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The Rhaella x Doran Drabbles

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Asking for help has never been easy. In fact, she can’t remember the last time she’d asked for it at all. Even if she had asked, no one would have helped her, she’s always known that. She could beg the Kingsguard to help save her from Aerys’s torment, beg her ladies, beg anyone, and no one would move a muscle. Not even her own parents cared a whit for her well-being. Nearly thirty years she’s fended for herself with only the dregs of her grandmother’s pride as comfort, and now she knows she must sacrifice it.

Ser Willem had wanted them to go to Essos, but Essos is too far, too untested, might even still be teeming with secret Blackfyre supporters. Most of Westeros would be no friend to her, except one, her last hope.

Dany clutched in her arms, she goes to her knees in front of the Prince of Dorne, beseeching. “It is too much to ask, I know, especially after what my family did to yours, but I beg you to shelter us.”

Thirty years. Thirty years of being spat on, of being told she’s weak. She expects it now, too.

Prince Doran takes her by the elbow and gently brings her to her feet. “You bow to no one,” he says. His voice reminds her of Elia’s—soft, yet backed by iron. “You showed my sister love in King’s Landing when no one else would, and you have shared our grief. We will shelter you. On my mother’s grave, I swear you shall find peace here.”

He says it so plainly, so readily, as though he could countenance nothing else, that thirty years’ worth of needing help and never getting it finally surges over the wall of stone she’d built around herself. The tears come fast and hard, the depth of her relief almost painful, and yet he does not call her weak like Aerys would (like Aerys did), he simply takes her hand.