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Chapter Text

Malora knew something was not quite right about her sister, even before their mother had died. It was as if the girl was not quite whole and spent her days floating aimlessly about the halls of the Hightower.

Often she’d be sat in a corner, halfheartedly working at her embroidery, or watching wistfully through a window with listless eyes. What she was wistful for, Malora did not know. Then one day, at the ripe age of seven, it was as if she’d been renewed overnight. 

Gone was the sullen and reserved girl she had always known, and in her place was a more vibrant—albeit skittish—version of herself.  It was like watching the final threads in a tapestry come together to make an image whole. 

Baelor did not question it, for he was glad to have a new, receptive playmate. Their father, on the other hand, would look at her strangely from time to time, as if he could sense the difference that Malora had. But their family adjusted, as did all the servants and staff of their household. 

They no longer dared to gossip about whether she had been born a halfwit, for all her vacant stares and lack of interest in anything. Merian was quickly growing a new reputation for herself, proving to be inquisitive and earnest. While their septa often scolded her for her poor proficiency with numbers, she would browse the vast library for everything there was to know about Bran the Builder and other figures of legend.  

It was stories that she liked the most, a common fascination for many young ladies. When her nursemaids had told her stories before putting her to bed, Merian seemed to enjoy them enough. Now, she had taken to pestering them with more details, more ready to listen than she had ever been before. 

Her new love of tales soon bordered on obsessiveness that was frightening, so much so that their father had threatened to take away her books. 

Baelor had come to her defense, citing that their father should be glad she was far more interested in men of the past rather than the present, and that he should do more to encourage her habits rather than restrict them. At this, Malora rolled her eyes. The girl was a child, what business did she have with men that weren’t the figures of songs and stories? Baelor meant well, but sometimes he could be thick in the head. 

However, it worked, and their father had relented. For every story she read, Merian was made to study history alongside their maester. History was, after all, a never-ending story that was always being recorded, so Merian took to it immediately. She was simple in that way, happy and content within the walls of their home, never too keen on venturing far away. 

That they had in common. While the world was large, full of terrors and wonders. Malora felt a sense of belonging within their ancestral halls. The stone thrummed beneath her fingers, and she knew that there could never possibly be a place more perfect for her. Her books gave her purpose, just like Merian’s. It was a special connection that they shared. 

Their brother, for all his good nature, did not take to the library like they did, but he would often accompany them and sit in silence as they flipped through their tomes. He’d be occupied with some object he brought to toy around with, taking care not to disturb his sisters in their fun. 

Alerie did not share their affinity for books. She much rather enjoyed it when one sister would recite the words to her while the other brushed and braided her hair. During these times, Baelor would often attempt to avoid them for fear of what the three girls would do to his long locks, but the girls would always manage to wrestle him onto a cushion and dab berry juice onto his lips like a proper court lady. He would protest, but it gave him a sense of pride that he was so well liked by so many young maidens. 

In turn, they would indulge him in his hobbies. Play-fighting, horse riding, and all sorts of good fun and mischief around the tower. They found ways to include even the youngest of their siblings, and because there were so many of them, it was rare that someone would be left alone. Mindless childhood bliss was what she liked to call it, looking back at her memories before things began to change. 

House Hightower was ancient and wealthy, a house that held prestige throughout the realms. It came as no surprise when their father had announced that the princess of Dorne was to come visit them soon, bringing her children with her in a search for a spouse for her daughter—Elia. 

Baelor blushed, and Malora had resisted the urge to tease him. But Merian’s brow furrowed, and Malora could not quite recognize the emotion that flashed in her eyes.  

Soon the tower was in chaos, with preparations being made for a welcome fit for the princess of Dorne. While some servants and many of their bannermen grumbled at the idea that the future of house Hightower could possibly be Dornish, Malora had become excited at such a prospect.  

Her brother, on the other hand, had suddenly lost all his charm and charisma, and pestered his sisters for advice on all things imaginable. 

What should I wear?  

What should I say?  

Do the Dornish greet each other by kissing on the lips? I heard one of the squires say that-  

Her sister had begun to spiral in much of the same way. One day she had stayed true to her usual assortment of hobbies, and the next she began asking everyone about all things Dornish.

It was always something about princess Elia, and how she wanted to be the one to give her a tour of the Hightower personally, or how she wanted to play games with her and embroider cloth together.

Honestly, everyone had gone mad overnight. 

But alas, the future Lord Hightower would not be marrying a Dornish princess, as Baelor had managed to embarrass himself in front of not only the princess, but her sharp-tongued younger brother, Oberyn. 

“Baelor Breakwind is not so bad compared to other names,” she comforted him, patting him awkwardly on the back. While she was not the most physically affectionate among her siblings, she did not like to see him so distressed. 

Her brother, growing to an impressive height at the age of six and ten, was hunched mournfully on his bed. His ears were a bright red, and he buried his head in his hands at the memory of Elia attempting to hide her amusement when they had said goodbye.

She was gracious, in that way, and kind to a fault. He did not dare tell his sister; but he thought her to be an exceptional beauty, with her dark hair and dark eyes and shy smile. 

The princess’ trip had not been entirely fruitless. She had become acquainted with Baelor’s many siblings. Particularly, a shy young girl, hopeful for her friendship.

Despite everything she had been taught to think about the Reachmen that her people so often quarreled with, she found them all to be the opposite of her expectations. Unbeknownst to her, Merian had taken care to instruct the younger children to behave themselves and set aside their misgivings about the Dornish that their septas had hammered into them. 

Oberyn had found her bizarre, claiming that most of the Westerosi would not have been so eager for her friendship unless they had an ulterior motive. But Elia, sweet as she was, had ignored him and took the young Hightower up on her offer of writing letters. 

The girl had blushed brightly at this and thanked the princess profusely before saying her goodbyes and running back into the tower, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. 

In the back of Merian Hightower’s mind, scattered memories of a different life had been slowly coming together, but the news of princess Elia’s arrival had sped up the process exponentially.  

In the beginning, they had been blurred dreams of distant voices and shadowed figures. They had frightened the girl greatly as a young child, being overrun by such terrors for the vast majority of her life. Tucking herself away from the rest of the tower seemed to subdue the intensity of her dreams, so she had adopted a solitude lifestyle and watched everyone from a distance. 

Interacting with others seemed like an impossible task, because an ominous shadow always seemed to linger not far behind. In the comfort of her silence, she could look down at the rest of the world from the top of the tower, and no shadows could linger in the sky. 

Then slowly, the shadows disappeared, her dreams faded into obscurity, and Merian was free. No longer constrained within the confines of her mind, she found great joy in all the things she originally avoided, and she no longer felt so alone.

But in the weeks leading up to the princess' visit, her dreams had begun to return, in greater detail and clarity than they had ever appeared before. 

She had felt cold, waking in the dark hours of the night, lighting a candle in her room and fastening her hands together in prayer, something she often did when her dreams had been gray and shadowed. This time, she would not cow in fear. Her life was hers now, and not something her dreams would control. 

But they could not be ignored, growing with intensity as the nights went on. As their maester taught her, the best course of action to pursue when one did not understand something was to seek out answers, particularly in books. These dreams (prophecies, if that was what they could be called) bore dark omens, and there was a tugging at her heart whenever she thought of it. 

She did not understand. She could not understand. But there was another girl, who would visit her in her dreams. She was older, so different yet so similar to Merian herself. This girl was urging her—begging her, really—to listen to what she had to say. 

The prophecy. 

The Rebellion. 

Rhaegar Targaryen. 

Elia. 

Rhaenys and Aegon. 

It was very hard to ignore someone that was always in your head, so Merian listened, and she understood what she could.  

While such things did not make much sense to a girl of ten, Merian had decided that she had a task to fulfill, a wish that this girl from the otherworld prayed so desperately for to come true: she had to save the princess. 

Chapter Text

276 AC   

“Why do you want to go to Dorne so badly, sister?” Alerie asked, fidgeting with her doll. 

Merian sat at her dresser, braiding her hair. Though the Hightower had more than enough rooms to accommodate all of its lord’s many children, the two girls had opted for sharing a bed many nights, trading secrets and conversing with one another until the latest of hours. 

Catching her younger sister’s eye in the mirror, Merian contemplated her answer. Three years had passed since the princess had come to Oldtown, and in those three years the prophecies that often plagued her dreams had become more frequent. 

She was well versed in the legends of her house. Their ancestry preceded the First Men, a rare lineage to have. Magic was in her blood, if some of the stories were to be believed. How else could she explain such a phenomenon? 

Fire and death were at the forefront of her dreams. These flames cast great shadows that turned monstrous, and more than once she had woken with a start, the silk of her nightdress soaked through to her back. Blood had been spilt all over the floors of the Red Keep.  

Elia’s and her children’s, to be specific. 

She’d felt fear at first. The most violence she had witnessed was her brother being thrown off his horse in the training yard, breaking his arm. But the ruin and carnage that took place in these dreams was nothing like she could have ever imagined. 

The world she knew in this life was so drastically different to that of the girl from the otherworld. There was nothing terribly specific Merian could recall, only brief memories of strange buildings and inventions that seemed to surpass even the most advanced technologies her world had to offer (but in her opinion, were far inferior in terms of presentation and style). She had been a constant presence in her life, and Merian was startled at how like-minded they could be at times. 

Elia, delicately beautiful and so kind from the moment she’d first stepped foot into the Hightower, had caught her interest immediately. This was the woman who had been dealt a cruel fate by the gods. She’d done nothing but give her life and body to the dragon prince to give him children, and he would leave her to die. 

But she could not tell Alerie any of this. She did not want to. It was plain madness, that’s what it was. People talked often enough about Malora, who pursued rather unorthodox interests in lieu of what could be considered proper. Though she would always stand by her sister, there was a looming sense of fear at what might happen if people turned their eyes towards her instead. Before, it had been because they had thought her to be stupid, but now, would they think her a madwoman? 

“Princess Elia says it is beautiful in winter, that the sun is more forgiving during the day and the winds do not blow quite as hard, which makes up for the chill of the night. The maesters at the Citadel are predicting that spring will come soon, so I think I should like to see it before then.” This piqued her sister’s interest, and Merian could feel an onslaught of questions coming. “But, if I cannot make the journey this winter, then I would still like to go. We visit our cousins and friends in the Reach often enough, it just so happens that Princess Elia is all the way in Dorne.” 

The rebellion would take place years from now, and despite having the knowledge of how it would begin and end, it was only just starting to make sense. She was no great prodigy in the art of politics, and despite her many lessons with the maester she could not even think of the simplest of plans on how to orchestrate a scheme good enough to prevent war. 

She’d tried to make sense of it by writing it all down on parchment, but she found that there were far too many factors coming into play for her to comprehend. There were gaps in her memory, things that she could not recall even when she willed it to come to her. She could not solve such a daunting puzzle when so many pieces were still missing. Then, out of fear that one of her maids would discover her nonsensical writings, she had done her best to memorize it before reluctantly throwing it into the fire. 

She needed to stall for the time being.  

At first, she’d written to Elia of all the available suitors that came to mind. Her procession through Westeros hadn’t secured a match, so Merian, being ten at the time, took it upon herself to offer up an alternative. They were men of the Reach, mostly. Kin, distant kin, men from houses sworn to her father. 

This had been, for lack of a better word, stupid. A princess of Dorne was not going to marry any man from a lower house. At this revelation, Merian had cried herself to sleep out of pure frustration, and the next morning her sister Denyse had asked her what was wrong with her face. 

Then came her plan to steer the princess away from Rhaegar Targaryen by any means necessary. That, too, had been quickly dashed when she remembered that the betrothal had been arranged by Elia’s mother, and not by Elia herself. How would she even bring it up in the first place without arousing suspicion? The ruling princess of Dorne would never listen to the ramblings of a child. 

Treason. Surely, she was committing some form of it. Plotting to stop the prince from finding his bride was surely an affront to both the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crown all at once. It was this guilt that drove her to the sept often, even if her prayers were not always sincere. It was quiet there, and she could buy herself time to think. 

In between her various efforts, she often doubted her role in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps her dreams of this otherworld were given as some sort of punishment, a cruel gift to bestow upon a child who could do nothing but watch the world around her descend into disarray. 

What if she was not meant to save the princess? What if it was just her propensity for songs and tales that led her to believe it so?  

She was no knight, no great genius or trickster like Lann the Clever. Merian was just a girl, born into a world that saw her as precisely just that. 

Her inner turmoil at these rather pessimistic possibilities had dampened her spirit for some time. Even her youngest sister Lynesse had sensed something was wrong, and she had taken to presenting her with crookedly stitched embroidery on handkerchiefs often. 

But with every letter that arrived from Dorne, Merian’s resolve managed to strengthen the tiniest bit. 

At first, it had been daunting, exchanging letters with the princess. She was so much older and sophisticated, wiser than Merian by tenfold and admired by many. Her childish script and simple words paled in comparison to the princess’ curved handwriting and pretty prose. 

But the princess was kind, and though she talked to Merian as anyone would a child, her words held no condescending tone or vapidness. She truly was like a maiden in a story, and Merian had come to consider her a true friend. 

This brought her to her current predicament: actually seeing Elia, 

The princess had invited her to visit Sunspear, with its high towers and winding walls. She would be a guest of House Martell, afforded the protection and hospitality for a lady of her station (and more importantly, as a friend of the princess). 

She’d been overjoyed that Elia had thought of her fondly enough to invite her, even though the prospect of travel never excited her much. 

The problem was that her father would not allow her to go. 

This had brought about an uncharacteristically heated argument between the two, which in turn led to Merian being sent to her rooms. She had not come down for supper, and Leyton had sent a servant to deliver her food. Alerie had come to her that night, curious for more details about their quarrel (and to check on her sister, who was never prone to throwing tantrums). 

“What’s so great about Dorne anyways? Ser Raymond from the armory says it's just sand for miles and miles.” She wrinkled her nose, as if imagining Dorne was nothing but long stretches of dunes and the occasional castle. 

Merian rolled her eyes. “Dorne has plenty of things to see. It may have lots of sand, but there are foods to taste, music to learn, and dances to dance.” She smiled to herself, for she so loved to dance, and Elia had written to her about Dornish culture in such great detail that she yearned to experience it for herself. 

“We have dances and music and food here. The sun is rarely hot enough to burn us, and we have all the furs and blankets we need when the night is chill.” Alerie huffed, as if her sister was being unreasonable. “I just think you would miss it too much if you travelled to Dorne.” 

Tying off the end of her braid, Merian rose from her seat and sat beside her. Alerie was not looking at her anymore, engrossed in straightening the collar of her doll’s dress instead.  

“And won’t it be a long journey? You are not fond of travelling, you always say so when we visit grandfather’s seat.” There was a faint flush on her face, and Merian knew that she was upset.  

Alerie held the princess in high regard, because everything Merian did, Alerie was likely to follow. But lately she had been feeling jealous at her sister’s wishes to travel to Dorne, a place that was so foreign and far away from home—far away from her. 

Lightly tugging on the end of her sister’s braid, Alerie looked up once more and scowled. Supposedly, between her and Malora, Alerie resembled their mother most. But despite her light brows knitting together above her pale eyes, she looked almost exactly like their father had earlier that day, just a tad bit more petulant. 

Merian stuck out her tongue unapologetically, and Alerie did the same. They then smiled at one another, and Merian wrapped an arm around the younger girl 

“The journey will not be terribly long. I believe it should take no longer than two weeks. A trip to Dorne will help solidify my friendship with princess Elia. Maester Alyn says it is good to have strong allies.”  

Her sister raised a brow at this. “What exactly do you need allies for, Meri?” 

She shrugged, not answering the question. 

I need allies for when war breaks out and tears the realm apart. I need to keep the princess from dying, therefore I need to keep her away from that wretched prince.   

Changing the topic, Merian smoothed out the skirts of Alerie’s doll. “I will bring back many gifts. I will write to you about everything I see and everything that I do, not a single detail will be spared. I promise.” 

Alerie’s face grew more placated at this. “You must bring me something pretty, something I can wear. Cousin Elinor has been boasting too much of her Myrish lace fan.” True to her nature, Alerie’s request did not surprise Merian in the least. 

“I shall find you something very pretty, something to shut Cousin Elinor up for sure.” Alerie grinned at this. 

Now only one problem stood in the way, and that was getting her father to allow her to go. 

-- 

A man approaching forty, Lord Leyton Hightower still bore the austerity of his youth. Though his dark hair was now streaked with silver at the temples, and the skin on his face had begun to wrinkle, he was still considered handsome by many. 

He was a powerful lord, and with such power came many responsibilities. There were people under his protection, guards and soldiers that were at his command, the Faith to pay patronage to, and the maesters of the Citadel that he often corresponded with.  

Atop of all of this, there was the matter of his children. It was a common jape for people to say that he was keen on filling the Hightower from top to bottom until there were no rooms left. 

Four wives over the course of twenty years had given him nine healthy children, soon to be made ten as his fourth wife was now four moons along her first pregnancy. Though the tower was always full of vibrancy from his children, it also served as a place of sadness. 

Baelor’s mother had died in childbed, and Leyton had been widowed almost as fast as he had been married. Being eight and ten with a young babe, his own father had recommended he find another wife quickly.  

He’d married again two years later, and the match had proven to be happy. There was guilt, of course. Perhaps if his first wife had lived, they could have grown to love one another, but it was not something he liked to dwell on for too long. 

She’d given him three daughters, each favoring her fair looks over his own. Leyton’s father had been fair-haired, as Hightowers usually were, but he himself had taken after his dark-haired mother. Despite recovering well after each of the births, it was an unrelated illness that prompted the Stranger to take her away. Alerie had been scarcely three moons old when her mother caught a raging fever that burned away at her life in a mere week.  

Then came his third wife, the longest to live, and the one he thought of most often. Five children she’d given him, but she acted as a mother to all of them. She had been young and robust, and once she’d lived after three children, Leyton had allowed himself to think of a future where they grew old together. An unfortunate fall down the stairs had cut that dream short, and once again he was made to wear his mourning clothes. 

Rhea Florent had been a surprising match. She was plainly pretty but had a great deal of charm. The pair had met at a tourney, and Leyton had decided to take her as his wife soon after. 

Now she was with child, and he found himself growing more anxious as the days went by. It had not been his intention to purposefully try for another. He was an old man, and many of his peers were grandsires already. 

But the prospect of another babe brought warmth into his chest, and he did not let his worry show. Rhea had been happy, and the rest of his children seemed to be in good spirits about the new addition to their family. 

His own father had been caring, a lover of festivities and wine with a tendency to have a wandering eye, but a good father, nonetheless. In his youth, Leyton had hoped to be just as good, if not even better. 

Baelor had grown tall, just like his father. He was athletic, friendly, and so well-liked by all who encountered him that he had earned the moniker “Brightsmile.” He was a good brother, and a dutiful son. It made him proud to see his boy grow up so well, and his mother could rest easy in her grave. 

Then there was the matter of his first three daughters. Already there was much talk surrounding them, especially his eldest now that she was old enough to be married.  

Malora did not care for much outside of the tower. She consorted with books more often than people, but she gave Leyton no trouble for it, so he had no reason to be concerned. 

Alerie, on the other hand, was deeply engrossed in all her self-proclaimed feminine activities. Music, dance, poetry, and fashion being the most prominent (had he been the lord of a lesser house, his coffers might have suffered, but as the Lord Hightower it did not even make a dent in his fortune).  

Merian had been a mystery. Born half-dead, she’d been sickly as a babe and had been dismal as a child. That is, until she had come alive and became the girl he had always wished for her to be. It saddened him that her mother had not been alive to see it, for she had worried night and day for her. 

Overly curious and often absorbed with her love of stories and songs, he had worried that she would end up a dreamer, with her head too stuck in the clouds to focus on what was happening down on earth. Maidens who dreamed too much only invited trouble, his own septa had once told him, and he had hoped it would not prove true. 

Merian was earnest and witty, with an abundance of energy that often led to her moving too fast for her body to settle down and catch up. 

She was not disobedient; she knew her manners well and was proficient in many arts, which in his mind made up for her poor skills in numeracy. This is why, when he had denied her request to visit Princess Elia, he had been taken aback by her defiance. 

Now she stood before him, as tall as she could be, with a stubborn purse to her lips. She’d come to find him after breaking her fast, to plead her case once again. 

At first, he’d worried about her fascination with the princess. They had gotten along famously when she had stayed in Oldtown, and the two had continued correspondence through letters. He held no grudge against her for what transpired with his son, but he did have an aversion to her younger brother. 

Not long after they had returned to Dorne, the news had come that Oberyn was returning to Oldtown. A scandal had broken out about an affair he’d had with another lord’s paramour, and the lord had ended up dying after Oberyn drew first blood in a duel. Rumors had spread that he had used poison, and Leyton grew uneasy at the thought of his presence in his city. 

The prince had a dangerous air to him. While his sister was gentle, he was wild. He’d worried for his daughter, worried that the prince would linger close by on account of her friendship with his sister. Thankfully, he’d only visited briefly, and Merian had greeted him with stiff courtesy. 

It was not just the prince that made him worried, but it was the thought of her being so far from home. She was still a child but would not remain one for long. While he held the Princess of Dorne in high regard, Leyton was reluctant to let his daughter stay in a foreign place that had such...different customs. 

Merian stood her ground, looking her father straight in the eye. 

He crossed his arms, staring down at her. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” 

She blinked, and for a split second she looked surprised that he had addressed her first. Quickly repositioning her mask of defiance, she nodded. 

“I do not see why I cannot make the journey, father. If it pleases you more, I can go during the springtime, when the seas are kinder.” His face remained impassive, and Merian pressed on. “I will not be ill-protected, the Dornish are very apt at defense, Princess Elia says so herself.” 

Leyton sighed, bending down to put his hands on her slender shoulders. 

“You are young, Merian. I do not feel comfortable sending you so far away.”  

Her face grew hot, and she clenched her fists at her sides. “What difference does it make if I were to be fostered at Sunspear? Children far younger than I are sent away all the time!” 

He paused, considering her words (which were, unfortunately for him, true). He ran a hand down his face, and remembered Maester Alyn’s advice from the night before, when Merian had refused to sup with the rest of the family. 

Your daughters will leave you eventually, my Lord. But Lady Merian only wishes to visit briefly, then she will return. You have yet to foster off any of your children, perhaps this will build a good standing with the Martell's, they are a strong house to ally with. While the Dornish can be strange, it is wiser to have them as allies rather than enemies.  

He ran a hand down his face, sighing. “Do you truly wish to visit the princess that badly?”  

Merian nodded rapidly, a few curls fell loosely on her face, escaping her hastily done braid. “If ever I have wished for anything, I want nothing more than this, I swear to you father!”  

Taking care to tuck them behind his daughter’s ears, Leyton’s expression softened at her hopefulness. “It is not polite to swear, Merian.” She hung her head apologetically. 

Maester Alyn was a wise man, and his words rang true. Though he did not wish to part with any of his children so soon, he could concede this once with the knowledge that she would return to him. 

“When the white raven arrives, we can discuss this further.” 

Merian’s eyes grew wide, the same vibrant shade of blue that her mother’s had been. He often likened them to the cornflowers that could be found on the roads leading out of Oldtown. Leyton ignored the pang in his chest at the memory. She moved to embrace him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh father, thank you, thank you, thank you!”  

Perhaps his age was finally catching up to him, because the force of her body had managed to knock some of the breath from his lungs. Patting his daughter on the back, he could not feel anything but happiness at her joy, even though unease still sat at the bottom of his stomach. 

Chapter Text

278 AC  

Instead of the wisp of a girl that he remembered coming to greet them at the docks, her brother Baelor had disembarked instead. 

He had grown taller and broader, sporting a trimmed beard that framed his face very well, donning that blasted smile of his. One of the guardsmen accompanying Oberyn had made a comment about how his teeth glinted in the sun like gemstones, while another sounded genuinely startled at how white they appeared, even from a distance.  

Merian had not taken kindly to traveling by sea, and it was for her own good that she was to remain aboard ship for another day or two. Baelor apologized for the inconvenience, but all Oberyn could notice was how his eyes briefly scanned the men around him, looking for Elia, no doubt.  

His sister had sent him to welcome their retinue as soon as their ship had been spotted, and she had begun fluttering about, hurriedly putting together the final touches of her grand welcome. He loathed to tell her the news that the feast and festivities would have to be postponed. 

“How unfortunate for both of our sisters, ser. For I know mine will be sorely disappointed.” Oberyn shrugged, gauging the other man’s reaction at the mention of Elia.  

Baelor’s eye twitched, yet his smile did not waver. 

“Believe me, Prince Oberyn, it took a great deal of convincing for my sister to stay abed when we arrived.” He offered another wide grin before introducing the rest of his party. A quick change of topic, but a welcome one, as the Reachmen had begun to sweat through their clothes and appeared eager to make way for the sanctuary of Sunspear. 

Baelor was hesitant, insistent on camping out near the galley to be close to his sister, and Oberyn tried not to snicker at the looks of poorly concealed disappointment from some of the men. They were all flushed pink, with damp hair that clung to their tired faces, and Oberyn did not think they looked very impressive to be worthy of accompanying Lord Hightower’s heir and daughter. 

“Rest assured, your sister’s ship will be guarded by my men in your absence. Besides, my mother is expecting a Hightower guest, and it is not wise to disappoint her.” Baelor gave him a tentative look, craning his neck to look back at the ship. Finally, at the urging of one of his men, he conceded. 

“Alright then. I shall come pay my respects to your mother, Prince Oberyn, but I should like to return here by nightfall. I trust you can understand my reasoning?”  He flashed him another smile. 

Oberyn grinned back, eager to see how he would fare in his mother’s court. “Of course, ser, I completely understand.” 

-- 

For all her foreknowledge and planning, Merian often forgot that she was not immune to the weaknesses of her body. 

Had it been the clams she had eaten at supper? Or perhaps it had been caught from a sick crewman? Whatever the cause, she was miserable. 

The first week of voyage, her stomach had rolled along with the waves. She had spent a good portion of her days with her head in a bucket, because her septa had chastised her and said it was not proper for a lady to hurl over the side of a ship where everyone could see (as if having her septa come with her wasn’t humiliating enough). 

When she had finally managed to find her sea legs, another sickness had come over her and she spent even more time with her head in a bucket. 

Being sick on land was bad enough, but being sick on the seas was, in Merian’s mind, the most trialing thing she had experienced to date. Even amidst the finery of her quarters, she found no comfort being jostled about on her silken sheets and pillows.   

Perhaps the gods had taken note of her plight. In the rare moments when she slept uninterrupted by the urge to empty the contents of her stomach, she dreamt good dreams of Elia, the Water Gardens, and the new adventures that awaited her. Her dreams of blood and fire did not come to her as often, but in her waking moments she always thought of them. 

In some morbid way, she had grown used to them. They did not frighten her as they did before, because night after night she knew what was to come. Instead, they only served to fuel her resolve, which had only grown every passing year. 

Due to the king’s imprisonment at Duskendale, her trip had been postponed. Her father had wanted all of his children accounted for if war was to break out. Merian had nearly thrown a fit and had barely managed to restrain herself. What good will it do to protect me if another war is yet to come?  

Any sense of sanity that tethered the king to his duty was now gone, she knew that. All of Westeros had heard the rumors that flew from the Red Keep, even before his time in captivity.  

Despite this, the Princess of Dorne had been hard at work. Elia had not written a word to Merian about it, but perhaps she had an idea of what her mother was orchestrating. When the betrothal would be announced, Elia would do her duty and marry Rhaegar, even if it meant leaving behind all she knew. 

Merian would follow her example; she would grit her teeth and follow Elia to that damned city and that dreary island with her head held high, intent on fulfilling her duty. 

-- 

Would she be frail and delicate, with wide eyes and a gaping mouth? The court of Sunspear would surely scandalize her, because it did not take much for those stuffy northerners to be offended. 

Perhaps she was a glutton who would offend the ruling princess by being too demanding. Or maybe she was a terribly shrewd girl who hoped to beget a bastard from the prince and claim his famously elusive hand in marriage. 

Andric had tutted his tongue at her and admonished her imagination, but Ashara hadn’t cared. He would be leaving her soon enough, returning to Starfall, to home, without her.  

The past couple of weeks, her mood had been terribly sour. Her stupid brother decided to finally pay her a visit after a year of halfhearted letters, and the princess’ only apparent interest was the impending arrival of Merian Hightower. 

Most people would speculate that her annoyance was due to being ignored. Tall and beautiful, she was, a combination of things that never failed to draw everyone’s attention. It was half true, that Ashara did not like being ignored, but it was not born out of vanity. 

As a child, Starfall had been full and bustling with life. There was Andric, who liked to perch her on his knee as he read through all the scrolls in their library. Then there was her father, who taught her how to ride a horse so swiftly that it felt like she was flying. And there was her mother, her wonderful mother, who would take her to the top of the Palestone Sword and point out the various stars in the night sky and tell each of their stories and sing their songs. 

Arthur had been a fleeting memory. He had liked to watch her toddle from place to place and had a habit of pinching her cheeks and kissing the tip of her nose, everyone had told her. She did not remember these things very well; she had been so young when Arthur had left to squire. 

But the Daynes made do without him, and everything had been fine. Then their mother had become pregnant once more and the celebration of Allyria’s birth had been tainted by a period of mourning. 

Andric was now Lord Dayne. He no longer read for pleasure but instead drowned himself in working on the accounts with their steward. Their father no longer had time to spare for racing horses, because he was forever occupied with fortifying Starfall’s garrison and armory. 

And Arthur? He had come home to mourn, held vigil at their mother’s grave, and left after a week.  

Ashara had been made to leave too. Andric had sent her packing towards Sunspear, to live at court and be a companion to princess Elia, as if she did not have a sister at home that needed her more. 

So, Ashara did not like to be set aside. Though she knew Elia well enough to know that it was not an intentional slight, she still felt a familiar fire slowly burning inside her.  

Larra and Myria may have not shared her sentiment of wariness, but their curiosity had been considerably piqued once Baelor Hightower had arrived to greet Princess Lorezza. He was very fine to look at, Ashara had to admit. Tall and dashing, with the prettiest set of teeth she’d ever seen on a man. 

He’d proven to be quite the character as well, deflecting any passive comments that Prince Oberyn threw his way with tact and charm. Elia had spoken fondly of him, and Ashara always noticed a hint of regret in her words. Upon seing how he had lingered when he bent to kiss her hand, the spark between them all those years ago seemed to remain. 

Next to her brother, Merian and Baelor seldom looked related. Save for her impressive height for a girl of five and ten (nearly coming up to Baelor’s shoulders, and the man was well over six feet), the two could have been strangers at first glance. 

Baelor was sturdy, not too broad in the chest but well-muscled enough to show his strength. His dark brown hair fell just past his shoulders, straight and shiny. He had thick brows and kind eyes, and every movement he made was smooth and purposeful, as expected from the heir of House Hightower. 

His sister, on the other hand, was fidgety and always seemed on the edge of her seat. It was not that she was undignified, but more so that she was readily taking in her surroundings like a spooked kitten in a new home.  

She was certainly comely, and within the year she would surely grow into her gangly limbs and features.  

Her pale golden hair curled past her hips and shined brightly under the Dornish sun. The skin of her cheeks was permanently flushed and seemed to deepen in colour due to the weather. Her eyes were large and rounded, as if she were in a perpetual state of wonder. They were shaded a dreamy blue that was both parts entrancing and piercing. Her tall, defined nose added a sharpness to her still-soft face. When she did not smile, her rounded lips turned downwards at the corners, masking her emotions and leaving her face blank and her expression unnerving. 

When she did smile, it was a genuine thing. She had embraced Ashara like a dear friend, holding her hands and exclaiming how excited she was to finally meet her. She’d done the same for all of Elia’s other companions, but Ashara could have sworn she held a firmer grip when it came to her. 

Where their physical differences and mannerisms separated them, their personalities were all too similar. The Hightowers certainly loved to talk and chatter. Baelor seemed to be more adept at handling his growing fascination and curiosity, but Merian was all too eager to ask away.  

It should have annoyed her, the girl chattering incessantly all the time like an exotic bird. Truth be told, she reminded her of Andric, with all his knowledge and wisdom, constantly spewing fact after fact. When the two had been introduced, they had gotten along right away, and Ashara felt her stomach twist. How long had it been since she had shared a friendly conversation with him?  

Merian learned everyone’s names and houses quickly, finding some common ground or shared passion with each of the girls. Larra had been surprised by this, being so bold as to say it aloud. 

“Truth be told, Merian, I was not expecting you to be so—” she paused, finding the right word, “tolerable.”  

Elia’s eyes had widened, and she looked ready to apologize on behalf of her friend when the girl had let out a loud laugh. 

“Oh, that is quite alright.” She blinked, her ears turning bright red to match the flush in her cheeks. “I understand that you might have expected me to be more, well, in tolerable.” She whispered the last part, glancing around to see if her septa had heard. “Our people might have a rather colourful history with one another, but I am of the belief that our ancestor’s quarrels cannot define us forever.”  

Ashara recalled the stories she had grown up hearing. The Daynes had once been kings, as had the Hightowers. They had their fair share of squabbles over the centuries, lasting longer than their period of rule and continuing into every new age. King Samwell Dayne, the Starfire, had even sacked the city of Oldtown once. 

“Then we must toast!” Larra signaled for a servant to bring them a flagon of wine. She was the oldest of the girls and had been Elia’s friend since they were practically babes. She never shied away from taking charge of a situation. 

“Toast to what?” Merian inquired, blinking.  

There was a cough, and Ashara saw Myria trying to cover up a laugh. She felt a small smile tug at her lips as well, not at the question itself, but rather the genuine tone of curiosity in Merian’s voice. 

“Why, a toast to new friendships of course!” the servant had returned, and Larra poured each of the girls a cup of wine in quick succession. 

Merian’s eyes widened at the amount of liquid that sloshed in her cup but said nothing. Though barely a year stood between them, Ashara had noticed that the younger girl still held the energy of girlish youth. Perhaps she is unaccustomed to drinking so much , she thought. 

Taking a spare cup and emptying half of her wine into it, she offered it silently to her. Merian smiled gratefully, breathing a sigh of relief. She had not wanted to seem rude, but she had more of a taste for juice than wine. 

She had made quick work of switching their cups, Larra had not yet returned to her seat when they were done. 

Such deft hands , Ashara mused, noting that not a drop had been spilled.  

As they toasted together, she found the wine to be sweet, and looking at the pure delight in Merian’s eyes, she found that the fire in her stomach did not burn so hot anymore. 

-- 

Her unfortunate journey by sea was long forgotten now that she was in Sunspear. It was like a dream. A hot and humid dream, but a dream, nonetheless. 

Embracing Elia after so many years apart had offered her a greater relief than she initially thought she would feel. Here she was, the princess in her dreams, very much real and still alive. 

Merian had been reluctant to hold her so tightly, remembering the princess’ delicate disposition. But Elia had squeezed her tight, almost as if to reassure her that she would not break that easily. It was endearing, and slightly awkward in some ways. 

As a girl of ten, the princess had stood taller than her, but now it was the other way around. 

Holding her at arm's length, Elia beamed as she looked over her. “Look how you’ve grown! Here I was thinking I was still writing to a little girl, but you’ve grown into a fine young woman, Merian.” 

She had flushed even more at her comment. Truth be told, when she had begun springing up in height, she had felt uncomfortable at the extra attention it brought. Over the years, she had tried her best to live her life to the fullest extent with no concern for the opinions of others. But it was a difficult thing to do when there were so many eyes on her, and Malora had tried to ease her worries by saying that she would grow accustomed to it. 

Elia remained as beautiful as ever, now a true woman grown at one and twenty. How anyone could look at her large, dark eyes and sweet smile and not think she was indeed a great beauty baffled Merian. 

The princess had been quick to introduce her to all her companions at court. 

Larra Blackmont, her oldest friend, had seemed formidable. Like the vulture that graced her family’s standard, she had sharp eyes that made Merian sweat. Once they had gotten past the formalities, she had proven to be quite amiable, albeit forward and bold, and she treated Merian like a younger sister. 

Myria Jordayne was more tactful than Larra and had not intimidated Merian quite so badly. She was calm like water but had an absurd sense of humor that the rest of the ladies rolled their eyes at often.  

She did not meet Dyanna Manywoody until three days later. As Elia’s cousin, they shared similar appearances, being short in stature and petite in size, sharing the same rich colouring and thick hair. Past their similarities, Dyanna was the more serious of the two, less prone to smiling and more suited to half-grimacing (which, as Myria had whispered to her, was just her natural expression). 

When she had met Ashara Dayne, she had resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her skirts in case they had gone clammy. 

Her tawny skin was unblemished and smooth, her voluminous curls were bound in the Dornish style and tumbled down her back, and her eyes were like crystals shining in the light. Merian could understand why she had been regaled as one of the most beautiful women in Westeros. She thought she was a little standoffish in the beginning, but after the welcome feast she had come to remind her of Alerie the tiniest bit. Ashara proved to be honest, and although kind, was quick to jape and tease. 

With symmetrical brows, heavy lidded eyes, a refined nose, and plump lips, she could understand what spurred men to charge at one another with great sticks of wood for the chance of crowning their own queen of love and beauty. Just as fast as she had thought of it, she quickly dashed it out of her mind, attempting to keep her dark thoughts at bay. 

Here they were, all women in a story driven by men. As she got to know them, Merian had thought it was a shame that none would be remembered for anything beyond their beauty or their tragedy. The safety of Dorne could not shield them once Elia arrived in King’s Landing. 

But if the knights of the Kingsguard could not protect them, then Merian would do her best to make sure they had allies who would. 

-- 

Draped in shimmering pale pink sandsilk, Merian tried her best not to squirm as the seamstress finished her measurements. 

Though she had brought her lightest dresses to Dorne, as Elia had advised, she found herself at odds every day with her sleeves and skirts. In the Reach, they served to be comfortable and stylish, perfect for walking and lounging. But in Dorne, the fabric all but wilted and stuck to her skin. 

At her friend’s dismay, Elia had insisted that they head to the markets and buy fabric that would help her in the heat. For the occasion, Merian had borrowed a dress from Larra, who was the closest in height to her. It had to be tied differently, as Merian lacked in the upper body area, but she had felt relief at the coolness of the fabric on her skin.  

Though the markets of Sunspear were shaded with various canopies, the sun still beat down on the wide, bustling streets. She had been given something akin to a scarf and shawl to drape over her bare shoulders, a golden chain belt fastening it to her waist. In the Dornish fashion, she had also been lent a beautiful, gold-embroidered-and-beaded veil to cover her head and shade her face. 

While she was not as fashion forward as her younger sister, Merian loved dressing up for any manner of occasion. Dressed in Larra’s shining, pale yellow dress combined with the contrasting deep blue drapery and veil, she had to admit she looked cut a stylish figure. 

Myria had looked her over with a nod of approval. “You look nearly ready for a day at the markets.”  

“Nearly?” Merian asked.  

“I thought ladies in the Reach enjoyed their jewels” Dyanna had spoken up.  

Looking at the rest of the girls, she observed their wrists, covered in all sorts of bangles, cuffs, and bracelets. Their necks bore a variation of short and long necklaces, some silver and some gold, accompanied by jewels and intricate in their metalwork. Their ears bore various hoops and drop earrings that complimented their own tastes. Dyanna and Elia even wore gold rings in their noses, while Myria and Ashara had singular jewel studs. 

While she did enjoy her own collection of jewelry, either gifted, commissioned for her, or passed down from her mother or aunt, Merian had not brought much of her collection with her to Dorne. 

“I am afraid I did not bring much of my jewels or gold or silver with me.” she smiled sheepishly. 

Dyanna shrugged, “That is alright. You can borrow some of mine.” 

“Ooh, and some of mine! I’ve got a necklace that would fit just right on you-” 

“And I have a pair of earrings that would suit your dress!” 

By the end, she looked like a proper noble Dornish lady, save for the two dainty bracelets on her wrists, as she never much liked the weight and feel of metal against her arms. 

When her septa had seen her, she had looked as if she had swallowed something unpleasant. Ladies in the Reach may have had more liberties with their wardrobes, but the Dornish fashion was still scandalizing to most. 

Septa Elain was a devout woman, keen on making sure Lord Hightower’s daughter remained chaste and pure while in Dorne. She had opened her mouth to protest, but Baelor had made sure to butt in before she could do so. 

“Don’t you look lovely, Merian.” he grinned. He, too, was dressed in the Dornish fashion. His tunic was a rich orange with embroidered swirls around the collar and cuffs of his sleeves.  

He bowed towards Elia, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’ve worked your magic on my sister it seems, princess.” 

Elia smiled demurely. “There was no magic, ser. Your sister is a beauty already, but now she will not melt underneath the sun.” her dark eyes roamed over his frame, and Merian’s own grew wide at the realization that he was wearing the colours of House Martell. 

Oh, Baelor.

In the end, Ashara had taken charge of the fabric shopping. She had led them through the streets with ease, navigating the vendors and merchants, knowing of the best places for silks and lace. At every turn she was holding up various bolts of fabrics against Merian’s body, and the group collectively voted on what to buy and what to leave behind.  

Their guards must have been distressed at the speed with which they moved. Baelor had been slightly red in the face by the time they returned, unused to the markets of Sunspear. 

Now they were in Elia’s solar, lounging and laughing and inspecting the seamstress’ work. Alaia Sand had been commissioned by many nobles and was famed for her craftsmanship. She usually did not take such a great amount of work on such short notice, but at the request of the princess, she accepted. 

“What do you think of this cut, my lady?” 

Merian glanced at the sketch Alaia held before her. The fabric was held close to the upper body and rippled loosely below the bodice. It was not so daringly low-cut in the front, but it had gaps in the shoulders and arms that she assumed were fastened together with ornamental adornments, but the sleeves were loose so they would not bite into her skin. The back hung low, but it could be covered with an airy shawl that could be pinned to the elaborate belt. 

Alaia had taken a look at the dresses she had brought with her and had asked what sorts of styles she favored. True to her talent, she had brought a small batch of sketches to the castle two days later.  

Merian had not wanted to waste the dresses and was intent on wearing them even when she was back home. But, for the sake of keeping the peace with her father, she had asked Alaia to be mindful of just how much skin she could show. The woman had obliged but shook her head at the request when she thought she was not looking. 

I do not understand it either , Merian thought. In the otherworld, she dreamed of walking about in all sorts of clothing. There were strange breeches and half-cut shirts that would have sent Septa Elain into a coma.  

“I love it.” she breathed, excited at the prospect of wearing such a beautiful dress. 

“Then it shall be done, my lady.” She then excused herself for a moment, shuffling into the other room. 

“Are you sure you do not want something more, flowy?” Ashara inquired. 

Merian scoffed, careful not to disturb the pins that sat close to her skin. “And risk the wrath of Septa Elain before facing the wrath of my father? No thank you.” 

Ashara huffed playfully. She stood, rummaging through the fabrics laid out on the floor before pulling up a bolt of pale purple fabric. It looked light as air, more fitting for a veil than a dress. 

“I think this colour would look mighty fine on you.” She unraveled it slightly and held it up against the skin of her arm. 

Elia made a noise of agreement. “I plan to show you the Water Gardens before you leave for home. It would be perfect to wear once we get there.” 

Merian bit her cheek, looking at the fabric. 

“It can be layered, do not worry. And for the sake of your septa and brother, we can ask Alaia to make another dress to wear underneath.” Ashara assured her. 

“Then,” she paused, “I suppose you are right.” 

Grinning triumphantly, Ashara and Elia shared a victorious look. 

Chapter Text

Dorne smelled of home to him and brought about a welcome sense of reprieve for what seemed like the first time in nearly a year.   

In the aftermath of the king’s captivity, the walls of the Red Keep had begun to close in on him like a snake strangling its prey. His duties as a Kingsguard had put him within the King’s path countless times, and he had learned to mask any sort of emotion that arose within him.  

Aerys’ relationship with his son had been fraught, but upon his return it had become borderline hostile. The king’s fevered eyes always looked upon Rhaegar with suspicion, and the fleeting expressions of pride and fondness were nowhere to be found.  

It was after a particularly tense dinner that his friend had announced that he wished to take an impromptu trip.  

“To Summerhall?”  

The prince’s eyes twinkled, a look that Arthur knew all too well. His face remained as handsome as ever, but there was a sharpness to his cheekbones and a clench in his jaw that had not been there before.  

“Further south, I think. It has been quite some time since we have paid Dorne a visit.”  

So here he stood, overlooking the dark waters as their ship made way for Sunspear. His mother had made many trips to the castle in his youth. Before he had gone to squire, he had always enjoyed accompanying her.  

He could taste the warmth in the air, along with the slight spray of salt. The skies were clear, a rare sight back in King’s Landing during the height of winter. It was almost as if the moon and stars were reaching out to him, wrapping their cloak of light around him and reassuring him that the king was far behind.  

The stars always spoke to him that way. The night before he was to leave Starfall, his mother had taken him to the top of the Palestone Sword one last time. It had been a beautiful night, and the dark of the sky had appeared more purple and blue than black in his memory.  

“No matter where you go, the stars will always be there with you. For as long as they shine bright, I can rest knowing that you are bound to be underneath at least one.”  

“How will you know which one, mama?”  

“If you ever need me, call to a star, and it will fall exactly where you are.”  

“But that’s only a story.”  

“There is always a little bit of truth to every story, Arthur.”  

In the last letter Andric had sent him, he was on the cusp of travelling to Sunspear himself to visit Ashara. Knowing his brother, he would not have stayed too long. Ever since he took over their mother’s mantle, he had buried himself into his new responsibilities.  

But Ashara would be there. It had been nearly two years since he had seen her. On a few, rare occasions they would share curt letters, but most of what he knew about her was from Andric or their father.  

He should have been excited at the prospect of seeing her, but more importantly, he should have been disappointed at the prospect of not seeing Andric. Ashara would surely not care too much for his presence, that had been made known during their mother’s funeral.  

He had always been closest to Andric. They were like two nuts in a shell, their father liked to jape. Silent, stoic, and soft-spoken Andric was everything silent, stoic, rarely-spoken Arthur had wanted to be. Even when their mother had bestowed Dawn to him, he never felt any more superior to his brother.  

Arthur could not deny that a gap was slowly growing between them. If Andric was still residing at Sunspear, Arthur dreaded that he would freeze before embracing him, as if he could sense the ever-growing weight on his shoulders.  

But all his worries could wait until the morning. For now, it was only himself and the stars against the night, and Arthur savored every moment of it.  

--  

Shaded away from the pitter-patter of children’s feet, Baelor had barely pulled the drapes to a close when Elia had grabbed his hand and began tugging him down another corridor.  

While Sunspear’s halls were intricately tiled and painted, the Water Gardens had an air of simplicity to them. The pale pink marble offered a sense of calm, and the sounds of fountains and splashing could be faintly heard at every turn.  

“Where on earth are you taking me, princess?” he laughed, allowing himself to be led by the smaller woman.  

“I am going to show you something magnificent.” she grinned over her shoulder, and he felt himself stumble for a split second.  

“What can be more magnificent than the sight right in front of me?”   

Was what he wanted to say. But as soon as she turned away, his tongue felt heavy and numb.  

Their father had sent him here to mind his sister, as he had done countless times before. That was his duty as the eldest son. While Malora had her own responsibilities pertaining to their younger siblings, Baelor knew their father entrusted him with the task of being a leader.  

Merian never needed coddling or stern reminders, but he knew she could be erratic and unpredictable at times. Their father was much less worried about her engaging in reckless behavior and more concerned about her endangering herself through some wild whim or fancy.  

And though he was keeping an eye on her, he knew Elia would never allow his sister to come to harm. Since the two were together often, he could rest easy.  

It also meant that he could see her more often.  

The memory of the incident had haunted him greatly, and though he liked to think that he had moved past it, seeing Elia again had made him feel like he was six and ten again.  

Her hands were soft against his callouses, and he noted how dainty her fingers were, even if they gripped his own tight. She took several turns inside the inner palace, past a hall of hanging portraits, until they finally came to a wide terrace overlooking the pools.  

The late afternoon sun did not beat down on the land quite as hard, and under the shade of the blood orange trees, it made for a tranquil spot. He let out a breath, taking in the scenery, but most of all, marveling at the light that outlined Elia.  

She had gone forward and was leaning against the balcony. Her pale blue dress and golden silk veil complimented her complexion and hair, the halo of light around her made her appear like the Maiden herself.  

When she turned to face him, a soft smile graced her lips. “Well? Is it not magnificent?”  

He did his best to not appear slack-jawed, pretending to flit his eyes around the terrace to cover up the fact that he had been staring. “It certainly is.”  

Elia’s heart beat faster, because Baelor was not very convincing in his act. Beckoning him to come join her against the balcony, she set her hand down against the stone, precariously close. She had played at flirtations before, but she had never been tremendously bold or forward.  

His feet tingled. It was an odd thing that occurred when he was nervous. When their master-at-arms had been teaching him how to spar, his feet had tingled; when the final hour of his vigil before he was to be knighted finished, there was a tingle.  

Five years ago, when his father had told him about the Martells coming to visit, his feet had tingled. When he had bent down to kiss Elia’s hand, he had been worried that he might fall over because his feet had gone completely numb.  

But that was a different time, he had been a different man. A boy, really.  

Now, he was stood beside Elia, taller than before. His stomach held no gas, as he had taken care to avoid beans like the plague. The stone beneath his feet was solid, like the stone beneath his hands.  

Solid...  

Solid...  

Solid...  

Smooth.  

And warm.  

Elia’s hand was still underneath his own, and he felt the rush of blood in his ears. Maester Alyn had always told him that the best commanders always had a plan. They thought things out and planned ahead, considering every factor and possibility.  

Oh gods, Baelor, now you’ve done it-  

A movement.  

His eyes widened at the realization that she had threader her fingers through his own. Eyes wide, he turned to look at her. A smile was tugging at her lips. Not an apologetic one to soothe her brother’s laughing words, but a happy one. It may not have been a wide grin, but the shine in her eyes told him enough.  

Besides, with the way his cheeks were straining, he smiled bright enough for the both of them.  

--  

“So, your father would be more incensed by a piece of fabric than...this?” Ashara gestured towards Merian’s hair, or rather, the several strands coloured pink.  

The week leading up to their trip to the Water Gardens, Merian had taken care to search for trinkets to bring back home for each of her siblings, just as she had promised.  

Along the way, she had come across a Tyroshi merchant selling hair dye. The Otherworld had been a colourful place, and she could recall flashes of bright, unnatural colours streaked into her hair. She had hesitated at first, but the merchant had shown her a mixture of powder that she could combine with the dye in order to dilute it.  

“It will disappear within three weeks of washes, sweet lady, I can assure you this.”  

In the end, she had bought a good amount of bottled pink, blue, and purple, as well as the powder recipe. Due to the sheer amount of hair she had, Merian had chosen to dye small sections, smiling at Baelor’s shocked yet approving expression, and the open-mouthed disbelief from Septa Elain.  

For Garth, she had commissioned a dagger. It was to be ready for when they returned to Sunspear. While her younger brother had been rather indifferent to her trip to Dorne, she had not missed his tone of curiosity whenever he would try to sound aloof. He was still a squire, but she thought he would appreciate a fine weapon that would set him apart from the other boys.  

For Denyse and Leyla, she had bought a book of Dornish songs and music, along with a unique instrument that looked like a long lute. The twins loved to perform, and though Leyla was the shyer of the two, she was the most musically inclined of them all.  

Alysanne had a great love of dolls, so it was only reasonable to bring her back one. It was a pretty thing, with a great amount of black hair and a white dress and shawl decorated with blue gems and gold thread.  

For Lynesse, Merian had gone back to the merchants she had bought her dress fabrics from. While she was still young yet, Merian had taken extra care to instill a strong sense of sensibility within her. Lynesse’s habit of producing embroidery to give to her siblings had turned into a promising talent that she greatly enjoyed. Merian could imagine the look in her eyes upon seeing the threads and fabrics she had procured.  

Gunthor was a babe, so she bought a set of intricately carved and colorfully painted blocks.  

There would be another baby, she had dreamed it. Girl or boy, she could not recall, so she opted for buying a shaking toy with fun tassels that made noise.  

For Alerie, she had taken her time. She had debated commissioning a dress or veil but had come across a metalsmith and jeweler offering bangles and bracelets. She had remembered a detail just then, of how her sister would look as a woman grown. Even now, she favored wearing a braid over any other style. In the spring and summer, they would go picking flowers and put them in their hair, along with pins and jewels. So, she had commissioned for a set of rings, descending in size, that could be clipped into place to fasten a braid.  

Malora was a head scratcher. What could she give her sister whose only prized possessions consisted of the books in their libraries? Her initial thought had been to buy her a tome of some sort, but her search had proved useless. Sellers were wary of disclosing what kinds of books they had to a Hightower of all people.  

Luckily, her sister also had an affinity for plants and herbal remedies. Much like their father had made Merian study with their maester in order to wrangle her away from the library, Malora had been learning the art of herbology from him in order to keep her from rolling in the dirt of their gardens. She had found a fine set of bowls and a mortar and pestle that her sister could put to good use.  

She had bought three small statues for her father. A sun, a moon, and a star, intricately carved and heavy enough to weigh down the stacks of papers that always occupied his desk. For her stepmother, she bought a silk shawl. Rhea always liked to sit by an open window, that was always how she found her when she came to visit Gunthor.  

Baelor’s gift would be a surprise for him. She had done some extra sneaking about with Ashara to go down to the markets without him. She’d almost enlisted Elia in helping keep him distracted, but a twist in her gut had changed her mind. With the year almost at an end, she was not sure if Princess Lorezza had finalized her betrothal. She had not heard any word of Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana’s deaths, meaning that Aerys was still waiting for their verdict.  

It is only a matter of time; she would remind herself.  

The guilt of seeing her brother so happy with her friend was already a heavy presence in her heart. If she did anything to encourage it, only for it to fall apart, it would nearly crush her.  

In secret, she had commissioned a new sword belt. Tiny towers and flames were carved into the leather, and the metal buckle shone brightly, warped to wrap around itself like a branch of a tree. Often, he had his sword with him, so she figured he ought to have a nice, new belt.  

I pray that he never had to use it in battle.  

“Oddly enough, yes. Once, my sister Malora cut off several inches of her own hair for an experiment, and while he was surprised to see her at dinner, he was only curious about the results.”  

The two were sat side by side at the edge of one of the pools, with the bottom half of their legs immersed in the water. Dyanna, Larra, and Myria were off somewhere in the inner palace, gone to look for snacks and drinks.  

Ashara let out a dry chuckle. “Your father sounds like a genial man.” Her voice sounded distant, and her eyes were focused on the rippling water at their feet.  

Merian thought about it. While it was true, her father was certainly better than most, it did not mean he was without faults. Rather than tell Ashara this, she only made a noise of agreement and mirrored her slight kicks in the water.  

“It is surprising.” Ashara spoke again. She looked up, and a sly smile was tugging at her lips. “Your septa has not thrown a fit, despite your brother being gone for so long.”  

Merian snuck a look at Septa Elain, sat rigid in a corner, doing embroidery. The woman had been watching the pools all day like an archer ready to fire. She snorted. “Well, we are surrounded by young children. I do not think she is worried about any of them spiriting me away and ruining my reputation.”  

“Do you think he is with Elia?” she asked.  

Merian tapped her fingers against the marble of the pool’s edge. “Possibly.”  

The two looked at one another. “Definitely.” they said in unison, laughing.  

“Well, I think he is a good man. I do not say that often.” A strange look overtook her beautiful face.  

Perhaps she was thinking of her own brothers, Merian thought. Andric had been kind, and in the few days she had known him she had grown to like him very much. She had only made passing mentions of Arthur, and it was clear that she had some rather negative feelings towards them both.  

While she and Ashara had grown considerably close, Merian did not think it was her place to bring up the topic.  

As if reading her mind, Ashara surprised her and brought it up first. “I wish my brother was like yours.”  

“Surely, that’s not true.”  

“But it is. Andric was more than enough to replace five brothers if I had that many. He was the best. But then he changed.” Her tone was bitter, and her brow furrowed, a silent fury in her eyes.  

“Might I speak plainly?”  

“Be as plain as you wish.”  

“I think,” she thought about the words to use. “I think he is trying to be brave.”  

“Brave?” Ashara recoiled, as if her words had stung her.  

Putting her hands up in peace, Merian continued, “It was wrong of him to send you away so quickly, and it is wrong of him to avoid you. But, Ashara, I think he is trying to be brave for you. For all of you.”  

“I do not understand what you are suggesting.”  

“Well, when my stepmother died, not the one I have now, but the one before-” she cleared her throat, it was always strange to talk about her father’s wives out loud.  

“She was the only true mother I ever had, and it was so hard without her. My father was beside himself, I could tell. Even when he tried to appear strong for us. The only person I could turn to, we could all turn to, was Baelor.  

“One day, I went to look for him. I can’t remember what for, but I’m sure it was unimportant, but I found him, in the Tower sept. He was kneeling at the foot of the Mother. He didn’t know I was there, and I was going to wait for him to finish praying when I realized something.  

“He was weeping , Ashara. My brother, who only ever knows how to laugh and smile, was weeping . Your brother and mine might be very different, but I think they had the same idea. Baelor went to that sept to be alone, not because we were a bother to him, but because he didn’t want any one of us to see him in such a state.  

“Could you fault Andric for wanting the same thing? You are like a hunting hound with the way you look at people, Ashara. Your brother wants you to remember him as he was before. The problem is, he’s not that man anymore, just as you are not the same girl. Death changes people. I find that it’s important to not let it tear you apart.”  

Her friend was silent, and Meiran bit the inside of her cheek, fearing she’d said far too much. The silence was broken when a splash of water hit her in the face.  

Ashara had kicked at the water’s surface. “You speak like an old woman sometimes, you know that?” the anger in her eyes was now replaced with mirth.  

Wiping at her face, she blinked the water out of her eyes. “I’ve been told that before, yes.”  

--  

“I do not understand the need for secrecy, Prince Rhaegar.” Oberyn raised a brow at the man, insistent on wrapping his silver-gold locks underneath a silk scarf. Arthur stood by, silent, waiting for the prince to speak first.  

“I do not wish to cause a stir. You saw how it was in your mother’s court, Prince Oberyn.” It was true. When they had made their presence known, chaos had temporarily broken out in Sunspear.  

Rhaegar, being Rhaegar, had managed to calm things down. He had worked his graceful charm with the princess and convinced her to stay silent about his whereabouts to his father. Although Arthur knew the princess would keep her word, it was only a matter of time before word got out that Rhaegar was in Dorne.  

He had urged him to make way for the Stormlands soon, in order to evade any unwanted attention that would threaten his need for peace. Rhaegar had agreed but had insisted on visiting the Water Gardens first.  

The marble of the palace glinted in the distance, and despite his unwillingness to linger, Arthur felt a tug at his heart. Once, he had spent countless hours in the pools, hoisted above Andric’s shoulders, playing with the other children.  

“When you look the way you do, prince or no, you will always manage to cause a stir.” Oberyn’s eyes roamed over Rhaegar’s frame, dressed in silk. He then turned towards Arthur. “You will be glad to see your sister again, Arthur, won’t you?”  

The two of them had been at odds with one another when they were younger. Arthur’s morality was constantly clashing with Oberyn’s temperament, but the two had formed a friendship of sorts that had allowed them to be cordial.  

“I will be, it has been far too long.” It was not a lie. He would be glad to see her, to inspect her health in person. And it had been far too long. He had far more leeway than his other sworn brothers. If he had requested to visit his sister sooner, Ser Gerold would have allowed it.  

But you chose to stay away.  

Giving the reins of their horses over to the stable boys, the three men made their way for the inner palace. Passing through the various draperies and curtains, Arthur found comfort in the fact that not much had changed.  

Oberyn led them along a row of pillars, chattering about wine and music with Rhaegar. Arthur followed closely behind, half listening to what was being said.  

What he liked most about the Water Gardens was the great expanse of walking space available. Whether it was in the halls, along the pools, or through the gardens, walks always seemed to take longer. He liked being able to pace about with nothing but his thoughts for company.  

When he had travelled back to Starfall for the funeral, he and Andric had walked along the shoreline every sunrise in silence. Their father had joined them occasionally, and they would watch horizon together.  

“Does your sister know we are here?” Rhaegar questioned, taking time to examine the paintings along the walls.  

Oberyn shrugged. “She will know soon enough. I would have accompanied her here, but there were... special circumstances .”  

At this, Arthur quirked a brow. He hadn’t sounded angry, more annoyed.  

“What kind of circumstances?”  

“Tch, northern circumstances. Those damned Reachmen and their attitudes towards everything.”  

He exchanged a look with Rhaegar. That did not sound very good.  

“Has something happened?”  

Oberyn paused, examining the look on both of their faces. His mouth was half open, ready to explain further, when a servant boy called out to them from a distance.  

“-ince Oberyn! Prince Oberyn!” When the boy caught up to them, he took a moment to catch his breath.  

“What is it?”  

The poor boy continued huffing but straightened up immediately at the sound of his voice. “Princess Elia has sent me to bring you to her. You and your companions.” he looked towards Rhaegar and Arthur, and his once flushed face turned pale.  

Despite the silk scarf and plain clothes, Rhaegar’s indigo eyes and silvery brows were most distinct. Stood next to Arthur, with his own distinguishable eyes and greatsword strapped to his back, his identity had been exposed.  

Oberyn cleared his throat, raising a finger to his lips. The boy, still stood frozen, seemed to understand. Snapping out of his reverie, he shakily bowed at the waist before stuttering for them to follow him.  

Arthur tried to give the boy a comforting smile, but he kept his head down and did not dare look up. He remembered how he had reacted when he had first met Rhaegar. Upon first glance, he had been strange, but soon enough Arthur saw the beauty in his appearance.  

Oberyn had dropped back, letting the boy lead the way. He was talking with Rhaegar, something about putting on a musical performance for them later that night. Arthur followed a half-pace behind, glancing over at the children playing in the pools.  

As they continued walking, turning down another corridor, he noticed an out of place figure around the corner. Donning the religious garb of a septa, an older woman sat in a chair, stabbing at her sewing circle, her lips pursed into a thin line.  

The only time he had ever seen septas in the Water Gardens was when they would walk amongst the flowers or pray in the inner palace.  

Sensing his curiosity, Oberyn slinked back to fall into step with him. He leaned in close, tilting his head up slightly to speak to him. “I bet you are curious as to why she is here, in this place.” There was a shine to his dark eyes.  

Arthur sighed. “I will admit, it is a strange sight to see.”  

Oberyn nodded towards two figures at the end of the pool. Arthur had not seen them yet, his view blocked by a pillar and his attention drawn to the septa.  

Two girls sat side by side, exchanging whispers and laughs. It was clear by the style and finery of their dresses that they were noble, even if they hung from their bodies dripping wet. The sun shone down on them, allowing for Arthur to make out their faces.  

“Ashara,” he breathed. She had grown so much.  

The girl next to her, he did not recognize. Flushed and golden, she painted a fine picture with her pale purple dress and uniquely streaked hair. Was she an Yronwood? A visiting Tyroshi noble?  

“The septa guards a sacred treasure, something even sweeter and tantalizing than the blood oranges that grow here.” Oberyn mused.  

Snapping his eyes away, Arthur raised a brow again. He had forgotten himself for a moment. It was rather rude to spy on unsuspecting young maidens.  

“I assume this treasure does not consist of jewels and gold?”  

Oberyn tsked, laying a hand on his shoulder.  

“The treasure comes in the form of a special lady, my friend. She is an oddity of incomparable measure and has certainly stirred the curiosity within many a man and woman.”  

“And who might this mystery lady be, Oberyn?” Rhaegar questioned, sounding genuinely intrigued.  

“Why, the Lady Merian of House Hightower.”  

Chapter Text

280 AC  

“Ow!” 

“You know, if you would hold still-” 

“I am holding still!” 

“My lady, I would advise you to listen to your brother, I cannot align the bone properly like this-” 

Merian huffed, wincing as the maester finished bandaging her finger. Baelor leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He was not smiling, and Merian knew he was still upset. Granted, she was upset too. 

The entire journey, he had been grim. It had been off-putting, and Merian had hoped day after day that they would reach King’s Landing sooner. The rest of their party had noticed it too, and it had made for a miserable time overall. 

When the maester was finished, she brought her hand up to the light to inspect the damage. The milk of poppy she had been given earlier had yet to take effect, and the dull throb of her little finger still pulsed through the wrappings.  

“Fret not, my lady. I shall fashion a splint for you so that it does not heal crooked.” The maester assured her. Excusing himself, he exited the chambers with a promise to return soon. 

She stared numbly at her finger. The weight of that morning was finally seeping into her bones, and she once again glanced at her brother. A small cut graced his cheek, his hair was mussed, and dirt was streaked over his clothes. Despite his disheveled appearance, he was otherwise unharmed.  

His steely gaze met hers, and she clenched her uninjured hand into a fist. It may have been childish of her, but she could not stand any more of his scrutiny in silence. 

“You’re welcome, by the way.” There was a bite to her tone. 

His nostrils flared, and he pushed himself off the wall and stalked over to her. Standing over her as she sat on the cot, he looked eerily like their father. 

“Do not joke with me, Merian, I do not have the patience nor am I in the mood.” 

“I saved your life-” 

“I didn’t need saving! I told you to take your horse and run-” 

“Run and let you get yourself killed? By the time I would have arrived in the city it would have been too late!” Her eyes stung, and she urged herself not to blink for fear of tearing up. 

Baelor’s eyes softened just the slightest bit, and his voice was less hard when he spoke again. “You don’t know that.” 

His lips were still pinched in an unfamiliar frown, and she felt sick. Since their trip to Dorne, his smiles were less bright, and his demeanor less jovial, and it was all her fault. 

Every day since, she had felt guilt. Her actions had set in motion a series of events that could no longer be stopped, and for many moons she had felt as though she were stumbling through the days. 

She refused to look away, to hang her head in defeat. There might have been a lot of shame she felt towards what had happened, but she felt not a shred of guilt for what she’d done that morning. 

Standing, she did her best to puff up her chest to make up for the difference in their size. She had grown even more once they had landed in Oldtown, and the top of her head came to meet Baelor’s eye level. 

“I didn’t want to find out.” she paused, “You remember what happened to Mace’s cousin.” 

At this, he shook his head and turned around, pinching his brows.  

“You know I’m right!” There was a waver to her words, and her throat felt like it was closing in on itself. “I would rather have broken all my fingers if it meant ensuring your safety.”  

Her mind flashed to familiar dream. Ned Stark, as grey as the wolf on his banner, bringing his sister home to rest in their crypts. Oberyn Martell, who burned red hot like the sigil of his house, raging at the news of Elia and her children. 

What would she have done? If it had been her own brother, or any of her other siblings? 

“I just-” her lip quivered, and her face was now wet. “-I just didn’t want to leave you.” 

Merian might not have cried as easily as Alerie, but Baelor had many memories of her staining his tunic with her tears over the years. She was nearly a woman grown now, and he rarely saw such displays of emotion out of her recently. 

His shoulders slumped, the tension in his back dissipating as he enveloped her in a comforting embrace, patting her on the back like he did when they were children. She held onto him tightly and buried her face into his chest, focusing on his warmth. 

“I am alive and well, little sister. There’s no need to dwell on something that did not happen.” he spoke into her hair, giving her a quick kiss along her temple. 

Merian nodded, letting the fabric of his shirt soak up the remainder of her tears. 

Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, he offered her a smile. It was bright and gleaming, just as she had always remembered it to be. 

“But you must understand that you gave me a fright. Imagine my surprise when I turned around and you were still there. With a giant rock in your hands, no less!” he chuckled slightly at his words. 

She pushed his shoulder playfully. “Excuse you, that giant rock saved your head.” 

“Yes, yes, I remember. Wherever did you learn to throw like that anyways? I did not think you were capable of such feats.” 

“I think you will find that I am capable of many feats.” 

“That, I have no doubt.” 

The air in the room was no longer stifling, and Merian felt her stomach settle. Weeks and weeks of travel had been winding her up tightly, but she felt herself beginning to unravel. 

Their peace was short-lived, however, when one of the servants came knocking at the maester’s door. 

“What is it?” Baelor questioned. 

The young man appeared nervous with his hands folded behind his back. “M’lord, m’lady,” he offered a bow to them both, “it appears that you have visitors.” 

“Visitors? We’ve only just arrived in the city, who could possibly be coming to visit us so soon?” The siblings exchanged a look. 

The man swallowed and shuffled his feet. “I thought to turn them away and tell them to return tomorrow, m’lord. Plainly clothed, they were, but” he trailed off, clearing his throat before continuing, “one of them claims to be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.” 

At this, their eyes widened. Baelor had met their great-uncle a number of times in his youth, but Merian had only heard of him in passing. Ever since the death of their grandfather, Ser Gerold had not come to visit Oldtown in many a year. 

“And the others? You said there were more.” 

“Well, the man with him remained cloaked, I could not make out his face. He said that he would speak no further until he saw you, m’lord.” 

Baelor straightened up. “I’m in no state to greet guests at the moment. But I suppose they are waiting for me already?” 

The servant nodded, a guilty look on his face. “In the entrance, m’lord, but I did not leave them unattended.” 

Baelor waved his hand. “That is alright. Take me to these guests of ours, and I shall see if they are telling the truth. This city is full of mummers itching for coin and attention.” he grumbled. 

“Wait, let me come with you.” Merian moved to follow him, and Baelor gave her an unsure look. 

“My appearance may not be of much consequence, Merian, but I would have you stay here for now. Or at least,” he turned to the manservant, “find one of the maids to bring my sister to her rooms.” the man nodded and disappeared down the hall. “You are to clean up and rest, no objections. Please.” 

She bit her cheek. It was the least she could do for him, after the day that they had. 

“No objections.” 

-- 

The manse was a grand structure. Tall and spacious, the winding staircase in the corner of the entrance spoke of more rooms on the second floor. His nephew would certainly be needing it, as he had written that most of his children would be accompanying him to the wedding. 

“Does it bring back memories, Ser Gerold?” the cloaked figure beside him asked. 

The Lord Commander shook his head. “Nay. Our father never stayed in King’s Landing long enough to need a manse.” Memories flashed in his mind, and for a moment he was a boy again, huddled underneath a blanket in an inn with his sister as their older brother regaled them with horrific tales of beasts and monsters before bed. 

At that moment, the servant who had answered the door for them returned, and a man he recognized as his great-nephew followed. 

He was the image of Leyton, tall and dark of hair (as his brother’s Costayne bride had been). It had been a handful of years since he had last seen him, but by the look of recognition in his eyes, it was clear that he still remembered who he was. 

“Uncle,” he breathed, mouth slightly agape. 

Gerold’s eyes narrowed at his appearance. He wore only a tunic and breeches, both nearly as dirty as the bottom of his boots. A cut upon his cheek and a blossoming bruise on his jaw did not speak of a pleasant journey. 

“Nephew, what has happened to you?” 

The younger man grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Father sent a few of us ahead to settle in, but I’m afraid we were accosted by bandits in the Kingswood.” 

At this, the cloaked figure stiffened, and Baelor’s eyes immediately shifted over to him, the surprise of seeing his great-uncle now forgotten.  

“Forgive me, uncle, but before I divulge any more details, I would ask for the identity of your companion.” His tone was wary but remained respectful. 

The cloaked figure shifted, raising a pale hand to remove the hood that obscured his face. Prince Rhaegar’s indigo gaze met Baelor’s, and for a moment all the air felt as if it had been sucked out of the room. 

Baelor swallowed, and his heart felt heavy all of a sudden. The manservant beside him immediately moved to bow, along with the other guards and servants present.  

Remembering his courtesies, Baelor plastered a smile onto his face before dipping into a sweeping bow. Ever the knight, he made sure that his voice did not waver when he spoke. “Prince Rhaegar, what a surprise.” 

Gerold resisted the urge to frown. Something was wrong, he could sense it. Not only from his nephew, but from the prince as well. While the young royal was always good-natured and well-mannered, there was an air of hesitancy about him that had been present on their trek through the city to the Hightower manse. 

Clearing his throat, Baelor stood tall once more. “Please, join me in my solar. I shall have food and wine brought to us, and I will finish telling you of my ordeal in the woods.” There was that smile again. He’d heard of his great-nephew's reputation from passing knights, and he could see why. 

A strange emotion flashed in the prince’s eyes, and Gerold once again looked back and forth between the two men. 

“Unless, you have somewhere urgent to be?” 

Rhaegar shook his head, allowing for his long, silvery braid to fall over his shoulder. “Lead the way, Ser Baelor.” 

-- 

Ser Gerold and the prince had left quietly through the kitchen doors. Merian had not come to see them off, and Baelor had thanked her for heeding his orders.  

It would not have done well to ease her uncle, who had already had enough qualms with the woods bandits dubbed the “Kingswood Brotherhood”. When her maid had led her to her rooms, she had taken a look at herself in the dresser mirror and had nearly gasped. 

Her curly hair had frizzed and frayed out of its long braid, resembling a tattered, old rope. She had always liked keeping it long, and since her visit to Dorne it now measured past her bottom. The simple dress she had chosen for the journey was spotted with mud and torn at one of the sleeves. There was a splotch of dried blood along her waist where she had clutched her broken finger, and her cheeks were redder than usual from her crying. 

Bathing in an actual tub had been a luxury she had dearly missed. She thought of her privileges in this life often, but it was moments like this that had her selfishly thanking the gods for it (when she was not secretly cursing them in her mind). 

When the two men had left, Baelor had come to her rooms, looking more tired and weary than he had earlier, and her sense of relief disappeared. 

They did not speak of the Dragon Prince. Baelor had tried to leave that part of himself behind in Dorne, but Merian knew her brother would forever carry it with him. And now, like a cruel jape, he was with her once again, and the reason for his troubles had come knocking at their door. 

He tried to be in good spirits for her. Together, they made quick work of organizing and carrying out the last bit of affairs concerning the manse. Rooms were designated and prepared, extra staff were hired, and guard posts were given. Sometimes, she would pretend to work at a task for longer than necessary, leaving most of the work to Baelor so he could be distracted for a little while longer. 

Their first week there had been coming to a close when another knock came at their door. 

It was the prince, again, accompanied by a Kingsguard. 

Merian had not come to answer the door. She had been locked away in her rooms, pouring over her books filled with encrypted notes and reminders that would not have made sense to anyone else. After the burning incident, she had slowly devised her own writing system, and years later it proved to be fully functional. Her lady's maid, Anyssa, had come to dress and collect her, as her presence had been required this time. 

She had stared dumbly at her for a moment before springing up and making quick work of putting away her books. To Anyssa, it might have seemed that she was jittery at the prospect of greeting Prince Rhaegar. The quick glimpse she had seen of him from the kitchen had nearly swept her off her own feet. 

But Merian cared not for the Dragon Prince. Well, she did, but not in the way others did. 

Shrouded in mystery from the moment her dreams had begun again, Rhaegar was a rogue player. What were his reasons? What spurred him to do something so wild and unpredictable? What really happened after Harrenhall? 

Perhaps she should have been more forgiving. After all, he had been nothing but the perfect gentleman when they had met in Dorne. 

But he is a man. They make monsters of the worst kind. The kind that come to you with gentle smiles and honeyed words, whose teeth are bared in the disguise of a smile.  

She would not entertain any sympathy her mind threatened to give. Her heart would not allow it. 

Whoever you are, Prince of Sorrows, I will find out. But I will not simper and smile any more than I have to.  

The doors to the library opened, and Merian tried not to fidget with her hands as all three men turned their heads to look at her. Meeting her brother’s eyes first, she managed to calm herself. Turning to look at the prince, she nearly faltered in her steps when she saw the kinsguard beside him. 

She had been expecting their great-uncle again, but found herself locking eyes with Ser Arthur, instead.  

Grabbing her skirts and curtseying in a demure fashion, she forced herself to speak slowly. 

“I apologize for my lateness, your grace.” 

Rhaegar motioned for her to rise, a kind smile on his face. “That is alright, Lady Merian. It is I who should be apologizing. Ser Gerold thought it safer to travel quietly with no message sent beforehand, and unfortunately my escort today thought so as well.” There was humor in his voice, and the knight beside him bristled slightly. 

Ser Arthur was nearly as handsome as Ashara was beautiful. With an angular face, prominent cheekbones, and a gracefully curved nose, his dark purple eyes only served to enhance his looks. Like Ashara, he was tawny, with curled, dark hair that was cut short, save for a few bits that fell over his forehead. A small scar was indented onto his top lip, and a streak of silver ran through the hairs of his right lashes and brow. 

Her stomach threatened to lurch, and she hoped it did not show on her face. If it did, none of the men made mention of it, and Baelor led her to a seat. 

Folding her hands in her lap, she resisted the urge to pull on the fabric at her neck. She had taken certain precautions for her time in King’s Landing. She’d packed most of her dresses onto a ship bound for Dragonstone and had taken her more conservative gowns with her on the road. They would inevitably have to present themselves at court, and when that time came, Merian did not want to give the king any reason to look her way. 

“I must also apologize for our intrusion earlier in the week. You see, we had heard that some Hightower knights made their way into the city, and we thought perhaps your father had arrived early.”  

Merian smiled politely. “My father sent my brother and I ahead. I am sorry that I could not come to greet you or my uncle, but I was in a rather sorry state.” Her tone remained light and airy, the way it was when she spoke to strangers. When she spoke like she did not know much, people never paid her words too much attention. 

“Yes, your brother explained what happened.” Ser Arthur spoke. His voice was smooth and rich, and traces of his Dornish accent poked through in the clipped cadence of some of his words. 

Clasping her hands together, she sighed. “It was certainly a surprise. But the important thing is that none of our men were injured. Or killed.” she winced at the last part. Perhaps that was too morbid to bring up. 

Arthur gave her a small nod. “That was a relief to hear.” his eyes flickered to her bandages, now tied to two wooden splints. “How is your hand?” 

“My hand?” she repeated, blinking for a moment before she realized what he had asked. “Oh--oh! My hand is healing quite nicely. Though it would be dishonest of me to say that I wish I did not have to wear these,” she held up her arm, allowing the splints to be clearly seen. 

He offered her a wry smile, and she felt her own drop in response. Arthur’s lips tightened at this, and he returned to wearing a neutral expression. 

Adjusting the fabric of her skirt, she continued, “Of course, a broken finger is nothing compared to, well,” she fumbled for the words. Better than whatever injuries you endure by being a knight, swinging swords and playing with knives?  

She shrugged, awkwardly gesturing with her hand. “-worse injuries. It could have been my leg, but thankfully that was not the case, haha.” Gods, she could have used a cup of something in that moment. Sipping on something would make the silence more bearable. 

Baelor cleared his throat. “I meant to ask earlier, but I thought my sister should be here as well. What is the reason for your visit this time around?” 

The prince nodded. “Well, I thought I ought to acquaint myself with your family more. After all, you two are dear friends to my betrothed.” 

Merian spared a quick glance to her brother. She would have reached out to take his hand, but that would only serve to embarrass him in front of their company. Baelor gave a small smile that only half reached his eyes. 

“And I suppose that since you are Princess Elia’s betrothed, we ought to become more acquainted with you in turn?” Baelor mused. 

“I would like that, Ser.” Rhaegar turned to Merian. “I would also like to speak with you, my lady. You are to be one of my wife’s ladies. At the moment, you know her better than I do. I would ask if you were willing to tell me more about her.” 

Merian’s eyes widened. The prince wanted to know more about Elia, and he had come to her. Her eyes flitted over to Arthur for a brief moment. He had known the princess in his youth, but she supposed that he did not know her all too well now. 

“Of course, your grace. I am happy to tell you all about her.” 

Rhaegar clapped his hands. “That’s wonderful. If it is not too much to ask, when would you be available for lunch? My mother always says it is always best to acquaint yourself over a meal.” 

“Tomorrow works just fine, your grace.” Baelor spoke. Merian snapped her head a little too abruptly in his direction, surprised at his quick response. Arthur narrowed his eyes at this. 

“Then we shall come again tomorrow.” 

-- 

Her cheeks burned hot, and not because of the sun. In all the scenarios she had run through her head, she had never once considered that Prince Rhaegar himself would make an appearance in Dorne.  

She and Ashara had been giggling together at the poolside, drenched from head to toe after playing in the pool. Septa Elaine had not noticed them, but Ashara’s sharp senses had.  

Across the pool, she could make out Prince Oberyn, in his signature low-cut, belted tunic, accompanied by two other men. One stood out completely, with his head wrapped in silk, his face starkly pale in contrast to the others.  

Unsettling, coloured eyes stared back at her. His face was too far to distinguish any other features, but the sinking feeling in her stomach was all she needed to confirm her suspicions.  

“He’s here.” She’d heard Ashara whisper, and that was when she took note of the pale greatsword that jutted out from the other man’s back. Dawn.  Of course, one would not be far without the other. The Dragon Prince and his loyal dog, the fallen star.  

When Septa Elaine had finally noticed, a big fuss had been stirred, and the two girls had been ushered to quickly cover themselves with their silken shawls and present themselves before the prince.  

Her hair stuck to her skin, and her clothes dripped onto the marble floor. Yet there she was, in a low curtsey, refusing to make eye contact with the prince. She did not care for her unkempt appearance, but his presence made her all too aware of her surroundings, and it was like she was itching all over.  

Then there was the matter of Ser Arthur, quiet with an unyielding gaze. His eyes were a warm shade of dark purple akin to berries, but they still managed to unsettle her. There was no humor or mischief in them, not like Ashara’s.  

His eyes were not made for laughter. How could they have been? His eyes would watch the king entertain himself with whatever sadistic fancy would come across his mind. He would look away when the king leered closely at the serving girls and noble daughters. He would stand by and let him hurt the queen. He would follow whatever mad plan Rhaegar concocted.  

Did he help to steal away the Stark girl? Did he stop her from escaping that wretched tower every time she cried out for her family?  

This man wielded a sword and a promise. He was the Sword of the Morning, and he let Elia die.  

When Merian stood, she appeared ever the lady. But when they had turned to follow the servant boy to lead them to Elia, she spared Arthur the briefest of glances. It was so brief; one might have missed it. However, Arthur was a very observant man.  

And in that brief look that Merian Hightower had given him, her eyes had held nothing but pure loathing.

Chapter Text

While the prospect of sharing a meal with the Hightowers should not have seemed daunting, Arthur found that he was feeling less than enthusiastic. It may not have been political in nature, but as with all affairs concerning nobility, it was certain to hold some weight. 

Rhaegar was the charmer, the tactician when it came to dealing with people. Arthur could get away with standing to the side, offering a nod and a short response before giving an excuse to disappear. He was not a complicated man. Rather, he liked to think he was quite simple. Too simple, his brother used to say. 

He kept a good training regimen, ate enough to sustain him with the occasional sweet indulgence, read enough to have a good head on his shoulders, and tried to steer clear of any trouble that did not concern his duties. 

Aged two and twenty, he was the youngest of his sworn brothers, but the Old Bull himself had once said that he had more to worry about from Oswell and Lewyn than Arthur. Speaking of the Old Bull, he had been lingering as of late. Whether or not the man had noticed was up for debate. 

It had been strange, sensing the Lord Commander’s presence from over his shoulder. The older man had never hovered, trusting Arthur’s integrity and skill. He had chalked it up to the fact that he had accompanied Rhaegar to the Hightower manse the second time around instead.  

While it was hard for him to imagine their staunch and grey Lord Commander in any other role, he supposed that the man still held his familial ties close to his heart in some way. There was concern in his eyes when he regaled him with the story of his kin’s encounter with the Brotherhood. A quiet fury had simmered in his words when he spoke of the injury that had befallen his grand-niece. 

Seeing her again had been odd. He’d expected her to offer him the same treatment that he had been subjected to in the Water Gardens. In the library, she’d been nothing but polite smiles and sparse remarks, speaking in an arid tone that was grating to his ears. It reminded him of how people in King’s Landing would talk to him as a squire, like he was the prince’s pet. 

Somehow, that was worse than her outright disdain. 

Nevertheless, he chose to ignore the strangeness of it all. Whatever preconceived notions she had about him were no doubt from his sister, and he could not argue against whatever picture she might have painted for her. They had parted on good terms, but there was still much left unresolved between them.  

Merian Hightower’s obvious dislike for him was something he could live with. As long as he could make amends with Ashara, Arthur chose not to dwell on the matter for too long.  

He did not account for just how awkward things would be in the meantime. 

Baelor Hightower had taken to sitting directly opposite the prince, which left his sister in-between them. Arthur had been happy to stand, but Rhaegar had insisted that he take a seat as well (a pleading look flashing across his face), putting him directly in her path. 

Her hair was pulled back into a most severe-looking braid, and he thought the skin of her face must have been screaming in protest. Her expression was mildly pinched as she gingerly sipped on her tea, exchanging glances with her brother.  

The other man appeared at ease in his seat, offering his thanks to the servants as they brought out their luncheon. Arthur had met with the elder Hightower on occasion, but he had never made any proper acquaintance with him beyond light conversation. 

Clearing his throat, he shot a look at his friend, indicating that now was as good a time as any to clear the thickness in the air. Rhaegar smiled tightly, taking a breath before he spoke. 

“What a lovely assortment of dishes your cook has prepared.” 

Merian’s cup was raised halfway to her lips, and the sound of his voice made her pause. Her eyes flitted towards her brother, who received the compliment with a gracious smile. 

“My thanks, your grace. Our cook has been with us for many a year, I dare say there is not a dish within the Seven Kingdoms she cannot make.” Baelor beamed, and Merian nodded along with him, content to take another sip from her cup. 

Rhaegar’s shoulders relaxed. “I imagine that to be true. You’ve many siblings, I hear. Cooking for them all must have been a small challenge.” 

“I’ve nine siblings, your grace. Though our stepmother remains in Oldtown with another on the way, and we are all making bets on whether it will be a boy or girl.” He seemed eager to share more, but paused to look at his sister, waiting for her to add to the conversation. 

A look of understanding passed between them. For the first time since they had been sat, she set down her cup and spoke, “I think it will be another boy.” 

There it was again, that airy voice. A tick of agitation shot through Arthur momentarily, but it vanished as soon as he remembered the ridiculousness of the situation. He was here to watch over Rhaegar, and more or less act as a beacon of support. 

Lady Merian was no more than a young girl who was no doubt following the words of his own sister. Perhaps to her, she was doing Ashara a service by extending as little courtesy towards him as possible. Arthur could not fault her for her loyalty, and a part of him felt glad that his sister would have such a friend once they were in Dragonstone. 

Baelor chuckled, and Merian rolled her eyes. “She speaks as though she already knows it, but I am certain we are to have another sister.”  

Scoffing, she once again took another sip of her tea, muttering under her breath about how she would be proven right soon enough. Her brother did not seem to mind, taking the opportunity to dig into his plate. 

It was a most familial interaction, and Arthur found himself wondering if all the Hightower children were just as close. A look of longing found its way onto Rhaegar’s face. Just how many siblings would he have had by now if his mother’s pregnancies and babes survived? Before Arthur, his childhood had been solitary, despite the efforts of his mother and the presence of his nursemaids and manservants. 

Shaking off the creeping sadness in the back of his mind, he remembered his initial purpose behind the luncheon and proceeded to ask questions. 

What is the princess’ preference in colours? 

She is very fond of oranges and reds, and of course the softest of colours akin to spring flowers.  

How does she like her wine? 

Princess Elia adores a classic Dornish red, but occasionally she will want something sweeter on the tongue. 

With every answer she gave, Arthur could see a genuine smile make its way upon her face. Her words came rapidly as she spoke of the princess, each response garnering a longer answer than the last. In place of her reserved mannerisms earlier in the day, her voice was warm and her eyes alight. 

By the end of the luncheon, she and the prince had maintained a steady stream of conversation (without much interference on his part, for which he was thankful). Eventually, it came to his attention that they needed to return, as the king would be questioning their whereabouts once more.  

Adjusting his cloak, Rhaegar asked if he might call upon them again the next day. 

Baelor’s eyes met his own, a brilliant light green. “If it pleases you, your grace.” 

“Actually,” Merian interjected, her eyes wide, “I’m afraid I will be occupied during luncheon tomorrow. My apologies, your grace.” She dipped her head apologetically.  

Rhaegar offered a smile, quietly exhaling in relief (a small detail Arthur had become accustomed to seeing). “Oh, well that is alright, my lady. I have been most presumptuous with your time.” His eyes flitted towards her brother. “Yours as well, ser.” 

Baelor’s jaw clenched momentarily, and he offered another one of his famous smiles. “All is well, Prince Rhaegar. Perhaps we could speak again when my father arrives in the city.” 

A look of contemplation flickered in the prince’s eyes, and he nodded thoughtfully. “Until then. Now, we must bid you farewell and thanks for your hospitality.” 

Standing to accompany him, Arthur gave his thanks as well. As he turned to follow Rhaegar, his eyes quickly darted over the pair of Hightowers. With their backs turned, they failed to see Baelor’s smile begin to fade, and the polite expression drop from Merian’s face. 

-- 

Once they were in the comfort of their small library, Baelor sank into the cushions of a nearby chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 

Moving to stand behind him, Merian took care to move his hair out of his eyes. Slowly combing through his brown locks, she saw a telltale wrinkle form in-between his brows. She softly ran her thumb over it, and Baelor let out a breath, relaxing his face. 

“Why did you insist they come today?” 

Keeping his eyes closed, he answered, “I thought it best to get it out of the way.” 

“And what about inviting them for tomorrow’s luncheon as well?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I was a bit too eager.” 

She remained silent for a moment, thinking of what to say. “You do not have to torture yourself. At least, not like this.” 

He blinked up at her, his expression rather glum. 

“I think of it less as torture and more like making amends. He will be king one day, Merian, just as I will take father’s place as Lord Hightower. The past is past and there’s nothing we can do to change it.” Her fingers stilled, and guilt seared through her.  

“And speaking of luncheon, are you truly occupied tomorrow? Or was it just a ruse to protect me from my foolishness?” he quirked a brow up at her, his words teasing. 

She smiled down at him. “It is true. Earlier yesterday I received an invitation from Lord Tully.” 

Baelor sat up, shooting her an impressed look. “Lord Tully? Does he mean to interrogate you?” 

She lightly hit him on the shoulder. “No. At least I hope not. But it did take a great deal of persuading for him to accept my offer, so I should hope that he is not having second thoughts.” 

“Well, you can hardly fault the man. His daughter is young and not even half as worldly as you are, Merian.” 

“His reasons aside, I must make a good impression. If he cannot put his faith in me then he just might risk offending Elia by taking his daughter back to the Riverlands.” She drifted off, a familiar faraway look in her eyes. Baelor knew his sister well, and by now she must have been contemplating all sorts of bizarre scenarios in her head.  

Rising from his seat, he moved to maneuver her onto the still-warm cushions, breaking her train of thought. “Enough thinking for now. I think we are in dire need of sweet cakes.” 

Pushing down her growing pit of worry, Merian agreed. 

Chapter Text

The ravens from Oldtown started arriving nearly a year ago. Catelyn had noticed, of course, and she’d been intrigued. As Lord Paramount of the Trident, their father often received ravens from all corners of Westeros, but never before had such an influx of letters from Oldtown arrived in steady succession. Perhaps their father was planning another betrothal for her sister, a match that would be on par with the Lannisters. 

Lysa had wrinkled her nose at the thought. It had been terribly embarrassing, being ignored by the Lannister boy, but she could understand why a squire his age would be more enamored by her Blackfish uncle than her.  

Baelor Hightower, as she recalled, was a man grown. She’d last seen him at a Blackwood tourney some years back, jousting and swinging his sword in the melee. He made a rather pretty sight, and even Catelyn blushed when he threw his signature smile in their direction. 

By now he was well past the age of twenty, still unmarried, with a friendly reputation unmarred by whispers of whores and debauchery. Rich, tall, and chivalrous like a knight from a song, Lysa concluded that there had to be something terribly wrong with him. 

Upon confiding in Petyr, she had learned that there were rumors of a long-held love for the Dornish princess Elia Martell.  

“Really?” 

“Oh yes. They say that she spurned him, and he travelled all the way to Dorne to win back her hand. I heard about it from a pair of hedge knights.” 

It was terribly tragic, but delightfully romantic. 

So she contemplated what it would be like living in the High Tower in Oldtown. It would not be so bad, living in the Reach. She had accompanied their father on a handful of visits, and had quite enjoyed the abundance of flowers and festivities. However, she was not overtly fond of the idea of living so close to the Citadel. Lysa followed the Seven, but in comparison to her sister she knew her faith and piety fell short. 

Before she could dwell too long on the matter, her father had called her into his solar. As it turns out, he was not, in fact, arranging a betrothal for her.  

Petyr had neglected to tell her the tale of Baelor’s younger sister, the peculiar second daughter of Lord Leyton’s still-growing brood (her jaw had dropped in a most unladylike manner when their maester had informed her there were currently ten of them). A Hightower and a Martell striking a friendship was strange, to say the least. And apparently, Princess Elia had entrusted Merian Hightower with the task of finding ladies for her. 

She’d been caught off guard. A lady to the Dornish princess?  

“Why has she not asked Cat?” 

Her father ran a tired hand down his face, assessing the various letters scattered across his desk. “Lady Merian has taken into consideration that your sister is of age and already betrothed. Her responsibilities tie her here, Lysa.” 

She felt a pit form in her stomach. Of course, Catelyn was needed. Their father always needed her for something. Despite her only being two years older, it seemed like they were decades apart sometimes. 

“Surely, you cannot be thinking of accepting?” 

Hoster hesitated. “I was hesitant, but Lady Merian was most convincing. It is also good opportunity for you.” 

Her heart sank, realizing the weight of her father’s words. Of course, in time, she would have had to leave Riverrun. It was the fate of all noble daughters to marry well and start families of their own, after all. But at three and ten, Lysa had thought she would be able to stay for longer. Better yet, she imagined that if she could truly win over Petyr, her father would let them stay together or give them an estate to rule over. 

Seeing his daughter’s panicked expression, Hoster attempted to reassure her. “Lysa-” 

“Is her brother not always embroiled in some sort of scandal? How am I to uphold my reputation if I am to serve his sister-” 

“Princess Elia’s brother is no doubt an unfortunate stain upon the Martell name, but I cannot say that she is anything like him. Lady Merian has reassured me that you will be protected and cared for just as much as if you were to remain here.” 

Her words of protest died down in her throat, and she nearly felt sick. Decidedly, marrying Baelor Hightower would be a much better outcome than this new arrangement.  

Petyr had tried consoling her, reassuring her that it was a great honour, the same words Catelyn had used, and Lysa had banished her from her rooms for it. In a rare moment, she shrugged him off and went to find her uncle. 

In light of the news of her new position, everyone seemed to be intent on telling her how to feel rather than understanding why she felt so despondent. Brynden always listened to her. 

“I am sorry to see you so distressed.” He handed her a dry square of cloth; her own handkerchief already soaked through with her tears. “But Lysa, you must understand that we are all called into some form of service to our house. I am a knight, and I give my sword and my life to protecting our family, protecting your father.” 

She sniffled, dabbing at her eyes. “But you wanted to be a knight, you chose it! I do not want to go away and live with strangers to serve like a handmaid.” It was a silly excuse, and brazenly petulant, but she could not help the sobs that escaped her. 

“Oh, Lysa.” He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will not soften my words, but I will not be cruel. All your life, you have been sheltered away from the realities of the world. Now that you have been presented with a challenge, you are afraid. 

“Fear makes you buckle at the knees like a newborn fawn, but it can also give you the strength of a bull. Fifty years from now they might say that Queen Elia looked favourably upon the Riverlands because of your friendship. Either that, or it will be written by the maesters of the Citadel that we shunned the queen and fell out of favour.” 

Lysa chewed on her lip, taking in her uncle’s words. Perhaps Catelyn would have said the exact same thing, had she not told her to leave her alone. But the words of her uncle were always gentler and less chastising. 

His eyes crinkled as he gave her a comforting smile. “I understand your unwillingness, but eventually we all must make sacrifices. I do hope you haven’t forgotten our family words?” 

Wiping away at her nose, she shook her head. “Family, duty, honour.” 

Moons passed, and she tried not to make too much of a fuss, her uncle’s words in the back of her mind. Soon the time came for them to journey to King’s Landing, and Lysa had said her goodbyes to Riverrun for the last time. 

Now, she knelt in the Great Sept of Baelor. 

With her hands clasped in prayer, she peeked over to the stranger beside her. Truly, the word stranger was not quite the way to describe her, but no other word would have been satisfactory. 

Upon her father’s advice, she had started writing to Lady Merian. Their correspondence was always kept short, but her letters always remained polite. That did nothing to help Lysa gauge any part of her character. Regretfully, she painted a rather unflattering picture of her in her head. 

To be tasked with finding noble ladies for the princess, she imagined her to be like a hunting dog. Tall and domineering, she would the kind of girl who would linger to look over your shoulder and point out the crookedness in your embroidery stitches. She would be polite in front of company, but her smile would be too tight and her expression too pinched. Like a septa. 

The girl beside her was surely not that. 

Indeed, she was tall, taller than even her lord father. Her steps had been light like a dancers, and her smile slightly shy. Catelyn had been pleasantly surprised, but Lysa had only despaired. 

Lady Merian’s words came out breathy and hushed, and that made Lysa want to claw at her own ears. Her father did not seem to mind, and he was keen on making conversation. Lysa had felt small, seated between her father and her sister; their uncle had gone off on some task that excused his absence.. 

She could not even say that she was wholly ignored, for she had been roped into the discussion multiple times. And with every answer she gave, she was met with the unnerving attention of Lady Merian’s powdery blue stare. Perhaps it was the overall roundness of her eyes that made her want to squirm, because Lysa was not used to being watched with such intensity.  

And now, she knelt, trying to will a prayer to mind. She had lit candles for her mother and lost siblings, whispering their names into the dark, but as she tried to pray, she found that her mind was rather preoccupied. 

In the flickering candlelight, the older girl appeared solemn. Earlier in the day, she had been sat at the edge of her seat, so ready to talk and chatter and indulge in a jape or two. It should have been slightly undignified, but Lysa found that she could not help but smile at some of the things she said. 

Now, her face was still. Lysa thought she looked impossibly pretty with her face framed by her simple, blue veil. She wondered just who or what she was praying for. 

“I do hope we can be friends, Lady Lysa.” Her voice was quiet, and the younger girl nearly jumped out of her skin. Merian’s eyes remained closed; her long fingers still clasped together tightly. 

Looking down at the candles in front of her, she remembered her uncle’s words, as clear as the day he spoke to her.  

Am I to be a fawn or a bull?  

Befriending the Dornish princess seemed like a difficult task, and the teachings of her septa rang through her memory like a warning. But, she supposed, if a daughter of House Hightower could befriend the princess, then Lysa could try. 

“I think—that would be nice.” 

-- 

Gerold felt uneasy.  

Barristan had assured him that he would take care of things while he slipped away, but even then, the Old Bull still worried. He’d had complete trust in the man and had long ago decided that if he were to die then Barristan would be the one to assume his position. 

It was just so unlike him to leave his post in the middle of the day.  

The plot had been concocted by none other than Rhaegar himself. He had wanted to go out into the city again, his harp in hand. But strangely, he had requested his company alongside Ser Barristan’s. 

Gerold had joined the prince on his ventures throughout the city many times, but in recent years it was usually Barristan or Arthur whom he took when he felt like performing. He should have suspected his ruse when they deviated routes from his usual spots at the Hook and along the Street of Seeds. 

They did not stray from the more pleasant areas of the city, so when Gerold figured out where they were going, it had been too late for him to object. 

“My prince, I cannot leave you unattended.” 

Barristan coughed, his lips pressing into a thin line.  

Rhaegar laughed lightheartedly. “I assure you, Ser Gerold, I will be well protected. I know that you have been wanting to visit your family, so I thought to make things easier for you.” 

“That is kind, my prince, but I have a duty-” 

“Yes, of course, you and your duties. I will be perfectly safe and under the watch of Ser Barristan. We will make our way to the Sept of Baelor, and you can meet us there when you are finished.” And without another word the prince shot him a wink, and they left. 

Winding through the alleyways and streets between the manses, Gerold found himself before the familiar building he had visited weeks earlier. A servant came out to meet him and ushered him inside. 

“Lord Baelor will be just a moment, Ser.” The manservant bowed his head. 

Nodding, Gerold refused the seat offered to him and opted to stand. He had been led to his nephew’s solar (technically his great-nephew's for the time being until his father arrived in the city) and waited patiently. 

“Uncle!” Baelor exclaimed; his arms wide open as if to embrace him. Remembering himself, he reaached out a friendly hand instead. It was remarkable, just how much he looked like Leyton, Gerold thought. He was neatly dressed in a white tunic; his boots were clean, and his bruises long faded. 

Clasping his hand, Gerold smiled. “Baelor, it is good to see you.” 

“I’m certainly in a much better state than last time!” The younger man laughed. “What brings you here today?” 

He stalled momentarily, thinking of what to say. I was given permission to shirk off my responsibilities? Rhaegar had told him about what had happened yesterday, so he thought it was best not to mention the prince. 

“I had some spare time today, and I thought to see how you were doing.” 

Baelor nodded thoughtfully. “That is kind of you. I am well. Though I am sorry to say that you missed Merian, she went out for luncheon. I’m sure she will be back soon, if you were wanting to speak with her.” 

Ah, yes, his great-niece. He’d last seen her when she was a babe, still clinging to her mother. Over the years, his nephew had painted a rather interesting picture of her. At first, he’d been afraid of her dying like the babe before her. Then, he had reluctantly hinted that her wits might not have been all there. Things began taking a wild turn when he began hearing of her peculiar obsession with stories and travelling to Dorne. 

He’d thought her to be willful and free-spirited. Her long-held love for stories and songs had made him think of his long-dead brother and the memories of their childhood. He, too, had enjoyed fantastical tales, and had always had an appetite for pleasure where he could find it. 

Seeing her in person had been surprising. Dressed in a rather old-fashioned and conservative manner, she was lacking in jewels and gold and silver. Despite this, she was truly a pretty girl, a classic Hightower beauty; he could see why his nephew’s concerns had gradually shifted in recent years. 

“That is alright. I am not sure if I will be able to stay for much longer, but please give her my well wishes.” 

“Of course. The life of Lord Commander must surely keep you busy.” 

I should be busy right now, guarding the prince.  

“It is my duty, nephew. But, whilst I have the chance, I would like to ask how your father is doing?” 

“Oh, father is the same as ever-” 

Just then, the door banged open, a hooded figure entering with a servant boy trailing after him. 

On instinct, Gerold drew his sword, ready to fight off a would-be intruder. Baelor, without a weapon, drew a firepoker from the fireplace and pointed it right at the stranger. 

The servant boy paled, sweat dripping from his brow. Before he could speak, the intruder drew back his hood, laughing as he did so. Baelor stiffened, straightening to his full height and dropping his weapon.  

“Oberyn.” His voice was gruff before he cleared his throat. “What in the seven hells are you doing here?” 

Sheathing his sword, Gerold looked between the two men and narrowed his eyes. The stranger was clearly Dornish, his dark eyes lighting up at the scene in front of him. Oberyn, Gerold thought. That was the name of Princess Elia’s famously infamous brother. He’d last seen the man a couple of years back, when he had left the Citadel.  

As if reading his mind, the man offered a grand flourish of his hands before bowing. “Why, I thought to pay you a visit, old friend. But it appears someone else has beaten me to it.” He looked directly at Gerold, assessing his kingsguard attire. 

Brushing off his intial shock, Baelor quickly introduced him. “This is my great uncle, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Uncle, this is Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of House Martell.” 

Waving his hand, Oberyn scoffed. “There is no need to be so formal, Ser.” He extended an arm out to the older man, a playful smile upon his lips. Gerold supposed there was some sort of joke on the prince’s mind, but he decided to disregard it before clasping his hand. 

“Well met, Prince Oberyn.” 

“Well met, Ser Gerold.” 

His grip was something fierce, and Gerold tightened his own in response. After an uncomfortable amount of time passed, the two broke apart and Baelor spoke. 

“There was no need to give us such a fright, we have a front door, you know.” 

“Bah! Doors are no fun. Besides, I must keep you on your toes, lest you grow idle.” 

Oberyn gave him a grin, and Baelor returned it with a half-smile. It was a familiar interaction, but not entirely friendly, Gerold noted. 

“Well, now that you have tested me, would it be too much to ask you to sit down? Or have you any other people to pounce on later today?” 

Oberyn tapped a finger to his cheek, feigning a look of contemplation. “No. You were the only one.” Sauntering over to a chair in the corner, Gerold watched him closely, eyeing the relaxed lines of his shoulders. If his reputation preceded him, he was hiding the body of a trained warrior underneath his cloak. 

The air grew thick, and Gerold decided it was time for him to leave. Adjusting his own cloak, he moved to speak when another servant boy entered the room. This one was scrawnier than the other, his expression even more sheepish. 

“M’lord, the lady has returned.” 

Baelor’s eyes darted towards the prince, any remnants of his smile dropping. Gerold felt his brow furrow, considering the implication. Oberyn simply grinned, slow, and broad like a cat. 

“Lady Merian has returned, you say?” He rose from his seat, unclasping his cloak to reveal a bronze-coloured Dornish-style tunic that revealed far too much chest for Gerold’s liking. “We must welcome her back!”  

Baelor was hot on the prince’s heels as he practically skipped out the door. Gerold followed close behind, hoping that his suspicions were not true. Many a girl had surely fallen victim to the silver-tongued, sure-footed Dornishman, but he dared pray that Merian was not one of them. 

Standing in the entryway, Merian was still in the process of removing her cloak when Oberyn all but accosted her, an easy smile on his face. 

Her eyes went wide, and her perpetually blushed cheeks flushed even deeper when she truly looked at him. 

“Oh my—Oberyn?” Her voice was unsure, her eyes still grasping the sight in front of her. Flourishing his hands once more, Oberyn brought her limp fingers to his lips, brushing over them for far longer than Gerold and Baelor were comfortable with. 

“Sweet Lady Merian, how good it is to see you again.” His accent hugged his words in a most sensual manner, and Merian’s mouth hung open, taken aback. 

Swooping in-between them, Baelor wrapped an arm around her shoulders, moving her a couple of steps back. “Yes, it's so good to have you back, Merian. How was luncheon?” His words were hurried, and his eyes a little too panicked. 

“Oh, it went well. We went to go visit the sept before parting ways.” She looked up at her brother, then back to Oberyn, and then her brother once more. 

Gerold shifted his feet, and her stupor was broken between the two men. She gasped before slapping a hand over her mouth. “Is that-” Baelor nodded. “Uncle! You are also here!” 

Shaking off her brother’s arm, she made her way to him, pausing a short distance away. She truly resembled his brother, Gerold noticed. Curly tendrils of pale Hightower hair peeked out from under her veil. Her features were a combination of soft and angular; some clearly inherited from her late mother while others were distinctly all Leyton.  

Extending her arm out, Gerold moved to offer her a chaste (and appropriate) kiss to her hand but found that he was holding her arm like he did the prince’s. 

Releasing him from her grasp, Merian assessed him at arm's length, offering him a shaky smile that showed too many teeth. Stepping back, she took in the sight in front of her once more, the four of them standing in complete silence. 

Her heart was beating far too fast in her chest, and the absolute strangeness of the situation began to make her head spin. “I’m afraid I am very tired and must retire to my chambers.” She glanced between the three of them, offering a small curtsy before brusquely making her way up the stairs. Her silken skirts rustled as she hurried up the steps at an impressive speed. 

“I, too, must make my way back.” Gerold spoke, still recovering from the fact that he had greeted his great-niece like he would a man-at-arms. 

Baelor nodded in agreement. “Yes, of course, I would not keep you.” 

Taking it as his cue, Oberyn spoke up. “I, too, have some errands to run in the city.” Shooting out faster than lightning, Baelor’s hand weighed heavily on Oberyn’s shoulder. While he might have been quicker and more agile, the other man had a good deal more height and muscle over him. 

“Oh no, Prince Oberyn, we have much to discuss.” 

Chapter Text

It took a great amount of restraint to refrain from manhandling the prince. Baelor was unused to being so irritable, the other man simply had a gift for invoking it within him. His jaw twitched and his shoulders tightened. Only when they were sequestered away in his rooms, away from prying eyes and ears, did he relax the tiniest bit. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, every bit like his lord father that Oberyn remembered. His eyes were piercing rather than friendly, a foreign expression on his usually gentle face. His sweet sister might have still found him charming. Then again, he doubted that Baelor would ever make such an expression at her. 

“The truth, now. I am under no pretenses that you would go out of your way to conceal your identity to pay me a visit, so do not insult my intelligence by pretending so.” 

The steel in his voice was nearly enough to make him snicker, but he knew there was only a certain amount of goading the knight could handle. He had promised his sister he would be on his best behaviour. Shedding his usual demeanor, Oberyn clasped his hands in front of him. 

“It is true, Ser, that I came with the intention of seeing you. Forgive me for my ill timing, I did not know you would be entertaining the Kingsguard.” There was a certain sneer to the title that made Baelor narrow his eyes. “Perhaps the stink of this city has dulled my senses, I would have returned at a later time if I knew. It is a pity that my sister is to marry in such a place.” 

Baelor shifted, unsure at what the prince was getting at. 

“It is a pity, but I’m sure that the ceremony will be grand enough to distract from the stench.” 

Oberyn smirked, eyes darkening. “Once can imagine. It is only right, as a Princess of Dorne, that my sister is to be married in a ceremony befitting her title. Her ship will arrive soon, did you know that?” 

His chest tightened abruptly at the thought. Two years had passed since they had parted, and in those two years he had neglected to write to her. Granted, she had not written to him either. Merian mentioned her sparingly, when she thought it would not upset him, but she never disclosed anything in great detail. The last time they corresponded directly had been when her mother had died, a little over a year after they left. He'd sent her his condolences, and she'd thanked him in return.

“How soon?” He managed to choke out, hoping that Oberyn would not notice the strain in his voice. 

“Within the week, I presume. The seas have been kind, I have heard.” 

The colour in his cheeks began to drain, and in his toes he felt a familiar sensation. Gods, within the week, meaning a few days at best. She would be in his sight again, and the thought terrified him.  

Pathetically enough, he’d been able to live with the distance between them. The stretch of the sea beyond the ports of Oldtown beckoned his name on occasion. If he dared, he could have sought her out. Bribing a merchant ship or securing his own vessel would be relatively easy. 

But he did not dare. Could not dare, for what it would do to her.  

“Is that all you came here to tell me?” 

Oberyn shook his head, and for the first time since he had known him, he looked almost hesitant. “Actually, I did not come here to tell you anything. Rather, I came here to ask.” 

Baelor quirked his brow. “Ask?” 

“I ask that you join me in escorting her to the castle. She will have her knights and warriors, even your own uncle, to protect her. But truthfully, I think it would mean more for her to see a familiar face.” 

He blinked, unsure what to make of the proposition. Was he mocking him? Baiting him? Oberyn’s dark brown eyes were unyielding; his lips held together in a firm line that held no trace of a smile. 

“I am unsure if you could call my face familiar. It has been some time since we last met.” 

Oberyn clasped his shoulder, holding him steady as if he meant to run away at any second. “She bears you no ill will, Baelor.” The use of his actual name unsettled him. “Despite your absence, she has not forgotten you, and I know you have not forgotten her.” 

Brushing him off, Baelor began to pace about the room. “Even if it is so, I do not believe I should be the one to greet her.” 

“Well, of course you will not be the only one there. That would be quite scandalous.” 

Turning on him, he glared. “If it is scandal you want to avoid, then I suggest you take your leave at once and rescind your offer.” His words were slightly heated, and Oberyn realized that if he was not careful with his words, he could very well be fanning the fire. 

“Oh stop, it was joke. I mean no harm, Baelor, truly. I want my sister to know she has friends in this city. The moment she steps foot into that damned Keep she will be surrounded by venomous snakes, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. I am only regretful of the life I have lived because it will not allow me to stay by her side. My presence alone would put her under suspicion and threaten her place by Rhaegar’s side. I have never been one to set aside my desires, but for my family I will fight until my last breath if it means keeping them safe.” 

“You’re better off talking to my sisters than you are to me.” 

“Damn you!” Oberyn shouted, marching up to the other man, grasping the collar of his tunic. “I don’t care for your discomfort, Ser, I care for my sister! After the festivities are over, when the singers disappear, and the lords and ladies return back to their seats, my sister will be left alone. A Martell queen is hard to accept, and with him on the throne, it will be even worse.” 

His knuckles were nearly white, pulling roughly at the fabric. “I cannot change what has happened, and my sister is far too gracious to ever hold it against me.” His chest heaved, the weight of his words finally sinking in. Loosening his grip, he stepped back. “But I know she hurts, no matter how well she hides it. If she saw you before the wedding, even just for a moment, it would be good. So, please, do me this favour.” 

His throat felt like it was constricting itself, forcing down the words he’d wanted to say.  

Do me this favour. 

Asking him, pleading with him to do this. For what? Penance? Was it guilt or genuine remorse? The prince would never admit such a thing to him. Of course, Oberyn wasn’t entirely incapable of such feelings, but Baelor had never imagined this. 

In Dorne, he had cursed him, and on the ship bound for Oldtown, he had dreamed of burying him alive in sand. He did not know himself to be capable of such unpleasant thoughts, and though the years had calmed him down, in that moment he felt his long-dormant anger rising to the surface. Not wanting to do anything regretful, Baelor took a long, deep breath.  

Closing his eyes, he recalled the pleasant memories he’d made in Dorne. Elia’s figure, surrounded by a halo of gold from the sunset on one of the balconies of the Water Gardens. Her smile was gentle, her words so sweet. Playfully chasing her in the halls like they were children, her curls slipped through his grasp like water. It did not matter, in the end, because she always found her way into his arms. 

Once, he thought he would have been able to keep her there forever. 

He hung his head, silent for a moment. Turning to open the door, he paused before speaking. “Send for me when the time comes. I will be there.” 

Chapter Text

“Did he have the breath of an ogre?” Denyse asked, leaning over her shoulder. Leyla sat on a pile of cushions thrown onto the floor, eyes shining with identical curiosity. It was well past their bedtime, but the twins had managed to slip out of their rooms and find their way to Merian and Alerie’s shared chambers.  

Readjusting the knot of her silken scarf wrapped around her head, Merian considered her answer. They had been adamant about squeezing out every last detail of her encounter with the wood's bandits, but their father had quickly put a stop to all talk of it at the dinner table. 

He’d given her and Baelor a stern talking to earlier in the day, and she dreaded his foul mood taking over once more. While her brother could remain stoic in the face of their father’s anger, the shame within her would be enough to send her keeling. 

To keep the peace, she had promised to tell them another time. Apparently to them, that meant later that night. They had found their way to her chambers and refused to leave until they were satisfied. 

Turning in her seat, she pulled her sister onto her lap. At eleven years old, they measured smaller than most children their age. While they were still young, Merian thought they might grow to resemble their mother more in the future. With rounded faces and golden-brown eyes, the girls bore all of her best traits. Denyse shared her outgoing personality, while Leyla retained her musical talent. 

Lady Jeyne Ashford had been much smaller in stature compared to their father, but her heart must have been double the usual size. She’d treated Baelor and her sisters like they were her own blood. Even when Merian had taken to hiding away from the rest of the world, Lady Jeyne had taken the time to sit with her in silence and comfort her after her night terrors. 

Alerie groaned, sprawled on her side of the bed with a pillow over her face. “Oh, hurry up and be done with it! I shall lose out on sleep and make a fool of myself at court tomorrow if you don’t.” The twins snickered, and Merian would have laughed if the situation did not make her stomach turn.  

Their father, as always, wasted no time and had arranged for them all to present themselves at court on the morrow. She shuddered to think of the possibility that anything could go wrong. 

“Alright, alright. I will oblige you. Only if you promise to go to sleep right after.” The twins shared a look that spoke of mischief, but they both nodded and eagerly waited for her to begin. 

Clearing her throat, she began her tale. “The bandit who drew his sword against me didn’t have the breath of an ogre exactly, but it certainly was something foul.” Leyla wrinkled her nose while Denyse giggled. Alerie did not stir underneath her pillow, but from the rise and fall of her chest Merian knew she was still awake. 

“The group of them managed to separate us from the knights. It might’ve only been a moment, but it felt like an eternity. So, there I was, horseless and dirty, surrounded by these goblin-like creatures that called themselves men.” She wriggled her fingers in Denyse’s face, and she scrambled off her lap to join her twin on the cushioned floor, giggling. 

“Baelor drew his sword, striking to his left—or perhaps it was his right; I cannot recall at the moment. Never mind that. His sword struck true! He urged me to run and find the knights, to make way for the city! So, I ran. Not very far, but far enough to see just how many there were. 

“Everything was a blur, but it became clear that he was sorely outnumbered. I figured two Hightowers would be better than just one. I scrambled—searching for anything I could use as a weapon.” 

“What did you find, Meri? Father refused to tell us anything!” Denyse leaned forward, eager for more. Leyla clutched at a pillow, burying herself deeper into the floor. Alerie now sat up, enraptured by the story. 

“Well, as you all know, I am terrible with anything arrow-like-” 

“Ser Raymond would certainly agree.” Alerie quipped.  

Merian felt her face warm at the memory. Once, she had pestered Ser Raymond into letting her shoot with a real bow rather than a training one. Their master-of-arms had been hesitant to comply, and his fears were soon proven true. By accident, she had nearly shot clean through his bollocks from a distance. 

She coughed. “My point remains. I rummaged about the bush and shrubbery, desperate for anything. When all hope seemed lost, I found it!” She paused dramatically, soaking in how her sisters all leaned a little closer. “A rock! Not just any old thing, but a sizeable weapon that would serve me well. 

“I picked it up, quietly made my way back, and hid. Two bandits were on the ground, but three were still advancing. He parried with a pair of them, unaware of the ambush awaiting him from behind. In that moment, I jumped out and bashed him over the head like he was an egg.” 

She beamed, rather proud of the memory, leaving out the grislier details that were unsuited for the twins’ ears. The three girls stared at her, eyes wide. 

“How did you break your finger?” Alerie asked, glancing at the bandaged appendage. 

“Well, I flattened it out between his head and the rock. I didn’t even feel it hurting until after we made it into the city. But even then, the stench was painful enough.” All of them laughed, missing the more forgiving air of Oldtown. “Eventually, the knights found us, and they were looking much worse for wear. The bandits kept them occupied, but they triumphed in the end. No one was too hurt, and none of the men died. 

“So, there you have it, my tale of heroism. Now it's off to bed with the two of you!” She stood, motioning for the younger girls to shoo off her floor. Linking arms, they made their way to the door, wishing them both a good night before disappearing. 

“Finally!” Alerie collapsed back onto the bed once more. Picking up the cushions from the floor, Merian shook her head and quietly laughed. She was glad it entertained them, even if the actual event itself had left her riddled with nightmares for a week straight.  

Joining her sister on the mattress, she settled underneath the fur throw and turned to face her. 

“Is that all you have to say? No notes for when I tell it to everyone else?” It had become a sort of routine between the two of them. Any story that ‘came to mind’ would be run through Alerie first, and she would offer sound criticism in return. 

She sighed, turning to face her as well. “No notes tonight. Perhaps I;m just tired.” Her hair glowed softly in the candlelight, and Merian reached out to touch a loose strand. It was so unlike her own, silky straight and obedient. Alerie’s hair was pearlescent, so blonde that it could be mistaken as white upon first glance. She’d grown accustomed to braiding and brushing it for her over the years. 

Barely a year apart, there was not a day in her memory when Alerie did not exist. The older servants used to whisper that the greatest gift their mother had left them was each other. 

“The older one is so timid, it's a wonder how she can do anything at all! Everything scares the wits out of that poor girl.” 

“Thank the gods for Lady Alerie, then.” 

“But what does she get out of it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen them do anything but sew and read.” 

“Well, it’s not our place to question that, now, is it? Lady Merian causes us no trouble, so I see no reason to gossip any further.” 

“I can’t imagine someone as powerful as his Lordship would have much use for a daughter like that. This merchant I once worked for set aside his wife for giving him a lame son. I don’t know what happened to the boy afterwards.” 

“Watch your tongue. His Lordship is leagues above a mere merchant. You haven’t been here long enough, but he’s fair, and I can go about my work without worrying about him sending for me after dark.” 

“If he is as you describe him, then I suppose his daughters will be alright.” 

“Besides, Lady Alerie would be most displeased if anything were to happen to her sister.” 

“I’m sorry if I worried you all.”  

Alerie paused, reaching out to touch her bandaged finger. “Just don’t go off doing anything heroic tomorrow. I’m starting to think if I turn my back, you’ll find yourself riding in a joust.” 

“Hmm, jousting has never been a keen interest of mine. I was actually thinking of joining the melee—ow!” Alerie had playfully swatted her shoulder. 

“You jest far too much.” Her expression softened. “I was nearly bored to tears without you. Good night, Meri.” She turned over, pulling the furs up to her chin. 

Rubbing at her still-stinging skin, Merian reached over to their bedside table to blow out the flame. “Good night, Alerie.” 

-- 

The fabric of her high collar was especially itchy that day. All morning and throughout their short wheelhouse ride to the Red Keep, she’d resisted the urge to rip it clean off her bodice. Alerie was very much the same, uncomfortable in the high-necked, thick fabric. The heavier cloaks they’d brought with them only added to the discomfort.  

Winter would be approaching within the next two years, but the weather in Oldtown remained balmy with an occasional breeze. In King’s Landing, there was a slight chill that increased with the winds at a moment’s notice. 

Malora, on the other hand, was handling herself quite well (not taking into account that they’d had to hound her with reminders all morning to ensure they were not late). Her sister rarely ever set foot out of Oldtown, having a taste for familiarity and routine. The image of her cramped in a wheelhouse for weeks on end was nearly impossible to imagine. While it might have been more convenient to travel by ship, it would have driven all her sisters mad and rendered her father’s sanity obsolete. 

The youngest girls had been on their best behaviour that morning as well, something that had unnerved their septa. Usually, Alysanne was prone to some sort of fit or tantrum when made to rise early, which in turn led to Lynesse following her example. Today they had been perfectly well-mannered and eager to finish breaking their fast so they could get dressed.  

“They want to see the Dragon Prince,” Malora whispered to her, sounding amused. 

She’d resisted the urge to roll her eyes again at the memory. Readjusting the cuffs of her sleeves, she scoured the ever-growing crowd in the courtyard. The constant clammer of horses and people made her feel as though her head would explode. Forcing her eyes to scour through the mass of bodies, she tried to single out the bright orange banner of House Ashford.  

“He’s not here.” Alerie noted, disappointed. 

“Maybe he’s just late. Ser Willard sent word that they were nearing the city.” Merian tried to remain hopeful. 

“That could mean just about anything if it's coming from Ser Willard.” Alerie grumbled. The knight was notoriously vague in his letters. 

“There is also the possibility that he is hiding from us.” Malora suggested. The girls shot their older sister a look, contemplating her words. It was not as if their younger brother went out of his way to avoid them entirely; he wrote to them, occasionally. But ever since he’d gone to squire with his mother’s cousin, his letters became sparser and his whereabouts more secretive. 

“I ought to clip him behind the ear if he is. How rude!” Alerie muttered. Merian made a noise of agreement, sweeping over the crowd once more. Upon the realization that people were staring back, she tore her eyes away and concluded that Garth was just not there. 

They had no more time to discuss him further, as their father called for them to straighten up and prepare themselves. It should have been a welcome escape from the unwanted attention, but knowing what awaited them only made things worse. Shuffling forward, Merian felt her heart beat wildly in her chest, blood pounding in her ears. Alerie’s hand found its way into hers, acting like an anchor to prevent her from floating away. 

Shedding their cloaks and handing them off to their servants, they began making their way to the throne room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Her legs nearly threatened to stop working altogether. 

Don’t go, they urged. 

Tightening her hold, she willed herself to move forward, following Malora’s lead. Similar in height, their curls often made them look identical from a distance. Pale in colour, Malora’s locks did not hold subtle shades of gold like Merian’s, neither did it shine quite as silver as Alerie’s. Like straw, it might have been considered plain on another, but it suited her well. 

The differences were noticeable, but it was still possible to confuse them. After some trial and error, the Hightower household had deduced a way to tell them apart. 

Merian’s steps were quick, almost hurried, and surprisingly silent. Her grace as a dancer afforded her the agility to turn at a moment's notice. It did not, however, stop her from occasionally stumbling into objects and tripping over her own feet to avoid colliding with an unsuspecting maid. Malora, on the other hand, floated as if she were a ghost. Slow and steady, never in much of a hurry. The echo of her slippers and soft drag of her skirts would often signal she was near. 

The older girl stood at full height, taking the time to fall in step with their father and brother. Her face must have been perfectly blank, a graceful expression that Merian had often tried to emulate.  

At the risk of sounding vain, Merian found herself envious of her. They were similar, she knew. Cut from the same cloth that allowed them a certain propensity to their ancestors’ magic. Where Malora dabbled in her books and concoctions, Merian dealt with her dreams. 

Her sister’s more aloof and fanciful demeanor was odd to others, but Merian found herself wishing she could be as unburdened and carefree. Malora didn’t stutter and ramble through a conversation; she paused to think before speaking. She made everything look so careful and calculated, even when things did not go her way. Granted, she spent her leisure time measuring herbs and ingredients. The process was painstakingly boring, but her sister found it exhilarating.  

Despite all her practiced charm and carefully crafted persona, Merian couldn’t help but feel like she was lacking. When people looked at her a certain way, she felt afraid, wondering if they could sense all the things about her that were wrong. 

Maybe it was the way she spoke, how she stared too much, or how often she fidgeted in her seat like a restless horse. She could dance with precision and read like a scholar, but the hollow ache within her heart never seemed to fill entirely. The older she got, the bigger it seemed to grow. 

Malora could shirk off the whispers with a shrug of her shoulders and an offhand remark. For Merian, things were not so simple. The words lingered, the looks became etched in her memory, and no matter how nicely she dressed or wore her hair, the little girl inside her would sometimes stare back in the mirror. 

In the darkest corners of her mind, she thought of what it would be like, to regress back to the way she used to be. She’d tasted freedom, however limited it might have been, and it was sweeter than any fruit or flower in all the known world. 

I shall die before I am reduced to such a life again. 

If the price of her freedom was a call to arms, to stop the carnage in her dreams, then she would pick up her sword with every bit of dignity and strength she could afford. Armed with nothing but her wits and willpower, she hoped that it would be enough for the journey ahead. When, or if the time came, she was unsure of where her uncle would side. Dying in the desert had shown his loyalty to the prince. She could not count on his support. 

And Elia, sweet Elia, so kind and innocent. Her friendship had spurred her quest, something only a child could dare to dream. Despite the current turn of events, Merian was nowhere near giving up. To come so far, it would only be pure folly to turn back now. 

Approaching the throne room, she slowly released Alerie’s hand, giving her one last squeeze of reassurance. The age of dragons was long gone, and it would be many a year before they returned. But as the doors were pulled apart, she could have sworn the groan of the hinges sounded like the growl of a beast, a wave of heat washing over her like dragon fire. 

She felt her breath stall at the sight in front of her. 

The Iron Throne was a glittering, melted mass of steel. Swords twisted in every direction, forming a crude staircase that led to the spiked seat. It was hard to distinguish where a blade began and where it ended. Though centuries had passed, the intact blades remained pointed, sharp enough to kill. Perched atop the hulking metal monstrosity like a gargoyle on a stoop, was Aerys Targaryen.  

“Lord Leyton of House Hightower, the Beacon of the South, the Defender of Oldtown, and the Defender of the Citadel!” The crier announced. Their father walked forward, and the rest of them followed, in order, as they had been instructed earlier.  

Tywin Lannister was nowhere to be seen, and she surmised that Aerys had likely orchestrated some task to keep him preoccupied or had insisted on holding court without his Hand present. For years, she had stewed in hatred for him, for what he would do. But she knew that his absence would only enable the king to do as he wished, even if he still retained remnants of his sensibilities. 

“His son and heir, Ser Baelor Hightower! And his daughters, Lady Malora, Lady Merian, Lady Denyse, Lady Leyla, Lady Alysanne, and Lady Lynesse!”  

Once they had made their way to the foot of the throne, they all dipped into gracious bows and curtseys, waiting for the king’s leave to rise. She was a statue. Her skin felt cold like stone, and her body had gone rigid. It felt as though she had not a drop of blood within her. 

“Lord Hightower.” The king drawled. Merian dared not to look up, focusing on the hem of her skirt and keeping herself upright. His voice was raspy, something akin to spoilt milk in the way he spoke her father’s name. He motioned for him to rise, the long sleeves of his robes slipping back to reveal the extent of his taloned nails.  

Leyton rose, the rest of his children following suit. “Your Grace.”  

“So, you’ve come to attend my son’s wedding, and you’ve brought your children with you.” Aerys’ words came out like a sneer, but her father remained stoic as ever. “With so many girls I wonder if you confuse them with one another.” 

Her father might have offered him a genteel smile, something he’d do often when speaking with the maesters and shipmasters, to distract from his growing displeasure. “I understand it may seem that way to others, Your Grace, but I know my children well.”  

“Do you recognize them by which wife they resemble most?” She grit her teeth. It was understandable why people joked about her father, but no one ever dared to say it to his face. “Those three girls, the ones over there. Don’t they look just like—which wife of yours was it now...ah! It was your daughter, wasn’t it, Merryweather?”  

A stout, white-haired man with rosy cheeks shifted on his feet, shuffling into focus apart from the rest of the court. His gold-and-white doublet was embroidered with colourful fruits and flowers, a horn-shaped pin fastening his cloak to his shoulder. He offered the king a simpering smile, eyes flickering over to his granddaughters. She avoided meeting his gaze. 

“Oh yes, Your Grace. They are the very image of my dear Margaery.” His voice dipped ever so slightly at the mention of her mother’s name. Her father remained impassive, and she wondered what was going through his mind.

She hesitantly glanced at the king; holding her breath for what he would say next. After a lengthy silence, he smiled, a twisted look upon his gaunt face. “What a blessing that may be for you. Going through brides in such quick succession, you still manage to obtain a keepsake for every one.” 

Looking closely, there was the faintest tick in her father’s jaw. “It is a blessing, Your Grace.” 

Aerys chuckled, sounding pleased with himself. “I welcome you and your family to King’s Landing. Be sure to keep an eye on all your children; this city can be like a maze at times. It would be a shame for you to lose sight of them, especially your daughters.” 

-- 

The King’s words had set everyone on edge. Even the younger girls clung close, old enough to be unsettled but unsure why. 

Their father had remained silent, Baelor at his side. They mimicked each other’s stances, and on any other day it would have been humorous to point out. Brown-haired and bearded, Baelor’s pensive expression only needed a few more winkles to match their father’s. Merian had figured that they would be travelling back to the manse, but surprisingly, her father had announced that he had business to attend to.  

They could make the journey back with Baelor, or they could wait for him to be done. She had quickly voted that they journey back but was met with surprising opposition from the younger girls. Their encounter with the king now forgotten; they began to protest. 

“Must we go back right away?” 

“Father said we could wait for him!” 

“I haven’t seen the prince yet!” 

“The day is still young!” 

Looking around at her other siblings for support, she found that they were all sporting expressions of exhaustion. Surely, they shared her sentiment. If they had brought septa Elaine with them, she might have resorted to making her the voice of reason. The children must resume their afternoon lessons, my lord. 

“I don’t see why we can’t wait for father to finish.” Baelor spoke. 

She gave him an incredulous look, wondering if she had misheard him. He shrugged, a bashful expression upon his face. Looking to Alerie, the younger girl simply sighed, too tired to put up much of a fight. Malora smiled widely at him, possibly intent on raiding the maester’s personal stores. 

Outnumbered, Merian had reluctantly ceded to their wishes. As they traversed about the castle, clustered close together with their guards in tow; she felt her collar begin to loosen. The further they drifted from the throne room, the easier it was to breathe. From court gossip, she'd learned that Rhaegar was absent, taking his white knight with him. If luck was on her side, she would be free of them for a little while longer.

Seeing the curiosity in her younger sisters’ faces brought a small amount of joy. Baelor and Malora had taken the lead, pointing out every painting and statue they came across. Alerie was by her side, content to walk and not much interested in what the Keep had to offer. 

Merian held no interest in it either, missing the familiarity of the High Tower and the city of Oldtown. It had been easy to push it out of her mind when it had been just her and Baelor, but now that nearly all of them were together again, her homesickness was beginning to dawn on her. She felt silly, being sentimental, as she had long since known about the sacrifices she would have to make. 

Passing through all sorts of halls and doors, the siblings came across an open courtyard. Upon further inspection, it opened to reveal the godswood. Stepping out into the cold once more, they took in the sight of the trees, stretching farther than they initially thought. Their leaves were coloured an array of reds, oranges, yellows, and greens. Despite the season, they remained mostly unshed. 

Venturing further, they came across a great oak in the middle. Its branches were twined in smokeberry vines, casting a large shadow. The sheer size of it made it seem as if the other trees bowed in its direction. While there was no carved face weeping sap, it was clear that this was the heart tree. 

It may not have been as she initially imagined, but the weight of its purpose felt heavy in her chest. Should she have kneeled? That was the custom, so she supposed it might have shown some respect. 

The younger girls ooh’d and ahh’d, taking a moment to observe in silence. While most houses had a sort of godswood, the High Tower had retained only septs for the Seven. There were a few located in Oldtown, but the dominance of the Faith had more or less turned them into defunct places of worship. Once the moment had passed, they ran off into another part of the woods, Baelor following close behind. 

“I thought it would have a face.” Alerie remarked. 

Taking a step forward, Merian approached the tree. “A shame it doesn’t. Though it looks just as mighty, don’t you think?” She called back. Stepping over its large roots, she balanced herself by leaning against the trunk. The grooves of the bark scratched against her palm, and she let out a shaky breath.  

“Meri, are you alright?” Alerie took a step forward, stopping in her tracks as her sister held up a hand. 

“Ah, I’m fine. I think I’d like to stay here a little longer. It's quite nice.” She thought some more, searching for the proper word. “Quiet.” 

“I don’t like this cold. We should go back inside.” 

“Perhaps.” She looked up at the branches, transfixed by the faint flecks of sunlight poking through the density of leaves. “You go on. Come find me when it's time to leave.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure. A couple more minutes outside won’t turn me into a block of ice.” Seeing her sister hesitate, she shot her a smile. “I won’t enlist in any melees while you’re away, I swear. I’ll stay right here.” 

Alerie rolled her eyes. “Alright. I’ll let Baelor know.” With that, she took her leave and was soon out of sight. Merian was left alone. 

She lowered herself, not quite kneeling, but close enough to touch the ground. 

“No man may lie in front of a heart tree.” She murmured to herself. If that were true, then she would have been happy to tell the Old Gods of everything that was troubling her. There was a beautiful simplicity to their religion. She was well-versed in the intricacies of the Faith. Oils and vows, prayers and candles; it was all second nature to recall. 

Her true devotion to any religion had been extinguished long ago. It was comforting to say a prayer for her loved ones, but it was purely symbolic to her. She could not find comfort in any being so far removed from the world. Her faith would be given to something real, something tangible, rather than a statue encrusted with jewels and coated in gold. 

Running her fingers along the exposed root, Merian found herself lost in thought once again. She toyed with the idea of whispering her secrets to the tree. Was it foolish to think that it would do anything? To hope that it would cure her of the ever-looming dread that hung over her since childhood? 

It might have been good for her, to let go of the remaining tension within her body. One did not have to pray to a heart tree, but she was unsure if talking directly to one was a sort of blasphemy. On the contrary, she committed it regularly, kneeling in the sept with no actual prayers in mind. Though, the Old Gods did not have as many rules as the Seven, so surely- 

The snap of a twig rang out like a catapult. 

She gasped, brought out of her daze. So typical of her to lose her bearings over a tree of all things. Depending on how guilty she looked, Alerie would no doubt start making sly quips about nature over dinner, and that would lead to their father asking questions. 

Looking up, her smile dropped at the sight of the stranger. 

“Pardon me, my lady.”