❝ There was a feeling of inevitability when I met you. And our lives were fated to converge like some cosmic dance. And I think I had to break your heart and you had to break mine. ❞
As Cressida Black's lungs ceased to draw breath, Aurelia Martell's...
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April 110 AC
Dorne prepares for the wedding of a Targaryen Prince to one of their own in a flurry of action and without much time. The Princess of Dorne orders dresses by the cartload for Aurelia, dresses of blue and silver and pink and grey, sewed with pearls and other gemstones, woven with Myrish lace, stitched by hundreds of busy fingers over a mere month, dresses for feasts, for banquets, for tourneys, but most of all — Aurelia's goodsister orders dresses in red, in gold, in black, velvets meant to ripple like fire and samite bright like the light of the sun, in the colors of Martell and Targaryen. Aurelia says nothing, does nothing, merely allows the seamstress to stitch the fabrics close to her skin; she does not complain, not when the needles prick her skin in the seamstress's haste, not when the fabric closes around her, so tight that she cannot breathe.
"You must look perfection," Valena tells her. "You must waltz out of Dorne in Myrish lace and cloth-of-gold, in red and black, in fire and blood and you must make them believe you were meant for this. You must make them believe you were born to be a Targaryen. Do you understand me, Aurelia?"
Aurelia nods, and later, she will hate how young and weak she sounds in this moment. "There are hundreds of girls more beautiful than me. Perfect, pretty, highborn girls who are not descended from the Rhoynar. How am I supposed to look a Targaryen if I am Dornish?"
Valena smiles. "What are the words of our House, Aurelia?"
She swallows. "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."
"And House Targaryen?"
"Fire and Blood."
Her goodsister stands, walks to her. She is beautiful, her sister by law. Petite and slender, with dark hair and darker eyes, her skin sunkissed. Valena draws the eye in every room she walks into, men look at her with lust and women in envy. Aurelia does not possess that kind of effortless beauty. Her breasts are small, her waist barely defined. Her best trait is her eyes, so unusual but they are not enough to draw the eye.
"Our land stood, when all the other kingdoms fell," Valena says. "Our House stood firm and persevered. When the Targaryens rode dragons and burned entire villages to the ground, we held our ground. We are not conquered, Aurelia, not like the Starks, or the Lannisters, or the Arryns. The Targaryens abhor weakness, but we are unbowed, and we are unbent, and we are unbroken."
━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━
The night was full of stars and as the cold air breezed around her, Laena wrapped her arms around herself, trying to gather some warmth. She felt silly by standing there, waiting for him, but something kept her grounded and stopped her from walking away.
Laena held his note in her hand, his loopy handwriting marking the page that asked her to meet him by the gardens at midnight. She looked at it every other moment as if the words might change. The darkness made it almost impossible for her to make out what was written, but she knew his words by heart, as she had read it many times.
