"You look uncomfortable," she said at last, breaking the silence with a voice soft as silk and no less dangerous. Her lips curved faintly, though whether in mockery or kindness, it was impossible to tell. "The Dornish sun is unkind to Northern skin, is it not?"
The Dornish sun hung heavy in the sky, an unforgiving god that bathed the gardens in molten gold and searing light. It poured down relentlessly, as though determined to drive the Northman to his knees. His northern blood betrayed by the thin sheen of sweat glistening upon his brow. Even in his silence, he looked out of place—a wolf set down in a land of serpents.
Opposite him, Arianne Martell sprawled upon a bench of carved teak, a vision of languid grace. Cushions of crimson and gold cradled her form, the sheen of her olive skin dappled by sunlight that broke through the leaves above. She fanned herself with slow, deliberate strokes, the peacock feathers catching the light and flashing with iridescent greens and blues. Her dark eyes, sharp as a knife's edge, never wavered from Edric, though her expression was one of idle amusement, as if she studied a curiosity that might yet prove dull.
Edric stirred, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His smile was thin, almost apologetic. "The sun rarely shows itself in Winterfell," he replied, his voice as quiet as the shade around him. "And when it does, it lacks the fire of yours. It… takes some adjustment."
There was truth in his words, though not the whole of it. The sun was a tyrant here, yes, but so too was the land, and the people, and the expectation that weighed upon him like a stone strapped to his chest. He could see it in her eyes: the unspoken disappointment that lingered between them, more stifling than the heat itself.
Arianne set aside her fan, as she leaned forward, her posture commanding. There was authority in her stillness, an unspoken challenge in the way she regarded him, as though she might strip him bare with a glance. "Three weeks you've been here, Stark," she said. "Three weeks, and I still cannot decide whether you are holding something back or if this is truly all you have to offer."
The words struck like a blow, though softly delivered. Edric looked away, his gaze falling to the ground where a cluster of bees flitted lazily among the fallen blossoms. Even here, he thought bitterly, there are those who buzz and sting. He let out a breath and smoothed the fabric of his tunic, his fingers curling around the linen as though it might anchor him.
"I imagine I have been… underwhelming," he said at last, the faintest edge of irony coloring his voice. "You were expecting someone more like my twin."
Arianne tilted her head, the curiosity returning to her gaze. "Robb, is it? Your twin brother. The warrior." She spoke the word with a smile, as though testing its weight upon her tongue. "You've spoken of him, but little else. Tell me, Stark—is he truly so remarkable? Or is it that you find him so?"
Edric's jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his pale face. He is everything I am not. That was what she wanted him to say, what they all wanted to hear—and yet he could not bring himself to speak it.
"Robb is what you would expect of a Stark heir," he said instead, carefully measured. "He wields a sword as though it were an extension of his hand. Men rally to him without hesitation. My father sees his own reflection in Robb, I think."
"And not in you," Arianne said. It was no question, merely a statement of fact, offered without malice but with the weight of a knife pressed to the skin.
Edric's fingers curled into his tunic, his knuckles pale against the fabric. Her words struck closer to truth than he cared to admit. No, he wanted to say, my father sees in me the cracks, not the mirror. Instead, he forced himself to look at her, grey eyes meeting black, and gave the only answer he could.
"It is not so simple," he said, though even he heard the lack of conviction in his voice. "There is more to ruling than swords and shields, more to leadership than blood on the battlefield. My father values tradition, and tradition does not favor men like me."
Arianne studied him for a long moment, her gaze lingering. Then she leaned back, a quiet hum escaping her lips as she reached for her fan once more. "Men like you," she echoed, a faint smile returning. "Is that how you see yourself, Stark? The other brother, the lesser son?" She snapped the fan open with a flick of her wrist, though her eyes never left his. "Perhaps your father misjudges you. Or perhaps he does not. Either way, it is not my concern. My concern is whether there is anything here worth my attention."
Edric said nothing. What could he say? He looked down at his hands, pale and uncalloused, so different from those of his brother. Robb's hands knew the weight of a sword, the feel of reins and steel. His hands knew only ink stains and the smooth leather of books. And yet, there was a part of him—a small, stubborn part—that bristled at her words.
When he looked up again, there was something new in his gaze "My father sent me here because he saw no place for me in the North. Perhaps he was right," he said, his voice soft but steady. "But here, beneath this sun, in this land of fire and sand, I will find my place—whether you see it or not."
Arianne's fan paused mid-stroke. Her lips curved, ever so slightly, as though she had found something unexpected in his words—a trace of steel, buried deep beneath the linen and sweat.
"Good," she murmured, so softly it might have been the wind. "I would hate to be disappointed."
And with that, the garden fell silent once more, save for the hum of bees and the rustle of leaves in the stifling air. The sun burned on, uncaring, but Edric Stark no longer seemed to notice its weight.
Arianne observed him with an intensity that spoke volumes, her countenance softening ever so slightly as she spoke. "So, here you are. A bookish Stark, far from the cold embrace of your northern home, betrothed to a Martell you scarcely know. Pray, Edric, what is it that you truly value?"
Her words hung in the air, and for a fleeting moment, Edric felt the oppressive weight of his father's expectations fall away, only to be replaced by something altogether different—Arianne's keen curiosity. Her question was a challenge, and he met her gaze, his own uncertain yet searching, as if seeking something he himself was not entirely sure he could name.
"I value understanding," he replied after a moment's pause, his voice steady despite the unease that tugged at his insides. "A world where power is not measured solely by the strength of one's arm, but by the wisdom with which one governs. A place where a man like me might lead—not by virtue of tradition, but because he knows how to craft something better, something more enduring."
Arianne's eyebrow arched, and her lips curled into a faint smile, one that teetered on the edge of approval. "Bold words," she murmured, her voice rich with amusement, "for one so cautious. Perhaps there is more to you."
The moment passed, the oppressive heat of the Dorne sun returning, but something had shifted—an imperceptible spark of recognition flickered between them. For the first time, Edric believed he saw the faintest trace of respect in her gaze. It was but a whisper of acknowledgment, but it was a beginning.
Arianne's laughter, soft and melodic, rang through the stillness of the garden, carrying with it a note of both amusement and gentle mockery. She leaned back languidly, her fan drifting through the air as though to punctuate her words. "Ah, my dear betrothed," she said, her lips twisting into a smirk, "if this trifling discomfort is enough to undo you, I shudder to think how you shall endure the coming summer."
Edric groaned, running a hand through his damp hair, the strands sticking in damp clumps to his forehead. "This is winter, Arianne," he said, his voice tinged with exasperation, as he gestured widely at the blistering garden before them, the mirage of heat rising from the distant earth. "In Winterfell, winter is a season of snowstorms and frostbite, of wearing every layer of wool you own just to survive. Here, it is—" He paused, gesturing once more for emphasis. "This. I am doomed."
Arianne's laughter rose forth again, a musical sound that echoed through the quiet garden. "You've been here less than three weeks, and already you declare yourself defeated. Is this truly the famed northern resilience I have heard so much about?"
Edric shot her a dry look, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a reluctant smile. "Northern resilience," he replied, "does not prepare one for being roasted alive in a furnace masquerading as a garden."
She tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. "Perhaps it is time we see to your wardrobe, then. We cannot have my future husband melting away before the wedding."
Edric straightened, a hint of pride in his posture. "I assure you, I have been adapting," he declared. "I have ceased wearing wool, I have largely refrained from complaints—and I have even grown accustomed to that horrid, watered-down wine that seems to be the local favorite."
Arianne arched a delicate brow, her expression one of subtle amusement. "The very same watered-down wine you so ardently rejected at our first dinner in Sunspear? Ah, yes, I have been watching your progress."
Edric let out a low groan, his hands pressing against his face as though to shut out the world. "You are impossible."
"And you," she replied with a laugh, her voice light yet her gaze sharp, "are amusing. At least you possess that to your credit. A Dornish summer may very well prove your undoing, Edric Stark, but it shall be entertaining to watch you wither."
Despite the teasing edge in her words, there was an undeniable warmth in her voice, a softness that had not been there before. For a moment, Edric thought he glimpsed something beneath the smooth veneer of her composure—amusement, yes, but also a trace of curiosity, as though she found the foreign Northerner bound to her future a puzzle worth solving.
"And amidst all of this, I am expected to solve your infernal trade route dilemma," he groaned, leaning back into the cushions of the daybed as if the weight of the world had been placed squarely upon his chest.
Arianne's smirk widened, her dark eyes gleaming with an amusement that matched her words. She leaned forward, propping her elbow on the arm of her seat and resting her chin in her hand, as though she relished the moment. "Ah, yes, our troublesome trade route," she said, her voice laced with mockery. "A puzzle so intricate that even the most seasoned lords and merchants of Dorne have been left floundering. And now, it falls to you."
Edric groaned louder this time, throwing himself back further into the cushions, an arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the relentless glare of the sun. "Yes, because I am the ideal choice for this task—an out-of-place Northerner who has never once managed a port in his life." He peeked out from under his arm, his expression one of frustration mixed with weary resignation.
Arianne's laughter rippled through the air, soft and warm as the sun itself. "Oh, come now, do not be so dramatic. My father and uncle must see some potential in you, else why would they entrust such a task to their future son-in-law?"
Edric raised a single eyebrow, his voice dry as dust. "Because they wish to see whether I will sink or swim? Or perhaps they are testing how long it will take before I beg for a swift return to Winterfell."
"Mm," Arianne said, her lips twitching into a smirk, "tempting theories, but you forget one thing: should you fail, it reflects poorly upon me as well." She leaned back, crossing her arms with a mock seriousness that was entirely at odds with the playful gleam in her eyes. "You see, Edric, I have a vested interest in your success."
He exhaled sharply, lowering his arm and staring up at the branches above. The orange blossoms swayed in the breeze, serene and untroubled, as though mocking his turmoil. "No pressure, then," he muttered under his breath. "Just solve a problem that has plagued Dorne for years and make sure I do not disgrace the Martells—or myself—along the way."
Arianne tilted her head, her gaze studying him with quiet intensity. "You know," she said, her tone softening just a fraction, "Perhaps you are not as hopeless as you like to claim."
Edric glanced at her, surprised by the unexpected spark of encouragement in her words. "I've been drafting proposals," he confessed with evident reluctance. "Ideas for restructuring tariffs, improving port efficiency… concepts that may bear fruit, should anyone choose to listen. But whether a Stark, let alone this Stark, will be heard...?" His voice trailed off, and frustration flickered in his eyes.
Arianne studied him for a moment, her expression one of quiet consideration. "You may be out of place here, Edric, but that does not render you without merit. Dorne thrives on intrigue, on clever minds, and you may yet prove to be one of those minds. Perhaps you shall surprise us after all."
Edric sighed, his hands clasping behind his head as he stared off into the distance. "It's maddening," he muttered. "If I devise a plan suited for the route during summer, it is doomed to fail the moment winter arrives. Why must the desert around Dorne be so… temperamental?"
Arianne's lips curved in amusement, and she fluttered her fan lazily, her gaze fixed on Edric as he became increasingly exasperated. "You've uncovered one of Dorne's many peculiarities," she said with a knowing smile. "Our land is as capricious as the shifting sands. What thrives under the burning heat of summer falters when the winds turn cold—though, to be fair, such cold as we ever see here."
Edric dragged a hand across his face, the motion heavy with weariness. "It's infuriating. In the North, everything is built for winter, because we know it is coming. No second-guessing. But here…" He gestured vaguely toward the garden, his eyes narrowing as if searching for some answer in the heat. "Here, I must account for trade caravans swallowed by summer dunes, rivers that dry up, only to flood with the rare rains, and merchants quarreling over whose camels will survive the journey. It feels as though the very land conspires against me."
Arianne leaned forward slightly, her chin resting in her hand as she observed him with an unreadable expression. "And yet," she said, her voice laced with a hint of teasing, "you persist in trying to solve it. If nothing else, Edric Stark, you have persistence."
"I have no choice," he muttered, sinking deeper into the daybed, the weight of his frustration pressing down on him. "If I fail, your family will see me as a fool, my family will think I've wasted their time, and I will be known as the Stark who couldn't manage a simple trade route issue." He groaned, letting his head fall back onto the cushion. "Why couldn't I have been sent somewhere with predictable seasons? Somewhere...boring."
Arianne's laughter rang out, bright and musical, echoing through the garden. "Boring? In Dorne?" she teased. "Oh, my dear Edric, I fear you've misunderstood our entire existence. There is nothing predictable about Dorne—or its people."
"An understatement," Edric muttered under his breath, earning him another smirk from Arianne.
She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening, though still touched by an air of subtle challenge. "But you are correct," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "The desert is temperamental, as are the rivers and the mountains. Even we, who have lived with it for centuries, have struggled to master it. And yet, here you are, attempting what even the most seasoned lords and merchants cannot."
Her voice shifted then, taking on a thread of challenge, her eyes locking onto his. "So, tell me, Edric. How will you adapt to this land? Or will you allow our desert to defeat you?"
Edric stole a glance at her, his frustration momentarily supplanted by something sharper, more resolute. "I will adapt," he declared, his voice steady and unwavering. "I have no choice in the matter. If the land is temperamental, then I shall plan for temperance itself. Variable routes, seasonal taxes, flexible tariffs… there must be a way to make it all work. And when I have devised that way, I shall ensure it is a plan that even the shifting sands cannot undo."
Arianne's eyebrow arched delicately, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Now that is the determination I had hoped for. Perhaps, after all, there may yet be hope for you, Edric Stark."
He turned to her with a wry, half-amused glint in his eye. "Are we to expect another sandstorm in the near future?"
Her laughter was swift, her eyes sparking with genuine amusement. "Oh, you poor Northerner," she replied, her tone thick with mock sympathy. "The last sandstorm must have served as quite the initiation. No one thought to warn you, I suppose?"
Edric shot her a glare, one that could have burned a lesser person to ash. "Apparently, the notion of offering a word of caution was deemed less amusing than watching me stumble about like a fool, only to be assaulted by a thousand tiny knives."
Arianne's laughter deepened, and she placed a hand to her chest in exaggerated shock. "Why, I cannot imagine why they would do such a thing. Surely, the sight of your discomfort must have been… unforgettable."
"You could have warned me," Edric muttered, crossing his arms in quiet frustration. "You were right there."
Arianne smirked, the glint in her eyes mischievous. "I could have. But where, pray tell, would be the fun in that?"
He groaned, sinking back into the daybed, as though the very memory of his discomfort was a weight too great to bear. "I swear, the desert conspires against me. So, tell me—am I to be safe for the next few days, or should I prepare myself for yet another round of 'death by a thousand grains'?"
Arianne tapped her chin with mock seriousness, her gaze drifting upward in feigned contemplation. "As far as I know, no sandstorms are expected soon. But with Dorne, you can never be entirely certain. The winds here have a will of their own." Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a teasing tone. "If you are truly concerned, I would suggest you remain in the courtyards and perhaps wear something more substantial."
"More substantial?" Edric's voice rose in incredulity. "In this heat? I would rather face the storm than suffocate in some thick, sweltering cloak."
Arianne's grin widened, clearly taking pleasure in his frustration. "Suit yourself, then. But should the winds turn once more and you find yourself out there again, I shall be sure to watch. For support, of course."
"Support," Edric repeated dryly, his eyes narrowing as he fixed her with an amused glare. "You Martells are all the same."
Arianne's laughter rang out again, her posture relaxed but triumphant. "And yet, you are to marry one of us. I trust you are ready for a lifetime of such… support, my dear betrothed."
Edric chuckled, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "You know, you are in for a rude awakening when you come to Winterfell. Winterfell is not merely cold; it is relentless. The wind slices through every layer you wear, the snow falls without cease, and the chill sinks into your bones. You will be swaddled in furs, shivering before the hearth, while I, no doubt, will observe with some measure of amusement."
Arianne tilted her head, her smirk deepening with the weight of her defiance. "You believe I will break under it? You forget, I am Dornish. We do not merely endure adversity; we thrive upon it. If I can withstand the desert's fury, your icy wasteland shall be no more than a temporary discomfort."
Edric raised an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to indicate his growing amusement. "You say that now, but wait until you struggle to tie your hair with fingers frozen stiff, or find yourself unable to feel your toes as you walk the courtyard. Then, my dear, you'll be begging to return to Dorne."
"Begging?" she repeated, mock offense coloring her voice. "I do not beg. If it truly becomes unbearable, I shall make you beg—for a return to Sunspear."
Edric's laughter rang out, genuine amusement lighting his eyes. "You, drag me back here? Not likely. Once you experience Winterfell's hospitality, you'll come to appreciate the charms of the North—the endless snowfields, the towering pines, the roaring hearths..." He trailed off, grinning broadly. "Though, I daresay you may never warm enough to truly notice."
Arianne leaned in slightly, her gaze hardening with playful defiance. "Do not underestimate me, Edric Stark. Winter may have its bite, but I have endured storms far harsher than your frozen castle can offer. If anyone falters, it shall be you—struggling to keep up with me in your own bitter stronghold."
Edric's smirk remained in place as he crossed his arms. "We shall see, Princess. I will see to it that the fires are stoked, just in case."
"And I shall bring a Dornish sun to melt your ice," she countered smoothly, her confidence as unyielding as ever.
For the first time since their betrothal had been finalized, their exchange felt less like a battleground and more like a meeting of equals—a rare moment where neither seemed wholly at odds with the other.
"You know," Edric began, his tone laced with an amused frustration, "even when you do want to jape at me, why can't you choose something better? Perhaps push me into the fountain or something—at least I'd feel better."
Arianne chuckled, the sound light and musical as her fan snapped shut. She regarded him with a tilted head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Push you into the fountain? How dreadfully unimaginative. If I am to jape you, it must be something far more... sophisticated. After all, I have a reputation to uphold."
Edric rolled his eyes, the smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sophisticated jests? Like sending me into a sandstorm unprepared? Truly refined."
"Exactly," she replied, her voice light with mock pride. "Subtle, elegant, and sure to leave a lasting impression. A simple push into the fountain? Child's play by comparison."
."Child's play sounds like a blessed reprieve at this moment," Edric replied with a wistful sigh, leaning back as if the weight of the heat alone had already taken its toll. "At least it would offer some measure of relief."
Arianne tapped her chin thoughtfully, though her eyes glinted with mischief. "Hmm. Tempting, truly, but no. I believe I shall wait for a more fortuitous moment. One more… public in nature."
Edric groaned dramatically, his head falling back as though the mere idea of further torment was too much to bear. "You intend to make my life here utterly unbearable, don't you?"
"Unbearable?" Arianne repeated, feigning offense with a raised brow. "I am merely ensuring that you properly acclimate to Dornish customs. And should that necessitate a few… shall we say, creative lessons along the way, so be it."
"You mean 'creative torture,'" Edric muttered, though the grin that tugged at his lips betrayed his amusement.
She leaned forward, her expression smug and knowing. "Call it what you will, my betrothed. But remember, should I ever deign to push you into the fountain, it will be for a very good reason."
"Such as?" Edric asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
Arianne's smirk widened, her gaze never leaving his. "Perhaps you shall say something so insufferably Northern that I cannot restrain myself. Or perhaps I shall simply decide you need a reminder of who holds the reins in this place."
Edric laughed, shaking his head in genuine amusement. "If this is your idea of Dornish charm, I may find it necessary to keep a much closer watch on you."
Arianne's laughter rang out in the warm air, bright and unapologetic. "Yesterday, Tyene Sand—well, I believe it was she—tried to convince me to poison myself."
Arianne's laughter erupted, genuine and unrestrained, as she tossed her head back with mirth. "Tyene? Oh, you poor, naïve Northerner. Of course it was her. Who else could possess such a devious wit?"
Edric groaned, his expression a mixture of irritation and disbelief. "She called it a 'mild' poison, and assured me I would only feel slightly unwell. Apparently, it was to 'build character' and 'toughen me up for Dorne.'" He shuddered at the memory. "She even went so far as to pull out a vial and begin explaining the symptoms, as if it were some game of hers."
Arianne smirked, folding her arms with an air of bemused understanding. "Ah, that sounds precisely like Tyene. Sweet smiles, honeyed words, and a venomous touch. She has always had a flair for the dramatic when it comes to poisons."
"Well, I did not drink it," Edric declared firmly, his expression resolute. "There was no way I would allow her to talk me into such a thing."
"An astute decision," Arianne responded, her voice carrying a note of approval. "Though, to be truthful, she would not have given you anything truly lethal. Likely some concoction to make your stomach twist or your lips tingle for a few hours—an innocent jest, of sorts."
"Innocent?" Edric exclaimed, his hands thrown up in disbelief. "That is your definition of innocent?"
"In Dorne, yes," she replied with a casual shrug as she reveled in his discomposure. "You should consider it a mark of favor. If Tyene deigns to poison you, it means she holds you in regard."
Edric blinked, his confusion evident. "That is… twisted."
"That is Dorne," Arianne said, her grin widening. "In the North, you have your swords and your codes of honor; we have our poisons and our subtlety. Think of it as an initiation into our ways."
"I think I've had more than enough initiations, thank you," Edric muttered, his voice tinged with weary sarcasm. "Between sandstorms, Tyene's poison games, and Oberyn's casual sparring—sparring that makes me question what is real—I'm beginning to think that the North wasn't such a terrible place after all."
Arianne chuckled, her gaze playful as she leaned forward, her voice teasing. "Oh, come now, Edric. You are managing it better than most outsiders would. And who knows? Perhaps in time, you'll come to admire our methods."
He shook his head, a rueful smile curving his lips. "If I survive this, perhaps. But I'll keep a healthy distance from Tyene. And her vials."
"A wise decision," Arianne said, her tone adopting mock gravity. "Though, should she offer you a drink at your wedding feast, I'd still advise caution."