#neith.

prince aegon smells like wine.

she supposes she ought not to be so surprised. his indulgence with it is certainly not new, though she wonders if it is worsening lately with king viserys' worsening health. yes, surely some of the kind-spirited staff had waved away the worry and the whispering rumours, and they've agreed among themselves that king viserys had always been in poor health – that did not mean that death would be imminent. he'll live long still, neith once heard a passing attendant said to the much younger ones he must be training, the king has much to do. for a moment, neith remembers, faintly, of her own father who, for all her life, has always been afflicted with sickness and confined to bed.

it was why she was raised mainly in the laps and silk gowns of her siblings. they were the ones who had fed her, bathe her, clothe her, and carried her into a young child — at least, until she is whisked away here, groomed to be apart of princess helaena's household.

she could not say if there is as much love here as she has held for dorne, for even after years, neith does not think she fits all too well among the courts of king's landing. her quiet taken for easy submission, her reluctance to defy taken as an abuse to her station. after all, she must be rightfully referred to as princess, but none truly does. still, despite it all, neith does hold great love for the princess she serves. for even the siblings who had grown alongside her. including aegon.

who is now drunk, and stumbling even as she helps him to his chamber.

his remarks make her smile, just a little.

❛⠀you've given yourself poor credit, my prince.  ❜ she says, as kindly as she could. ❛⠀you've survived plenty without me. i am only you and your siblings' childhood companion.  ❜

if her brother had witnessed this, he would have shook himself with fury; he would have demanded, quite justly, of respect to be shown with which house martell deserves  — they are the folks who do not bend, after all. they are the unbowed, the unbroken. but he is not here. he has not been with her since neith had been sent to king's landing; the last memory neith had had of qoren martell was his fierce brown eyes, breaking apart as he holds her for the last time. he had spoken in their mixed language of rhoynar and common tongue, telling her to be careful. to call for him, for anything she may need.

she has, and yet dorne remains stubborn from siding with any faction as the rest of the seven kingdoms break, and burn, under targaryen's hefty thumbs. neith likes to believe she does not resent them, that she is not capable of unreasonable resentment, the sort she had seen her ancestors passed from one generation to the next. when she had arrived in king's landing, bright-eyed and young, years ago, she had naively thought that their houses could be joined; these children of the dragons and her, a daughter of the sand, could be friends. it would have been the beginning of a new teaching, of a new age.

the slaughter of prince jaehaerys changed that.

she does not resent. she does not want to, but neith's eyes remain on the floor. her voice is mechanical, cold. she used to dance through these halls once; her queen helaena, then princess, had clapped along, joyous, despite the foreign beat and rhythm neith had represented. they were girls together, however briefly. those are gone now, as well, with her queen on spikes. ❛ — your side have won. will you spare the princess jaehaera ? ❜

neith's brown eyes lift upwards.

currently, they are picking fabrics and threads for the princess' embroidery. neith is aware that she is not ... quite popular among the other ladies-in-waiting. often, she tries not to think far too much of it. after all, there is, in truth, little animosity that is being exchanged, but rather a mild discomfort. then again, neith has always somewhat expect that to happen : she is not a very cheerful girl to have at court, neither is she good in speaking, nor quite invested in the intricacy one requires to survive it. her only interest had been whatever her princess helaena had been interested in, and her want to fulfil or serves her better. and she knows what others say about her in that regards, as well : that maybe, for once, westeros has finally garnered themselves a martell that bowed.

had qoren heard the rumours, surely he would demand her return by a thousand letters. thankfully, such things remained here, in the exchanges of servants and the more notorious attendees of king's landing court.

she looks now to lady sansa, who is taller than her and hair as red as the dune of sandstone. once, neith has heard rumours that those of northern blood are as dark-haired as they come, mysterious as the winter they defended against. lady sansa is certainly mysterious, but she is as bright as the weirwood tree she prays upon. there is nothing dark here. only a girl, just as she, picking at fabrics for the princess they serve. neith looks back to the colourful threads, before she does speak—

❛ we are. ❜ she answers her, her voice is soft. like she's afraid of her own volume.

still, neith continues, ❛ i apologise if i am not ... more forthcoming. i do not ... i do not always have... companions of my age to speak with at home, and princess helaena requires little of me when we are together. ❜ she tries to explain, hoping it may ease some of the more accusatory things said of her and how she covets the princess' attention alone. ❛ — but it is lonely, is it not, being so far away from our place of birth ? ❜

or at least, she certainly feels like she is. for never being able to secure dorne's support for aegon's claim, for never being able to be there for her queen nor her son when prince jaehaerys was murdered, and for never being able to change her queen helaena's fate when she finally stepped over the windowsill to the spikes below. even today, neith's hand shakes with the memory, fighting through guards that had tried to keep her at bay as she begged them to save her queen. she is hurt, she remembers screaming at them, her eyes burning with tears. she is hurt, someone please save her !

and neith is sure now, as the final supporters of the blacks have clearly taken hold of the red keep, crowning aegon the younger their king, that she would have no place here any longer. no queen to attend to, whether false or otherwise. only ghosts. regret and the lingering gazes of what's left of the king's court bearing down on her, knowing that she was not only the childhood friend of the usurper's siblings, but that house martell remained cold and inaccessible. as such, surely the traitor must leave, but before she does—

❛ hello, sweetest dove. ❜ she croons now, as she steps into the room where princess jaehaera is, fighting back tears. neith immediately crouches down, hoping to be at eye-to-eye with the one last person remaining of her queen.

❛ or is it the sweetest dragon ? my apologies, my young princess. i kept remembering you as a babe. white as a dove, soft as a feather. how are you, my light ? ❜

obedient, silent neith; who would stand hours outside of the queen's chambers if only there would be a chance to coax her out. the only reason neith would find herself tracking back anywhere else would simply be because she intends to make sure that no harm have come to the rest of the young children. in that, she trusts the governess and increased rounds of knights assigned to them. still, the air of the red keep did not return to how it used to. what once was a bustling place, now it is as though every steps are constantly overshadowed with tension. and hers—

with qoren martell refusing to aid into any sides of the dance, neith is left alone. she had chosen to be left here really, regardless of the many messengers, both known and unknown to the crown, who had demanded her return. still, it did not change many of the courts' opinion on her. either she was the traitorous dornish princess, or she was the abandoned sandskin. whatever they decided, she is most likely an enemy, simply by the inaction of one sibling. what a curse their house words have become: unbowed, unbent, unbroken. she knows intimately that her brother would not change his mind  — and neither would she.

❛ today prince maelor spoke his first word in full high valyrian. would you not like to see him ? ❜

❛⠀— but i still think good would prevail. ❜

here, neith the innocent, neith the naive, speaks. and instantly, she feels her tongue laden with the crime of hoarding hope. it is odd : when she was much younger, hope felt to her like the warmth of the evening sun, when it isn't too searing nor sharp, that falls between the curtains that lines sunspear's old palace's corridors. in her mind, she could still hear the faint humming of her sisters' singing, and the distant laughter of her brothers who would speak among one another with no reservation for the volume of their voices.

the old palace was as bustling as the red keep, but it had always, to her, felt far ... freer. perhaps it is the architecture of things. the old palace was built in the ancient fashion of rhoynar houses met with dornish's architecture, so there were more open courtyards and wind to cool the palace and its inhabitants. in the red keep, everything seems constricted and closed-off. perhaps it had been built more for intimidation and grandeur, a testament to the power the conqueror and its descendants have successfully yielded and maintain. in it, as the years passed, neith feels the warm hope inside of her solidified into something colder, perhaps even something sharper.

it isn't meant to be shared, but she holds it. she holds it. she must have faith. of what, she isn't entirely sure, that there is happiness, perhaps. a kind of peace that she believes these siblings she has learned to love half her life could achieve, despite the machinations of these darkened corridors, and these suffocating walls. to @dragonveiled now, neith shakes her head. she dismisses her own words. she focuses on him, instead.

❛⠀i'm sorry. mind not what i said. please. let me help you to your apartments ? ❜