she arrived precisely ten minutes early - expecting everything to be set up and perfect, as no man in his right mind would leave anything of this nature so last minute. she did not knock. ruqaiyah had never once announced herself like a servant waiting to be received, and she would not start now, least of all at the threshold of the private martell apartments, where history had already decided she was to one day belong. and she very much agreed with that rhetoric.

and so, the guards glanced at her, but none dared question her entrance; what could they say, with the sun itself stitched into her lehenga and a gaze that did not ask for permission?

the corridors glowed amber beneath the sconces, but they paled against the pink heat of her attire, the silk whispering against her skin with every step, embroidered thread catching the candlelight in glimmers of gold. each anklet, each bracelet, each chain at her waist and glittering around her neck added to the crescendo of her presence—she moved, and the world jingled in acknowledgment. her heels clacked unapologetically, arrogant and sharp, the kind of sound meant to precede news.

ruqaiyah could see herself walking these halls everyday. telling the governess to tell the children to be quiet. making the servants display her outfits lined up.

she had worn pink—not rose, not blush, not any dusty rose, but pink—hot and commanding, like the inside of a pomegranate freshly torn. it clung to her waist, her sleeves sheer and beaded, the skirts full enough to swallow entire population of smallfolk girls whole. her lips were glassy, unapologetically reflective, and her long hair—every strand straightened to a blade—cascaded down her back like a curtain of ink.

she stood now in the outer solar, though no servants were in sight. fine. let him find her here, composed, statuesque. she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve and let her gaze drift to the arches and pillars carved with sandstone vines. the martell taste for excess was more subdued than dornish fire might suggest—peach marble and muted earth tones. it made her seem even louder by comparison, a gem mistakenly placed in a bowl of stonefruit. "so this is it," she murmured aloud to herself, fingers trailing lightly along the edge of a table carved with sun motifs. "the belly of the beast."

she had imagined it before, of course. had imagined countless evenings where he would finally remember the promises laid out for them before they could even speak in full sentences. imagined him, not as he was—cool and absent and impossible—but as he might become, if only he would stop stalling. "tell the prince i am here." she did even bother to introduce herself - in what world would she need to? the most beautiful in dorne, on the continent; the sister of the sword of the morning, and the oldest lady of house dayne.

armaan yronwood stood before the mirror in the eastern chamber of his apartments, adjusting the dark clasp at his collar with a kind of violent precision. he looked sharp, severe in a sable doublet with bronze-threaded embroidery curling like thorned vines down the sleeves. beneath it, his shirt was open just enough to hint at a scar along his collarbone—a relic from some long-forgotten skirmish that still had the decency to remind people he was not a man to cross lightly. his fingers, calloused and scarred, slid a ring onto his index finger—onyx, set in gold.

he heard the door open behind him without a knock. only one man in sunspear could ever be that arrogant and still breathe. “you can wipe that expression off your face,” armaan said, not turning from the mirror. gods knew to armaan yronwood, ravi martell was merely the prince who made some triumphed return to the seat of sunspear just in time. “you’ve already decided you’re disappointed. don’t need to look at me like i pissed in your wine.” the scent of orange blossom clung to the prince of sunspear like a ghost, as if he still believed he could hide behind the old court perfumes and be seen as more than mors’s polished shadow.

armaan gave a scathing, humourless laugh as he reached for his belt, buckling it slow, measured. “bad timing in the blood, cousin?"

he finally turned, slow and deliberate, the candlelight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. his face was unreadable, that same calm mask he’d perfected over years of watching, of not reacting. “if this is about the grainfires in the reach,” he said, dragging on one glove, “you’re late. i've already met with the peake, and half the court’s rattling about it. not my concern.” he moved past ravi without offering space, brushing him as though he were furniture rather than flesh.