@fatewcpt // ARIADNE MARTELL
WOUNDS OPENED AND REOPENED NEVER HEAL. The Marches, the Red Mountains, and the Sea of Dorne- there is enough Stormlander and Dornish blood in them to drench the whole of Westeros. They are not known for their fondness and love for each other, the Martells and the Baratheons. They have fought in many battles against each other, and forgiveness does not come easy. The Martells are the reason why the Baratheons are warriors. They are meant to fight one another - and now her sweet son, Gwilym, is set to marry one next.
Una watches her with passing glances as she makes merry with the lords and ladies in her table, noting that the lady is proper and poised. Ariadne shines, and for a second, Una catches herself as almost proud to be calling her daughter in the nearing future. Yet shadows and little birds have told her of the young Martell. She is no more different to her brothers - limbs flying and full of energy. She would prove to be a regal Southron lady, had Una had her as her lady-in-waiting. But alas, she must give her son to her. Great Houses make great sacrifices.
She waves her hand as Ariadne’s gaze fixes upon hers, beckoning the lady to come to her table just as the lord who sits next to her stands to do whatever fat, old men busy themselves with in weddings. As Ariadne does, Una plants a soft smile in her face and greets her in warmth. “We meet at last, Lady Martell. I have heard of you, yet never enough of you. My son, Will, sings you praises.” A sip of Arbor wine fills her palette as she lowers her gaze. “How do you find my son, little sunshine? Do you share the same sweetness as he does for you?”
