Dorne is kind to Alayne. Here she owns herself and is beholden to no-one. In a few years, she is lightly tanned and dressed entirely in gorgeously embroidered silks, her take on Dornish fashion as well as a showcase of her skill at her chosen profession. At first it had seemed scandalous, and dangerous, to leave her rooms so scantily dressed, but she relishes it now. Her back is bare and unblemished by scars. That is what she loves the most with the light dresses that to her have become a badge of her freedom and femininity.
She has moved out of the boarding house, though she remains friends with the widow Meria and the other women. She has her own house and small household now, paid for with money from her business. As her name spreads, more of her commissions are for feast-day garments or for the nobility. She has her own contacts with Essosi merchants for silks and rare, gauzy cotton, seed pearls, gold and silver and silk thread. Alayne can pay, and later, charge for quality, and knows how to avoid being cheated.
She has dressed the Princess Arianne Martell, and received a very pretty compliment as well as a much-appreciated bonus for her quick, exquisite work. She has made swaddling for heirs of Houses and a betrothal dress for Lady Lemonwood. Most memorably, she has measured Ellaria Sand for a gown and peeked under her lashes at Prince Oberyn, until Ellaria touched her lightly under her chin and herself gave Alayne a heated look. Sansa Stark would have fainted. (Sansa Stark would never have looked at a man like that in the first place.) Alayne Stone felt her cheeks heat but returned Ellaria's gaze.
Since arriving in Dorne, Alayne has gradually freed herself from old fears ad restrictions. First to go was the down-turned face, then her silence, then the heavy Northern gowns, and finally her fear. (But the bitterness, at fate, at her family, endures. She loves the agency of Alayne's life in Dorne. She loves supporting herself and her small household. But somewhere deep inside, the young maid who dreamed of gallantry and a knight from song remains. The songs were all lies.)
The only hiccough, her only moment of panic, had been waking to bloodied sheets for the first time. It had felt like surely the charade was up, surely now she would be brought back to misery. Then her maid (and friend, always friend), Doree Sand, had knocked on the door to help with her morning routine and normalcy reasserted itself. The sheets had been taken away to be laundered and Alayne had had a mug of bitter tea to help with the cramps, and that had been it. No-one had come tearing in, tearing up her life for her sin of being a woman flowered and thus a valuable commodity. Instead Doree had congratulated her, and then, upon seeing Alayne's still trembling hands, embraced her.
She still doesn't relish her moonblood, but now it is for the mess and irritability and the cravings, and not for fear of imminent rape. In a way, her bleeding makes her feel empowered. She can bleed and remain her own. She supports herself, Doree, a woman who cooks and does laundry and occasionally a handy-man to repair things around the house. She is free.
Dorne lets Alayne be free. She has shared mild flirtations with male relatives of customers, and occasionally with customers themselves, but nothing has come of it. Until she is comfortable with it, nothing has to come of it. It can stop at an appreciative smile, or occasionally a kiss without further expectations. Alayne is not even sure she wants more than that. She doesn't yet trust she will remain independent should she share herself. Perhaps that will change, but for now she is content.
Doree, who is Dornish to the bone, was the one to persuade Alayne to dress herself in Dornish fashion at first. She has also taught Alayne more of Dorne and its culture. Waking early, in the still cool pearly morning to do errands with the other inhabitants of Planky Town, before the hammer of the sun strikes. Retreating indoors for more sedentary occupations, and later siesta, during the hellishly hot midday hours. Emerging in the cooler, late afternoon and early evening, when she schedules most of her fittings. Late, spicy meals before bed, or before gathering with other the women of her neighbourhood to dance, talk and drink the fiery, strong losennta that she has come to love. This is the rhythm of life that Doree has taught her.
Alayne adores the dancing. It is nothing like other Westerosi dancing. (Or maybe nothing like Westerosi dancing, period, as Dorne feels entirely separate from the oppressive, rigid structures of Westerosi society. It is truly a land apart.) When the women gather to dance, they do so on their own terms. Sometimes they are alone, and the gathering grows loud with raucous laughter and crass, feminine jests. They dance with swinging hips and undulating stomachs, arms raised in abandon, in joy, in freedom. Other times men are allowed, and some women chose partners, for the evening, or maybe even for the night. Initially it had shocked Alayne, but seeing it so accepted here eased her fear. Doree explained that it was all about consent and communication. Even married folks might take lovers, if they both agreed, and no shame came from it.
Tonight is a night of women dancing alone. New from the rest of Westeros has lit a fire in Alayne's veins. Her hair tumbles freely and sheer silk swirls as she moves like a flame. The King in the North has won a victory against the Ironborn. The towers of Pyke have all tumbled down. Alayne is glad. They will never have Winterfell now. But it is other news that paint a never-ending smile on her face and sets her blood fizzing. The False King, Joffrey Waters, has been beheaded before the Sept of Baelor and his whore mother has been sent to the Silent Sisters. Alayne dances. (Sansa dances.) For happiness, for spite, for a last shadow of fear banished.
AN/ There will be a Arianne/Sansa femslash continuation of this posted as a new story "will pass her lips" shortly. This story is finished at two chapters.