*See end of story for Author's Note if you prefer context before you read. If not, enjoy this story!*
The Leagues Between Sunspear and Winterfell
The small pack of wolves entered the snake pit.
She could have met us at the docks, Lord Stark thought, not without some bitterness, as he approached the Sun Throne. Or at the very least stand at the foot of the throne to greet us as equals.
Instead, the Princess of Dorne awaited them from her lofty seat on high.
The Sun Chair and its occupant were resplendent in gold. With skin kissed by the Dornish sun, long black hair that fell to her waist and thin Dornish silks that revealed more than Jon had ever seen from a noblewoman, the Princess seemed Dornish to the bone.
If he did not know it to be true, he would have never guessed she was half a Stark, and his cousin besides.
"Give her my love, nephew," his aunt Lyanna had said as they boarded their ship at Storm's End, "and tread lightly. My daughter fancies herself queen of Dorne."
"You are in the presence of Princess Selene Martell, Lady of Sunspear and Regent of Dorne," a herald cried.
Jon's own herald replied. "I present Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
The princess smiled, though there was little warmth in it. "Cousin, it's a pleasure to meet you at long last."
"And you, princess," Jon said with a slight bow of the head. "There are far too many leagues between Sunspear and Winterfell. Your mother sends her love."
Selene stood, beginning her descent down the steps that led to her throne. It was the grace of his upbringing alone that kept his eyes on her face, rather than the sheer fabric she cloaked herself with.
At once, every rumour he had ever heard about Dornish women seemed to be true.
Wanton, all of them, one of his men had claimed, his voice tinged with excitement, as their ship sailed into Dornish waters. They'll lie with anything.
There's hope for you yet, Jory, Jon had said with a clap on the back.
If this was how their ruler dressed, he shuddered to think what the Dornish considered improper.
"And how is my mother?"
"Well, my lady. As are your father and brothers."
"And Winterfell?"
"Compared to Sunspear?" Jon raised his brows. "Cold."
"As I suspected."
Jon almost laughed. Instead, he cleared his throat, gesturing to his children. "May I present my sons, Brandon and Rickard."
Under the princess' level gaze, his sons looked nervously between themselves.
"Your Grace," Brandon said, him and his younger brother bowing low.
"And my youngest," Jon said with a proud smile, "Eda."
A girl no older than seven, with her father's long face, stepped forward and curtsied as deep as she was able. "An honour to meet you, Princess Selene."
"Ah," For the first time, the princess's smile was genuine, "now I see who has inherited all the Stark graces."
Eda glowed with pride, though her brothers flushed with embarrassment.
"May I present my own daughters, Princesses Myriah and Meria Martell.
Two young Dornish maidens stepped forward in orange silks like their mother. Though Lord Stark never met the late Prince of Dorne, he saw the man in his daughters. Their eyes and hair were black as pitch, their jaws square and sharp, their skin darker than their mother's.
He could not imagine either of them at Winterfell.
"My lord," said the eldest, Myriah, "it is our honour to welcome our own blood to Dorne."
"A joy to meet you at last, princess," said Jon politely.
The Princess of Dorne placed a hand on Meria's shoulder, "My girls would like to show your children the palace, Lord Stark. Shall we speak to the matter at hand in my solar?"
Jon looked at his children. The three of them had been talking nonstop of enjoying all Dorne had to offer, with the kingdom being so different from their own.
"Of course," he nodded to them, a silent warning in his eyes.
You represent the north. Behave yourselves.
Rickard and Eda, he knew, would be no trouble. It was Brandon who worried him.
"Excellent," said Selene. "Follow me, my lord."
The halls of Sunspear were tiled with vivid mosaics of a thousand colours. Golden, bright sunlight spilled through stained glass, throwing rainbows around nearly every surface. Jon had to squint as he followed the princess through the halls.
Lord Stark could hardly tell courtiers from serving girls or boys. All he saw wore loose, layered robes of linen, satin, silk and samite with jewelled belts, and gave him lascivious smiles as he passed.
"Forgive them," the princess said as they entered her solar. "They've never seen a northman before."
Jon nodded, as if he understood. From his seat, Jon could see his ship in the harbour, and for a moment he wished he was on it, sailing back to Winterfell.
The princess sat across from him at her stately desk. Again, she chose to sit in a place of power, rather than beside him.
Irritation made his hands flex.
"Now," the princess sat back in her chair, her gaze steady, "I'm ready for your speech."
Jon had given it to half a dozen lords and ladies by now, and the king and queen besides, but this was the only time when he felt uneasy, like he had taken an extra step at the end of a staircase.
"My son Brandon is of marrying age," said Lord Stark, "and I seek to strengthen the north's relations with the rest of Westeros by finding a southern Lady of Winterfell."
"That, I'm well aware of." Selene leaned forward, joining her hands. "Why Dorne?"
"The Martells are one of the most ancient and-"
"I did not ask about the Martells," Selene said. "I asked why Dorne? How would a Dornishwoman fare in Winterfell? Would her customs be respected, her interests encouraged, or her happiness assured?"
"I…" Jon knew the answer, but could not bring himself to say it. "No lord or lady has asked me that before."
"I can hardly believe I'm the only mother in Westeros concerned for her daughter's happiness." Princess Selene sighed, "And here I was thinking your visit would be more interesting."
Jon bristled at that. "Apologies, cousin. I did not realise your opinion of me was so low."
At that, she laughed. "My opinion of you?" She laughed again. "That's where you err, my lord. It's your low opinion of Dorne which prevents me from considering your suit."
"Dorne is one of the most-"
"-powerful kingdoms," Selene finished. "Yes, I'm well aware. And the Martells are an ancient and noble family, funny enough I know as much, having been a Martell myself for most of my life."
"I don't understand."
Once again, Selene Martell leaned forward, her eyes blazing blue fire. "Do you truly believe I don't see your opinion of my kingdom on your face? In the way you and your men look at me and my people? You may think your face is a mask of perfect courtesy, my lord, but I assure you, it's not."
Jon's cheeks stung with embarrassment. "If I've caused any offense, or if my men have said anything unseemly, forgive me."
The princess continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I was once an outsider. I remember the way my stormlander guards used to speak of the Dornish, of their women and traditions. Do you know where those guards are now?"
Jon shook his head.
"The stormlands. I sent them away once I realised what little respect they had for my new home. Dorne has been my home for twenty and five years and I will defend her from family and foe alike. If you are truly honest with yourself, Lord Stark, you never intended to find a Lady of Winterfell among the sands of Dorne. You came to satiate your curiosity," her eyes drifted to his lap, "and perhaps more than that," her eyes met his once more, "and in your endeavours I wish you every success."
A furious flush crept up Jon's neck at her implication, and at the unfair contempt she had for him.
"I came here to find a wife for my son," Jon said, struggling to keep the waver of indignation from his voice. "I had hoped at the very least to find a warm welcome and family, though perhaps I expected too much."
Selene smiled, "This is Dorne, Lord Stark. You will find no warmer welcome in all of Westeros. And as for family," she spread her hands, "here I am, but I'm afraid I'm a Martell. If you came expecting to find a Baratheon or a Stark, you are quite mistaken."
Jon was quiet for a moment, not expecting this turn in the slightest. After a while, he said, "I'm not too sure about that, princess. I see much of my sister Arya in you."
As much as he loved his little sister, the woman before him was the worst of her in one. Quick to anger, spiteful and proud.
Jon wondered if the princess had heard whispers of the wild wolf maid of Winterfell who was more likely to spit on a suitor than speak with them.
From the sour look on her face, he would guess that she had.
Princess Selene Martell sat back in her seat and drew her pen from its inkpot. "I refuse your suit. As a courtesy, you and your family may stay the night. We might as well enjoy the feast we've prepared for your arrival. You may leave tomorrow at your convenience. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to."
Jon stood, and gave her a stiff bow, his manner and voice not betraying the anger that pulsed in his temple. "Thank you for your kind consideration, princess."
From then until sundown, Jon Stark could think of nothing but his infuriating cousin. With one conversation, Jon went from being wary of her to wanting nothing to do with her. His aunt Lyanna's warning hadn't been strong enough. And for her to assume he had no respect for the Dornish?
Wanton, all of them… Jory's words came swirling back, but Jon pushed them away. Those were his men's words, not his own.
If this was how their ruler dressed, he shuddered to think what the Dornish considered proper.
Fine, those were his words, but she couldn't read his thoughts.
Queen of Dorne, indeed, he thought as he sat beside her on the high table during the feast. Again, she wore gold, though now she covered herself in rubies as well. Like drops of blood they adorned the gold circlet on her brow and the rings on her upper arms, hung from her ears and lined her throat on delicate golden chains.
"And now, for your entertainment," said her herald to the crowded hall, "fire dancers from the east."
The ten men bowed to their patron. The head of the troupe said, "This dance is dedicated to our most gracious Princess Selene, Defender of Dorne and Light of the South."
The princess glowed at the compliment, and it took everything in Jon not to scoff as the dancers began.
Light of the South? He snuck a glance at her as the light of the flames danced across her face. They were of a similar age, a few years shy of forty years old, so Jon spied strands of silver in her dark hair, the same kind he was finding more and more often in his beard. He tried to see the beauty the dancer spoke of, but he saw nothing but pride, which made his stomach tighten with annoyance.
She caught him staring and refused to look away.
It was Jon who broke first, turning back to the dance. Frustration pricked at him for being the first to bend. How she had managed to embarrass him with nothing but her eyes angered him to no end.
Lord Stark took a sip of the Dornish wine before him. It was finer than any northern ale, though he would never admit such to the princess, lest her head grow any bigger.
Eda gasped with wonder as the dancers created flaming snakes in the air. She turned to him with wide eyes and a wider smile.
Jon smiled back, his mood calming at the sight.
Over the gasps of the crowd, he nearly missed her words.
"I know what it's like to look at your child and see another."
"Princess?"
Selene Martell seemed surprised as well, as if she didn't wholly intend to speak the words aloud. "We're widows, Lord Stark. It's most likely the only common ground we share, so I thought-"
"-we could share in our grief?"
"That depends on whether we grieve, I suppose."
Jon drew back, "You don't grieve your husband?"
"Do you grieve your wife?"
"She was a good woman. She-" Jon stopped, not wanting to reveal too much of himself to the lady who had scorned him and his family. "Why do you ask, princess?"
To his surprise, Selene looked back at his daughter with a small smile on her face. "There is no greater blessing than a daughter. She seems a sweet girl…" the princess gave him a smirk, "so I wanted to ask of her mother, as clearly her good nature had to come from somewhere."
Jon's jaw dropped.
Princess Selene placed a hand over her mouth to conceal her laughter.
"How dare you?" Jon asked, though he noticed that he was fighting a laugh of his own. For a fleeting moment, he could almost pretend he was getting along with his cousin.
Almost.
For when the fire dancers were done, Princess Selene stood and addressed the court.
"Thank you, Marlo, for your performance. I'm sure my lord of Winterfell would welcome you in his halls. Gods know they need the warmth."
The court laughed with her, laughed at him, and Jon gripped his cup with the same amount of force he put into his smile. He hoped it came across as good-natured, but in his mind he wondered if kinslaying was truly a damnable sin, as he had half a mind to try it.
The princess gestured at the musician's gallery, and they began to play dancing reels, though they sounded nothing like what he was used to in Winterfell's stone halls. Jolly strings were replaced with deep drums, the beat thrumming through him.
Jon's face felt hot as he saw the style of dance, at the way high lordlings and maidens moved together, as if they were attached at the hip.
"Rickard."
His younger son turned from his conversation with the heir to Sunspear.
Jon gestured for him to come close.
Rickard bid the lady farewell and obeyed. As he approached the table, he bowed, "Princess."
"Lord Stark."
"Rickard, escort Eda back to her chambers."
"Of course, Father."
"It's a shame your daughter can't enjoy the festivities," remarked the princess.
"The hour is late," Jon said shortly, his eyes on his son as he held his sister's hand and led her from the hall. Eda had gone without protest, as obedient as her mother.
Clearly her good nature had to come from somewhere.
"Hmm."
Jon's eyes narrowed, "Yes?"
"The hour is not so late," Princess Selene said softly, leaning closer to him as if telling a secret. "People might think you mean to shield her from my licentious court."
"People can think what they wish. It is no concern of mine."
"Then I'm sure you take no issue with your son dancing with the ladies of the court?"
Jon turned, his stomach sinking when he saw his Brandon, as troublesome as his aunt, dancing with a half-naked-
"The young lady Alara is a Dayne," Selene said, as if reading his thoughts, "an ancient house worthy of any Stark. Starfall is on your way to Oldtown, if you would like to make it a stop on your tour?"
"I take no issue with the dance."
"No?" Selene smiled wide, "Then would my lord honour me with one?"
Another chance to embarrass him, no doubt.
"I don't know the steps."
Selene tsked, "Your son seems to be finding his way well enough. Rather too well, by the looks of it."
Jon fought a scowl, "I do not wish to dance." With you, he did not add, though from her look it seemed he didn't have to.
"Come now, my lord," the princess stood, extending a hand, "we only need suffer each other's presence for one evening, and then we can spend the rest of our lives pretending the other does not exist."
He could not refuse an extended hand before all of Dorne.
Jon took it. "I appreciate your candour, princess."
"I'm nothing if not honest, my lord."
"Honest is not the first word I would use to describe you."
Selene Martell laughed, taking her place before him.
"Am I right in thinking the word you're looking for would be blasphemous to speak in your godswood?"
"Too right," he agreed, stepping beside her. He cast a look around, watching the men's hands drift, watching the women press themselves close and sorely wished he was back on his ship sailing far from the court of Princess Selene Martell.
"Don't think," she advised him. "Let the music rule you."
Jon grimaced and tried to follow along. He placed his hand on the small of her back and pulled her close. She smelled of blood oranges, tart and sweet in equal measure.
She lifted her hand to meet his free one, and they touched palm to palm.
Jon glanced around, wondering of the next step and how best to-
"Look at me, Lord Stark."
He did.
Her Baratheon blue eyes bored into him, the last remnants of the House she was so eager to leave in her past. But she could no more change them than she could change the blood that flowed in her veins.
Jon stopped thinking and started to move with her.
The drums beat their steady rhythm, and the Lord of Winterfell and Lady of Sunspear moved in time with them, sometimes away from each other, sometimes together, push and pull, summer and winter, sun and moon.
In the light of a thousand candles, he was beginning to see how she earned the name Light of the South.
Jon Stark felt his ears grow warm and spied a pink flush in her cheeks when he held her close.
Light of the South? he wondered.
He admired the curve of her lips and the slope of her nose and the strength in her jaw. How her dark hair drank the candlelight, the silver strands shining in the black like stars in a midnight sky. The faint lines on her face from how often she laughed, and he found himself longing to hear her laugh like she did at the high table when she teased him.
Light of the South, he agreed.
But it was her other title that he thought of now.
"Why are you called the Defender of Dorne?"
That took her by surprise. "Because I have defended her for nearly sixteen years, as my daughter's regent."
"It's a wonder the Dornish allowed an outsider to rule them in the name of an infant. What of Prince Oberyn, Prince Doran's brother?"
Selene frowned, "I had already been in Dorne for ten years when my lord husband passed. I had spent many long hours in counsel sessions with my good father and husband, and Prince Oberyn…does not have the temperament for ruling."
"No?" Jon feigned innocence, though he had heard much and worse about Oberyn in the north.
"No. War, he knows. It's peace he struggles with."
"I see."
Selene Martell turned in his arms, "Why do you ask?"
"Because I know little to nothing of you and am eager to discover what I've done to make you hate me so."
"Hate you?" Selene blinked, turning around and into his arms. His hand reached around her, drawing her so close she had to turn her face to look up over her shoulder at him. "What makes you think I hate you?"
Jon placed a hand on her cheek. From a distance, they seemed fond and more than fond of each other, but Jon's voice held all the resentment of a day full of slights, "You insult me with every breath."
Selene stopped dancing, as did he.
He slowly realised that if they were not dancing, then he was simply holding her in front of the entire court. He told himself it was anger that made his fingertips burn where he touched her.
Was that hurt in her eyes? Before he could be sure, it was replaced by quiet fury.
"I insult you?" She stepped out of his arms, taking her warmth with her and making him shiver. But she turned and brought her face close to his. "It is you, Lord Stark," she made his title sound like a curse, "who insults me, my family, and my kingdom with every look, every word, every thought in your head."
"You cannot know my thoughts."
"But I do," she sneered. "You are not the mummer you think you are. You are Stark to the bone."
"As are you."
Selene laughed bitterly, "I am no more a Stark than you are a Martell."
"Deny your blood all you like-"
"-with everything that I am-"
"- it does not change the fact that your mother is Lyanna Stark of Winterfell."
"You dare speak of my mother as if you know her. You know nothing of her… or of me." The princess stepped back, her spine straight. "Thank you for the dance, Lord Stark. I'm glad it will be our last."
With that, she strode out of the hall, her people bowing, with Jon left standing alone, his pulse thumping in his ear.
But Jon Stark was never one to let things go.
He wasn't far behind her when he entered her solar, slamming the door behind him.
The Princess of Dorne whipped around, her black hair flying behind her, "Get out."
"Not until you tell me why you hate me so. What have I ever done to you?"
Selene Martell stormed up to him, "With one word I could have my guards throw you in a cell for your behaviour. Following me into my chambers? Are you mad?"
Jon was worse than mad. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, his chest tightening as he struggled to breathe…and wanted to make her feel some semblance of what he felt.
"Loathing your mother does not give you the right to insult me, my children or my house."
Selene Martell's rage was delicious to him. Her eyes darkened so much they were nearly black, crimson stained her chest, her teeth nearly bared as she spat, "You are just like her, like all of them. You dare look down on me and mine when all of you have hearts of ice."
"I don't look down on-"
"Stop!" Selene turned and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and chucked it at him. "Lying!" An orange. "To me!" A pear.
Jon raised his arm, but the apple was unexpected and hit him on the temple. Hands shaking with fury, he approached her.
To the princesses' credit, she did not shrink from him. She stood her ground, reaching for more fruit in her arsenal. Before she could, he grabbed her wrist and pinned her arm back.
Selene's eyes were filled with venom, "And stop lying to yourself."
Jon loomed over her, smelling the blood oranges from the oil in her hair and the Dornish red on her breath, watching her chest rise and fall with her ragged breathing in that damn dress.
It made his head swim.
Jon Stark wanted to set fire to it all.
"Perhaps it's for the best," Jon mused softly. "After all, word travels even to the far north. Ten years it took you to give Dorne an heir. Your daughter may carry the same curse."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he longed to take them back. Where had that cruelty come from?
All the blood drained from Selene's face. An apology was on his lips, but before he could say it, the Princess of Dorne reeled her hand back and slapped his face with all the strength in her body.
Jon's face stung, his fingers rising to his lip. She wore rings, and one of them had caught on his lip, drawing a bead of blood. He looked at the blood on his fingers, and back to her.
Selene glared at him, as if daring him to retaliate.
Jon's throat bobbed, the rest of his face catching fire as Selene's eyes drifted to his lips.
His heart hammered as it did earlier in his anger, but this was a different kind of madness. He wanted to reach forward and tear her dress apart and twist his fingers in her dark hair and push her back against her desk and -
Oh gods, Jon realised.
He wanted her.
The chest tightening, heart pounding, head swimming…he had it all wrong. It was desire, not anger.
Had it truly been so long since he had felt this kind of need? The strength of his feelings made him wonder if he had ever even felt it at all.
Selene must have felt the shift as well, for she had gone still, her eyes flicking from his lips to his eyes and back again, the black in them threatening to consume the blue.
For the first time in his life, Jon stopped thinking.
For the first time in his life, Jon surrendered to the primal urge screaming in his blood.
The Lord of Winterfell surged forward.
The Princess of Dorne did the same.
They were a clash of tongues and teeth. Of gasps and growls. The force of their collision rocked the stately desk, the wood groaning beneath them. The very desk where, only hours before, she had sneered at him.
Jon would get unspeakable pleasure from fucking her on that very same desk.
She wasn't so high and mighty now, with her legs around his waist, dragging him out of his trousers, her hair coming undone, her dress sliding from her brown shoulders, revealing herself to him.
Jon lowered his lips to her breast and bit.
Selene gasped, a string of curses on her tongue.
His vision faltered when she grabbed him, as she pulled him inside her with a desperate hand.
Jon's knees nearly buckled when he felt how ready she was for him, how good she felt around him. A perfect fit, like a beloved sword in a well-worn sheath.
Instinct took over then. Jon had to piece together what happened later as his world shattered into fragments. The way his fingers dug into her hips, the way she fell back on the desk, papers scattering to the floor, the sound she made every time he thrust into her.
He had no idea it could feel like this…this…desperate.
That's what they were, two desperate souls giving into the fire singing in their blood and bones.
Jon Stark thought of every slight today, every haughty glance and cutting word, and paid her back for each in kind.
Selene Martell writhed beneath him, her moans rising in pitch until she screamed without sound.
The way her mouth parted, the way she held his gaze through her release sent him careening over the edge.
Jon threw his hands forward to stop his collapse, trying to catch his breath. The only sounds in the world were the thudding of his heart in his ears and Selene's deep breaths as she too tried to collect herself.
He could not tear his eyes from hers.
Jon searched them for any sign of regret, but all he found was the same look that must have blazed in his own eyes.
Shock.
Shock at what they had done, and where. Shock at the turn the evening took. Shock at their own boldness, the intensity of the desire that had been quenched.
Or so he thought.
Because, and perhaps most shocking of all, Jon wanted to stay with her.
The thought made him step back.
Selene sat up, watching him.
Jon surveyed the scene before him. The Light of the South, her hair wild, her dress open for him, the body beneath making all the blood rush between his legs once more.
He wanted to…again…and again, and again, and again. Until there was no differentiating between them, until neither of them could walk straight.
But sense returned to him at last. He tucked himself away, gave her a stiff bow and said, "Sleep well," dashing out of her chambers before lust seized him once more.
As if either of them would be getting any sleep that night, or any night soon.
Jon Stark could not sleep.
He stared at the canopy for an hour, wishing he was far away, wishing he could go back just a few days earlier, when Selene Martell was only a name scribbled on parchment, a distant relation he had never met. The woman he now had the misfortune of knowing was…was…
He turned, punching a pillow in the hopes it would aid his sleep.
In truth, he didn't know what she was. Infuriating, proud and spiteful, to be sure. She had taken his suit and his family and his house and thrown it all back in his face.
And yet, she was the Defender of Dorne, and had ruled the kingdom for over fifteen good, peaceful years. She loved her daughters fiercely, and when they had danced together…when she had spread her legs for him…
He would not allow himself to think of her like that.
Instead he thought of her face as she denied her blood.
With everything that I am.
Jon pulled himself out of bed. He would never fall asleep like this.
He sent for a fresh candle, and when the Dornish servant came to him, he asked to be taken to the library.
Again, and annoyingly, he found himself in awe of something Dornish.
Sunspear's library walls were so high that in the darkness they did not end. He could almost believe they went up to the heavens, if it wasn't for the coloured glass that hung from the ceiling. Moonlight flooded from the windows and struck them, casting dark, barely visible rainbows about the room.
With his candle in hand, Jon went to the nearest shelf and began to search through the tomes.
Jon found books of history, books of learning, books of the Rhoynar and those who crossed the Narrow Sea and landed in Dorne. Of the reigns of the princes and princesses of this strange kingdom, until…
The Reign of Prince Doran Martell by Maester Greywood.
Jon didn't know what he was searching for until he found it. He pulled the book from the shelf and brought it to the nearest table, flicking through until he found the year and subject matter he sought.
AC 191
Today marks a new era for Dorne. The kingdom's future princess has arrived on our shores. The little lady is a slip of a girl, looks at nothing but the ground before her and says no more than she is bid. Prince Quentyn is a dutiful lad, and says no word against her, though Prince Oberyn Martell was overheard saying there were no two children in the history of Westeros as joyless as the pair of them.
Next to the entry there was a sketch of the young lady's face. Jon could not believe it was the same woman he had met that day. Her features were delicate, her eyes watery and clear, as if she wished to disappear into the pages of the book, lost forever in ink and parchment.
Jon turned ahead a few chapters, skipping passed the less interesting crop yields and marriages between the lesser houses.
AC 201
Princess Selene has suffered her umpteenth false pregnancy, and the council debates what to do with the lady. To absolve the marriage would offend Storm's End, though they have clearly given Sunspear soiled goods. Prince Doran has locked himself and his councillors in his solar, discussing the line of succession and thinking of how to put a Martell in the cradle. Prince Doran has even sought the help of his wild brother Oberyn, who is well versed in foreign medicines, and his recent arrival has shaken the court. The princess has been given every poultice, every potion, has endured radical treatments such as-
"What are you doing?"
Jon jumped, the tome slamming to the floor so hard dust erupted from the ground beneath it.
Selene Martell stood with a candle of her own, her hair flowing freely behind her.
Jon cleared his throat, willing his heartbeat to slow, "I could not sleep."
Selene gave him a careful look, her eyes darting to the book. When she recognised it, her cheeks reddened. "Enjoying yourself?" Before he could answer, she approached him, lifting the tome and dropping it on the table, right where he left off.
"Don't stop on my account."
Jon stared at her, her chest rising and falling with anger, her eyes burning with shame that she hid behind hate. Again, he could not believe this was the same girl in the sketch. How had that furtive, fearful maid turn into this defender of Dorne, one of the most powerful rulers in Westeros?
"What?" she growled, her teeth bared.
Jon didn't want to talk to the Defender of Dorne. Instead, he spoke to the girl she buried deep inside.
"I'm sorry."
Selene blinked.
Jon closed the book. "I did not mean to intrude. I couldn't sleep, and when I can't sleep, I go-"
"-to the library."
Jon nodded.
"As do I."
Despite the summer air outside and the white robe she wore, Selene shivered.
Jon turned to the hearth. "I'll start a fire."
The princess said nothing, only watched as Jon knelt by the hearth. In a few minutes, small flames lapped against the stone, wood crackling and popping in a way that reminded him of the north, of home.
Jon sat before it, warming his hands. He gestured for her to come closer.
Selene reminded him of a wounded animal as she circled him, untrusting and wary.
"I won't bite."
As soon as he said it, he realised how wrong he was. He did indeed bite, and that very night he had bitten her in the throes of pleasure.
Selene smiled as if remembering the same. "This is Dorne, Lord Stark," she sat. "Some ladies prefer biting."
Heat rose in Jon's cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the fire.
Selene laughed, dangerously sweet, and Jon felt the sudden urge to hear it again.
"Are all northerners blushing maidens, or is it just you?"
Jon was sorely tempted to remind her that she should know how little of a blushing maiden he was, but it seemed they were not going to speak of what passed between them in her chambers.
So he chose a different course.
"Are all Dornishwomen lewd, or is it just you?"
Selene raised her brows, her eyes sparkling with the challenge. "So…there is hope for you yet, my lord. I thought Starks were incapable of humour."
"It's said it grows so cold in the north that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death."
"I believe it."
"But you've never been to Winterfell."
Selene swallowed, turning to the flames. "My mother never thought to take us."
"Why?"
"You'd have to ask her."
Jon frowned, "When was the last time you spoke with her?"
Selene narrowed her eyes, "Tread carefully, Stark. One might think you actually cared."
"Perhaps I do."
All the amusement drained from her face. "Enough."
"Why?"
"You're mocking me."
"I'm not."
"Do you truly believe I'll bare my soul to you? Why should I?"
"Because tomorrow I leave for Oldtown, and you'll never see me again." Jon laid on his side. "Because tonight is all we have, and…I think in another life we could have been friends."
"Another life?" Selene raised a brow. "You sound like a child."
"What's wrong with that?"
Selene wrapped her arms around her knees, looking much younger than she was. "The world is a cruel place for a child."
Jon could see the cracks in her walls, and wanted to break them down, to see what was on the other side.
"I did not love my wife."
Selene turned her face sharply to his.
Jon had never said the words aloud. He had tried so long to hide from it, but there it was, laid before the Princess of Dorne like a terrible truth.
"I loved her for giving me children, of course, but that was all. When she died, I mourned my children's loss of their mother, but the woman herself? Not truly."
Princess Selene picked at the fur rug beneath them, "Why not?"
"I don't know," Jon confessed. "She was all a wife should be. Obedient, dutiful, pious, pretty…my lord father and lady mother thought it a great match, and no one understood my disinterest, least of all me."
"Isn't it obvious?"
Jon spied a twitch in the corner of her lip.
"Not to me."
He was almost offended. He had spent nearly two decades trying to love the woman, and in a few minutes, this princess thought she knew his mind better than he did.
A slow smiled spread on Selene's face. She shifted, crawling on her knees and propping herself on her elbows so her face was directly above his own.
"You didn't want obedient, dutiful and pious."
Jon's throat bobbed, his face catching fire as Selene's eyes drifted to his lips. The last time she had done that…
"I…" his tongue felt too big for his mouth. He suddenly felt very foolish, his head swimming with desire.
Selene cocked her head to the side, "You…?"
Jon cleared his throat. "How did you know?"
Selene sighed, leaning back. Without her hovering above him, Jon could finally breathe again.
"Because I felt the same."
Jon waited.
Selene stared into the fire, the flames taking years from her face. In one moment there was her, the next, he could almost see her at the age she was when she married Quentyn Martell, or a decade later, when she finally birthed his children.
"For ten years, the boy would not touch me. At first, I was grateful. I was just a girl, not yet ready to be a mother. I heard such terrible stories of women dying in the birthing bed, of the most excruciating agony… I was in no rush for that torment. But after a year or two came the whispers. You probably read some of them in that damned book."
Jon looked away. "You don't have to say it."
"Spoiled," Selene spat. "Broken. Barren. My position at court was threatened, so I tried but…my husband could not do his duty by me."
Jon thought of her now, of how she looked pinned beneath him on that desk. How much he desired her as she was with her lined face and wide hips and could only imagine what a beauty she must have been in her youth. If he had only known her then, if it had only been him married to her…
"I asked him why, on his death bed," Selene said, as if knowing his mind. "He said he was nervous." She laughed, but there was no bitterness in it, only disbelief. "He was nervous, when I was the one who had to bear the child!"
Jon frowned, his mind whirling, "But, you must have been with child when he died."
"I was."
"You said he could not do his duty by you."
"He could not."
Jon opened his mouth to argue, but something made him hold his tongue. That same something slid into place in his mind, and all at once he understood.
…radical treatments…
…how to put a Martell in the cradle…
…Prince Doran has even sought the help of his wild brother Oberyn…
Selene's face was stone, a perfect mask when she said, "Yes?"
It was a question that did not invite an answer. To even breathe the words aloud was to commit treason, even in Dorne where propriety was blurry and grey.
Jon realised he was staring at the Princess of Dorne, but he thinks of a girl of three and ten, not much older than his own daughter. He thinks of her being shipped to a foreign land so different from her own. Of having her own men speak ill of the people and family she was desperate to join, of marrying a boy and spending ten long years with nothing but an empty cradle. No sooner is she pregnant than she is alone, the Prince of Dorne dies of his gout and his son follows him not long after in a freak tourney accident. Suddenly she is pregnant and alone and the future of Dorne rests entirely on her shoulders…
All at once he saw Princess Selene Martell for what she was.
She was a survivor. She was the victor.
"You're the strongest person I've ever met," Jon breathed.
Whatever Selene had been expecting from him, it wasn't that. She shook her head, her lips tightening into a thin line. "You don't know me, Lord Stark."
Jon sat up, taking her hand in his, "I wish I did."
Selene stared at their joined hands, her eyes wet. "Thank you."
"What for?"
She met his gaze, a sad smile on her lips, "For giving me more in one night than I've felt in decades."
The breath knocked out of him in a whoosh. "And I thank you, princess. For the very same."
"Selene." She turned over his palm, tracing lines in the sensitive skin there. "You can call me Selene. Surely you've earned that right."
"Selene," he whispered, feeling the name carefully. The way his tongue pressed to his teeth, caressed the roof of his mouth.
She stilled.
Jon leaned closer, bringing his lips to her ear.
"Selene." He murmured her name like a lover's promise.
She shuddered, turning her face slightly to meet his, her nose a hairs breadth away from his.
"Jon."
His name on her lips snapped the last tether of control he possessed. Jon slipped his fingers through her thick hair, across the nape of her neck, and brought her lips to his.
Selene's mouth opened for him. Her hands pushed him down gently on the rug, and they fell softly back.
This time was different. Slower, gentler. Selene raised her soft sleeping gown so it bunched around her hips and sat astride him. They both gasped as they joined, neither daring to take their eyes off the other, as if they would wake up and find this was all a dream.
Selene leaned forward, her dark hair a curtain around his face, so all he saw was her.
When she kissed him, his heart broke for them both. For the life that should have been theirs.
Selene should have been his.
Jon's mind played his life differently. He imagined that young girl from the book arriving in Winterfell, nervous, anxious, afraid. He imagined easing her fears, of gaining her friendship and trust. Of watching the strength and wit and humour in her come to the surface, of delighting in it, of falling in love with her. Of worshipping her body well and often, watching it grow and stretch as she birthed their children. Of ruling the north together, their children playing about their halls. Of holding each other through the long, dark winters.
Jon dreamt of knowing love.
That thought pulsed in his veins as he rolled, pressing Selene beneath him, leaning his forearms on either side of her face to hold himself up, touching the deepest depths of her with each languid stroke.
Mine, mine, mine.
Jon must have said it out loud, because Selene's dazed expression sharpened.
"Say it again," she gasped, her hands reaching up to hold his face.
Jon dug his fingers into her hips, relishing the feeling, driving into her. "You're mine," he said, wishing it was true, knowing it wasn't. "All of you," he added for good measure, nipping at her ear. "Always."
Selene cried out his name.
"Yes," Jon hissed, his end drawing near. "I want you to remember this, Selene. For the rest of your life, remember this feeling." He bit down on her neck, licking up to her ear, earning himself the most delightful moans from her. "Every night, I want you to remember me, remember this." Another gasp. "For I will. For the rest of my days. Day and night I will dream of you. Long for you."
Selene cried out, her fingers raking down his back, her grip on him between her legs squeezing enough for him to see stars.
Afterwards, Jon tucked her into his side, brushing his fingers along her arm. He could not believe how natural it felt to hold her. It made him realise just how uncomfortable and stiff he had been in his marriage.
He wondered if Selene too was comparing what was between them to her dead spouse. If she felt guilt, or shame, or-
"My mother wanted me to become the Lady of Winterfell."
Jon looked down at Selene, her eyes on the crackling wood. He dared not speak, too afraid to break the spell that had come over her.
"My father wanted me to be a princess," she said, almost like she was speaking to herself. "It was pride with him. The stormlands and Dorne have always had a tense relationship. To see his daughter wed to a Prince of Dorne…" Selene sighed. "They sat me down and asked me which I'd prefer, Sunspear or Winterfell. I don't think they cared for my answer, not truly. I think it was just an illusion of choice, so I would feel like I had some control over my life." She scoffed softly.
"Some of my mother's guards, the older ones who had come with her when she arrived at Storm's End, used to speak of her wolfblood. Of how she was the fiercest rider the north had ever seen, how she had demanded to be trained in the sword as her brothers were. That ferocious maid died in Storm's End. My mother quickly learned the stormlands were different, and as she bore my father's sons, she lost her fire."
"She gave everything to my older brothers. When I was born, I think…I think she hoped to see herself in me, but I was quiet, softspoken, weak. So unlike her at that age, everything she was afraid she had become…"
Her shoulders shook, and Jon tightened his grip around her.
"When I was told Winterfell was a possibility, I balked. Winterfell was my mother, and I wanted something new. Something mine. Dorne terrified me, but less so than living in her shadow. So I went south, I threw myself in the Dornish court, shed the names Baratheon and Stark and became myself. I sat in the council chambers, listening for years until I learned the language of the Dornish houses, their customs and beliefs. After a few years, I wasn't just listening. I was advising my good father. He held my opinions in high esteem, and the lords and ladies followed suit."
"My place was in Dorne. My family's visits were few and far between, and even the letters stopped in time. They did not recognise me, and I didn't recognise them. Too much had changed. But I…I needed an heir to secure my position."
Selene looked up at him then, right into his very being. "Maesters and healers were brought in from all over the realm. Even from the far east. I knew my husband was the source of our failings, but it was me the healers tortured. I was poked at, bled and cut, starved and overfed, tied down and-" she choked on her words, at reliving the horrors.
Jon did not know how to comfort her, so he leaned forward and kissed her tears away.
"After ten long years, at long last, I was with child."
Even in the dark, even after all she had shared, Selene would not speak of who truly fathered her daughters.
Jon had no trouble imagining it. Imagining the Prince of Dorne and his wild brother debating the best course of action, how best to pass on the Martell name without antagonising Storm's End or losing their beloved princess. He imagined them sitting Selene down, a young woman of three and twenty. Selene would have been revolted at first, but her desperation to bear a Martell heir would overcome it. She would welcome a man nearly twice her age into her bed, praying his seed took root.
Jon wondered how many times they tried to conceive. He had heard of the Viper of Dorne. Heard horror stories of how dangerous he was, how many bastards he had fathered all over Dorne. He hoped for her sake she had come to enjoy herself, at least. Hoped that Oberyn Martell loved her as well as she deserved.
"Prince Doran died of gout shortly after. Quentyn in a tourney accident after that. The council met to decide who should rule Dorne, and my name was put forward…by Oberyn." She smiled. "He was not suited for ruling, but persuaded the council that I was. That I had learned from Doran and I was more Dornish than Baratheon, with a little Martell growing inside me."
"When I survived the birth, I was named my daughter's regent. And I swore I would defend Dorne for my daughters, for the people who welcomed me into their court. I would do all I could for the happiness of my people, and my girls."
Selene took a deep breath, as if speaking the words aloud had removed a great weight from her shoulders. She looked at him expectantly, but Jon just stared right back, overwhelmed with her confession.
All he knew was, "I'm so sorry."
"What for?"
Jon shifted, "For what I said, earlier in your solar, about your daughter being cursed. It was unforgiveable."
Selene thought for a moment, "I forgive you."
Three short, simple words. Too short and simple for what was brewing in her eyes, for what was brewing in his chest.
"I wish you had come to Winterfell," said Jon, his grip on her tightening. "To me."
Selene's lips parted, but Jon did not stop.
"I love my children," Jon said, "love them more than I knew I was capable of loving anything. I know you feel the same about yours, but I wish…"
"I know," Selene smiled, but it was sad. "I know."
Jon slipped his hand across her cheek.
"We should have had a lifetime," he said, eyes flicking back and forth between her own, "but if tonight is all we have, then it was worth everything."
Selene's eyes grew wet again, but before any tear could fall, she threw herself forward in his arms.
In the darkness, they burned as bright as stars. Brief and eternal.
The Princess of Dorne and Lord of Winterfell ate their breakfast while their children chatted excitedly. The Martell girls were sad to see their distant cousins go, while the Starks were looking forward to their next adventure.
"Oldtown is the oldest and largest city in the realm," Meriah said. "It will be so grand."
Brandon and Eda smiled, but Rickard grimaced, his eyes never leaving Myriah's face.
"Father?" Eda asked.
"Yes, sweetling."
"Are you unwell?"
Jon looked up, "I'm fine, dear heart. Why?"
Brandon furrowed his brows, "You look pale, Father. Like you haven't slept a wink."
Jon's eyes briefly met Selene's. Had his children known the Princess of Dorne better, they would have seen she shared the same purple circles beneath his eyes.
They indeed did not sleep a wink. All night, Jon had Selene every way a man could have a woman, and she gave herself to him willingly. Whenever they were finished, one of them would nearly drift off to sleep, just for the other to say, "Wait, once more," until the sun rose.
"I could not sleep," Jon said, smiling at his children, "but it's no matter. I'll sleep on the way to Oldtown."
Again, Rickard frowned.
Jon wanted to ask him of it but considered otherwise in front of others. There would be time for that later.
Jory was at the door, "My lord, the ship is ready."
Jon's stomach plummeted. "Thank you, Jory. Please take my children to the ship. I'll be there shortly."
Selene smiled at her girls, "You may say farewell from the docks."
The children rose, bounding toward the door, except Rickard and Myriah.
They stayed behind.
Jon raised a brow.
Rickard's face was as red as flame, but he stood tall as he said, "Father, Princess Selene, may we speak with you about an urgent matter?"
Selene eyed her daughter, "Of course you can, my lord."
"I…" Rickard looked to Myriah, his resolve hardening. "We…I know we came here for Brandon, Father, but I've…" Rickard Stark set his shoulders, "I would like to be considered for the hand of Princess Myriah."
Jon felt his son's words like the smack of the flat of a sword between his eyes. By the look on Selene's face, she was caught as unawares as he was.
Myriah Martell beamed as she went to his side and took his hand.
"Myriah?"
"Yes, mother," Myriah nodded, "it would please me more than I can ever express."
Rickard smiled warmly at her.
The two seemed entirely in their own world.
Jon and Selene turned to each other, speechless, until…
"Your father and I have much to discuss," Selene said eventually. "Get yourselves down to the docks."
Rickard offered his arm to the princess of Dorne with a big smile, and led her out of the room.
Jon dragged his hand down his face.
"That was unexpected."
Jon snorted, "I never…I brought Eda and Rickard along so they could see more of the realm, so they could meet other lords and ladies and perhaps one day…I never expected this."
"They make a handsome couple," Selene said. "Do you think your son has it in him to be the Prince Consort of Dorne?"
Jon thought of his son the day he was placed in his arms, of him waddling after his older brother in the training yard. Of the thoughtful, quiet young man who was quick to love and slow to anger, and said, "Yes."
Selene stood, making her way toward him, leaning against the table at his side. The hairs on Jon's arms rose, his fingers itching to touch her.
"They're young." If Selene had any idea what her nearness did to him, she did not show it. "Perhaps they can exchange letters for a few months, just to be sure the passion does not pass."
"And if it doesn't?"
Selene smiled, "Then they can have the life that should have been ours."
Jon felt something in his chest cave in. "We're not so old, Selene."
He knew her better than to ask her to come to Winterfell now. Her daughter was nearly six and ten, the age of majority, and would soon be able to take up the responsibility of ruling Dorne. But Selene had ruled Dorne for fifteen good years, and would no doubt spend years advising her daughter, helping her any way she could. But one day, mayhaps, when Myriah Martell did not need her mother anymore…
Perhaps Selene would come to Winterfell after all.
The princess' smile grew into a grin, "With your son a prince of Dorne, I'm afraid you'll have to visit Sunspear often."
Jon found he was grinning as well, "That's a shame. There are so many leagues between Sunspear and Winterfell."
"Too many leagues," Selene said wistfully, her eyes trailing down.
Jon pushed his chair back, seized her hips and pulled her into his lap. The princess laughed, until she felt how much he wanted her beneath his leathers.
Then she kissed him, guiding him into her.
Guiding him home at last.
THE END
Author's Note:
Welcome to another instalment of the What if series, where I expand on a fun prompt from the ASOIAF / GOT / Mine is the Fury (my first story) universe.
Today is a fun one. What if Robert's Rebellion never happened? The Targaryens rule King's Landing, Brandon Stark marries a Tully and has a solemn son named Jon, and Robert and Lyanna Baratheon send their daughter to Sunspear to be married.
My typical protagonist tends to be young, so I've aged up the characters, as I wanted to see what would happen if they met later in life.
As they are adults, I've also made this a bit steamier, so rated M! You've been warned.
Reviews are welcome!
See you next time, and if you have any requests let me know.
All the best,
Rose Marie Grace