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Foreign Queen
Chapter 2
The entire crew, from the master of the ship to the cooks, had come out to see the two arrivals. The word that one of them was the Targaryen prince himself spread like forest fire and Daeron walked the way to the upper deck between two rows of curious looks and whispers. It was hardly something he was unused to but he had to constantly remind himself that it would not be fitting for him to stare.
At the far end of the desk, there was a canopy with the sun and spear burning bright against the grey sky. There was a huge retinue gathered there and Daeron threw a secret look at everyone… everyone but the two figures sitting under the canopy. He was suddenly too scared to actually have his first look at the one he'd be sharing his life with from now on.
"Your Grace," Lord Dayne said. "May I present my lord, Mors Martell, Prince of Dorne?"
The Martell prince was in his twenties, olive-skinned and lean. He nodded regally and Daeron approved inwardly: the prince was the heir of a current ruler, so it could be only right that he did not bow to Daeron.
"And this is my lady Myriah, Princess of Dorne."
Now, there was no escape: he had to look at her. He looked at her direction and was more than a little pleased to see that she had risen to greet him. Technically, he had entered Dorne at boarding the ship so no one would have considered it bad manners if she had stayed seated. But it felt nice to see that she hadn't.
Myriah's ladies gathered behind her. Stunned, Daeron saw that she was the shortest one of all, not much taller than a child. Yet there was nothing childlike about her figure: she seemed to have all the womanly curves required. She was even slightly on the plump side. Daeron was used to frail looking women of pale hair and violet eyes, dressed in rich velvets and Myrosh lace. His betrothed was nothing like them: under the diamond tiara, her hair was black and curling, her eyes were huge and dark, surrounded by thick eyelashes. Her skin had the soft sheen of a golden fruit. Daeron had never seen such a complexion. For a moment of insanity, he wondered whether the golden powder would fall if he scrubbed her skin hard enough.
She curtsied and he bowed over her hand. Later, he would realize that he might have held it more tightly then required. But Myriah didn't seem to mind. Her hand was warm and slightly shaking – a sign that for all her outward composure, she was just as anxious as him. Suddenly feeling like her protector already, Daeron held her hand a little longer, trying to convey a feeling of security. She smiled gratefully; when he looked at her, she blushed. Stunned, Daeron realized that she didn't do even that like any other woman he knew – her cheeks did not turn rosy or scarlet. Instead, the dark golden tone of her skin deepened and she became… brownish? He looked at her fingers, long and elegant, with the ruby in gold on her fourth finger. The golden powder had not fallen, of course – it was no powder. He looked around stealthily and saw that a few of the other ladies had such a complexion, too.
"My lady," he said. "I am honoured to finally meet you. I wanted to convey to you in person the greetings of King Baelor and my entire family."
She smiled formally, revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. "My lord, your welcome makes me feel as if His Grace is here in person and this kingdom is my home."
Her drawl was barely understandable but for a moment, Daeron thought he heard a note of fear in her voice. After all, he only needed to accommodate her in his life. But she… she had left the life as she knew it to come to a new one. To her, everything would be new. It was only normal that it would also be frightening. "It is, my lady," he said. "From now on, your home will be with me and you have my word that I'll make everything in my power to make it to your liking."
Myriah murmured gratitude, although she didn't know if she could quite trust him, of course but there was nothing he could do to reassure her that he meant it. Not yet.
Then, the various members of the Dornish entourage were presented to him. He tried to be as polite as he could given the fact that he was almost shaking in the cold day. But then, they were shaking fully in their heavy cloaks. It made sense – he remembered people talking about how hot it was at Dorne. Even his Uncle Aemon had said that the nicest thing they could do for the Princess would be to install bigger fireplaces in her chambers.
How many Dornish nobles had come to King's Landing, anyway? It looked like half of Dorne had come to celebrate the wedding. More important, how many of them were going to stay? According to his father, the agreed number was too high. What, she'll be allowed to make a little Dorne here now? Aegon often murmured, disgruntled. Daeron himself was of the mind that in regards to this particular point, the King had been too agreeable.
"Your Grace," Admiral Velaryon spoke. "It's time for us to go back."
It was a reasonable suggestion because the day was getting darker and the storm fiercer. If they didn't leave now, they soon might be unable to leave at all. "I am ready, my lord Admiral," Daeron said and turned back to make his farewells.
To his surprise, Princess Myriah had risen from her seat. "I am ready," she announced.
Daeron looked at her, astounded. Then, he smiled and she replied with a smile of her own – not a formal one but a smile that lit up her entire face. All of a sudden, she had turned into a beautiful woman. He was irresistibly drawn to the resolution she was accepting her unknown fate with.
Mors Martell looked at his sister and then his admiral. Lord Dayne slowly went close to both Daeron and Myriah. "I humbly beg Your Grace's pardon," he said. "But now, it is impossible for the Princess to go ashore. The weather is too bad. As my lord Velaryon surely knows, this storm is likely to subside in a few hours, so we'll be able to disembark this evening."
"Of course I know that," Alyn Velaryon said without even bothering to hide his irritation. "But there is still time before the storm hits fully. We came here against the wind; I think the Princess won't be in greater danger if she sails down the wind. I have experience and I assure you, she'll be completely safe in my care."
For a moment, Daeron and Myriah's eyes met; in the black depths of hers, he saw an urge to laugh out loud and he shared the sentiment. What Velaryon clearly wanted to say was, I've been sailing Westerosi seas since before you were weaned, little boy, so you'd better shut up. I can take better care of your princess than you can ever hope to take. Of course, it was not funny at all – it was hardly the most auspicious beginning of the new alliance – but well… it was amusing to watch.
"I commend your bravery, my lord," Dayne said. "I imagine that you were very willing to convey His Grace's welcomes. And the Prince, of course, was impatient to meet his future lady wife. I'll hold you as a model to my crew. Not to the Princess, though. I promised to my lord the Prince of Dorne that I'd deliver his daughter safe and sound at King's Landing and I'll keep my word."
So much for the much acclaimed peace. We'll be lucky if we make it to the wedding feast before war breaks out, Daeron thought. What were we thinking, that peace was ever possible! He knew Lord Velaryon well enough to know that the Admiral was now regretting the impulse that had driven him to reaction – surely he could not help but see that the weather got worse by the minute. But he could not draw back now – if he did it would look as if his Dornish counterpart was right in his suspicions about Velaryon's ability to deliver Myriah Martell safely ashore. His pride would not allow it.
There was only one way for everyone to come off with flying colours and fortunately, Mors Martell found it. "We'll be honoured if His Grace stays to dine with us," he said. "We could get to know each other better. Of course, the same applies to you, my lord Admiral. And when the day clears, we'll all disembark together.'
This was a chance for both sides to preserve their dignity, so Daeron accepted readily before the Admiral could open his mouth and maybe give some offence without meaning to… or fully meaning to.
"Very well!" Mors Martell clapped his hands. "Then, we'll have you escorted to two cabins so you can prepare yourselves for the feast."
Daeron declined the servant he was offered – prince or not, he could wipe himself dry and change on his own. He accepted the clothes they prepared for him but he would not change his cloak in red and black and he stood near the fireplace so it could dry. It had barely started when the door came ajar and in peeked two big curious eyes. Daeron smiled. "Come in," he said and the boy came in fully. He was richly clad in black and orange and had an air of confidence about him that immediately told Daeron who he was.
"You are Maron Martell, aren't you?" he asked and the boy nodded. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," his visitor announced. He couldn't be more than three but his speech was already quite clear, for a Dornishman anyway. He looked at Daeron up and down and frowned.
"What?" Daeron asked. "What is it?" He didn't have any siblings and he had no experience with children. This one was innerving him, with his grave scrutiny.
"Boys have smooth faces," Maron Martell announced.
Daeron blinked. "Well, yes. And what of that?"
"Old men have no hair and when they do, it's white," Maron went on.
Daeron was still not following him. "Well, yes," he said again and immediately felt stupid.
Maron gave him a last look of inquiry before he gave up. "Are you so very old?" he asked, obviously unsure whether Daeron was a boy or an old man.
Daeron instinctively raised a hand to his hair. Then put it down. Looked at the small face that was so very serious and perplexed. And laughed.
