sunlit

introduction

♛ → DORNE present NYSSARIA ANTARYON, the CONSORT of DORNE. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought NONE would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. The THIRTY-FOUR year old WOMAN who was ELOQUENT & VIVACIOUS before they saw the first of the flames, is now DECADENT & SUPERCILIOUS after seeing the last. through the ash, now they struggle to find the sparkle of sunlight on water, dazzling the eye; bells and brocade rustling at her feet & the weight of adornment around neck and wrists instead of the remnants of the war of succession.

.

if only there was a way to take away all of the paint she had, she wished she could in that moment.

“i know it hurts and it is unfair for you to have to bear that pain. but that is why i am here. i’m here to help make it better.” that’s what ophelia wanted for each person she came across, she just wanted to help make it better. there had been patients of hers that she could not completely save. but even those she hoped she at least made everything just the smallest bit better. a simple holding of a hand, or a kind word spoke to them in their last moments. right now, all she wished she could do was to take away the pain of her friend. 

“now the wound is still new so i am not surprised that pain is still there, that’s normal. but with the right treatment we can get it on its way to healing and get you out of the pain you are in.” she said a soft smile on her face. “now, i have to take the bandage off to take a look at it and clean it. i will be as gentle as i can be, i promise.” giving her a moment to prepare herself, ophelia gently began unwrapping the wound.

carefully ophelia began to unwind the bandage from around her arm. her hands working gentle and gracefully as to not disturb the wound anymore than she had to. ‘it’s like your hands are dancing’ her mentor had once told her as she watched her undress a wound. and maybe it was like a dance. soft but precise with her movements, like the beautiful dancers at the wedding. or her mother as she moved graceful across the floor as she taught opehlia how to dance. 

once the old bandage was removed ophelia could see what she was working with. “i have a topical treatment to put on the wound. it might sting for a moment but it will help to dull the pain you are feeling there. i also have milk of the poppy if you would like something stronger afterwards. brace yourself for a moment, yell, curse, scream do whatever you want to do. no holding back because i am here.” giving her another moment to get herself ready ophelia carefully applied the topical cream to the wound as carefully as she could.

⛭

“I know, I know, and I am thankful to have you here,” she said, pressing her eyes shut as though if she couldn't see it, it wouldn't hurt. She could almost feel her own words of gratitude, for she was thankful to Ophelia, for acting in such a quick and timely manner, to save—perhaps her life, she thought, for surely a wound so terrible to look at and great in pain would have killed her were it not for the skilled hands of her young friend. But it was hard to express that gratitude just at the moment; later, she swore, she would find whatever it was that would make Ophelia happiest, be that presents of jewels or a brand new palace or a zorse from Jogos Nhai.

“Alright,” she said, “gently, please.” When the bandage unwrapped, she hissed through her teeth, pressing her eyes shut. She nodded, slow, and braced herself by clenching her free hand in the sheets beside her. None of it helped as Ophelia's ointment met her skin, and she felt a string of curses, half in Braavosi dialects and half in the Common Tongue, escape her before she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Something stronger—I would deeply, deeply, appreciate something stronger, please,” she said, feeling winded and raw from a simple ointment. When she opened her eyes to look at Ophelia, the world seemed brighter, and her eyes sore and blurred. She blinked twice to let the tears fall. Gods. If Myriam or Riyansh could see her now. They would be concerned, of course they would, but they both were skilled with weapons, experienced in battle, if not quite to the same degree. She must look like a child, like Elio sobbing over a simple scraped knee. Pitiful.

who: @riyanshmartell // @golddcst​ where: the hand’s private chambers, sunspear, dorne

.

          A WARM SHADE of orange had basked the room in a glow, and despite the beauty of sunsets Myriam Allyrion would usually take the time to appreciate each evening with a goblet of Dornish wine, this evening was different. The air was typically hot; though it were also hot with the heat of betrayal, of frustration and regret. Only this morning did the guards find the cells of Ryon Blackmont empty, escaping the sentence for treason that would have been bestowed him at dawn.

The nobles gathered in the city of Sunspear continued to reel from the news all day; for a Lord of their own to be leaking the workings and secrets of their inner court to outsiders in exchange for gold was a new experience for the kingdom that had only recently fully opened up to the rest of the world. It was treason; tried and true, and yet the sentence was not able to be passed out due to hesitation.

Vengeance was not a thirst for the woman; she knew the path of vengeance to be a narrow one, for one could never truly find peace until it was too late. Yet, the idea of Blackmont and his personal seer disappearing had installed a silent sense of disappointment within her; within herself, for not taking a closer eye on the situation at hand before it escalated to such a stage. What did this say of the Martells, for their captive to have been able to escape into the dead of the night with the help of a seemingly innocent girl?

She was unusually quiet, sat upon the windowsill and watching the sun sink below the water gardens, thinking how Ryon Blackmont was probably seeing the same sight somewhere in the world. More Martell guards had been ordered by her husband to form a search party for the man and his accomplice; and she watched them make their leave, unit after unit. Silently looking over at Riyansh and Nyssaria, she motioned toward the window, as though informing them of another unit’s departure. 

“Another.” She spoke, lifting her foot to rest upon the seat, the soft sound of ringing momentarily filling the air. “How far will you send them?”

This was not a side of rule that she had had cause to be familiar with, until now. It stung all the worse for having been from one so close; close enough that Nyssaria had considered him as a brother, though Riyansh did not do so, close enough that she and Myriam had considered his prospects and future, nearly played matchmaker.

Who would have thought that Ryon Blackmont would have sold the secrets of his kingdom, his home, for mere gold? It was for Loreza and Aliandra that she felt worse than for herself; how could he do such a thing to his sisters? His own family? The contempt of it had curled into her, worsened by the bitterness of pain that had taken over her body of late, though one had little to do with the other. That he had disappeared, evaded justice as some others had evaded justice, made it all the worse. As such, she heard the news of new and new units of guards leaving the palace to search for the man with a sort of apathy.

Her eyes caught on the jangle of Myriam's anklets before she dragged them up, registering her words. The poppy made her tired, but without it she found herself too sharp, the pain more cumbersome than without. The maesters—and Ophelia, who she trusted twice as well as any maester—had begun to advise her to wean off the poppy, but it was a slow process; at the moment, she was not quite herself, dulled.

“Is that the fourth unit, or fifth?” she asked Myriam, leaning back. So many men; she hoped that he was found soon, before he could do worse to Dorne, to their family. She too looked at Riyansh for his answer, wondering how many guards they could spare.

.

To feel as though one did not belong was a strange thing; especially for a woman like Myriam Allyrion, who had always felt able to slip into each setting she had passed through in her life, all nestled safely within the dunes of Dorne as though it were a cradle in itself. Even when they crossed the Narrow Sea, to the bustling free city of Braavos, she found herself feeling as though she could be just another local merchant, wandering the bustling streets and eyeing the strange customs, new Gods, people. Even though she were a babe found floating along the rivers beyond the confines of Godsgrace in a basket, she still felt at though she had her roots firmly planted in the earth beneath her feet. 

And now? As the Consort prepared her belongings in the run up to her stay in Kingsgrave, to aid the Lady Manwoody with her newest child with her whirlwind of a daughter, Myriam felt as though she knew little of where her place was now meant to be in regards to Sunspear, her family, and her husband. Her face grimacing slightly as she leaned forwards to adjust one of her anklets on her ankles, turning the jewel so it were not scraping against her feet any longer, she silently muttered a curse beneath her dark hair. 

A part of herself felt as though she were admittedly being ridiculous, short tempered and petty as she offered their newest guest anything but a warm welcome - a warmth that the very same guest had become accustomed to in their time across the Narrow Sea. And yet this was not Braavos, this was not a place where she could think of exploration and trying new things; not when there was so much building up. The Targaryens were a constant threat to their realm; and whilst the Dornish had been able to withstand the dragon flame, it did not mean they were not as stressed about such matters. There was also the matter of an heir; though apparently, her husband had already sorted that judging by the woman’s swollen belly. 

“Perhaps one day.” She spoke, looking upon the familiar smile that crossed the woman’s features; as beautiful as she had always been, perhaps even more so. “Though seeing as you now call Sunspear home, judging by your… our, past encounters with my husband, I suspect you will find yourself burdened quite often. After all…” She stopped, indicating toward the woman’s swollen belly. “You’ve stepped up to that responsibility.” 

She understood jealousy. She understood, also, that some things were perhaps not meant to be shared—but joy and love had never been among that list, not for Nyssaria. It was because they had shared their love when they first met that the depth of feelings had grown in Nyssaria—for both of them. And it was this that perplexed her. Surely she had not asked for so very much? What was one to expect of their lovers, be it in one's home or the others'? It was only company, after all, that she desired, and kindness, and the love that they had shared. Not this—hostility.

But Myriam's words brought to mind other difficulties; those that she had scarce considered, when she arrived. That Myriam, having been apart from Riyansh all these years, and with no children yet, might feel jealous of her bearing his child before she herself did. Nyssaria did not see a great difference, when the child would be Riyansh's and Myriam's as well as it would be hers... or so she had hoped and thought of, in the days of her journey here. Of six hands watching over a child—one now, and more later—as it learned to walk and spoke its first words, of shared responsibilities and joys and sorrows.

“Is that it?” she asked abruptly. “Is it that... that you have no child of your own yet?” She finished the question in a lower tone than the first, stepping closer to Myriam, unsure of how much of such a private conversation she would want her girls to hear. "For though I bear this babe, I don't believe any child of Riyansh's would be yours any less than he might be mine. Do you not feel the same way?" Moreover, Myriam was hardly some old crone; her own children would come, now that she and Riyansh were together in one place once again. Nyssaria couldn't imagine that they would not, based on her memories of the passion that was between them.

“Just as your future children shall feel as dear to me as mine,” she finished, smiling with some hope.

Nyssaria hummed. "I suppose this week it must be Riyansh, when he distracted Elio from attempting to climb my back... and the week before that Myriam, as she had had my favourite orange tarts made... I love both, and for whom my love overflows at any moment changes with the tide and the wind, but I would never choose one over the other—it is together that I love them most."

who: nyssaria antaryon @golddcst​ when: 130AC (flasback thread)  where: sunspear’s water gardens, set shortly after nyssaria’s arrival.

the sounds of the flute were just audible over the sound of water flowing in streams between hanging trees of oranges and lemons, as well as the familiar jingling sounds of the amber anklets tied around her ankles. her ladies sung and danced in circles around her, and for a moment, myriam of house allyrion felt as though all the troubles she had carried heavily upon her shoulders had seemingly danced their way from her being. the beginnings of a smile crossed her features as she made out the sullen expression of the seventeen year old joy manwoody, ever a whirlwind, resisting the urge to be pulled into the dance circle. “enough pari; leave her be, lest she swing you straight into the stream.” she called at one of her ladies, her tone teasing. though her voice trailed off as her gaze fell upon the a familiar face; a face she increasingly wished she could forget. 

 their journey to essos to extend trade efforts had meant both riyansh martell and his wife myriam had met nyssaria antaryn of braavos; the trio spending many a day and night together, wondering down braavosi streets and tangled in one another’s beds. it was nothing that was not permissible in dorne; though it were the first time myriam herself ever tried such a thing. soon myriam had returned to dorne alone, to continue their duties in sunspear, with her husband following some years later. all seemed to be returning to some normalcy, with the consort of dorne feeling as though she were getting to know her husband once again in their years apart. that was, until their former paramor, then his, had showed up in sunspear’s court with child; a stark contrast to her own flat stomach, with no children as of yet.  

“enough for this afternoon.” myriam spoke, coming to a stop and turning her back on the approaching woman, clearly looking as though she wished to leave. though she had been granted all the luxuries she could need, myriam was not fond of mixing business and pleasure; for a lover, baring the prince’s child, to show up within her court was a slight she suffered with. 

She had never been prone to flight, beyond those of fancy. There had never been need; for all her years, little in Braavos could have left her greatest wishes unfulfilled. But then, she had not known the Prince and Princess of Dorne. It was beyond strange that two mere visitors, there initially for only a matter of months, could leave such a mark on her—and yet they had, and when, four years later, Riyansh had left Essos for Dorne, she had forced herself to content with thinking that her brief adventure was over, and she must now remember this fondly for the rest of her life, and find a new sort of satisfaction wherever she went.

Then she had discovered that she was with child.

But... the response in her lovers had not been what she was expecting the morning she arrived in Sunspear. Everything about this place was strange; the sands, the unbearable heat, the dress and language and Gods and ways, the people themselves... but worst of all, the way that Myriam, who had been so warm and generous in Braavos, looked at her now. Nyssaria understood a part of it; that she had not expected a former lover to make a return in such a manner—though, truly, Nyssaria did not see particularly the difference between being her lover in Braavos and being her lover in Dorne. All accounts of Dorne said that it was a place of freedom in love and children, of song and dance, of a heat not only climatic.

Even now as she approached the dancing group, Myriam stopped her girls and rose. Nyssaria stopped in her step, slow and encumbered with her swollen belly as she was, then pushed a smile upon her face. "It was a beautiful dance," she told the girls. Few in Dorne liked or trusted her, but Nyssaria had been here too little to let that peeve her yet. None in Braavos had been able to resist growing to like her, after all. "Perhaps one day when I am not so burdened I should like to join you in it. As well as see you join me... Myriam?"

Nyssaria hummed, thinking. "Perhaps you have never been to Braavos," she said after a moment. "And seen the House of Black and White, and the Faceless Men who can shed faces as we shed clothes. Or seen the magics of the Red Priests and Priestesses that frequent Braavos, but not this continent. And perhaps, too, you have never borne a child, or felt over thousands of miles the joys and sorrows of those you love, or the pleasure of rain in the greatest of heat. Then you would not question magic, as I do not."

location: dorne, after the attack on the wedding

the scent of blood was something ophelia was familiar with. she’d seen hundreds of injured people before. men who had lost limbs from battles. corpses barely recognizable. but none of that made it easier when it was a friend who was the one injured in front of her.

the wedding was supposed to be a night of celebration and happiness not just for the married couple but for all of dorne. all of them celebrating the union and the hopeful peace it would bring with alliances being set. but there were others who did not see that night the same. and it was innocent people who paid the price for it.

after the adrenaline had worn off from that night the reality of what happened was sinking in. the fact that nyssaria nearly bled out in front of her. she thanked the gods she had been close by to help her. a few more minutes and she might have been lost.

but now the aftercare was to begin. ophelia didn’t stray far from where nyssa was staying. ready to come back to change the bandages and make sure the healing was going the way she wanted it to go.

“i’m coming in! i hope you are decent.” ophelia announced before walking into the room. a large tray in her hands, a bag slung over her shoulder. “hello my friend.” she greeted the other with a warm smile. placing the tray down on the table next to her, ophelia began tying her hair up out of her face. “how are you feeling? anything different?” ophelia asked as she started pulling various items out of her bag. sitting down on the edge of the bed she looked over at her now healing friend. “there was this large cat outside in the hallway. and i swear to you it looked at me and said hello. i mean it’s meow sounded just like hello. just staring at me with those big yellow saucer eyes and just said ‘hello’. so i think you have a lucky cat hanging around you. i will try and grab him next time i come back. maybe he will say hello to you as well.” the young healer talked away, using almost one breath to get her entire story out.

@golddcst​

She had never dealt well with pain. It did not suit her; she was weak, made not of the same toughened earth that Riyansh and Myriam and so many others that she loved were, but of stones that were chipped by water every growing day, islands that made way rather than stand.

That, or the pain was making her dizzy and incoherent.

The greatest she had borne in her memory perhaps was that of childbed, and that—that borne for the fruit, so beautiful that it seemed worth it, in the end. This was some other beast entirely; its result seemed more like to be that she would never move or raise her arm again, for all the blood that had left it—though she had been unconscious through perhaps the worst of it, she could see the stains left behind on the bandage, staining red the brilliant white cloth wrapped around her shoulder and side—and for the sharp, impossible pain stinging her now.

She did not like the haze of the poppy, but what she would not give for it now. Anything.

At the sight and sounds of Ophelia, Nyssaria looked up from her bed, moving only the top of her head to offer something resembling a nod, and even that seemed far too great an effort. Decent? She felt as though she could no more move to clothe herself, or even remove the remaining ruins of her dress. But for Ophelia's purposes, she supposed she was decent. Someone had come with something she could wear, but the thought of raising her arms had had her cringing; instead, the woman had draped a blanket over her and left.

“Nothing different,” she whispered, her voice emerging cracked and pained. A lucky cat; she supposed she may have been lucky, for if the arrow had struck inches away, it may be her face she had lost, or perhaps her life entirely. She knew it, and ought to count herself fortunate for it, and fortunate again that a healer of such talent had been at her side just moments after the attack—and she would, perhaps, once her shoulder ceased to feel that it was on fire. “Yes, please bring—” she gasped as she shifted a touch on the bed, and felt her eyes tear again.

who: nyssaria antaryon @golddcst​ where: allyrion-martell wedding, just after the riots broke out

For a moment the woman remained seated at the lavish table, listening intently to the words being chanted from the outside courtyard; it were targeted threats directly to their foreign guests. The only way one of their own would be injured would most likely be as a result of the chaos that was threatening to brim; dark orbs briefly shooting toward her sister in law, who seemed to be leading the trail of Reach and Westerland women out of the Great Hall, Myriam herself rose and began to speak to the recognisable faces she had grown up alongside here in Godsgrace. Finally she came across her own father, the elderly Lord Allyrion, who stood close to a balcony - overseeing the archers being stationed. 

Gently murmuring some reassuring words to her father, she stepped onto the balcony, silently aiding the archers in their work to light the arrows. It would be a last resort; for to cause damage to Godsgrace was the last of their wishes, though all the Dornish knew they could not allow any of their guests to befall harm upon their own soil, lest the repercussions prove fatal. She felt her other half stood behind her, though perhaps it was her sense of shame at such an event happening within her childhood home upon their guest, under their rule - she was unable to look Nyssaria in the eyes, continuing to silently light the arrows.

It wasn’t until she heard a sudden gasp did she turn around, only to notice a stray arrow had been fired from the crowd; and landed directly into Nyssaria’s shoulder. For a moment she froze, watching the crimson pool up within the woman’s silks, quickly tearing the fabric from around it. Raising a trembling hand, she pulled Nyssaria back into the Great Hall, her hands stained with blood - she knew not whether to dislodge the arrow; and paid little attention to the shower of flaming arrows being poured down beneath them. “What do I do?” She asked, her voice choked, hands trembling. “Tell me what to do.”

It seemed only right to follow Myriam to the walls and watch her in the defense of her home. She was no fighter, and never had been; the most she could say she had killed would be a few small animals while hawking. Even so, she could do whatever was asked of her, and keep an eye on Myriam while she was at it. She stood behind her for the time being, watching as she followed the walls, lighting arrows for the defense of the castle. It was a side of Myriam she was unfamiliar with, but not one that was not pleasing, in its own way. 

It was watching her lover that perhaps had her missing it, or perhaps it was the general chaos in the air. One moment, she was well, and the next an arrow was pierced through her shoulder, its ends protruding from either side. Nyssaria could not help the scream, her hands beginning to shake as she saw the bit of wood, so ordinary, yet so horrific placed as it was. She couldn't say if it was the pain or the disgust at the very sight that did it, but when she next looked up, they were once more in the great hall, and Myriam was staring at her, panic in her eyes. "I'm fine," she tried, but her voice came out a shaking whimper. The room seemed to be spinning around her, and her arm and side were on fire.

Seagull Town; she had heard much of the bustling walled port city upon the Eastern shores of the shore of the continent of Westeros, made of wooden thatched houses with important ports that played a key role in trade between Essos and their Western neighbours. It were situated perfectly within the straits of the Narrow Sea; far from the stormy currents of the Stormlands, where the sea remained somewhat calmer during the year. The trade route between their beloved home of Sunspear up toward Braavos, making stops between many a Free city along route would make the city of the Vale an optimal choice. For they had allied with the Reach; however if there was one thing Myriam would ensure the world knew, it was that Dorne still did not involve itself in the white man’s business. If the Reach was formerly Green, they would also work with a kingdom that was formerly Black.

She felt herself perking up slightly, her shoulders raising as her mood itself was lifted. Perhaps this could be navigated, as long as it were navigated carefully and with the right minds at task, with their closest. Planting a gentle kiss upon her companion’s jewelled hand, noting the gold she always wore upon her wrists and her fingers, Myriam kept her fingers intertwined with Nyssaria’s, for if they were to navigate these waters, they would be navigating them together. Myriam thought briefly of the children the two women shared, safe and tucked away in Sunspear with one another; her own daughter Oriana, with her dark tresses and dark orbs that looked like her very own. If anything befallen them, at least they had ensured the next generation would live on. 

“We will discuss it with Riyansh; and see what we all come to.” She mused, having complete faith in the thoughts of the woman from across the Narrow Sea. She were smart, and worldly, more worldly than Myriam herself who had only ever known the red dunes of Dorne; the citrus of the oranges and the lemons that graced her lips so often. They moved onto a somewhat lighter topic, regarding a certain Joy in their life. “I think we could also find a good match for Joy, now that we have expanded our horizons; though I do confess, only one from within our own lands would be able to handle her temper. Perhaps Lord Blackmont …. if we are able to disrupt his dalliance with the lions, and bring him closer to our fold once again.” 

Nyssaria felt Myriam’s smile soothe what little worry had taken root in her own shoulders, and grinned as she rose to stand, taking her hand with her. She had never felt her own lack of know about the Seven Kingdoms until recently, with all that their little world had grown from the happy waters and sands of Sunspear. Even so, to be able to simply comfort her love in such a manner was enough; the politics, she knew, Riyansh would handle, his own capacity far exceeding anything she could dream. For her part, if she could give Myriam this, she was content.

At the mention of Joy, she grinned. “Goodness, could you see her in a place like this? I am quite certain that she would upend all the sands of Dorne on the head of any that suggested she must leave Kingsgrave for a husband’s home, but perhaps one of the men of the Reach may be happy to come to Dorne?” She laughed at the thought. “You never know; some men prefer some fire in their wives.” She winked, rising to her feet and tugging on Myriam’s hand lightly.

“Though... Lord Blackmont is not a poor idea.” She hummed. This certainly seemed more of the same unhappiness with the opening of Dorne to their northern neighbours, but she supposed this arrangement Ryon had come to with the Lannisters was quite unlike the one Riyansh had reached with the Tyrells. She understood little of it, but she knew Riyansh had not been the happiest about it. Perhaps, then... She tugged at Myriam’s hand once again, then wrapped her arm around her waist as she began to return them to their chambers. “They are equally matched in spirit... I am not entirely certain if that would not end in a fire spanning from Blackmont to Kingsgrave, and closing Dorne to the north entirely and for good.”

Dastan couldn’t help but laugh at those words. “Fret not, I wouldn’t run to Myriam and accuse you of such things,” he told her, amused by the idea, as if he were a little boy looking for backup elsewhere. Any misunderstanding in the past had been easily solved by talking to each other. There certainly would be no need to include his sister into such matters and cause trouble in the loving relationship the two women had. Dastan greatly admired their bond, the sort of devoted relationship between Myriam, Nyssaria and Riyansh was something he hoped he might have in his own marriage one day. Though the three of them had chosen love, that was what united them in the first place, and the young lord was aware that his future with Lady Merryweather had its foundations elsewhere.

“I’m certain they do, everything below the Neck must be a Southron realm to them,” he mused, taking another sip of wine, “And yes, Dorne is the Southernmost of them all”. Beautiful Dorne, with the warmest weather of all, their deserts and flourishing cities in the midst of them all; nothing said ‘south’ as much as that, just as nothing but the cold lands of the Starks represented the true North.

“It is always strange,” Dastan admitted after a moment of silence, deeply considering Nyssaria’s question. “Every time I find myself in battle is strange, like I’m not quite myself in my body. Something else drives me”. As polite and serene as Lord Dastan Allyrion was, he became another man while on the field of battle. He had to, in order to survive. A red, fiery feeling drove every move- and not rage or hatred for the enemy, no-, it was the simple ruthlessness required when wanting to survive.

⛭

Nyssaria smiled and leaned back in her seat, her mind already half-caught once more in the things that troubles Myriam and Riyansh so in these times. Her own meager experience in matters of politics, to say nothing of her unfamiliarity with the politics of Westerosi politics entirely—even greater in the lands above Dorne—meant there was little she could do to so much as ease their minds, as she could offer little more than simple comfort. The most difficult part, then, perhaps was to maintain her own optimism... for which it could not be those she loved most that she sought.

“The Southernmost of all, and divided, too from the other kingdoms—as the North is divided.” Maps more than experience told her of the Neck, a swampy marshy land said to be populated with crocodiles and shifting castles, but one that must be traversed to reach the southernmost borders of the kingdom. Such defensibility had made it seem strange to her, when first she had read the histories of the kingdoms they called their neighbours; why anybody that could defend their lands would bend the knee, she did not understand. What they were doing now, at least, was no submission; it was only a treaty made between equal partners. 

All going well, it would remain that way.

“Something else?” she asked, curious. She had never had occasion to find herself in battle, and with the Father keeping her tides well in hand, she never would. All the same, she knew battle to be something that few men could avoid, particularly in times such as these—and moreso now that Dorne had thrown its lot in with the wartorn north. It was for Riyansh she asked, as much as for Dastan and Ryon and all others that would find themselves involved here. “It must be a powerful thing indeed to propel you through battle... but does that not prevent you from seeing clearly, and protecting yourself as best you are able?”