Bird song floated along the warm breeze that carried the scent of salt and sand up from the beaches below the palace. The sun, usually so cruel in the warm summer years was merciful this day, allowing a smattering of small, hopeful clouds to block its harsh rays from heating the bricks and fine marble to unbearable temperatures. Still, even in the Winter, Dorne remained warm, especially along the coast as they were, and as Doran dressed, he remembered an errant thought he'd had in his youth, when he and his siblings would play among fountains in the Water Garden. He chuckled at the memory, of his innocent inquiry as to why women were so lucky as to wear the light feathery dresses that were so common in the hot climate, and men were not typically seen in any less than three layers, especially not men of the court. He remembered how it had spurred his younger brother Oberyn to don one of Elia's dresses, and how amused their father had found the spectacle. Still more amusing was the fact that this lighthearted memory was only possible in a country such as Dorne. Surely, Fathers of the Northern regions would never have chuckled so easily if their small son had worn a dress, even in jest as it was.
Doran's mind was, in truth, very often on the other 6 regions of Westeros. While Dorne enjoyed the relative seclusion and self-governance their history and geography allowed them, it was his job as the Prince, after all, to keep his mind sharp with the goings on of the Northern countries. But as of recent, his thoughts were with the Northerners even more frequently than before. It had begun with the betrothal of his son Trystane to the Princess Myrcella, who had only recently landed in Sunspear, and was just settling down with her attendants and chaperones in the great sandstone palace. She was a sliver of a girl, barely 14 and as slight and prone to trembling as a newborn deer, but quiet and gracious; it was a wonder she was borne from the Lannister and Baratheon lines at all. Doran was happy to have her, despite her lineage, as her temperament and traits seemed to lend themselves more to civility and politeness rather than the scheming and cunning he had assumed she'd take from her Mother, and in due time, if she remained as sweet as she appeared, she'd make an acceptable match for his son Trystane, hardly 15 years old himself.
But now that the Princess was settled, the court at Sunspear was expecting another guest to arrive any day now, this time hailing from the Westerlands, and Doran was overseeing preparations all over again. Standing at the mirror over his bureau, the Prince slipped several silver and golden rings onto his fingers, the most prominent of which was a large golden serpent ring, that held a garnet within its jaws, lost in thought as he was so wont to be as of late.
Ylsa Payne. What a name. In Dorne, names carried such lesser weight than they did in the rest of Westeros, but there was still something to it. Payne was not a Noble House. Payne was a Vassal House to the Lannisters. Doran knew there were many, even in Dorne, who would not endorse such a pairing, of a Vassal girl to the Prince, and yet here they were. When he'd received word of the Lord of the girl's house searching for a suitable match in Dorne, Doran has thought nothing much of it. Sure, it was strange for a family from the Westerlands to seek engagement to a Dornish House, seeing as the cultures were…not the most compatible.
Her father's request was first declined by House Santagar; as was expected, Lord Santagar was known very famously for his abundance of daughters, all of whom, as far as Doran knew, had taken up arms in his standing army. House Uller rejected the request next, as their youngest son and only eligible bachelor was still in mourning for the passing of his first wife, and the immediate betrothal to another would have been most inappropriate. House Yronwood refused outright, despite Jayl Yronwood's eligibility and similar age to the Payne girl. But then again, House Yronwood was a rather proud House; Doran knew that if he'd had a daughter, the Yronwood's would have stopped at nothing to wed their son to her. And that was when the Prince had received a raven, inquiring of Prince Trystane's eligibility.
Setting himself in his chair, Doran's thoughts on the matter paused for a moment, as he allowed himself to be wheeled from his quarters. Gout…what a ridiculous ailment to suffer from to this extent. He sighed, eliciting a chuckle from his Captain of the guard, Areo.
He'd seen to it that the girl's quarters were prepared, that her reception was planned out, guards hand selected and handmaidens ready to help her adjust to what would likely be quite the culture shock. Doran knew that however different it was between Dornishmen and the rest of Westeros, it would be much more of a shock for a woman hailing from the austere regions of the West. He'd been meticulous in the planning; she was, after all, his future wife.
Oh, how he'd been advised against such a move. Why was he, the Prince, stooping 'so low' as to accept the betrothal to the daughter of a Vassal House? Especially considering he'd already produced an heir, who was soon to take the throne from him? And after so many rejections…he had to admit, even he couldn't quite explain it. But…. perhaps it was something akin to pity? In the heart of every man and woman, there stirs a small twinge of guilt should they leave the baby bird whom fell from their nest at the foot of the tree to perish. Receiving such a raven from Lord Payne had stirred this feeling in Doran. What a miserable situation, he'd thought, for the scroll had left no detail hidden. The impending birth of a more eligible heir to the girl's House was a sad event for such a woman.
And, in truth…Doran couldn't help but smile as he was greeted by his brother and Ellaria, Oberyn's paramour as he was helped to his seat in one of the cushioned chairs that rung the low-sitting table on which breakfast had been laid. Across from him sat his son, whom none too shyly was deep in conversation with his bashful intended. The golden-haired girl, whose attention was only diverted briefly from Trystane by the arrival of Prince Doran, was such a pleasure to host in his palace, that, when the man had received a raven inquiring to his son's availability for marriage, he hadn't immediately shot Lord Payne down. Perhaps housing his own intended would likewise brighten the Prince's life that much more? Lord knew how he'd spent so many years alone.
"Lady Payne…" The plump redheaded woman held the cool, damp cloth to Ylsa's forehead as the young woman lay sweating in her cabin. The rock of the ship did not agree with her, and the only solace the poor girl could take from the situation was that it was quickly drawing to a close; they'd been at sea for weeks, sailing from Lannisport to what was supposed to be Salt Shore. The plan had been to land at the Southern Dornish port and finish the rest of Ylsa's journey to Sunspear on horseback, but when the weather and tides had not permitted the ship to port successfully, it had been determined that it would save both time and effort to sail Lady Payne directly to the port at Sunspear. A decision Lady Payne herself had not been parlay to, and would have vehemently protested if she'd been included in the decision making. But here they were, approaching the port, finally. The spires of the palace at Sunspear could just be seen over the watery horizon, though Ylsa herself did not go on deck to see them, she was feeling much too ill.
"We're to get ready," her gingered handmaiden, a woman twice her age, urged, attempting to take her by her clammy hand and raise her to her feet to begin dressing and brushing her, though Ylsa felt if she sat up, she would surely be sick again. She grudgingly did as she was told though, having to close her eyes to try and keep herself from feeling nauseous, though it did little to help. It didn't help the situation that the corset she was laced into only aided in raising her body temperature, and seeing as her cabin was already muggy with her over overheated breath and sweat, she honestly feared that she might faint. How could someplace be this warm!? Was all of Dorne this hot, or just the ships out at sea, due to the reflection of the sun on the water? She sincerely hoped that once she stepped on dry land again, there would be some merciful shade for her to collapse in.
While her face was powdered, Ylsa wondered what the point of this was; not only was she surely to sweat any powder off in this heat, but what was the point of attempting to make her appear paler than she already was? She tried to protest, but found if she opened her mouth at all, all she could do was moan from the nausea. So she had to let whatever her handmaiden deemed fit to see the Prince in be done to her. And when she was finally fully dressed in her best gown, her hair let down in her natural brunette waves by her shoulders, she was led up to the deck, to await the crew bringing the ship to a halt in the fast-approaching harbor, so she could be rowed to port.
"Careful M'Lady," her handmaiden spoke softly as Ylsa stepped into the smaller boat, accompanied by a few more ladies in waiting, and her guard. They were lowered to the water, and to her great displeasure, she found the ride from the ship to the docks even more choppy and uneven on the water than before, and even just peering over the edge of the boat into the water threatened to churn her stomach horribly. Her head began to spin, even as the boat was tied off at the dock, and a hand was held out to her to take, pulling her up, finally, onto stable ground.
The fanfare for Ylsa's arrival was….more subdued than it had been for Princess Myrcella. That was to be expected of course; Myrcella's arrival had signaled the alliance between two great houses via their heirs. Ylsa's arrival signaled no such weighty alliances, though there was something to be said for the appeal to the citizens of Sunspear to see their beloved Prince Doran wed once again after the departure of his previous wife. The dock was protected by the Dornish guard, the Captain of which, who held beside him a grand bladed spear, stood beside the Prince himself. The Prince's brother and his paramour were conspicuously absent, as were Prince Oberyn's daughters, though Trystane and Myrcella were present. Behind the royal procession was a small crowd of palace guards and staff, though, this was all lost on poor Ylsa, as her eyes happened to be glossed over as another wave of intense nausea hit her. As soon as her feet hit solid ground, she would have thought she'd be cured of her sea sickness, but she hardly had time to even glance at her intended, as the illness and the heat finally got to her. Collapsing at the edge of the dock, she was regrettably sick over the edge into the water, tears mercifully cooling her overheated cheeks as they streaked from her eyes.
"Oh dear!" There was a flurry of twittering as her handmaidens flocked to her side, attempting to help her to her feet, but there was no helping the situation. She found herself exhausted, dizzy, too hot and far to humiliated to stand on her own. She couldn't even look up to see the reaction of the Prince to her terrible introduction.
But Prince Doran merely pressed his lips together in a thin line; not from frustration, but to keep himself from chuckling at the episode. The poor girl; sailing since Lannisport, he wondered if she'd ever been aboard a ship that long before, or if ever in her life! And just look at her, who dressed her in the stuffy gowns of the North, knowing they would land here in Sunspear, where even during the Winter the sun beat down on its citizens relentlessly? He certainly wasn't going to blame her or hold this against her, and in fact nodded slightly to Areo, who called for several of the Dornish guard to help Lady Payne to her feet, and up into the palace.
"See to it that Lady Payne is nursed back to health away from the sun, I suspect she's never had to deal with the heat and the rocking of a ship quite like this before." He smiled kindly to the girl as she was led past him, but he doubted she'd even seen him, as she refused to look at him, out of humiliation. Her long hair hung like a curtain across her cheek, shielding her eyes from the murmurs of those assembled around her, but as Doran signaled for the procession to follow her up to the Palace, those murmurs were hushed.
"So this is going to be your wife?" Areo asked, goodnaturedly with a tinge of amusement in his rich, deep, baritone voice. Doran shrugged slightly as he was wheeled back up the hill, glancing over at his Captain and longtime friend.
"We shall see."