Mirana Martell I
Loud music echoed through the Great Hall, the strings and tunes of the bards drowned out only by the laughter and talk of the dancing and eating crowd below the skulls of dragons lining the walls. Candles and torches flickered orange and yellow light on the banners belonging to the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, with the black and red of the Targaryen flag remaining dominant, as it had been for the last two hundred and fifty-two years.
As it should be.
The Red Keep was a castle rife with dragons after all, both living and dead. It stood to reason that their home reflected their power.
The long tables, covered in red cloth, were full with food and drink. Maids and servants scurried about, pouring empty goblets to the brim with wine and ale, and replacing empty plates with ones that were brimming with cuisine still steaming fresh out of the kitchens. Bards, dancers and mummers from Westeros and Essos and even further beyond seemed to thrive under the attention of the highest of nobles and the richest merchants.
Knights and swordsmen and lords mingled, exchanging tales, arranging trade agreements, and most certainly plotted with and against each other. Their armor and their gold gleaming in the light of the thousand lit candles and hearths. Their wives and daughters twirled on the floors and dithered amongst each other.
There was a heady perfume of sweat, rich food, sweet wine and wildflowers—the last two were a courtesy of Luthor Tyrell, or more accurately; Olenna Tyrell. The two were always scheming their way into the good graces of men and women with power. The young Tyrell lord was a bumbling fool, satisfied with dancing and stumbling into women with a drink in each hand, but one only had to look closer to see the barbed thorns of his wife, carefully hidden behind his bulk, hooded eyes watching your every move.
The womenfolk and children amongst the servants had been tasked with hanging and stuffing the flowers in every nook and cranny they could find and they'd done a marvelous work of it. The Great Hall was truly an echo of the might and power of ruling family.
It was an extravagant wedding, one fit for songs. For tales about great kings and greater loves. Befitting of the Targaryen legacy, really.
Mirana was trapped here, a fox in this pit of vipers. She felt both closer to and farther away from Dorne than ever, her heart and home.
She swirled the wine in her cup, idly studying the masses. The pillar she was leant against felt blessedly cool on her back, and not for the first time she thanked her maid's foresight to have her dress in a backless chiton. And attracting the eyes of men and women has always been my favorite pastime, she thought with a sly smile, glancing at the young noble lady who was staring a bit dazedly at her.
She was a pretty golden thing, dressed in Lannister red. It wasn't till a dancing couple nearly stumbled into her that the woman snapped out of her wonder and she shuffled off with a scandalized gasp, face turning a brilliant red.
Mirana chuckled.
"One would've thought you'd stop teasing innocent maidens after you were wed," a familiar voice said from her right, "But alas, even with a lovestruck man and a son waiting for you at home and you're still showing young women the path of sin."
The last part was said in the driest tone possible, clearly quoting someone he didn't hold in very high esteem.
Mirana's smile widened into a smirk, "Oh but I am but a messenger, my dear Prince." She turned to the newcomer. "And I reap success, wouldn't you think?"
The youngest Targaryen prince returned her smirk, equally wide and just as devious. Humor lightened his purplish eyes even more than the light of the torch that hung on the pillar above their heads. His hair had always been shades closer to grey and white than blond, and it shone like spun silver, cut short with the top strands falling to his eyebrows. On the cusp of becoming a grown man, and he was already too dazzling to behold.
How many women had he enchanted this evening already? How many men?
"Besides," she added, "I'd rather fall into beds than vats of cold, freezing water."
Oh, but the Prince could pull the best contrived faces.
"That was… admittedly not my brightest moment," he said stiffly and then turned to the tall red-haired knight behind him, "Ser Lev, remind me to compliment Lady Sami later. Her… persuasion skills must be extraordinary for you to defy a prince for her."
The addressed man barked a nervous laugh, his gold-plated armor gleaming as much as his fiery hair under the lights of the Hall. "I once again ask for your forgiveness, my Prince. All I can say is that it worked well- we've successfully avoided your uncle's ire."
Mirana laughed too, thinking back on it.
It had been after their return to the Red Keep. While most converged to the Hall, Mirana had left the procession to change into lighter robes. Preferable one that showed a scandalous amount of skin so she could-
"Princess Mirana." It was Duncan Targaryen, walking towards her with a pinched frown. Handsome despite it, dressed in black and grey velvet and velour, tall and powerful. In another life, his raven hair would've been silver. In another life, he would never have fallen in love. In another life, he would've been king.
Mirana curtsied, "My Prince, how can I be of service?"
"My nephew." Direct and to the point, Mirana could see where Daemetrys got his bluntness from. "Apparently he'd thought that getting himself drunk before the first dance was a good idea. I don't have the time to make sure he's presentable."
He didn't say anything else. Another trait he and his youngest nephew shared; the ability to prompt others into doing their bidding. Mirana could manage it sometimes, when she gave smiles dripping with poison.
She bowed again, "I will see to it that Prince Daemetrys is sobered up."
He nodded, already distracted by another thing, fiddling with a loosened cuff on his sleeve. "Tell him I want to speak to him. My wife wishes to see him."
"Very well, my prince."
She had gathered her skirts and made for where she'd just left aforementioned drunk nephew. Which turned out be his room, where a distraught swordhand was trying to coerce his prince into a change of clothes.
The young Targaryen had vomited over his mirish silks, it seemed.
"Ser Lev, dump his Highness in the tub," she said airily. "Before the Prince of Dragonflies has both our hides," she continued when the knight shot her a disbelieving look.
"Betray me, Lev," Daeme had hissed at last, slurring the strong vowels, "and I'll make sure that no one willeversuck your cock again."
The swordhand had hesitated then, threats of castration seemingly holding more weight than threats of dishonor or death. Men and their cocks, Mirana had rolled her eyes and leaned close to the red-haired man. "Sami has been telling me about how much she loves it here. I might just have to send her back, lest she keeps on…" she glanced at his crotch, and lowered her voice even more, "appreciating tasks not given by me."
The look on his face was one that still made her want to cackle like a barmaid. "Forgive me, my Prince," Ser Lev had said in a strangled voice and proceeded to grab the young man.
"Nevermore-" Daemetrys had started to swear only to be cut off when Ser Lev dunked his head in the vat.
Mirana had laughed herself to tears.
Daemetrys regarded the jovial crowd with a bitter twist of his lips. "They've been flinging their daughters at me the whole night. I can't have a moment's peace without a father with more greed than love in his chest trying his best to become a successful merchant with only one ware to sell."
Of course, now that Aerys and Rhaella were wed, it left Daemetrys as the only way into the royal family. Unfortunately for the ambitious ones among them, the youngest Prince had no intention of marrying anyone soon. Or ever, to hear him speak sometimes.
Mirana had first come to court years ago, shortly after her last miscarriage. She'd fled in the dark of the night, leaving behind the cooling bodies of enemy and friend alike—poisoned at a small gathering, though not her doing and not that anyone would've believed her. She supposed the guards would've believed her more had she been rotting with her consorts.
King's Landing had been everything she hoped it'd be, the Red Keep the safe haven she was looking for, the city a stinking maze of shite and poverty that would drive away the staunchest pursuers.
In those days, she'd still naively hoped that time away from Dornish court and her husband's vow to clear her name would be all it took for her to be able to return. But the moons had turned into a long year away from her son, and she'd gone to the Queen to ask for assistance.
The Queen will help me, she'd thought furiously, I have showed patience. I have charmed the court. I've even befriended Rhaella, that timid, coltish hare.
She'd been desperate, and mayhaps she'd revealed her cards too quickly, and mayhaps the Queen had guessed that Mirana's friendship with her granddaughter was solely for the Martell's own gain, and maybe it was Rhaella's unwillingness to stand up against her family, silent and pale where she should've spoken up for her friend but didn't. Mirana didn't know.
What she did know was that Queen Betha had taken one look at her and dismissed her. And Mirana- Mirana had been a lot of things.
Ready to give up. Ready to die. Ready to kill. Ready to burn down her kingdom because if she could not have it, nobody would.
She remembered Rhaella trying comfort her with witless reassurances.
"I'm sure your Lord Husband will-"
"My Heron?" Mirana had laughed bitterly. "Love me he might but that doesn't mean he protects me from the vipers of this world."
Not that she expected him to anymore. The foolish girl she'd been had been well truly buried in the sands of the Dorne's desert along with the corpses of her friends and lovers. Her husband was no more than a puppet tangled up in the strings of her enemies. That those vipers planned to do the same to her eldest child, her sun-soaked little Doran, still had her grinding her teeth.
It had been Daemetrys who had placed a small chest of gold dragons in her arms, enough to buy mercenaries and horses and provisions and weapons and spies. Enough to prove her innocence, enougg to take back her place in Dorne, enough to bide her time for when she would rule again.
"W-where is this from?" She'd asked him, trembling.
Oh, his smile had been devious. "Straight from the Treasury. I suggest you use it wisely."
She'd reared back. "What? I can't! They'll accuse me of stealing it! I'll be killed!"
"Not if they think you won it fair and square." He'd shrugged his small shoulders, that small, thin boy of ten summers, as if what he was about to do wasn't treason. "My family have their honor to consider. They cannot ask back what one of their own has given away."
And so Mirana had rode for Sunspear, killing and buying and lying her way through the trial until she'd won back her son and her title. When she'd come back, flush from triumph but weary from the arduous journey, the youngest Prince still sported the marks of a very thorough beating. His parents had evidently not been pleased with the news of his gambling away a seventh of their gold.
Mirana had thanked him and asked for forgiveness. All he'd said was, "Now, you owe me." And Mirana had wondered, then, whether she'd traded the venomous but curable snakes for one very hungry dragon.
And yet, if Mirana of House Martell had to bargain her life, she'd rather do it on her own terms.
She had to take back what was rightfully hers, but for that she needed the help of those that had once been Dorne's greatest enemies. The youngest dragon had yet to call upon her debt to him, five summers later. Her plans were beginning to take fruit. Soon, she would have what the world owed her.
And she was not—she flatly refused to be—a desperate woman.
- who can find the... 4/5 major plotlines and subplots?
- still bitter about the show but at this point it's the GoT fan state of being.
- asoiaf-typical tragedy will hit soon so I'm enjoying the downtime to heap praise upon my si. Therapy, folks. Therapy. Cuz he gonna SUFFER