Hands once soft and voice once loud, Ylsa Payne stood by the hearth that kept her barren room warm. Those hands were now worn rough from tending to her step-mother, the tips burnt and pink from having to handle the coals that she was constantly ferrying to and from that woman's bed to keep the foot of it warm. That voice was now all but silent, hardly speaking outside the occasional 'yes ma'am' or 'no ma'am.' Her face was round yet with youth, but her eyes were dull now. Now that her step-mother had given birth, the announcement had found it's way to Ylsa's ears; it was a boy. A son.
Her healing hands gathered up her skirts to sit down on the floor before the hearth, drawing her knees up close to her chest, her feet tucked under the dull sea green fabric. The threat she now faced had been hanging in the air since the announcement of that woman's pregnancy, and it was only a matter of time until her father approached her to begin the arrangements. At the time, it had seemed like an impossibility to the naïve girl; her father was such a reasonable man. Strict, yes, stern, of course, but reasonable. He'd assured her that regardless of the new baby's sex, his eldest true-born daughter should inherit from him his wealth, his castle, even his name. Theirs was not a prominent branch of the Payne family, but a branch it was, and Ylsa would have been more than happy to carry on her family's sigil and words.
Her stepmother was not as reasonable. Of course that woman would want her own child to inherit over the child of her husbands deceased wife. And now that it was a boy, the woman's words rang in Ylsa's ears louder than ever; 'You'll be round with your own husband's child before mine sits up on his own.' And after dinner that evening, her father had confirmed it.
"It's an offer I can't refuse," he'd said, waving away one of the servant girls as she tried to refill his goblet. "To secure such a lofty position for one of my offspring is a far better promise for your future than to inherit our measly plot of land. And besides, at 18 I don't think I'd be able to marry you off to any lord in the Westerlands anyway, you are far too old for your own good, my dear!" Ylsa had set her knife and fork down as soon as he'd started speaking, it had been just the two of them at dinner, since his new wife had been at labor all afternoon, and had been resting by the time dinner was served. By then, both father and daughter had heard the news of the birth of Fabian Payne. "And now that your mother has borne a son, you need not worry about continuing the family name, as that is assured through him."
Ylsa hated when he called that woman her mother.
"I've never been to Dorne," was all she'd said, unable to formulate anything else. Her mouth felt dry, no matter how much water she drank.
"I wonder if any Payne ever has," her father had replied, taking her lack of sudden protest as her acceptance. Beside his goblet lay the open scroll that bore the signature of Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne. Ylsa just stared at it, unable to read the words from her distance. The seal that lay broken, which bore the sigil of house Martell, was flaking off the paper, likely days had passed since it had first been broken. She wondered how long ago her father had arranged this, and was only now telling her.
"You'll be leaving for Dorne as soon as possible," he had continued, resuming his meal as if this were only pleasant dinner conversation. "You'll be leaving in one of my best ships, as a present to your new husband."
"…I'm sure the Prince Trystane has many ships already." The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them; Ylsa had been a cheeky child growing up under the tutelage of her equally cheeky mother, but in the days since Ellana Payne's passing, her tongue had grown quiet, especially under the cruel stewardesship of her father's new wife. Her quiet, sarcastic barb caused her father pause, but not for the tone in which it was delivered.
"Ah, Prince Trystane is not your betrothed," he said slowly, eyeing his daughter carefully. "I'm sorry, I was sure I'd mentioned…." He trailed off a bit, taking his napkin and dabbing at his mouth. "Ahem. Prince Trystane is betrothed to Princess Myrcella of House Lannister. My initial inquiry was of course for his betrothal, but upon learning of his current arrangements, Prince Doran was kind enough to offer an alternative."
Ylsa's stomach had dropped to her shoes then, as she dreaded what her father was to say next.
"…You are to be married to Prince Doran. Truly, a much loftier position; you shall be Princess Ylsa Martell, of Dorne."
Those words rang in her ears painfully as she sat alone, shivering even though the fire beside her crackled and snapped at the log that fed it. Hot tears dripped from her pale blue eyes as she stared into the flames, praying silently to the Seven to reverse her misfortune.
She didn't want to leave her family, however broken and unhappy it was. She didn't want to go to Dorne. She didn't want to marry an old man like Prince Doran. But no matter what she could say, what argument she could make, there would be nothing to change her situation; as the eldest daughter, she was expected to marry as her father bid. And her father bid it.
Most of her belongings had already been packed in trunks and carried out to the harbor before she could have even made it back to her chambers after such an unfortunate dinner. All that was left was her bed, and a small drunk with the last few possessions she kept hidden under her mattress; she supposed the servants who had disassembled her room had found them, and had the kindness not to pack them away just yet. Rising to her feet, she moved over to the trunk, sifting through it's contents. Inside was a mass of golden material; the dress her mother had worn on her wedding day to her father, nearly two decades ago. Underneath lay several pieces of jewelry her mother had left for Ylsa, passed down through her maternal line for generations. And at the bottom lay a small collection of papers.
Taking a few of these papers out and setting them in her lap, Ylsa spent the dwindling candle light reading through them; they were letters. In Ylsa's early childhood, her mother had taken a trip to visit her sister in the Riverlands when she had first given birth to her first child, Ylsa's eldest cousin. Ylsa had written letters back and forth with her mother for the entire trip, and her mother had kept each and every letter she'd received, and now Ylsa had them here. A small smile broke her miserable visage as she read through them all, using her sleeve to wipe at her eyes to dry them. Her mother had been 16 when she'd married her father. Younger than Ylsa was now.
She was woken early the next morning, her back and neck stiff, as she'd fallen asleep slumped against the top of the trunk holding her mother's heirlooms. Just as her father promised, she was to be shipped off immediately, though the servant that woke her asked if she'd first like to pay a visit to her step-mother and half-brother before she left. Ylsa tucked her papers carefully back into her trunk, allowing another servant to lock it, before answering.
"No. I'm ready to go."