She is a young child when she first comes to Dorne, had recently passed her seventh nameday but looked even younger than that, short of height and with a child's roundness to her body. Quentyn remembers a single silver braid that fell halfway down her back, small curls framing her face and a blue dress with a silver lining but only because it reminded him of the stars he would count with his mother in the skies above the Water Gardens, before she left. He could only murmur a few words of welcome to her, made shy by the presence of all the men in the room – Lord Jon Connington and the king's men on one side while his father, crabs, swordfish, stars, seahorses, while his uncle and a retinue of Dornish lords and ladies stood in the other.
Arianne was more confident, fifteen years to the Daenerys' seven after all, and was the first one to step forward, leaving Quentyn to listen dumbly as she recited sweet words of harmony and bonds of blood and love. The Targaryen princess had feigned a smile then, kept that smile on her face through the feast that came afterwards, only faltered when her companions left Sunspear, Arianne to take Daenerys' place in King's Landing and Daenerys to take hers in Dorne.
He remembers little of it, only a silver braid and the sky and his sister's face as she turned around on her horse, going westward and laughing, hair swinging, remembers only the beating of his own heart.
