A/N: Sorry for the wait, in typical me fashion I've been attempting to complete my summer assignments last minute. So far a I've only done about half of one of them because I gave up and decided to post this instead (you're very welcome). This chapter isn't my favourites but you should let earn more more about the main character so that some good. Enjoy and thanks to everyone who has been reading, following and favouriting and reviewing! xx
CHAPTER SIX
They had been riding for over a month and Deandra was sore. Her thighs were sore from riding, her arse was sore from sitting in her saddle, her arms were sore from griping the reins and her eyes were sore from a lack of sleep.
She was also sweating, and she was sweating quite badly. It had been a shock, the gradual increase of heat had been manageable but this was bordering on unbearable. By the time they had passed through King's Landing, Deandra and most of her entourage had shed their heavy furs as the sun got brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter.
Now that they were entering Dorne, the heat of the capital seemed trivial. The Stark men were wheezing and Deandra had never been more thankful for her southern descent. Even the well-travelled Rodrik was struggling in his thick armour as beads of perspiration soiled his white beard.
It felt as though she had overestimated the enjoyment of adventure, especially as most of it consisted of uncomfortable travelling over long and arduous distances and terrains. Not that she disliked riding Caraxes, or any other horse, and she also rather liked walking but not for leagues upon leagues upon bloody leagues. Despite the conditions, one thing Deandra didn't do was give up. She wasn't a quitter no matter how impatient or angry she often got and so she kept her complaints and choice words close to her chest and she refused to mope and she did not stop moving. Besides, if all things went to plan once she reached her childhood home then exploring demanding territory would be the least of her difficulties.
The journey hadn't been all bad in the end. She had visited new places she hadn't been able to last time and she had met new people, although a few were quite unsavoury. Though she didn't want to admit it, had it not been for her company then Deandra would probably have been raped and murdered along the road instead of being gifted with some of the most glorious views any man or woman could hope to see.
The population down south were incredibly spoiled, Deandra decided. They were spoiled with sights fit for the heavens, certainly compared to those in the North whose castles were built for practicality rather than grandeur. From the Red Keep to Horn Hill and to Highgarden, the south of westeros was truly blessed but no castle or sept or, indeed, anything that had been built could compete with the awe inspiring majesty of Starfall — at least in Deandra's humble opinion.
Situated in the Red Mountains, which were an impressive enough spectacle on their own, Starfall was said to have been raised by the first Dayne over ten thousand years ago on an island at the mouth of the Torrentine River after he had tracked a falling star there and found a stone of magical powers. This meant that all Dayne's were descendants of the First Men whose culture was far more prominent in the North while the Andals remained in the south.
Deandra could taste the salt in the hot air, the Summer Sea bright and blue and pure and she felt her lips curve. It was refreshing to be exposed to such colours, colours she had missed over the years. Her smile only widened at the utter amazement on the faces of her guard. Their eyes were comically large, their mouths hilariously agape and they were practically trembling — not that she blamed them. She almost felt like giggling herself, a giddy emotion that suprised her deep within her chest.
Impossibly tall and ivory towers shot into the clouds above, the purple of House Dayne serving to make the castle even more regal. It was like something from a fairytale, a pretty story that mother's sang to children or one she had recited for her youngest cousins.
Her breath caught in her lungs and she felt winded as the gates opened with a flourish and Deandra had just enough time to swallow awkwardly as she glimpsed Palestone Sword, the tower where her mother had committed suicide.
She had been greeted amicably, even the Stark men had been received politely. There was something different within the white walls and she liked it. Deandra recalled being a tad ostracised by children and adults alike, although no one had voiced their contempt and she was treated with courtesy that any one of noble birth would expect.
Isolation had plagued her then. Everyone had known the story of how Eddard Stark murdered Ser Authur Dayne, the kind and honourable Sword of the Morning. He had earned a semblance of respect by returning the knight's blade but that had been stripped away once Ashara took her own life.
Deandra remembered being angry, no, she remembered being hurt, so, so, hurt that she had meant so little to her mother, the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally and above everything else. There was a time when she hated and utterly abhored the woman who had birthed her. The Lords and Ladies spoke so highly of Ashara. Ashara was kind, Ashara was beautiful, Ashara was brave. Deandra had scoffed every time she heard the last one. No brave person would ever leave their child or this world behind, that was the path of a selfish coward. Those were the words that had tumbled out of her mouth one evening at dinner.
She had been having a bad day and she had snapped. Having to hear how wonderful her mother and to hear her, the woman she would never meet, be praised had finally taken its toll. Having to endure segregation had finally taken its toll. Deandra had been crying as she screamed (she was never really in control of her anger, especially then) and she cried and screamed more when they had sent her away to Winterfell but no one listened. No one had ever listened to her then.
Things seemed better now. She knew that Edric Dayne was the Lord and King of the Torrentine these days. It took little effort to remember him. Edric was her younger cousin, he would be around Robb and Jon's age if she was correct. He had always been a sweet boy, small and slim for his age. In some ways, she supposed he and Bran were fairly similar. Although Edric lacked a certain thirst for adventure; he was too shy and too skinny. Physicality aside, Edric was smart for his age, even then, and Starfall appeared to be prospering more than ever under his rule.
Her thoughts would soon be confirmed as she prepared for another dinner with her family. Handmaidens had made themsleves busy with her inky locks, moulding the strands into a rather elegant and flamboyant style, complete with an abundance of braids and curls. It was all quite silly but it felt nice for her hair to be out of her face.
Before the servant girls could help her dress, Deandra happily kicked them out and now stared intently at the parcel Sansa had thrust into her hands. Its purple, the redhead had told her.
Purple was a gorgeous colour. It was rich and powerful and commanded attention, and it matched her eyes, but still she hesitated when opening the paper. She was proud of her heritage, once she got over her fury and naivety, and she did call herself Deandra Dayne after all, yet she was stupidly nervous. Her worry stemmed from a deep seated issue that had blossomed at a young age, she knew this. She called herself a Dayne up North and had been called one down south but she was made to feel inadequate.
It was a childish insecurity caused by her Lord Uncle. Perhaps it was wrong to feel that way about family but she was relieved when she had learned of his death. He had enjoyed belittling her and dropping in Ashara's name a bit too much for her liking and it had been his choice to send her away. He had grabbed her limbs with a bruising force as she wailed and locked her in her room like a pathetic princess from a song. She hadn't been allowed out until her departure and she had almost wrecked her vocal chords and her nails had been scratched away from clawing at the door.
Deandra grit her teeth at the memory and reached for the package. She was a Dayne and she would bloody well prove it to anyone that dared to so much as think otherwise.
