Naerisa's arrival in Dorne was a moment suspended in time, like the fleeting second before a storm when the air is thick with anticipation, and every breath feels as though it might be your last.
The heat hit her first, a dry, oppressive warmth that clung to her skin and settled in her lungs as if the land itself was reaching out to pull her into its embrace. The sun hung low in the sky, a deep orange orb that cast long, wavering shadows across the landscape, turning the sand a rich, golden hue that seemed to shimmer with every movement.
She descended from the carriage with a grace that had been instilled in her from a young age, her every step measured and deliberate, the weight of a thousand expectations resting on her slender shoulders. The court had gathered to meet her, a sea of faces that blurred together into a single mass of dark eyes and tanned skin, all of them fixated on her with a mixture of curiosity and something else—something far more unsettling.
It was as if she were a rare creature, something out of a myth or a legend, brought to life before their eyes. Her skin, pale as the moonlight, stood in stark contrast to the deep, bronzed tones of the Dornishmen, a reminder of the world she had left behind. Her hair, nearly white in its paleness, fell in loose waves down her back, catching the light with every movement, turning it into a halo that framed her delicate features. But it was her eyes—those violet depths that seemed almost unnatural in their intensity—that held them captive, drawing them in and holding them there, like a moth drawn to a flame it cannot resist.
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Morion Martell, the man who would soon be her husband, stood at the front of the gathering, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. He was handsome, strikingly so, with a chiseled jawline and dark, wavy hair that fell just to his shoulders.
His eyes, a deep, penetrating brown, were filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place, something between admiration and possession. He wore the traditional garb of his people, a deep red tunic that clung to his broad shoulders, a golden sash tied around his waist, glinting in the dying light of the sun.
As she approached, she could feel the weight of their gazes on her, as if they were all trying to decipher the mystery she presented, to uncover the secrets she carried with her from across the narrow sea.
The whispers began almost immediately, hushed voices that carried on the warm breeze, speaking of her beauty, of her strangeness, of the power she must wield to have captured the attention of a man like Morion Martell.
"Welcome to Dorne," Morion said, his voice smooth and melodic, with just a hint of an accent that was both foreign and familiar at once. He took her hand in his, and she was surprised by the warmth of his touch, the roughness of his palm against her own. He raised her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. "You are even more beautiful than I had imagined, Princess Naerisa."
His words were practiced, polished to a shine, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that made her breath catch in her throat. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips that sent a shiver down her spine, though she couldn't tell if it was one of fear or something else, something darker that she wasn't ready to name.
