TWO
RENLY thought it was inevitable that his baby sister fell in love with Dorne.
In no time at all, Serren was eating Dornish food and wearing Dornish clothes, singing Dornish songs and dancing Dornish dances, reading Dornish books and speaking the Dornish tongue. Renly was sad to say he did not share the same sentiment. In his opinion, this southernmost land was insufferably hot, and insufferably sandy, and insufferably bright.
Dull though it was, he found himself longing for the grey skies of Storm's End, a feat he never thought could be accomplished. His home was a terrible bore, but at least there he did not swelter. Here, he could scarcely step foot outside without having to cover himself head to toe in scarves, lest the thrice-damned sun cook him anymore than it already had and leave him darkening a good several more shades.
His fellow lords and ladies shared the same inhibitions, though they proved to be far less fortunate than Renly and his siblings, the lot of them turning pink in the face and sun-burned, covered in far too many layers of clothes and sweating like pigs under the heat of it. Renly found their plight most amusing.
His sister, on the other hand... They had been in Dorne for almost a month now, and that their own skin browned rather than burned—a Valyrian trait passed down from their Valyrian grandmother—seemed to delight Serren to no end.
She spent every waking moment playing under the sun in the Water Gardens, and the milky white of her skin had warmed into a sandy gold that only served to make all the highborn Dornishwomen coo, positively thrilled that their future queen could pass for the daughter of one of their own stony Dornishmen.
It did not help that the Princess Arianne had so generously gifted Renly's sister with an entirely new wardrobe, comprised of silks and satins that were scarcely fit for anything but the bedchambers. The king's entire court had been scandalised, but the Prince of Dorne and all his lords had evidently been beyond pleased by Serren's blatant adoration.
Renly shook his head, finding himself in agreement with Mace Tyrell's words. These Dornishmen were shameless in their schemes to turn his sister Dornish.
It had not escape anyone's notice, either, that Serren seemed to have grown inseparable of late from Doran Martell's eldest son, the older prince of an age with her, the boring one Renly did not care much for— Quentyn, his name was, or some such nonsense.
It was just like Serren to fall for the plainest one there was. Renly personally preferred the heir to High Hermitage, not that anyone bothered to ask him. Only Serren knew of his preferences, and she had only shrugged at Renly's mention of Ser Gerold Dayne, not interested in the slightest.
Renly still recalled the maidens swooning in their hundreds when they had first met Darkstar on the journey to Sunspear. The son of the Knight of High Hermitage could very well be a son of Old Valyria, with his dusky purple eyes and silver hair marred only by one streak of midnight. Renly had thought that must be how Rhaegar Targaryen had looked in his youth, but purer and prettier, no doubt, and sadder sevenfold.
Only Serren had not been charmed. Serren, who had been told all her life that she would be married to none other than the king himself.
