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Rhaenys slipped through the narrow corridor, her white cloak brushing against the weathered stone walls of Sunspear's forgotten kitchen. Shafts of piercing sunlight filtered through the high, narrow windows, illuminating dancing dust motes in the stale air. The space smelled of old spices and forgotten memories - a fitting place for clandestine meetings.
Her fingers absently traced the outline of one of the three daggers concealed beneath her cloak. The white fabric, though stifling, was a necessary shield against the merciless Dornish sun. In Sunspear's winding streets, she was just another hooded figure seeking refuge from the heat.
The soft patter of tiny feet announced Liki's arrival before she saw him. The five-year-old emerged from the shadows like a ghost, his dark eyes huge in his thin face. Despite his youth, he moved with the natural stealth of a child who had learned to survive on Sunspear's unforgiving streets.
"What news?" Rhaenys asked, her voice carrying the crisp edge that had become her trademark. Gone was the warmth she might have shown in earlier years.
Liki shifted from foot to foot, though his gaze never wavered. "Lady Blackmont's got a new friend, m'lady. Visits her chambers when her lord's away." He paused, gauging her reaction. "And Ser Manfred's been coughing something fierce. Haven't seen him at his post for two days now."
Rhaenys's expression didn't change. "Anything else?"
"Aye." Here, Liki's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Tam was down at the docks. Says he saw something interesting. Men in armor, they came off a ship two days past. Rode straight for Sunspear, they did."
This caught her attention. "How many men?"
"Ten or twelve, Tam says. All of them wearing proper plate, even in this heat. Must've been cooking alive, they were."
"The ship," Rhaenys pressed. "What did it look like?"
Liki's face scrunched in concentration. "Purple sails, they had. And some sort of bell painted on the hull. Tam says it's one of them Norvoshi vessels."
Norvos. The word echoed in Rhaenys's mind. Her aunt by marriage, Lady Mellario, was Norvoshi. The timing was too perfect to be coincidence. Were these the men Uncle Doran had spoken of? The ones meant to...
She pushed the thought aside, reaching into her cloak to withdraw four bronze coins. Liki's eyes lit up at the sight, reminding her that for all his street-wisdom, he was still just a child.
"Share these," she commanded, dropping the coins into his small palm. "One for each of you. I'll know if you don't."
A quick grin flashed across his face. "Yes, m'lady. I'll make sure everyone gets their share."
"Good." She watched as he retreated, his bare feet making no sound on the stone floor. The boy moved like a cat, she thought. A useful skill in their line of work.
Alone again, Rhaenys leaned against the cool stone wall, her mind racing. Norvoshi soldiers, arriving in secret, just as Uncle Doran prepared his move against the Starks. Lady Mellario had been increasingly unhappy in Dorne - everyone knew that. But would she aid her husband in such a scheme? Or was she an unwitting part of it?
The shaft of sunlight had moved, leaving her in shadow. Appropriate, she thought with a bitter smile. Here she stood, in darkness, plotting the downfall of those who had destroyed her family. Yet something nagged at her conscience - a voice that sounded suspiciously like Jon Snow's when he sang, hauntingly familiar in a way she refused to examine too closely.
She shook her head sharply, dispelling the thought. There was no room for doubt, not now. Not when they were so close to striking their first real blow against the usurpers and their dogs.
Pushing off from the wall, Rhaenys adjusted her hood and stepped back into the corridor. She had more questions for Uncle Doran about these Norvoshi visitors. And perhaps, she thought, it was time to pay more attention to Lady Mellario's movements as well.
Tomorrow
The desert air was crisp and cold. Moonlight bathed the dunes in ethereal silver, casting long shadows across the sand. Rhaenys pulled her cloak tighter, watching her cousin Arianne pace restlessly beside their horses.
"They say Darkstar is as skilled with a blade as Arthur Dayne himself," Arianne mused, her jewelry tinkling softly as she moved.
A derisive snort cut through the night. "Who says that?" Oberyn asked, twirling a spear absently. "The castle guards who've never seen either man fight? I hold no love for that traitor, but I will never deny that Arthur was one of a kind, a knight of his talent is something that happens only once in a century."
"You don't think it's true, uncle?" Arianne's voice carried a hint of disappointment.
Oberyn's face hardened in the moonlight. "Gerold Dayne is a shadow, nothing more. He wraps himself in the legend of the Sword of the Morning like a child playing at knights." He spat into the sand. "Arthur Dayne was one of a kind. This... pretender... he's just a man with a pretty sword and an ugly attitude."
"Still," Arianne persisted, "to defeat someone like Arthur Dayne... Lord Stark must be quite the warrior himself."
Rhaenys watched her uncle's face carefully. Something dark passed across his features before he shook his head.
"Eddard Stark didn't win that fight. Not truly." Oberyn's voice was quiet, dangerous. "The tales they tell in the North... they're not the whole truth."
Rhaenys felt her heart quicken. "Oh?" she asked, keeping her voice deliberately casual. "Are you suggesting the honorable Lord Stark stained his honor even before he returned North with a bastard in his arms?"
Oberyn's eyes snapped to her face, catching the venom in her words. His lips curved into a knowing smile. "The dead don't speak, little one. History remembers the victors, not how they achieved their victories. What does it matter now if Stark won clean or dirty? Arthur Dayne is dead, and Stark lives to tell whatever tale he chooses."
"But uncle-" Rhaenys started.
"Why is Ser Gerold coming to Sunspear?" Arianne interrupted, clearly trying to change the subject.
Oberyn's expression shifted smoothly. "Trade negotiations. House Dayne has some interesting proposals regarding the silk route through the mountains."
Rhaenys bit back a smile. Her uncle was an excellent liar - his tone perfect, his body language relaxed. But she knew the truth. Ser Gerold would never bother to come here if it was for something as simple as silk and trades.
"Riders approaching!" The sharp call from one of their guards cut through the night air.
Rhaenys could see them now - a group of riders emerging from the darkness like wraiths. Their horses' hooves were muffled by the sand, giving their approach an otherworldly quality. At their head rode a figure that could only be Gerold Dayne.
Even at a distance, there was something predatory about him. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, the streak of black through it like a slash of ink across parchment. He sat his horse with the easy grace of a born warrior, and at his hip...
Rhaenys's eyes fixed on the sword. Not Dawn - never Dawn - but still a blade that promised death to anyone who crossed its owner.
"Remember," Oberyn murmured, his voice carrying only to Rhaenys and Arianne, "whatever game he thinks he's playing, we are snakes, we know to wait for the right moment to strike."
"I know how to handle men like him, uncle," Arianne replied, tossing her hair back.
"Do you?" Oberyn's voice held a warning. "Men like Gerold Dayne aren't looking for what you're offering, sweet niece. They're looking for what they can take."
Before Arianne could respond, the riders drew close enough for greetings. Rhaenys watched as Darkstar dismounted. Every gesture seemed calculated for effect, from the way his cloak settled around his shoulders to the angle at which he held his head.
"Prince Oberyn," he called out, his voice carrying across the sand. "Princess Arianne." His eyes found Rhaenys last, lingering just a moment too long. "And the lovely Lady Rhae Sand."
Rhaenys felt her hand twitch toward one of her hidden daggers. There was something in his gaze that made her skin crawl - not desire, but a cold calculation that reminded her too much of the way her uncle Doran looked at his cyvasse board before making a killing move.
The night wind carried whispers of sand and secrets across the dunes as Arianne stepped forward, her silks rustling softly. "I trust your journey was pleasant, Ser Gerold?"
Darkstar's lips curved into a shadow of a smile. "Pleasant enough, though I find myself yearning for greener pastures." He ran a hand through his silver-black hair. "Strange, isn't it? Born and raised in Dorne, yet I never quite developed a taste for endless sand. The sweetness of The Reach calls to me more - its rivers, its forests."
"The Reach?" Arianne's eyes sparkled with interest. "Have you visited recently?"
"Indeed." Gerold's voice carried a note of pride. "House Tarly held a tourney not two moons past. I claimed victory in the melee." He touched the hilt of his sword. "Young Dickon Tarly will carry a reminder of that day. A rather impressive scar across his face, if I do say so."
Oberyn's spear caught the moonlight as he shifted. "Randyll Tarly is not a forgiving man, he is a dangerous man, and even more dangerous general. He was the only one who against Robert Baratheon during the Rebellion."
"The Tarlys are enemies of Dorne," Darkstar replied dismissively. "I did our realm a service that day - and my own purse an even greater one." His laugh was sharp as broken glass.
Rhaenys stepped forward, her white cloak ghostlike in the darkness. "What brings you to Sunspear, Ser Gerold? Surely not just to boast of tournament victories?"
"Ah, the lovely Lady Rhae asks direct questions." His violet eyes gleamed. "I seek audience with Prince Doran regarding new trade routes between Shandystone and Sunspear. The desert holds untapped possibilities."
Arianne moved closer to Darkstar, her voice honey-sweet. "Surely such matters could have been handled by raven? Yet you chose to come in person..." She trailed a finger along her collar bone, a gesture calculated to distract.
Rhaenys watched her cousin's performance with hidden amusement. Arianne was furious at being kept in the dark about her father's plans, and now she was trying to seduce the truth from Darkstar's lips.
"Some matters require a personal touch, Princess," Gerold replied, his eyes following Arianne's movement. "Besides, Sunspear has grown more beautiful since I last visited. Or perhaps it's merely the company that makes it seem so."
"Beautiful and dangerous," Arianne agreed. "Like most things worth having in Dorne."
"Speaking of danger," Gerold's tone shifted slightly, "I hear interesting rumors about the Greyjoy Rebellion. Strange that Dorne sits idle while the realm bleeds. One might think Prince Doran has grown..." he paused meaningfully, "overly cautious."
The temperature seemed to drop despite the desert night. Oberyn's smile was friendly, but his eyes were cold as he stepped forward. "Careful, Ser Gerold. Men who question Dorne's courage often find themselves regretting their words. If they live long enough to regret anything at all."
"A mere observation, Prince Oberyn," Darkstar replied smoothly, though his hand had drifted closer to his sword. "I wouldn't presume to question Prince Doran's wisdom."
"Of course not," Oberyn's voice was silk over steel. "Just as I wouldn't presume to question why the Darkstar truly rides to Sunspear in the dead of night."
The tension crackled between them like lightning before a storm. Rhaenys watched as Arianne's eyes darted between her uncle and Darkstar, calculating, measuring.
"The hour grows late," Gerold said finally, breaking the silence. "Perhaps we should continue to Sunspear? I'm sure Prince Doran awaits our arrival."
"Of course," Oberyn agreed pleasantly, as if he hadn't just delivered a veiled threat. "We wouldn't want to keep my brother waiting. He so looks forward to discussing... trade routes."
As they mounted their horses, Rhaenys caught Arianne's frustrated glance. Her cousin had failed to extract any useful information from Darkstar, and it clearly rankled her. But Rhaenys knew better - the real game wouldn't be played here in the desert night, but in the shadows of Sunspear's halls.
They rode in relative silence, the moon casting their shadows long across the sand. Rhaenys found herself studying Darkstar's profile. He was dangerous, yes, but was he dangerous enough for whatever her uncle had planned? And more importantly, was he trustworthy enough?
"You seem troubled, Lady Rhae," Darkstar called out softly, catching her observation. "Does something about me disturb you?"
"Not at all, Ser Gerold," she replied coolly. "I was merely wondering if you're as good with that sword as you claim to be."
He laughed, the sound echoing across the dunes. "Perhaps one day I'll show you, my lady. Though I pray it never comes to that."
"As do I," she said, but in her mind, she was already calculating how quickly she could reach the daggers hidden beneath her cloak.
Oberyn guided his horse between them, effectively ending the exchange. The rest of the journey passed in tense silence, broken only by the soft sound of hooves on sand and Arianne's occasional attempted pleasantries.
As Sunspear's towers emerged from the darkness ahead, Rhaenys couldn't shake the feeling that they were all actors in a play, speaking lines written by her uncle Doran. But as she watched Darkstar's confident smile, she wondered if perhaps he was performing in a different play altogether.
.
.
The Water Gardens shimmered in the afternoon heat as Nymeria Sand found her prey lounging by the pools. Gerold Dayne cut a striking figure against the orange sunset, his silver-black hair catching the dying light. He was reading a book, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.
Nymeria adjusted her flowing silk dress, ensuring it clung just so to her curves. She had chosen a deep purple that matched his eyes, a detail she knew wouldn't go unnoticed. Her dark hair fell in waves down her back, adorned with golden pins that caught the light with every movement.
"Ser Gerold," she called softly, her voice carrying just enough honey to draw attention without seeming desperate. "You shouldn't sit alone in such a beautiful evening."
Darkstar looked up from his book, his violet eyes sweeping over her form with clinical detachment. "Lady Nymeria. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She glided closer, letting her hip sway with each step. "Must I have a reason to seek out interesting company?" Settling herself on the marble bench beside him, she leaned back, letting the dying sunlight play across her olive skin.
"Everyone in Dorne has a reason for everything they do," he replied, closing his book. "Particularly Prince Oberyn's daughters."
Nymeria laughed, the sound like silk sliding across steel. "Perhaps I simply find you intriguing. You're not like the other lords who visit Sunspear."
"No," he agreed, his lips curving into that strange half-smile. "I'm not."
She reached out, letting her fingers brush his arm as if by accident. "Tell me, what does the Darkstar read to pass the time?"
"Histories," he replied, shifting slightly away from her touch. "Specifically, the Conquest of Dorne."
"Such heavy reading for such a pleasant evening." She leaned closer, letting her perfume - a subtle mix of jasmine and citrus - drift between them. "Surely there are more... entertaining ways to pass the time?"
Gerold's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're very good at this, Lady Nymeria. The touch, the perfume, the way you position yourself..." He turned to face her fully. "But you're wasting your considerable talents."
Nymeria's seductive smile didn't waver, though something cold crept into her eyes. "Am I?"
"Your father didn't send you, which means you're here on your own initiative. Curious about why I'm really in Sunspear, perhaps?" He stood, towering over her. "You should know, I prefer my snakes less... obvious."
The insult stung, but Nymeria maintained her composure. "And I prefer my stars less dark, yet here we are."
Gerold laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "Good evening, Lady Nymeria. Give my regards to your sister Tyene. At least she has the sense to watch from a distance."
He walked away, leaving Nymeria by the pool, her carefully planned seduction in shambles. From her hidden vantage point behind a column, Rhaenys watched the exchange with growing unease. If even Nymeria's charms couldn't crack Darkstar's facade, what secrets was he truly hiding?
As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, Nymeria's voice carried across the empty garden. "He's dangerous, cousin. More than we thought."
Rhaenys stepped out from her hiding place. "I know. That's what worries me."
.
.
Over the next few days, Rhaenys met her young spies in various hidden corners of Sunspear, each meeting more frustrating than the last. The children came to her with reports that revealed nothing of substance, despite their eager efforts.
In a shadowed alcove near the kitchens, Tam, a wiry boy of six, shuffled his feet as he delivered his report. "He trains every morning before sunrise, m'lady. Uses two swords sometimes, but mostly just one. I saw him try to use two once, but then he cut his hand, and started cursing."
"What else?" Rhaenys pressed, though she already knew the answer would disappoint.
"He... he likes blood oranges for breakfast. Always takes three, never more or less." Tam's voice grew smaller. "And he spends lots of time in the library."
In the servants' passages, Mari, a quick-witted girl of seven, had similar nothing to share. "He reads letters, m'lady, but he burns them right after. Never lets them leave his room."
"Did you see any of the writing?" Rhaenys asked.
Mari shook her head, her thin braids swaying. "He catches anyone who gets too close. Eyes like a hawk, he has."
Even Liki brought only trivial observations. "He talks to the guards sometimes, but only about normal things. Weather and weapons and such."
Rhaenys leaned against the cool stone wall of the empty kitchen, frustration building in her chest. Five days of watching, and nothing. Gerold Dayne moved through Sunspear like a ghost, leaving no trace of his true purpose.
"There's something else, m'lady," Liki added hesitantly, keeping his distance. "He knows we're watching. Sometimes he looks right at us and smiles, like... like it's all a game to him."
That detail sent a chill down Rhaenys's spine. She'd underestimated him, thinking children would be beneath his notice. But Darkstar was proving more cunning than she'd anticipated.
"Keep watching," she instructed them, distributing more coins. "But be careful. If he looks at you again, move away. Don't let him catch you."
As she watched her little network of spies scatter into the shadows, Rhaenys couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something obvious. Gerold Dayne was playing a game, yes, but what were the rules? And more importantly, what would happen when the game was finally over?
The answers eluded her, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. Her spies had given her nothing but shadows and whispers, while Darkstar remained as enigmatic as ever.
Perhaps that, she realized, was exactly what he wanted.
.
.
The training yard at Sunspear baked under the searing Dornish sun, the sands shimmering with heat as if the ground itself threatened to catch fire. Rhaenys Martell stood in the shade of an arched pavilion, her purple eyes narrowed as she watched the two men step onto the packed dirt. Nymeria Sand hovered beside her, one hand on her shoulder.
Prince Oberyn Martell strode into the yard like a snake; his spear was his poison. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was steel behind the smile curling his lips. His opponent, Ser Gerold Dayne—the infamous Darkstar of High Hermitage—stood opposite him, his pale violet eyes cold and unyielding as his sword rested loosely in his grip. Dawn's absence from his side was notable, and Oberyn did not let the opportunity pass.
"It's a pity, Ser Gerold," Oberyn drawled, circling lazily, his spear twirling with effortless ease. "To think you fancy yourself a Dayne worthy of carrying Dawn. But tell me, how does it feel to stand in the shadow of a true legend? Arthur Dayne—now there was a swordsman. You're but a pale reflection, aren't you?"
Gerold's jaw tightened, though he remained eerily calm. His voice was sharp enough to cut. "Say what you will about me, Prince Oberyn. But we of House Dayne do not allow our blood to be spilled without vengeance. You should understand that after all, how long has it been, ohh, right, it's been seven years."
Rhaenys's breath caught. The words hit her like a dagger to the chest, and her fists clenched until her nails dug into her palms. Her mother. Her brother. The ghosts of seven long years stood between her and the man who dared to invoke their memory. Nymeria's grip on her shoulder tightened.
"Stay calm," Nymeria hissed. "Don't let him know who you are. He's not worth it."
But Rhaenys's blood boiled, her vision tinged red as she fought the urge to lunge forward and tear out Gerold's throat. Oberyn, however, had gone unnaturally still. His grin remained, but it had sharpened into something dangerous.
"If you speak about her again, Ser Gerold, it will be the last time you speak at all," Oberyn said, his voice soft but laced with venom. He lowered into a fighting stance, his spear tip pointing directly at the Darkstar.
Gerold raised his sword in reply, the long blade catching the sunlight as he tilted his head slightly. "Then let's see if you can deliver on that promise, Prince."
Oberyn's spear lashed out in a lightning-fast thrust, aiming for Gerold's midsection, but the knight sidestepped, bringing his blade down in a sweeping arc. Oberyn spun away, the edge of Gerold's sword slicing harmlessly through the air where he had been.
Oberyn's spear flickered like a serpent's tongue, jabbing and feinting, but Gerold parried with precision, his sword a blur of silver. The clang of steel rang through the yard as their weapons met, sparks flying with each strike.
"You're fast, Red Viper," Gerold said, his voice calm. He brought his blade up in a vertical strike, forcing Oberyn to leap back. "But you'll tire before I do."
"Is that so?" Oberyn's grin widened as he spun his spear in a fluid arc, the weapon a blur of deadly motion. "I've fought men like you before, Darkstar. Men who thought strength and endurance could save them. But they all bled the same in the end."
Oberyn's spear was a whirlwind of thrusts and sweeps, forcing Gerold to stay on the defensive. Yet, for every attack Oberyn launched, Gerold answered with a calculated parry or counterstrike. The knight's swordsmanship was a thing of beauty, his movements economical and deadly.
But Oberyn was no less impressive. He danced around Gerold, his footwork nimble and unpredictable. He exploited every opening, however slight, aiming for weak points in Gerold's defense. The crowd murmured in awe as Oberyn landed a glancing strike on Gerold's shoulder, drawing first blood.
"You're slowing down," Oberyn taunted, his voice light despite the sweat dripping down his brow. "Perhaps the sun is too much for you, Darkstar? Or is it the weight of that ego you carry?"
Gerold's reply was a sudden, vicious slash aimed at Oberyn's throat. The Prince of Dorne ducked, rolling under the blade and coming up behind Gerold in one fluid motion. He thrust his spear, the tip slicing through Gerold's tunic, narrowly missing his ribs. The knight spun, his sword arcing toward Oberyn's head, but the prince deflected it with the haft of his spear, the impact reverberating through the yard.
The clash of steel grew louder. Oberyn pressed his advantage, his attacks coming faster and harder, but Gerold held firm, his sword a blur as he parried and countered. Their movements became more aggressive, each strike aimed to maim or kill. What had begun as a training bout now felt like a battle to the death.
Gerold lunged, his sword thrusting toward Oberyn's chest, but the prince sidestepped and slammed the butt of his spear into Gerold's temple. The knight staggered, blood trickling down the side of his face, but he didn't falter. With a roar, he swung his blade in a wide arc, forcing Oberyn to retreat.
"You're a slippery one, Prince," Gerold growled, his violet eyes blazing with fury. "But I wonder how well you'll dance when I take your legs."
"You're welcome to try," Oberyn replied, his grin as sharp as the spear in his hands.
They clashed again, the fight growing more brutal with each passing second. Oberyn used every trick in his arsenal—feints, sweeps, and sudden thrusts—but Gerold was relentless, his sword a relentless storm of steel. They fought like two storms colliding, their weapons cutting through the air.
Finally, Oberyn found his opening. As Gerold overextended on a particularly vicious strike, Oberyn sidestepped and drove his spear shaft into the knight's ribs. Gerold let out a grunt of pain, stumbling backward, and Oberyn followed up with a spinning sweep that sent Gerold's sword flying from his hand.
Before Gerold could recover, Oberyn's spear was at his throat, the sharp tip pressing against his skin. The yard fell silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the two combatants.
"Yield," Oberyn said, his voice cold and devoid of the earlier mockery.
Gerold glared up at him, his chest heaving, but he did not move. For a moment, it seemed as though he might refuse, but then he gave a curt nod. "I yield."
Oberyn's grip on his spear tightened, and for a heartbeat, Rhaenys thought he might drive it through Gerold's throat anyway. But then he lowered the weapon and stepped back, his expression unreadable.
"You're lucky I'm feeling merciful today," Oberyn said, his tone laced with disdain. "But if you ever speak of my sister again, you will beg for your death."
Gerold staggered to his feet, retrieving his sword with a glare that promised this was far from over. Without a word, he turned and stalked out of the yard, his pride wounded as much as his body.
Oberyn turned to Rhaenys, his expression softening as he approached. "You did well to hold your temper," he said quietly. "Men like him thrive on provoking others. Don't give him the satisfaction."
Rhaenys nodded, though her hands still shook with rage. She watched Gerold's retreating form, her heart pounding with unspoken fury. One day, the debts owed to her family would be paid in full.
Stark, Lannister, Baratheon, and Tully. They all would rue the day they destroyed her family.
.
.
The evening sun cast long shadows across Rhaenys's chamber as Liki slipped through her window like a ghost. His small face was serious, more suited to an old man than a child of five.
"What news?" Rhaenys asked, setting aside the book she'd been pretending to read.
"Lady Mellario..." Liki hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "She's different since the Darkstar came. Scared, maybe. Or angry. Both?"
Rhaenys leaned forward. "Tell me exactly what you've seen."
"She paces a lot. In her chambers. Sometimes she throws things." Liki demonstrated with his hands. "Yesterday, she broke a mirror. The servants had to clean it up while she cried."
This matched what Rhaenys had observed herself. During meals, Lady Mellario's hands would tremble when Gerold spoke. Her eyes followed him with a mixture of fear and hatred, especially when he was near Arianne.
"What else?"
"She writes letters. Lots of letters. But she burns them before sending them." Liki's voice dropped to a whisper. "And she argues with Prince Doran more now. Not just at night - during the day too, when she thinks no one's listening."
Another of her spies, a girl named Serra, had reported similar observations. Lady Mellario had always been unhappy in Dorne, but this was different. This was fear.
"The other day," Liki continued, "when Princess Arianne was walking in the gardens with Ser Gerold, Lady Mellario watched from her balcony. She was crying, m'lady. Not quiet tears like usual. Real crying, like something terrible was going to happen."
Rhaenys thought back to the previous night's feast. Lady Mellario had barely touched her food, her eyes darting between Gerold and her daughter. When Arianne had laughed at something Gerold said, Mellario's face had gone white as milk.
"She visits the sept more often too," Liki added. "Prays for hours. The septon says she begs the Mother for protection."
"Protection from what?"
Liki shrugged his thin shoulders. "Don't know, m'lady."
Rhaenys felt a chill despite the warm evening air. What did Lady Mellario know about Gerold Dayne that frightened her so?
"There's one more thing, m'lady," Liki said, his voice barely audible. "This morning, I saw Lady Mellario talking to one of the guards. Giving him extra coin to watch Princess Arianne's door at night. She said..." he swallowed hard. "She said no one was to enter, especially not Ser Gerold. Not even if Prince Doran himself commanded it."
The implications of that order made Rhaenys's blood run cold. She reached for her coin purse, giving Liki twice his usual payment.
"Keep watching," she instructed. "Especially Lady Mellario. I want to know everything she does, everyone she speaks to."
After Liki disappeared into the gathering darkness, Rhaenys stood at her window, watching the lights of Sunspear flicker to life.
Whatever game was being played in Sunspear, it seemed Lady Mellario knew at least some of the rules. And they terrified her.
.
.
The feast hall buzzed with activity as servants poured wine and laid out platters of spiced meats and fruits. Rhaenys watched the room from her seat, noting how the tensions of the past week had drawn everyone tight as bowstrings.
Nymeria was still smarting from Gerold's rejection, picking at her food with unusual petulance. Obara nursed fresh bruises from the training yard, her pride perhaps more wounded than her body after watching her father struggle against Darkstar. Even Tyene's usual sweet smile seemed forced.
"More wine, cousin?" Arianne offered, her own cup suspiciously full. She'd been in a dark mood since her failed attempts to charm information from their guest.
"No, thank you," Rhaenys replied, watching Gerold Dayne take his seat near the high table. He moved with that same fluid grace that had made him such a dangerous opponent in the training yard.
Lady Mellario sat as far from her husband as propriety would allow, her face tight with barely contained emotion. She hadn't touched her food, instead watching Quentyn with the desperate intensity of a woman about to lose something precious.
Prince Doran raised his hand, and the hall gradually fell silent.
"My friends, my family," he began. "I have an announcement to make."
Rhaenys saw Lady Mellario's hands clench in her lap.
"For some time now, I have been in discussion with House Yronwood regarding the future of Dorne and the strengthening of our alliances." Doran paused, his eyes sweeping the room. "It has been decided that my son, Prince Quentyn Martell, will be fostered at Yronwood."
The words fell like stones into still water, sending ripples of whispers through the hall.
"Ser Gerold Dayne has graciously offered to escort him on this journey," Doran continued, but his words were nearly drowned out by the sudden scraping of Arianne's chair.
Rhaenys watched her cousin rise, her face a mask of fury. The look she gave Quentyn could have curdled milk - pure hatred mixed with betrayal. Without a word, Arianne turned and stormed from the hall, her silks swirling behind her like angry clouds.
A choked sob drew Rhaenys's attention back to Lady Mellario. Tears streamed down her cheeks, though she tried to hide them behind her cup. Her hands shook so badly that wine sloshed over the rim.
"My lady," one of her handmaidens whispered, trying to steady her.
But Mellario was already standing, her chair scraping across the floor. She moved with desperate dignity, her back straight despite the tears that now flowed freely. The hall parted before her as she made her way to the door, not running but moving quickly enough that her exit couldn't be seen as anything but a retreat.
Through it all, Quentyn sat frozen, staring at his plate. His face showed nothing, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his knife.
"To Prince Quentyn," Gerold's voice cut through the awkward silence, raising his cup. "And to new beginnings."
The toast was echoed halfheartedly around the hall. Rhaenys watched her uncle Doran, noting how his gentle smile never wavered, how his eyes remained calm despite the chaos his announcement had caused.
Your family deceives you.
Shiera's words echoed in her mind as she observed the aftermath of the announcement. The way Oberyn's hand had tightened on his spear when Gerold's name was mentioned. The calculating look in Doran's eyes as he watched his wife flee. The strange smile playing at the corners of Darkstar's mouth.
.
.
Rhaenys stood before her mirror, adjusting the orange silk dress that matched Dorne's burning sun. A week of frustration weighed heavily on her shoulders. Six pairs of young eyes had watched Ser Gerold's every move, yet the Darkstar had proved as elusive as his namesake.
"Waste of silver," she muttered, pinning back a strand of dark hair. Her spies had brought her nothing but trivial observations: what he ate, when he trained, how many times he visited the gardens. Useless details that revealed nothing of his true purpose in Sunspear.
Even Arianne, with all her charms and schemes, had failed to extract anything meaningful from him. The secret meetings between Ser Gerold and Uncle Doran remained just that - secret.
Rhaenys touched the spear brooch at her shoulder, remembering her earlier, foolish thought about having Liki scale the tower walls. The boy was quick and quiet, but one slip, one guard's wandering glance... She shuddered. Uncle Doran's gentle smile masked a cruel streak when it came to spies.
A commotion echoed through the hallway - Arianne's voice, sharp with anger. "He means to replace me with Quentyn! Why else send him to the Yronwoods?"
Rhaenys sighed. Her cousin had been inconsolable since learning of Quentyn's fostering. All attempts at comfort had been met with bitter accusations about Doran's plans to disinherit her.
"My lady?" A servant's soft voice called through the door. "The feast awaits."
Rhaenys gave herself one final look in the mirror. Shiera's words whispered in her mind: *Your family deceives you. Ashara Dayne didn't jump - she was pushed.*
"Lies," Rhaenys whispered fiercely. "Nothing but lies." Her family had protected her, loved her, raised her as their own. What reason would they have to deceive her?
The feast hall was illuminated by torches along the wall. The air was thick with the smell of spiced meat and citrus. Her "sisters," the Sand Snakes, were already seated, Obara cleaning her nails with a knife while Nymeria whispered something that made Tyene smile wickedly.
Uncle Oberyn caught her eye as she entered, raising his wine cup in greeting. Beside him, Ellaria Sand watched the room with amused interest.
At the high table, Quentyn sat stiffly in his chair, looking like he wished to disappear. Lady Mellario hadn't even bothered to sit near her husband, choosing instead to occupy the far end of the table. The space between her and Uncle Doran might as well have been a desert.
"Sweet cousin," Arianne called out, her voice carrying a forced brightness. "Come, sit with me. Let us enjoy my brother's last night in Sunspear." The words dripped with venom.
Rhaenys took her seat, noting how Ser Gerold watched the family drama unfold. His violet eyes seemed to catch every detail, every subtle exchange.
"To Prince Quentyn," Oberyn raised his cup. "May the Yronwoods teach you well."
The toast was echoed around the table, though Arianne merely sipped her wine with a dark look.
"I'm sure our friend Ser Gerold will ensure my son's safe arrival," Doran said smoothly. "The roads can be dangerous, even in Dorne."
"Indeed," Darkstar replied. "Though I suspect any bandits would find themselves regretting their choice of target."
Rhaenys watched the exchange carefully. There was meaning hidden beneath their words, but try as she might, she couldn't decipher it.
The feast proceeded with forced pleasantries and careful conversations. Rhaenys found herself studying her family with new eyes, despite her earlier resolve. Uncle Doran's gentle smile as he spoke with Quentyn - was there calculation behind it?
"You seem troubled, cousin," Arianne murmured. "Are you thinking about tomorrow's departure as well?"
"Just tired," Rhaenys replied. "The heat has been particularly fierce lately."
"Mm," Arianne hummed noncommittally. "Strange, isn't it? How many changes can happen in such a short time?"
Before Rhaenys could respond, a servant appeared with more wine. As she watched the dark liquid fill her cup, she thought of her spies in the city. Perhaps she should tell them to stop watching Ser Gerold and instead...
No. She pushed the thought away firmly. These were her family. The people who had protected her, loved her, raised her as their own. Shiera's words were poison, nothing more.
Rhaenys nursed her single cup of wine, watching Lady Mellario lean close to Quentyn. The way she touched her son's arm, the urgent look in her eyes - a mother's last-minute instructions and worries.
"Make sure you see Trystane before you leave," Mellario's voice rose slightly before dropping again. Quentyn nodded, his face solemn as always.
"The sword will be mine one day," Ser Gerold's voice cut through the murmur of conversation, drawing Rhaenys's attention. Only now, she noticed that he had been talking with Nymeria and Uncle Oberyn: "Dawn belongs in the hands of a true warrior, not gathering dust in Starfall."
Tyene's sweet voice carried a hint of mockery. "Surely you've heard, Ser Gerold? Lady Allyria intends to pass Dawn to young Edric when he comes of age."
Gerold's laugh was sharp and cold. "The boy is barely three. Dawn has already wasted away these past seven years since Arthur fell to Stark's blade." His lips curved in derision. "Will it waste another fifteen waiting for a child to grow?"
The mention of Stark's name sent a familiar surge of hatred through Rhaenys's veins. She gripped her cup tighter, knuckles whitening.
"Is it true what they say?" Obara leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "About Ashara Dayne and Lord Stark? Seems strange that she would love the man who would later kill her brother."
"I was young when she fell," Gerold said, swirling his wine. "Fourteen name days, watching from the courtyard as she plummeted." A strange smile played across his face. "Such a waste of beauty, to throw it all away over a Stark."
Something in his words caught Rhaenys's attention. But before she could grasp what had bothered her, Oberyn spoke up.
"Come, let us speak of pleasanter things. Quentyn's departure tomorrow should be celebrated, and instead we are speaking about dead people." He raised his cup.
The conversation shifted, but Rhaenys found herself turning Gerold's words over in her mind. There had been something... but the thought slipped away like water through her fingers.
"More wine, cousin?" Arianne offered, but Rhaenys shook her head.
Night
Rhaenys lay in her bed. The feast's conversations still echoed in her mind, but she pushed them away with a bitter laugh. How foolish she'd been to let Shiera's words affect her, to make her doubt her family even for a moment.
The tap against her wall was so faint she almost missed it. Her hand found the knife beneath her pillow before her mind fully registered the sound. Small fingers appeared on her windowsill, followed by a mop of unruly dark hair.
Liki's thin face emerged from the darkness, his eyes wide in the moonlight. Despite her annoyance, Rhaenys had to admire his climbing skills - her chambers were three stories up.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" she hissed, keeping her voice low.
The boy pulled himself through the window with the grace of a cat, dropping silently to the floor. He bowed his head, refusing to meet her eyes. "Forgive me, m'lady. I wouldn't disturb your sleep, but... I heard something. Something important."
Rhaenys almost dismissed him outright. What could this street urchin possibly have heard that would matter? But something made her pause. "Speak, then."
"I was... I was near Prince Doran's solar," Liki began, fidgeting with the hem of his ragged shirt. "He was arguing with Lady Mellario again. Most of it was quiet, but then she shouted something." He swallowed hard. "She said... she said Prince Doran meant to give Princess Arianne to Ser Gerold Dayne. As a reward for some great service."
The words hit Rhaenys like a physical blow. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Arianne, heir to Dorne, married to Darkstar? It was absurd. He wasn't even the head of his house, barely more than a landed knight. What service could possibly warrant such a reward?
Rhaenys tried to think of a reason why her uncle would promise him the Hand of Arianne. Whatever this service was, it must have been quite something if her uncle was willing to give Arianne to him. While Arianne would still be the ruler of Dorne, Gerold would be a consort, and he would gain quite a lot of power if he married Arianne.
She walked up to the boy, and looked at him right in the eyes as he backed away in fear. "Did they say what this service was?" she asked, almost whispering to him.
Liki shook his head fast, looking frightened by her. "No, M'Lady, the two mentioned nothing of sort, but Lady Mellario sounded very distressed about this." He said quickly as if hoping that Rhaenys would stop looking at him like that.
Rhaenys wondered for a moment if he was lying to her, and she would have called him out on it, but she had seen herself that Lady Mellario was quite distressed, especially since Ser Gerold arrived. Maybe the reason why she burst into tears when Uncle Doran announced that Quentyn would leave for Yronwood was because of her disapproval of Arianne marrying Gerold. Maybe she felt like she was losing both of her children because of Uncle Doran.
Rhaenys felt like she was drowning in a desert, with no one to grab her hand. She wanted this not to be true. This was her family, they had raised her, but she knew that Shiera's words had not been fully lies, she still thought that what she said about Ashara was a lie, why would someone push her? But with the new information she had received, she could no longer bury her head in the sand and act like she could not hear or see. Her family was keeping secrets from her; it was no longer just a thought, it was proof, but now...she wondered just how much they were keeping from her. How many other secrets they were keeping from her?
A side of Rhaenys wished this was all a bad dream, that she could still pretend that her family was not hiding anything from her. She felt a burst of anger in her heart like she wanted to claw someone's eyes out.
If only Liki was lying, she could go back to pretend that everything was alright. But would she want that? She didn't know the answer herself. She breathed heavily, trying to keep herself calm; she was not like the others; she was a Princess of House Targaryen, she reminded herself. She was above anger and such ugly emotions; Uncle Oberyn taught her to hide such emotions, yet the more she tried to stay calm, the angrier she got as Shiera's words repeated in her head like a bell.
Your family is deceiving you.
What service did he do to gain such a handsome reward?
Rhaenys didn't know, and she knew she would not find answers by just thinking about it. It could have been many things. Ser Gerold Dayne had been alive for much longer than she had been. She wondered if Uncle Oberyn knew what it was, but if she asked him about it, he might see right through her. The last thing she wanted was for her family to find out that she was using spies on them.
Something she felt both shameful and relief for doing.
She turns to look down at Liki, steps back, and reaches into her pocket. She grabs four silver coins, and his eyes widen with delight as she puts them in his small hands. But before he could put them in his pocket, she stopped his hand, looking at him in the eyes.
Rhaenys's grip on Liki's tiny wrist wasn't painful, but it was firm enough to make the boy freeze.
"Liki," she said softly, her voice gentle in a way that made his eyes widen with fear. "You've served me well these past days."
"Th-thank you, m'lady," he whispered, his small fingers trembling around the coins.
She bent down, bringing her face level with his. Her eyes seemed almost black in the dim light, reminding him of a viper before it strikes. "But if I ever find out you've spoken of our arrangement to anyone..." Her thumb traced circles on his wrist, just above his pulse. "If I learn you've breathed a word of what you see or hear to another soul..."
She paused, letting the silence stretch until the boy's breathing became shallow with fear.
"I won't kill you, little one." Her smile was beautiful and terrible. "Death would be too quick, too kind. Instead, I'll have your tongue removed first, so you can never speak another secret. Then your eyes, so you can never spy again. And finally, your hands..." She squeezed his wrist ever so slightly. "So you can never climb another wall."
Liki's face had gone pale as milk, tears welling in his eyes.
"Do you understand?"
He nodded frantically, unable to speak.
"Good." She released his wrist and straightened up, her voice returning to its normal tone. "Now run along. And remember - I have eyes everywhere, just as you do."
The boy fled through the window like a frightened mouse; the coins clutched tight against his chest. Only when he was gone, did Rhaenys let her smile fade.
She leaned against the wall, feeling like the room was closing around her; she closed her eyes as tears ran down her cheeks. Shame flooded her belly; she felt ugly. The boy had done nothing wrong to her; it was her family keeping secrets from her, not him, so why did she take out her anger on him? Why did she threaten him like that?
She slid down the wall, covering her eyes with her hands. She could almost see them again, she could almost feel their love again.
"Kepa, Muna, Aegon...I need your help." She sobbed quietly, wishing to any god out there that someone would help her out of this situation.
At this moment, she wished Jon was here. He might be a Stark bastard, but his voice. She wanted to hear him sing again. At that moment, she wanted to be his friend again.
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