The sept is bathed in smoke. The heady scent of incense has spread through every corner in an attempt to cover the smell of death, of rotting flesh and human misery. Rhaenys keeps her eyes to the floor. She can't quite bear to look at her mother's corpse. To think that the woman was once – not too long ago – alive; to think that this is what becomes of them all eventually, Rhaenys shudders although the warmth of the place shouldn't allow for it. Dorne is always warm, covered in heated sand. Yet for all that Rhaenys feels awfully cold inside.

She never got to ask her mother for the truth. She hates the fact that her courage deserted her. Standing at her side in those last few hours, she might've demanded to know the truth, but she hadn't. Rhaenys turns her gaze to her brother. Aegon's face is flushed and tired, his eyes red-rimmed from all the crying. He is still weeping quietly, his throat too raw to produce any sounds for the moment.

The man she calls father stands in front of them, a little distance away from his children. Arthur Dayne is bent over his departed wife's shell. It almost seems like he's waiting for her to wake up. As if he expects it all to be a bad dream from which he will wake any time now.

He wrote to the King. Rhaenys doesn't know what to think of it. Of course it is not the first time when he does this. The head of House Dayne keeps a flowing correspondence with the Crown. He used to be a Kingsguard after all. And they say the King had always considered him a friend. Perhaps Arthur Dayne thinks himself entitled to care for the King's bastard daughter. That explains it all.

A high-pitched sob erupts from Aegon. The boy has found his voice. Rhaenys leaves her place and takes her brother in her arms. Taller than him, she is also more powerful. The girl embraces the little child, muffling his cries in the folds of her pale dress. She would have thought that by now even Aegon would have lost this urge to cry. Rhaenys can feel tears welling up in her eyes. Sniffing softly she tries her best to keep them at bay. Allowing herself to dwell on it won't help matters any. Besides, Aegon cries enough for the both of them.

At the very least her father will not disappear like uncle Oberyn. Mother's younger brother left as soon as the maester announced there was nothing more to be done for Elia. Perhaps it was his own way of avoiding the truth of the matter. Either way when he comes back, Elia's death will be just as real as his absence from her side. But then again Elia had wanted no one with her. Father had insisted that she allow them to say farewell, but Elia did not wish for her children to witness her passing.

Aegon hadn't understood. He just wanted to climb in bed with his mother and have his hair stroked. That was when he started crying, and he still cries.

"Rhaenys," her father calls, leaving the corpse where it is. "Come. You and Aegon must be tired and hungry by now." They are awake since the crack of dawn.

"I don't want to go," her brother whines, fists clenching in his sister's dress. "I won't leave mother alone!"

But Arthur will have none of that. He picks the boy up, despite his arms flailing. Rhaenys wonders how their father can be so patient. He is tired too. He is hungry too. He is devastated too. Still, Aegon struggles and cries and shouts, and suddenly Rhaenys is glad for father's iron self-control. Had it been her, she is sure Aegon would have been clutching a stinging cheek by now. The baby of the family gets more leeway. It's fascinating the way in which a father and his son bond. Held as he is, Aegon quietens somewhat, opting to muffle his cries in their father's broad shoulder.

Mother would not have allowed him to carry on so. For all her tenderness, Elia had always believed that a spoiled child would grow up rotten. Their father has a different approach. He coddles both his children, holding a tender spot for daughter and son alike. Elia's kisses were only delivered after the candles were blown out. Arthur is more demonstrative in his affection. Even nursing his own grief, he finds it in himself to soothe the children's hurts.

She should contend herself with this, Rhaenys considers, staring longingly after her father – not her father- but she can't. If she's not his, then she needs to know. She needs to know so the guilt will leave her be. Hopefully her anger will fade too. Rhaenys has been angry for a while now. She wants to know that when people call her the daughter of her father, it is because she is a Dayne, not merely because Arthur Dayne took her in.

Doubt. Self-doubt. Deceit. She spies a servants lurking in the shadows. Rhaenys creeps away from her father, with a promise to return soon. Arthur nods at her absent-mindedly, still comforting the son. Rhaenys stops in front of the man, eyes narrowing into slits. "Have I not said that I do not wish to see you again? Begone!" she hisses menacingly.

"M'lady." The man bows respectfully. "I am sorry to have caused you distress upon out last meeting. My apologies."

"Distress?" she repeats dumbfounded. "Distress, you say? If you do not make yourself scarce I shall have my father throw you out on you ear, impertinent wretch. How dare you appear before me?"

"You have the same air of command as you true father. The same stance too. A voice and a disposition very alike to his own." His offer is met with a cold look of disdain. "Think on it, m'lady." His gaze remains fixed on her, something in those dark eyes slithering past her carefully erected walls.

Wrenching her eyes away from him, Rhaenys trots away. Wretched man! He thinks to confuse her. Had she really been another man's daughter, her mother would have told her before dying, wouldn't she? Elia hadn't said a thing.

Nay, the girl thinks. Nay, Arthur Dayne must be her father, else he would not treat her as he does. Arthur Dayne is her father. He is., he is, he is. Rhaenys repeats the words in her head, almost like a mantra. Hurrying her steps, she breaks into a run, lifting her skirts to gain speed.

Arthur she finds seated at the table. Throwing her arms around her father's neck, she lets out a sob. "I love you, papa!"

Gently caressing her wild mane of curls, he smiles in her hair. "And I love you."