"You should be able to see the capital shortly, my lady," Ser Elyn said as he trotted up to Raya, who was riding near the front of the procession on her dapple-grey mare. She nodded towards him, but her stomach gave a twist of anxiety as she looked ahead of her, trying to spot a sign of the Red Keep through the trees that stood thick around them.
For the last half of their trip she had refused to ride in the carriage. Spending days of travel without the feel of the wind on her face always drove her insane, and so as long as she kept within sight of the guards her father had permitted her to ride her horse, which they were taking with her to King's Landing. They had been traveling for nearly a month now, and had been in the kingdom of the South for just over a week. Winter was coming, and so the South wasn't quite as warm as Raya had expected, though she was still unused to the dresses she wore now, which were thinner and lighter, and showed more of her skin. It was not that she had a problem with showing more skin – it had more to do with the fact that she was unused to it, unused to the ticklish feeling her hair made as the wind brushed it against her bare arms, or to the burning sensation the sun left on her pale skin when she spent too much time in the sunlight. After all, she had been born into the long autumn, and was used to thick wool dresses and cloaks, not thin silk.
At last the trees grew sparser as the procession reached the edge of the Kingswood and Raya set her eyes on King's Landing, the capital of the South, for the first time since childhood. The first thing she noticed was that it was larger and dirtier than she had expected, and there seemed to be a haze rising off the city like the mists that sometimes rose off the moors of the North in the early morning, though this mist was thicker and dingier, and just looking at it Raya had the impression of dirt and smoke and sour wine. But she had to admit that the Red Keep itself was quite magnificent, made of stone that gleamed scarlet in the light of the noonday sun. Though the castle itself was small, undoubtedly smaller than Winterfell, its drum towers and ramparts seemed to stretch to the very sky, so that Aegon's High Hill bristled with red spears.
"We truly are far from home," Raya muttered to herself as she gazed at the city, though for the first time since she had left Winterfell she felt a strange lack of bitterness at that fact. In its place was a sense of numbness, a lack of opinion on the matter. Perhaps it was because this strange city, with its dirty haze and its red walls, had yet to seem real.
On they rode until they were coming up on the Dragon Gate, which towered over their heads as they grew closer. Carvings, intricately wrought, covered the stone frame of the gate, and as they approached Raya narrowed her eyes through the small window in the carriage (which she had been made to re-enter for their procession through the city) to discern the images. It was only when they were practically past the gate that she realized that the images were of dragons, some with men on their backs and some riderless, but all of them in mid-flight, their wings spread wide. She couldn't help the thrill of excitement that shot through her as she was reminded of the real dragons that lay somewhere within the city gates. She knew that, of the three dragons that had been hatched by Daenerys Targaryen all of those years ago, only one, Viserion, remained in King's Landing. Balerion, always the wildest of the three, had been missing since the day of Daenerys' death, and Rhaegal had been killed in the Vengeful War. But other dragons had hatched since then, dragons whose names she had long forgotten since her history lessons as a young girl, but that she knew were still alive and lived in King's Landing. One of those dragons, she remembered, belonged to her betrothed.
As they had grown up, Raya and her brothers, having been told tales of the legendary direwolves of the Starks of old, had debated countless times whether it would be better to have a direwolf or a dragon in one's company. Raya and Jon, old enough to be proud of their ancestors and their house, had proclaimed it better to have a direwolf, for they were loyal and noble, like the North, while Edrick, young and in awe of a dragon's power, declared himself a supporter of the latter. And though Raya would rather a direwolf than a dragon, she had always admired the dragon's sheer strength and terrible beauty, and the combination of fear and awe they inspired in those few who were lucky enough to have been in their presence and survived to tell about it. She couldn't deny the part that they had played in the Vengeful War, which had resulted in the North's victory, as well as the victory of the Targaryens. And as different as the North and South were, they held a connection in the legacy of the dragons, for over seventy years before Jon Snow had ridden Rhaegal, bringing ice to fire. And so Raya found that what she was most excited for in her new home, if it could be called that, were the dragons. Fire and blood.
After a short conversation with the King in the North, the City Guards had opened the gate for the northerners, and Raya's carriage passed beneath it; soon she had officially entered King's Landing. The stench of the city hit her quickly; it was a reek of smoke and sweat and shit, one that made Raya's nose instinctively scrunch up in distaste and one that made her wish, with a painful twist of her stomach, for the smell of Winterfell and the godswood, of grass and wind and cold, grey stone.
The noise, too, was different: as Raya's carriage trundled through the rough, cobblestone streets the air around them buzzed with the language and activity of nearly five hundred thousand inhabitants, if she remembered her history lessons correctly. All her life, Raya had grown accustomed to the sound of the men and women of Winterfell, who numbered in the few thousands. The largest city she had ever visited was White Harbour, which was governed by her kin through her mother's side, and from one look of King's Landing, she knew that even the seat of House Manderly could barely compare in size, though it made up for it in beauty and, Raya was quickly discovering, cleanliness.
Thus, Raya's entrance and gradual procession through King's Landing came as quite a shock, and she couldn't help the homesickness that sprouted within her and grew like a weed in her gut as around her the dirty, loud, and entirely unfamiliar city unfolded.
It seemed like a lifetime before they finally reached the Red Keep, or rather the cobbled square outside the barbican of the main gate. Here, the procession paused, and Raya gazed curiously out the window. Her father was dismounting from his horse to speak to the guards that stood on either side of the massive portcullis through which the castle lay in all of its red-stoned glory. Once her father had spoken to the guards he came around to the carriage and pulled the door open, much to Raya's surprise.
"What is it?" She asked as Eddard peered inside. He offered a hand to her and she stepped out of the carriage with her eyebrows raised, grateful for the freedom but confused as to why it was happening now, right before their entrance into the Red Keep, where surely the lords, ladies, and royal family of the South were waiting.
"A princess of the North can make her own way through the castle's gates, don't you think?" Eddard said with a small smile on his face, interrupting Raya's confusion. She felt a rush of pride, and love for her father swept over her, though she resisted the urge to hug him as the portcullis was raising slowly behind them and it was surely time to be moving. So instead she returned Eddard's smile with one of her own.
"Thank you, father," she said simply, and the King in the North rested a hand briefly on her shoulder before returning to his horse. Raya followed him to where Ser Elyn was holding the reins to her own horse. He handed them to her and, in one fluid motion, she pulled herself up and over the horse's powerful body and into the saddle. As she nudged the mare to a trot to catch up to her father, who was already passing under the gate, she wondered why Eddard had experienced this sudden change of mind. She had been made to return to the carriage as they travelled through the city, after all. But answers came as quickly as the questions themselves had: she realized that, in the city, the purpose of the carriage had been to show the common people her status among them, while here, in the castle, the purpose of her entrance on horseback was to show that she was different from the southern lords, ladies, and royalty; that she carried with her the strength and independence of the North.
"His Grace, the King in the North, Eddard Stark, and his daughter, Princess Raya Stark."
Raya heard the pronouncement before they had come out from under the gate, and it sent a shiver of energy through her. She barely had time to wonder what would be awaiting them within the walls of the Red Keep before they had emerged into the courtyard and the sight before her cut her curiosity short.
It seemed as if the entire Southern court had left the shelter of the Red Keep to witness the arrival of a portion of the Northern royal family. They were lined up, rather orderly, along the wide steps that led up to the great oaken doors of the castle, and all but the royal family bowed at the Starks' approach. The first thing that Raya noticed, strangely enough, was not the royal family itself, who were standing at the very base of the steps, but the clothing that the court was wearing. Raya had grown accustomed to wool, iron, and battered steel, and so it was a bit of a shock to see all of these highborn men and women dressed in nothing of the sort found in the North, but instead in lavish silks, linens, lace and, in the case of the guards, polished, glimmering steel. The dress she wore now, which, ever since she had put it on had felt too fancy and whose tight bodice and flowing designs had quite bothered her, she now realized was really quite plain compared to the dresses some of the ladies in front of her wore. But as quick as the shock came on, Raya pushed it away and refused to let the vast, frivolous difference between the northern and southern courts get her down.
Raya turned her attention to the royal family. It was a testament to the intriguing features of the Targaryens that they managed to stand out amongst the extravagant dresses and armour of the court behind them. Raya refused to look at Daeron first, and so she fixed her gaze quite solidly upon King Rhaegar Targaryen, who, Raya remembered from her history lessons with Maester Brishin, had been named after the Rhaegar of old. He was younger than she had expected, with a narrow face, a high, proud forehead, and sharp cheekbones. His hair was a pale, nearly translucent silver and was worn in a long braid at his back. His eyes were of a bright shade of violet, and he wore a crown of dark iron and ruby, which Raya knew was an exact replica of the crown Aegon the Conquerer had forged hundreds of years ago upon his Conquest of Westeros. Rhaegar wore a pitch-black tunic with a snarling three-headed dragon embroidered across the front in golden thread, a red-and-black checked cloak fastened by a golden dragon's claw, and a longsword in a scabbard of black leather and ruby. Yet despite the sense of importance that exuded off of him, and despite the crown that sat on his head, an easy smile stretched across his face as he gazed first at Eddard Stark, and then at Raya herself. Raya expected to feel defiant or proud in the face of this southern king, and so was surprised to find herself feeling oddly at ease.
"Rhaegar Targaryen." Raya's father was the first to speak, and only then was Raya aware of the silence that had previously fallen thick across the courtyard. Eddard pushed himself off of his horse's saddle and landed lightly on the stone of the courtyard. Raya hastened to imitate him, and dismounted from her horse as well, though she made sure to keep her movements calm and sure as she did so. Her father strode towards the southern king and they grasped hands, both smiling.
"It is good to see you again, Eddard," the Targaryen king said, his voice warm.
"And you," her father responded. Raya couldn't help but feel intrigued by the two kings' interaction. For as long as Raya remembered, every time a man had greeted Eddard Stark it had been with a bow and an air of formality and respect. Yet in this greeting, neither man bowed, and both spoke as if to an old friend. But then again, all of those men who had spoken to her father before had been subjects to the King in the North, not equals, as Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the South, by all definitions surely was.
As Raya lapsed into thought she found her gaze unconsciously sliding to Rhaegar's left, where his wife, Shaera Targaryen, who Raya remembered came from a distant branch of the Targaryen bloodline in Volantis, stood. She was tall, slim, and ethereally beautiful, with long hair of purest golden that lay in intricate curls down her back, and eyes of palest indigo. Raya realized too late that the queen had been looking at her, but when their eyes met she found that the woman was smiling at her, her eyes sparkling. Raya returned the smile before turning her attention to Rhaegar's right, where his eldest son and heir to the Iron Throne, Aemon Targaryen, stood. Aemon had inherited his mother's beauty and his father's true Targaryen features; he stood straight-backed and proud, his hair bright silver and worn short and his eyes violet. Then, without thinking, Raya's gaze moved further right and landed, rather traitorously, for she had promised herself that she would not look upon her betrothed until made to do so, on Daeron Targaryen.
With his fine features and silver-white hair, Daeron took more after his father than his mother. Raya wouldn't quite describe him as beautiful, as she so easily had Aemon; Daeron was handsome, with a squarer jaw, broader shoulders, and a certain strength about him that spoke to his reputation as a fighter, comparable in skill to some of the best knights in Westeros, though he was only eight-and-ten. While two years Aemon's junior, he was the same height as his brother, though leaner. He wore a black tunic embroidered with red thread, and a sword hung at his hip in a scabbard of black leather and wood, surprisingly simple. He wore his hair at shoulder-length, and as Raya's grey eyes moved back towards Daeron's dark indigo ones, she realized that he was looking at her too. As their gazes met, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in what appeared to be the beginnings of a smile.
"My daughter, Raya," Eddard said, and the sound of her name jerked Raya's gaze away from Daeron's, and her mind returned to the interaction taking place in front of her. Eddard gestured towards her and she stepped forwards so that she was standing in front of Rhaegar Targaryen.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, princess," Rhaegar said, smiling and nodding towards her. Raya, unsure of how she should greet the southern king, merely smiled and nodded respectively in turn.
"Since word of the marriage between our families reached every corner of the seven kingdoms, I have heard rumour of your daughter's beauty," the king continued, turning once more to Eddard. "It seems, after all, that there was great truth in those rumours. She is more beautiful than I can say."
Raya felt suddenly uncomfortable with the way in which she was being spoken about, as if she weren't there, but beside her, her father simply smiled.
"She takes after her mother," he said, and Rhaegar nodded, smiling in turn.
"Now I must introduce you to my family," the king said, and he first introduced Shaera, who gave the Starks a dazzling smile, then Aemon, who smiled graciously before shooting Raya a barely concealed wink that reminded her of the rumours she had heard regarding his promiscuity.
"And at last, there is my second-born son, Daeron," Rhaegar said by way of introduction. "Whom you, princess, will soon be marrying."
"King Eddard," Daeron said politely, nodding towards Raya's father. He then turned towards Raya, offered her a small bow and, his eyes sparking, reached for her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. She raised her eyebrows at him, and a strange feeling swept through her at the formality of his greeting. She thought suddenly of the way the Northern lords had always greeted her, with great bellows of delight and large, toothy smiles.
Raya remembered her manners just in time and, wrenching herself from her memories and the fresh wave of homesickness that had threatened to spill over at them, she gave the Targaryen a small curtsy.
"Prince Daeron," she said by way of greeting, and he smiled.
"Princess Raya."