, was betrothed to Baela Targaryen, and all of his younger siblings were not yet of marriageable age.
Upon reading about such quarrels, Aly herself believed the claim of Rhaenyra Targaryen to be stronger, due to her status as Princess of Dragonstone and ruling capabilities. Though she did not feel the need to choose a side in a war she was not involved in, she was not pleased with the usurpation dealt by Team Green, finding it a foreign concept to steal your own sister's throne.
She could not even begin to imagine her younger brother, Qyle, snatching her birthright, once again feeling grateful for such circumstances that Dorne had presented.
Rage fueled her, her eyes burning with anger and unshed tears. Turning her gaze onto the table beside her father, Aly eyed the sprawled piece of ivory parchment, on top of it a broken seal. A war-green seal, the sigil disclosing a golden three-headed-dragon reflecting in the light of the candles. Her eyes widened in realization, the anger dying down and a look of disbelief lacing her features.
“Yes you will! He will be arriving on the morrow. You have no choice Aly. Please comply. Do not make this any harder than it already is.”
“Gisēñor ñuho pūloro mirri jorāelāksas daor,” the sudden foreign outburst was practically a slap to her fathers face, his eyes now wide and searing in a heated chill. “se sir ñuho morghūlo rāenagon dāerēksas?" Aly tried her best to maintain a respectable composure and look indifferent to her fathers demands, though was falling miserably short.
You have never once sought out my council on these matters, and yet now you dare to decide my own fate?
“How dare you speak that filth here.” He could no longer bear to look at her, turning away and staring into blank space. “Matters have been decided, Aly. Commit to your duty as my daughter and heir or I will revoke such a privileged status and give it to one that understands the weight of doing what they are told.”
Aly couldn’t help but feel powerless in that moment. The ease of the threat he had just put upon her felt blinding, a disrespect to her commitment and determination with the future. She had done what she could, believing that she had to sacrifice her own well-being at times in order to meet such expectations and one day hope to uphold the Dornish peace. Though she did not completely surrender to the likes of her father, she had presumed he felt her worthy of his place. His careless words, spoken in utter haste, came crashing down on her, befalling a shadow of contemplation. She was not a worthy heir.
Without the leave of her father, Aly hastily gathered her thoughts and stormed out of the study, unshed tears glistening in the corners of her eyes yet refusing to fall. She did not understand how her father could possibly allow this. He himself despised the Targaryens, going out of his way to refer to their customs as outlandish and vile. He would not even dare call his daughter by her true name, claiming that it was far too much of a reminder of a previous Targaryen queen.
Yet that was not the only souvenir Alysanne harboured of her partial roots. Though she was the spitting image of the salty dornishman for the most part, her light eyes flecked with violet were deemed foreign and exotic, accompanied by the streak of silver hair she worked to braid away on the morn of each day.
She had loved her grandmother when she knew her. Though she had passed when Aly was barely of age, she remembered her striking jasmine fragrance and her distinct scandalous style. She had beautiful curly silver-gold hair, locks that would often be braided into intricate styles yet for the most part let loose and free. Her light violet eyes would spend hours gazing at Aly in adoration and love. Aly found it bizarre that she looked so different from her grandmother, with her bronze tanned skin whilst Saera remained abnormally pale. She would often read to her in High Valyrian, teaching her as well and correcting her pronunciation. Her father, Qoren, on the other hand, had refused to connect with the foreign part of his heritage, easing into the life of a dornishman due to his completely salty look.
She had missed her grandmother for the most part. Upon learning about her grandmother's previous obscenities before marrying into the Dornish noble house, she remained indifferent and cherished her memory. Though, such revelation continued to feed into Qoren’s avoidance.
Suddenly reminded of her grandmother and her diminutive Valyrian heritage, she was brought back to the present and replaced yet again with alarm.
A Prince of the Realm, on the morrow, and the golden sigil of the green faction left no doubt in her mind for what was to come—and perhaps whose wrath she’d be faced with soon enough.