Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 38: Deal

"Under the rule of Qoren Martell, Dorne had been one of Prince Daemon's most formidable foes in the war for the Stepstones. When news reached King's Landing that the Rogue Prince's long-time enemies had begun attempts at negotiating a formal peacetime treaty, King Viserys's response was to send his second daughter to parley with Sunspear. In one of her earliest triumphs, the Princess succeeded in preventing this coalition from forming, a victory that spelled the beginning of the end for the alliance of Lys, Tyrosh and Myr."

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

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THE PRINCESS

"It's too fucking hot here," Daemon grumbles behind you.

You pause in your ablutions, glancing amusedly over to the bed at your uncle. He is splayed pink-faced and exhausted across the mattress, silver hair mussed and entirely naked in the air that leaches in from the arid climate beyond the walls of the Old Palace.

It is true. The weather is rather more sweltering than either you or he had anticipated. Indeed, your husband had loftily proclaimed that Dorne could not be so temperate as Pentos, and that Qoren's missive had "over-exaggerated" the broiling climes of the southernmost region of Westeros. You are thankful to have remembered to pack extra scarves with which to shield his fair skin, not that you had succeeded in doing so before his pride had allowed the sun to scald his cheeks and neck, a stark contrast with the pale flesh of his chest and abdomen.

"We must simply grin and bear it, kepus," you say, dipping the cloth back into the bowl filled with cool water and wiping under your arms and breasts, the scent of orange and lemon tingling in your nostrils. Fortunately, you remain unblemished, having decided it was better to be safe than sorry upon your departure to conceal all but your eyes under thick fabric.

The journey had been slow, given your decision to forgo travel on dragonback. The Dornish had suffered grievously at the hands of Aegon and his sister-wives, and you had not wished to revisit those horrors upon your hosts by arriving to negotiations atop Athfiezar, a clear reminder of your lineage and the legacy of fire and blood House Targaryen had wrought on those desert planes. Daemon had been deeply unhappy with this choice, for the next alternative was to travel by sea, directly through the disputed territory of the Stepstones and into the grasp of the Triarchy.

"Not a fucking chance," he had said.

You had managed to reach a solution by securing a Braavosi merchant ship to traverse safeguarded through the region, using the implicit disguise of trade to sail under the unknowing eye of your enemy.

Daemon had made his approach two days into the voyage, performing a rather hazardous manoeuvre wherein he had slid from Caraxes's saddle and bowled onto the deck, and the ship rocked furiously in the aftermath of the dragon's powerful wingbeats. Thankfully, your ladies were below-deck and thus had not paid witness to your uncle's idiocy, for surely their hysterical squawks would have filled the air at the sight. After persuading the captain to stay on course—he had wished to turn back so as to deliver your husband to the Red Keep, fearful of the King's reprisal upon hearing of the Rogue Prince's rebellion—you had ushered Daemon into your quarters to pluck the splinters from his side. There, you whiled away the remaining eight days, dividing the hours between planning the upcoming negotiations with your advisors, sewing with your companions and spending time with your uncle.