FIRE & BLOOD

It was not very different at all, except for the breeze causing the trees’ leaves to obscure the stars, but it was glorious. He was right, something he hated to admit, for it was only easier to see due to the lack of clouds. The Stormlands were aptly named, making it difficult to see his favorite subject.

The Targaryen didn’t seem much like an astronomer, but he did ride. They all used the same tools at their disposal to survive, after all.

And stupider.

Aenyx hums in response, his gaze, however, remains fixed on the Dragon’s blue eye, which blinks in and out for a moment, before turning his attention to the Stormlander. “Some maesters claim the skies are a reflection of events on the ground. That by reading the stars we can read our fates, too.” he lifts an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And even the heavens have seen fit to carry only one crown — interesting how things turned out, isn't it?” he doesn’t actually expect a response, and thus continues without pause. “My home lies north of here, Lord Dondarrion. Just as yours does,” he doesn’t point out that nothing but smoke and death awaits Valyrians, and any foolish enough to dare seek out the ruins of the Old Empire should they sail — or fly — into the Smoking Sea. Saying it out loud would only highlight that wishing death on the future king is treason. And Aenyx’s already had his entertainment for the day, no point sullying his good mood with a sour-tempered handless man. Pretending not to notice the slight is the least he could do for one who's lost so much in service of the throne Aenyx represents.

“Are you feeling quite well? Has a maester seen to you, yet? Do you need assistance in returning to camp, my lord? I would hate to have this night end in greater tragedy. Perhaps your good health would be better served resting, than watching the stars.” from this distance, in the darkness, his expression could easily be mistaken for concern.

That voice. He hadn't noticed, at first. His back straightened, eyes watching the Prince from afar. Of course he doesn't care about what is going on, instead toying with his prey. How convenient for him to take a walk in the groves to find Harlan led astray.

Harlan's eyes follow Aenyx's form as he comes closer. The sky was different here, he could tell that much, shifting and turning. Yet, there were changes he couldn't understand. His thoughts had not shifted towards a dragon being in the sky - no matter if it was Vasha or Vandal, did it really matter? He kept his distance which Harlan would have appreciated if he had known. Yet, he would've appreciated it even more if Aenyx had done what Vandal was doing right now.

“The night sky is not so different in Dorne, is it? Though, perhaps, we can see more stars here than further north. Fewer clouds. There’s the Ice Dragon in its entirety,” his arm half lifts to point upwards, but he’s not close enough to Harlan for that attempt at direction to make any sense.

Much like whatever understanding seemed to exist between the two of them at the moment. One she was still trying to acquaint herself with. One she was rather certain he was dangerously close to breaking.

Nothing changed. His words lingered longer than they should have. 

How strange. She had been left with an entirely different impression. Either she was the only one paying attention to their last conversation, or his memory was far kinder than she had ever given it credit for. She knew neither was true.

So he truly intended to pretend nothing had happened. Even now, when there was no audience to deceive but her, he decided to throw unscrupulous lies at her face…

The thought almost made her laugh. So this was how he usually felt.

She swallowed the bitter taste of her own medicine with as much grace as she could manage, though the slight tightening at the corners of her mouth betrayed more than she would have liked.

His grip tightening around her arm did not escape her notice. Neither did the subtle attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. Convenient. She allowed it. Rosalyn had no desire to discover how little restraint either of them still possessed.

“Beautiful,” she admitted. “Though I confess I had imagined it would be harsher. Perhaps the rest of the realm has done Dorne a disservice.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the palace beyond them. “My chambers are lovely,” she continued pleasantly. “A generous bed, a view over the gardens, attentive servants…” Her eyes found his again. “Princess Deria has been an exceedingly generous hostess, I have wanted for absolutely nothing." A small smile returned. “In fact, I am beginning to suspect the Dornish intend to make it rather difficult for me to leave.”

“Perhaps — or perhaps it is merely the difference between coming here as foes and being welcomed as guests,” he lifts an eyebrow as he offers her half of the peeled orange. He can’t help but think she’s overplayed her hand, stumbling from courtesy into foolishness in her rush to behave as if everything’s well between them. Or maybe his anger is no longer simmering and has now boiled over. “Brave words from a daughter of the Reach, but I do suppose you’ve always followed wherever your brother went,” he's being uncharitable, not that he particularly cares. His half of the orange sits forgotten in his hand, and is the only reason he hasn’t begun peeling another to try and soothe the restlessness in his limbs. “What’s a snake pit when you’ve survived the dragons’ den?” there’s no humor beneath his smirk, though the words are delivered lightly, as mere jest. “Your bed might be generous enough for company, seems a shame to waste the opportunity, no?”

Westeros’ nobles being split into three different groups allowed Harlan to get some fresh air, even if this air was filled with the overwhelming scent of ripening citrus. With the smell, it brought prosperity for its people, but Harlan viewed it as stubbornness. He shouldn’t have viewed it as anything less than what he had inside of him, that same stubbornness.

There was something he loved to do at night, and he thought this would be the best opportunity to do so - to look at the stars. He had brought blank parchment, ink, and a quill with him for this very reason. He was the picture of perfect concentration as he jotted things down on his knee.

Aenyx lets out a tolerant chuckle at the high-strung reaction he’d inadvertently roused from the other man. “Fancy yourself an astronomer, Lord Harlan?” he ignores the question and walks closer, angling himself in such a way that it’s clear he isn’t seeking to catch a glimpse at whatever the Stormlander guards so jealously. “— or a poet? Seeking inspiration from this beautiful place to pen a love letter?” his tone is lightly teasing.

She bit her tongue. Black mourning silks had seemed ill-suited to a wedding celebration, though she had not been ignorant of how the choice might be perceived. There had been prayers each morning with the Tyrell septa. If anyone cared to notice, they would have. “Grieving is always a challenge, Your Grace.” A quieter smile followed. “My late good-sister – may the Mother keep her gently – was far kinder than the Dornish sun. I have every confidence she would forgive the omission.” She adjusted her arm lightly within his. “I should be rather more concerned if she did not.”

A humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Does my satisfaction still concern you, Your Grace?” She did not know why they continued to do this.

Every conversation had become a careful exercise in deciding which truths to conceal and which half-truths to offer in their place. Because whenever one of them slipped, even for a moment, the rest followed, until words became weapons and every sentence was thrown with the intention of drawing blood.

Just as they had done the last time.

She had promised herself she would not allow herself to be drawn into it again. She would not seek him out. She would not meet his eyes.

And yet, there she was.

Again.

Somehow, she always found her way back to him.

“I suppose one dance will not bring the realm to ruin.” It could, perhaps, ruin them. But neither of them had ever been strangers to fire or blood. The realm would survive another day, just as it always had, and watch them make precisely the same mistakes.

And even though Rosalyn wouldn’t stoop as low as to openly gloat about the quandary he now finds himself in, she also doesn’t need to for him to understand she’s pleased as punch that something he’s so assertively withheld from her has so spectacularly backfired. Since he’s considered the Tyrells too controversial for a royal match, now he had to contend with tying his future to the one family on the entire continent who might challenge his for unpopularity. He knows he’s in no position to request even a crumb of grace from her — not that he would, even if he’d considered his stance stronger.

“Such a scandalous thing to be in a position to hear about,” he tuts, mock scandalized. “Well, in my experience, exhausting bedmates are preferable, Lady Rosalyn,” he leans in slightly, playing at camaraderie, an amused smirk dancing on his lips. “Shall pray?” he questions the future tense. “I suppose the gods must favor me without your help then, as me and my betrothed have already reached an understanding.” understanding, but no attempt at familiarity yet, though he cannot blame that on the Martell alone, the hesitation comes from both.

His gaze washes over her attire again, mostly not listening to her rationalizations, if only because he doesn’t deem them interesting…or necessary. Whoever keeps her good sister now, he's confident she no longer holds any interest in the actions of the living, at least.

He tries to keep them in the shade as they leisurely walk, though there’s precious little of that to be found with the sun now so high in the sky. The advantage to this is that most people have sought succor from the unforgiving brightness indoors, and the pathways are all but deserted. The heat never really bothered him, anyway. “Why shouldn’t it?” he hums, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Nothing changed between us since last we spoke,” a bit of a strain on the truth — she’d refused his offer, but Aenyx considers himself magnanimous enough to forget about it. Or at least pretend to.

Her comment provoked a chuckle out of him and his grip around her arm tightens slightly as he pulls her imperceptibly closer. “No, I suppose it won’t. A wedding might, though,” luckily for the six kingdoms, it would first be put to the test in Dorne. Give the rest of them more time, and more knowledge to improve things for the second. “So how are you finding Dorne, so far? Are your quarters to your liking?” Aenyx finds himself wanting to gloss over his previous remark. Too much of a sensitive subject and he is sure talking to her about it would only make it worse.

Rosalyn had not expected to find herself enjoying the dance lessons as much as she had. There was something rather appealing about watching people move with such ease, untouched by the rigid precision of the court dances she had known all her life. 

Still, she found her attention wandering more than once. Every turn of the circle, every exchange of partners, her gaze seemed to find its way back to him.

Rosalyn had not expected to see Aenyx among the dancers.

Not because she doubted his ability to learn, but because she remembered a time when Aenyx Targaryen had seemed convinced that the world ought to bend before he ever considered bending with it.

When he quietly excused himself from the lesson, Rosalyn remained where she was. She had no particular intention of leaving. The music was pleasant enough, and there were still several dances to come.

She lingered just long enough for the decision to appear entirely unrelated.

Only then did she excuse herself with an apologetic smile, stepping away from the gathering in search of quieter company, or quieter air, should anyone ask. Finding the Crown Prince along the way was merely a fortunate coincidence.

“I must confess, Your Grace,” Rosalyn began as she fell into step beside him, “I find myself rather impressed.” After all, it would have been terribly impolite not to greet him.

“I never imagined I should see the day.” Her eyes travelled over him with quiet consideration, lingering only a moment longer. “You, embracing Dornish customs so readily. Taking dance lessons with admirable grace…” Her gaze swept over him with quiet deliberation. “Dressed so convincingly in Dornish silks…” A thoughtful pause followed, a faint smile curving at the corner of her lips.  “And without your dragon, no less.”

She folded her hands neatly before her. “I suppose time truly does change people.” Another pause. “Or perhaps you have simply discovered that you agree with Dorne more than you once expected.”

Only then did she glance back at him, the smile returning, pleasant, impossible to fault.

He tells himself he lingers close to the hall because it’s just as good a place as any, or perhaps he might decide to go back once he gets a few minutes’ peace — it certainly isn’t because of her, not after how they left things last time, when their usual vague snipes turned into an all-out argument. The most honest they’ve been with each other in a long time, and mainly spoken with the intent to wound. Even so, that sincerity had limits. It was easier to pretend her tears had only been for Gwayne and his anger all about the slight to the dragons, after all.

Yet he cannot feign surprise when he picks up the familiar cadence of the approaching footsteps. “My lady,” the greeting is uttered blithely, with the meaninglessness of words said so often they lost all import. His smile matches hers — polished, pleasant, not an ounce of earnestness beneath it. Aenyx chuckles indulgently at the hollow praise, taking half a step back to flaunt the colorful, flowing garments he’s chosen to don while here. The movement helps settle the spike of disquiet as she points out his lack of Vandal. He truly believes there is a difference between being incapable of being without his dragon, and simply not wanting to — Aenyx hopes that by the end of this charade, he’ll have proven himself to be firmly the latter.

“I agree with Dorne just fine, Lady Rosalyn, it’s the Dornish I find harder to deal with,” he laughs without humor. “And you — I suppose mourning your good sister in this heat proved too heavy a challenge,” his examination of her is just as blatant, and he lightly reaches for her arm to entwine with his as they resume strolling. “The festivities have just begun, perhaps fortune will see fit to correct her oversight. Or better yet, we won’t leave something as dear to me as satisfying you to chance and you’ll save me a dance at my sister’s wedding.” his grin is all teeth.

arianne had kept her gaze fixed on her brother and his targaryen bride to be through ceremony. ⸻ measuring the weight of an alliance forged from the ashes of old grievances. luckily, though short lived as eyes of copper warmth caught the encouraging smile of her mother, the final words allowed the tension to yield, the warm dornish sun instead bleeding into the halls like a blanket.

the princess rose from her seat, the silks of her gown brushing against the stone and performed her duties with a smile. it is over not quick enough, and she watches as the crowd dwindles away with parting words. she escapes, before some lord or lady has the bright decision to ask for clarifications.

A bothersome dance to perform, certainly, made more so by the future closeness they’re supposed to symbolize, but princes don’t get the luxury of choice. They’ll have the rest of their lives to get to truly know each other, honesty so early on would do more harm than good to the apparent cooperation they’ve barely found between them.

“Apologies for the intrusion, I merely wanted to take advantage of most guests being sidetracked to enjoy a turn through the gardens in peace.” and more importantly, quiet. A trip that would have taken him less than a day on dragonback ballooned in over a fortnight across the sea. Still, better than more than thrice that, had he travelled by land, but to one as lacking in patience as Aenyx, better is no comfort when he should have had best. “It seems the races will be a popular attraction among your Northern guests.”