Chapter Text
Carmilla is not afraid of this farce of a marriage.
She knows the ways of the world. House Martell fought valiantly and bravely—and ultimately lost.
The Triarchy had chosen the pretender, fearing what would happen should the Shadow Prince prevail. They had threatened to close the Narrow Sea and strangle Dorne with blockade and hunger should Sunspear refuse to join them.
Her father had chosen his people.
The Gods had simply chosen otherwise.
Now Dorne had bent the knee, and she was the price of that surrender: a hostage wrapped in silk and gold, a songbird in a gilded cage.
King Lucifer was already happily married to his cousin, Lilith. The Faith of the Seven would never permit polygamy, nor was it wise to provoke them over a second wife. So His Grace, in his infinite wisdom, had offered the next best thing.
Zestial Targaryen had too many titles for the poor heralds to name, she supposes. His Hand. Protector of the Realm. Prince of Dragonstone. Rider of Vaelkor, the Shadow of Valyria. The king's brother in all but blood.
He had done what Aegon the Conqueror never could. When Dorne refused to bend the knee, Zestial and Vaelkor descended upon it with dragonfire until the sand itself turned to glass and even the most secret of strongholds had been turned to ash.
“I’m sorry for this, my dear,” her father had told her, when she had returned to the water gardens, fresh from battle in the Reach, blade still bloody and burning with white-hot rage.
“Dorne is mighty enough, father, to—”
“No.” Her father rubbed his forehead tiredly, suddenly looking every one of his sixty and five years. “The pretender has been captured, and now the Targaryens can turn their full attention back to us.”
“We still can win.” Carmilla paced before him, prowling. “The king’s dog can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Beyond his dragon, his army is formidable.” Her father said, “Before coming to Westeros, our spies tell us he defeated the Dothraki on an open field. His sellswords shattered armies twice their size, and his fleet has the Triarchy fleeing back across the Narrow Sea.”
“It helps he has a dragon.”
“Enough.” Her father gripped her wrist, fingernails digging into her skin. “I will hear no more of this. You will do your duty and marry him as part of the terms of surrender. I will not see our people reduced to ashes for the sake of my—or your—pride.”
Carmilla had swallowed her tears and done as he bade.
She does not fear the dragon, but she is worried about what the future will mean for Dorne, if she displeases her future husband or this marriage falls apart. It’s why she is heading for King’s Landing ahead of her father and the rest of the delegation. Perhaps the Targaryens think that Dorne will do nothing if the Martell heir is in their clutches.
Little do they realize that Dorne is like her house words—unbowed, unbent, unbroken.
Carmilla knows she will be lucky if she ever sees Sunspear again. A small price to pay, she thinks, if her brothers and sisters might continue to walk beneath the Dornish sun in peace.
Still, even as she allows her face to retreat to a mask fit for a royal, she can’t help but feel a prickle of displeasure at her soon-to-be husband. It’s difficult to protect Dorne from a stranger.
She has briefly entertained the thought of poisoning the Shadow Prince. It’s a pointless exercise. Even with his death, Dorne would still burn, and they would all find themselves right back where they started.
After she has spent three miserable weeks aboard a ship, Zestial Targaryen could have at least had the courtesy to greet his future wife himself.
Instead, the king himself does, as he helps her onto the dock, with an almost apologetic smile. He’s shorter than she expected, standing nearly two heads beneath her.
“Welcome to King’s Landing, Princess Carmilla.” What he lacks in height, Lucifer more than makes up for in enthusiasm. “Your betrothed wished he could be here himself, but alas, I had to send him off to take care of other military matters.”
“It is no trouble, Your Grace.” She smiles, the practiced picture of Westerosi demureness. “I am honored to be escorted by you in my betrothed’s stead.”
Lucifer laughs. “I’m sure you wished Zestial had been here. Everyone’s heard songs about the Shadow Prince and want to see if they’re true.”
“I imagine most of the stories are exaggerated.” Carmilla takes his arm as they begin to make their way up the Red Keep’s steps, the Kingsguard trailing behind them. “I doubt he can turn into a dragon, despite what they sing in the Vale.”
“Thank the Gods for that.” Lucifer gives her a charming smile, his violet eyes sparkling. “He’d be absolutely insufferable.”
“I wonder, will he live up to all the ballads the bards have made for him?”
“Depends on the song, princess.” Lucifer shrugs. “The minstrels love singing of dragons, but they often forget the man.”
“And what kind of man is he then?”
Lucifer’s smile softens. “A better one than the songs deserve.”
The doors to the Red Keep swing before them. Lucifer's smile slips back into the polished mask of a king.
“Come,” Lucifer says, offering his arm. “Let us get you settled.”
—
—
Carmilla doesn’t quite know what the Targaryens are playing at.
Lilith and Lucifer quickly take her under their wings, batting away courtiers and rumormongers, as she settles into her new quarters, a lovely suite in the Queen’s own wing.
“It’ll only be temporary,” Lilith reassures her. The Queen has spent the better part of the day showing her around the Keep, from the Dragonpit to hidden passages known only to a handful of people. “Unfortunately, Westeros is rather set in its ways. You’ll be moved to the Hand’s quarters soon enough.”
Carmilla is in no rush to do so. Better to know what measure of man her husband was before she found herself alone in his chambers.
She would have been more than content ruminating in her prison by herself. Unfortunately for her, Lilith seems determined to have her as her good sister—and is insistent upon Carmilla’s company.
A month ago, Carmilla had been sleeping in campaign tents and eating whatever provisions the army could spare. Now she finds herself sitting in a sunlit garden with a plate of lemon cakes she never asked for, chatting with the Queen herself.
“Maestro!” Lilith calls, waving to an approaching soldier. “How lovely of you to join us!”
Maestro is a broad-shouldered man, with his hair streaked with silver at the temples. His black armor is well-made, but unadorned in any finery, save for the black Targaryen dragon on the chest plate.
“Your Grace.” He bows to Lilith before turning his attention to Carmilla. “Your Highness. My squad and I have been assigned to your protection by order of His Lord Hand.”
“I think that’s rather unnecessary.” Carmilla offers him an easy smile. “Surely the Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard are sufficient. Besides, I imagined His Lord Hand would want his most trusted soldiers beside him while he finishes the war.”
A flicker of amusement crosses Maestro's face. “His Lord Hand commanded us to be here.”
Carmilla’s smile never falters. “And so you are.”
“And so we shall remain.”
“Then I shall be grateful for your protection.”
At a flick of Maestro's fingers, one of the black-armored soldiers breaks formation and moves to stand watch beside the Kingsguard.
The Red Keep suddenly feels a little smaller.
Carmilla had spent the voyage north planning how she might navigate the vipers' nest that was King's Landing.
Her future husband, it seems, had anticipated that possibility.
Unfortunately for him, Carmilla Martell is a child of sun and sand. Cages have never suited her.
—
—
It takes her another week to map the winding tunnels and secret passageways of the Red Keep. Years of campaigning had taught her to count exits and memorize terrain, and the hidden passages make it easy to slip her guards and steal moments to stare longingly across the sea and dream of Dorne.
When Lilith isn't within earshot, the little birds of court twitter endlessly, chirping that Carmilla Martell has crossed half a continent to become a broodmare for the Shadow Prince.
Let them talk.
In the privacy of her own thoughts, Carmilla had long ago stopped asking the Gods for happiness. Peace for Dorne would more than suffice.
Besides, if the songs were true, she doubted His Lord Hand cared much for the thoughts of a foreign bride.
No one has found her hiding spot yet.
But today, she hears footsteps approaching—and there is only one way into this particular alcove. Carmilla immediately reaches for a dagger she is no longer permitted to carry.
The figure rounds the corner, weapon drawn.
Upon seeing her, the knight lowers his sword, sliding the slender Valyrian blade back into its scabbard.
“You’re far from your quarters, Your Grace.”
He’s a Targaryen knight, she supposes, one of her betrothed’s, if the black Targaryen dragon emblazoned on his chest plate is anything to go by. The knight has a charming smile, dark hair, tousled by his helmet, and striking green eyes.
She forces her heart to still. "And you're far from yours, sir."
“A fair point.” The corner of his mouth quirks upward.
Carmilla turns on her heel, brushing past him. “It seems I’ll have to find another hiding place.”
“You could.” He glances toward the sea. “Though I suspect this one would be difficult to replace. There aren’t many secret passages looking towards Dorne.”
She stops mid-step. “You’re rather well-versed in geography.”
“Occupational hazard, I suppose.” He leans against the wall, surveying her with open curiosity. “If it pleases you, I could show you a few more.”
“Oh?” Carmilla’s eyes narrow. “What for?”
“In case this spot loses its charm.”
“And wouldn’t your commander be displeased?” She remembers how thoroughly Maestro had dressed down the unfortunate guard responsible when she had gone missing the first time.
The knight’s smile widens. “There are some risks worth taking.”
“The boldest often were the first to fall on the battlefield.” She snorts. “That sounds suspiciously like famous last words.”
“Perhaps.” His green eyes sparkle mischievously. “Though I had heard the Dornish were supposed to be bold.”
Carmilla raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “And I had heard Targaryens were supposed to be mad.”
“Then perhaps we should endeavor not to disappoint one another.” He offers her an arm. “Come, Your Grace. Let us see if we can't find you a finer view.”
Reluctantly, Carmilla takes it. His armor is cool against her fingers, and despite the space he carefully keeps between them, she is suddenly far too aware of how close he is.
They move through the winding corridors in silence, until the knight breaks it.
“You move lightly for someone carrying Dorne on her shoulders.”
She glances sharply at him. “Do I?”
His eyes flick briefly downward. “It’s rare for a Dornish warrior to learn water dancing.”
“You’re familiar?” Her scowl fades, if only slightly. “Most Westerosi never learn of things beyond their own kingdoms.”
“I’m not most Westerosi.” Without breaking stride, he presses a hand against an unassuming stone.
The wall groans. A narrow passage reveals itself beyond.
He gestures for her to enter first. “I spent a good portion of my youth across the Narrow Sea.”
“In Braavos?” Carmilla ducks underneath the cobwebs, frowning as the passage seems to stretch on forever.
“Volantis,” the knight says, as he leads her up yet another flight of stairs.
“Rare to find a proper instructor there.”
“Indeed.” The knight laughs. “And if there were one, I couldn't afford them.”
“No?”
“I knew an old bravo who drank himself senseless in the tavern where I worked. He'd rap me with a stick whenever I crossed my feet while sweeping.”
She can’t help but chuckle at the image. “You learned water dancing while cleaning floors?”
“No.” His grin widens. “I learned how to avoid being hit by an angry drunk.”
“An important skill.” One she might have to use depending on the temperament of the man she was to marry. Her soon-to-be-husband had yet deigned to even send her a letter. “You’ve risen high since those tavern days.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been luckier than most.”
Carmilla has met enough commanders to know luck alone did not carry men from tavern floors to wearing a black dragon upon their breast. “Somehow, I suspect there is more to the story than that.”
“Perhaps.” His smile turns warm. “I find the tale improves considerably depending on how much wine the storyteller has consumed.”
She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “And how much have you had?”
“Not nearly enough to discuss Volantis.”
“Is it that terrible?”
“No.” He laughs softly. “Quite the opposite. The problem is that every story from Volantis requires three others to explain it.”
“Try me.”
The knight seems delighted by the invitation, so he does.
He tells her of sleeping beneath wagons in Volantis and a regrettable incident in Lys involving a rooftop, three angry husbands, and a misunderstanding he insists was entirely Maestro's fault. He speaks of pirates in the Stepstones, of Vaes Dothrak, and the wonders he found across the Narrow Sea.
By the end, Carmilla strongly suspects that at least half his adventures should have gotten him killed.
And worse, she finds herself speaking of Sunspear, of racing horses through the dunes and training beneath the First Sword of Braavos. She speaks of long marches beneath the blistering sun that gave way to songs around the campfire with soldiers who had become friends.
The knight hangs onto her every word. It’s unfair, she thinks, that they should meet like this.
Under different banners, she suspects they might have understood one another far too well.
Eventually, the corridor opens onto a narrow stone balcony high above the city.
Carmilla stops.
King's Landing sprawls beneath them, its countless lights reflected across Blackwater Bay. Far beyond, Dragonstone rises from the sea like some sleeping beast, dark and ancient against the evening sky.
It's no Dorne.
But it is beautiful.
“I come here when I want to be alone,” the knight says quietly by her side. “No one will bother you here.”
She studies him carefully. “Will you tell anyone?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He raises a finger to his lips. “It can be our secret.”
She hates how pleased she is by his answer.
“I don’t know the way here,” she admits.
“Then I’ll bring you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sir.”
“I swear it.” His certain gaze meets hers. “By the Gods, old and new.”
The Gods, she knows, are seldom as kind as men hope.
She gives him a sad smile. “Take me back to my quarters, will you?”
He obliges.
Carmilla finds herself wishing that the journey back wasn’t so short.
She sees the guards milling about her room, frantic, and braces herself for a scolding.
“Your Grace—” Maestro begins, his relief evident, then he catches sight of the knight beside her. Maestro slams a fist against his chest. “My Lord.”
Every man in black armor immediately follows suit.
“Welcome back.” Maestro’s frown deepens. “I thought you were due tomorrow.”
The knight returns the salute. “Plans changed,” he says apologetically. “The Triarchy quickly decided we would all be better friends than enemies.”
“Vaelkor’s charm this time?”
“Mine, if you would believe it.”
Maestro huffs. “And I am the Old Blood.”
The knight laughs. “I think we’ve gone far beyond such petty stations.”
Carmilla's eyes narrow at the exchange. Suddenly, several very irritating pieces fall into place.
Carmilla very slowly turns, glaring daggers at the knight.
His sheepish smile does absolutely nothing to improve the situation.
“So,” she says at last, each word carefully measured. “You're my betrothed. The man who turned Dorne into glass.”
He winces at the venom in her voice. “Yes.”
“When were you planning on introducing yourself?”
Zestial Targaryen rubs the back of his neck guiltily. “I had hoped to call upon you properly in the morning.”
“You mean after allowing me to wander half the Red Keep with you?”
“The Gods had other plans when I happened upon you tonight.”
“The same Gods you swore by?”
“Yes.”
To her everlasting irritation, he adds, “I did tell you I was luckier than most.”
He reaches out to take her hand, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of it. The touch is so gentle that she almost wishes he had been cruel instead.
“Princess Carmilla,” he says softly. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.”
For all the songs sung of dragons, conquerors, and monsters, Zestial Targaryen stands before her looking less a creature of legend and more simply a man.
Damn him.
Damn his stories.
Damn his smile.
Most of all, damn the Gods for their cruel sense of humor.
Slowly, deliberately, she withdraws her hand.
His smile falters.
“Your Grace—”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
With the footwork of a water dancer, Carmilla slips from his reach before he can stop her. A heartbeat later, the door to her chambers slams shut and the lock clicks into place.
Through the door, she hears a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
And Gods help her, Carmilla loathes the part of her that believes him.
—
—
Zestial sends her purple hyacinths the following morning during her breakfast with Lilith, and Carmilla can only stare at them.
At last, she says quietly, “I’m surprised he didn’t bring them himself.”
The servant gives her an apologetic smile. “Between you and me, Your Grace, the Lord Hand would have much rather have done so.” The girl leans forward conspiratorially. “His Majesty had to drag him to the Small Council chambers.”
Lilith laughs into her tea. “Thank you, Niffty. You may go.”
Niffty curtseys and leaves them as quickly as she came.
Lilith glances over at bouquet. “Do the flowers displease you?”
“Not at all.” Carmilla pushes down the confusing feelings threatening to bubble to the surface. “I’m simply surprised.”
“Mmm.” Lilith stirs her tea. “Would you have preferred gold or jewels?”
Dorne’s freedom, if the Gods were merciful, Dorne’s safety if they were good, Carmilla thinks, but aloud she says, “Perhaps more time with my betrothed.”
The Queen smiles. “Time is precious. More so than jewels, I think.”
Carmilla’s fingers brush over the purple petals.
Across the Narrow Sea, flowers held meaning. She knows enough of Volantis to recognize an apology when she sees one.
For what, she isn't entirely certain.
There are a great many things Zestial Targaryen ought to apologize for.
Above them, a pair of hatchlings tumble through the morning sky, their joyous cries echoing across Blackwater Bay.
“It's tradition to place an egg in the cradle of a newborn. They say Princess Rhaena began the custom, insisting her children ought to know dragons from the moment they entered the world.” Lilith smiles fondly at the sight, a hand coming to rest over her stomach. “Hopefully, another will join them soon.”
Carmilla smiles. “Congratulations. You must be very pleased.”
Given the customs of Westeros, Lucifer and Lilith must be praying for a boy, Carmilla reasons, for unlike Dorne, the other kingdoms would rather burn than let a woman rule them.
“A healthy child will be enough,” Lilith says simply. “The Gods may decide the rest.”
“Then I shall pray for the Mother to watch over you and the babe.”
“From your lips to the Gods’ ears.” Lilith’s grin widens. “Perhaps I need to pray to the Warrior to win the battle for the child’s name.”
“Oh?”
“Lucifer is insisting on a duck-related name.”
“You have my deepest sympathies.”
Maestro fetches them later as the Dornish delegation approaches the Red Keep. Carmilla escorts Lilith to the throne room before she heads to the courtyard. The trumpets sound across the courtyard as the gates of the Red Keep swing open.
Her father rides at the head, surrounded by the black and crimson cloaks of House Targaryen. Above them, Vaelkor descends from the heavens, the last dragon of old Valyria before the Doom.
She’s only seen the beast from afar in the Reach. Up close, the last dragon of old Valyria is even larger than she imagined, scales black as midnight and wings broad enough to blot out the sun. He circles overhead once, roaring triumphantly.
Atop him, Zestial Targaryen looks less like a man and more like some god ascendant.
He raises his fist to the heavens, and the small folk and highborn alike all cheer.
The dragon lands before them and Zestial easily dismounts from the saddle, taking off his helmet. His eyes find Carmilla, and as if on cue, his dragon lets out what almost sounds like a teasing trill, nudging Zestial in the direction with his snout playfully.
The Shadow Prince shoves his dragon back, earning another pleased rumble from the dragon. He heads over to her father and the rest of the delegation, the roar of the crowd following him.
Zestial crosses the courtyard to receive her father, shaking his hand. The two men exchange words, and her father’s tense expression seems to relax only just slightly. Zestial and her father lead the procession to the throne room where Lucifer awaits at the Iron Throne, Blackfyre by his side.
Zestial takes his side by Lucifer’s right hand, and her father removes his crown and kneels.
“My crown and kingdom are yours, Your Grace,” her father says clearly. “Dorne yields. So long as the Iron Throne keeps faith with us, House Martell shall keep faith with the Iron Throne.”
Lucifer’s solemn face turns to a royal smile. “Rise, Prince Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear.”
Lucifer descends the steps.
“Aegon the Conqueror dreamed of a realm united beneath one crown. Today, at long last, that dream is fulfilled.”
His voice rings throughout the hall.
“Let all men know that Dorne enters these Seven Kingdoms not as a conquered people, but as honored subjects of the Iron Throne. House Martell shall retain its ancient rights, titles, and honors. So long as House Martell keeps faith with the Crown, the Iron Throne shall keep faith with Dorne.”
He extends a hand.
“Rise, my lord. Let there be peace between us.”
Her father takes it.
“And now, let us bind our kingdoms not only by oath, but by blood.”
His eyes sparkle with unmistakable pride.
“It is my great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my beloved brother, Prince Zestial Targaryen, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm, to Princess Carmilla Martell, heir to Sunspear.”
The cheers are deafening.
She remains, playing the ever-present and loyal daughter, graciously receiving congratulations from lords and ladies alike. Maestro stands watch by her side, his eyes lingering on the Reach lords. Their smiles are polite enough, but too many of them wear mourning black beneath their finery.
“Princess.” Zestial comes up beside her, his gaze lingering on the cluster of the Reach pretending not to stare. “Shall we take a turn in the gardens?”
“That would be lovely.”
He leads her away from prying eyes, until it is just the two of them. “Are you unhappy with the marriage?” he asks at last.
“I know my duty,” she answers stiffly.
“That is not what I am asking.” He hesitates, whatever confidence the Shadow Prince commands on the battlefield seemingly deserting him in the face of a woman. “I—"
A courier races toward them, breathless. "His Majesty requests your presence, Lord Hand. The matter is urgent."
Somewhere in the distance, Vaelkor roars in unmistakable displeasure.
“I apologize, Princess.” Disappointment flickers across the Shadow Prince’s face. “It seems the Gods have terrible timing.”
“I understand.”
His thumb brushes over her knuckles as he leans down to kiss her hand. “We will speak soon.”
—
They never get another chance to speak before the wedding.
Lucifer has him gallivanting around half the known world, between his Freehold across the Narrow Sea, and Pentos all the way to the Iron Islands to put down yet another Greyjoy rebellion. The few times he returns to King's Landing are fleeting.
Zestial still sends her flowers. They alternate between purple hyacinths and red camellias.
Carmilla finds herself unable to throw them away.
And before she realizes it, her wedding arrives.
Today feels more like a funeral than a wedding.
“Carmilla…” Prince Martell, no longer King, lingers as the servants continue their preparations. Her father looks as if he wants to say something, but the words are caught in his throat.
This is King’s Landing, after all, and even the walls have ears.
The makeup she dons is warpaint, and her gown is armor.
Carmilla composes her face into the picture of a Westerosi lady. “I know father.” She reaches out to squeeze her father’s hand. “His Grace has honored our House beyond measure. I shall endeavor to prove worthy of it.”
Her father bows his head and kisses her hand, though she feels the tremor in his fingers.
“I could not have asked the Gods for a better daughter,” he says quietly. “Nor a finer heir.”
The ceremony passes in a blur. It feels as though she is drifting beneath water, watching someone else's life unfold through rippling glass.
The sept door opens and her father takes her arm. He leads her down the aisle toward the altar, where Zestial and the Septon await. Her father gently places her hand atop Zestial’s.
Zestial cuts a formidable figure in his black, velvet tunic, the golden pin of his office glittering in the candlelight. His entire face softens when he smiles at her.
She performs her part perfectly, all smiles and grace, saying the vows and singing the songs and listening to the prayers. Her father steps forward to unclasp the cloak of House Martell from her shoulders.
Zestial sweeps the black cloak of House Targaryen around her.
Her voice never wavers. “With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.”
His green gaze never once leaves her. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”
Zestial leans forward to kiss her with surprising softness.
The Septon raises his crystal high, so the rainbow falls down upon them.
"Here in sight of gods and men," he says," I solemnly proclaim Zestial of the House Targaryen and Carmilla of the House Martell to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."
And suddenly, she is a wife. No longer is she Princess Carmilla Martell of Dorne, heir of Sunspear, but Princess Carmilla Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, wife to the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm.
The titles taste like ashes on her tongue.
Her newly minted Lord Husband leads the procession from the sept to the Small Hall for the wedding feast.
The gathering is intimate by royal standards. The Small Hall is mostly the same, save Zestial’s personal standard, a three-headed black dragon on a field of crimson, beside the banners of House Targaryen. Zestial leads her to a dais that has been erected at the head of the hall, overlooking their guests, mostly King Lucifer’s courtiers and representatives from the houses.
The feast quickly settles into a constant procession of toasts and well-wishers, which both she and Zestial graciously endure.
Carmilla scarcely notices when a servant places another plate before her. Then she blinks as a familiar smell wafts up toward her. Only then does she look down.
Amongst the roasted boar and honeyed duck sit familiar spicy lamb sausages, glistening with oil. Blood oranges rest beside bowls of olives and soft goat cheese. Flatbread, still hot from the oven, sends curls of steam into the air.
“Wine, your grace?” a servant offers, a pitcher of deep Dornish red cradled in his hands.
“Yes, thank you,” she manages quietly. Carmilla drinks deeply, the wine rich upon her tongue. She reaches for the sausage and the nostalgia washes over her, the familiar fire peppers, with enough spice to sting.
Tears prickle the corner of her eyes.
It tastes like home.
At the crowd’s insistence, her new Lord Husband pulls her into a dance. The musicians strike up a lively tune, but the noise fades as Zestial’s hand settles at the small of her back. She rests her palm against his chest, and she can feel the heat of him beneath velvet.
The new Prince and Princess of Dragonstone begin to dance. It’s the dance Lilith had insisted she learn. (“It won’t do for my good sister to embarrass herself at her wedding!” Lilith exclaimed, as she forced Carmilla and the poor Lord she roped into helping to practice again and again.)
Zestial leads her into a turn and she follows without thought, her skirts flaring as he catches her effortlessly. He spins her away, only to draw her back with practiced ease, black and crimson swirling together as they weave around the floor, like two dragons in flight.
“We'll dance properly later,” he whispers near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. “After all, I want to see your water dancing.”
“I thought Westeros frowned upon women wielding swords.”
His smile widens. “Good thing I don't come from Westeros.”
As the final chords of the song fade, Zestial reluctantly releases her. Carmilla drops into a deep curtsy as her husband gives a low bow.
Polite applause echoes throughout the hall. The other guests begin to join the floor as the minstrels continue for yet another rousing tune. Carmilla almost reaches out for Zestial, but he’s dragged off by another courtier and another Lord is sweeping her into the next dance.
The next several songs pass in a blur of names and smiles. She dances with half the court, accepting congratulations and well wishes with practiced grace.
It comes as a relief when Maestro finally claims her for a dance.
The old commander is skilled in many things. This is not one of them.
“Careful,” Carmilla warns, laughing as he nearly steps on her toes. She grips his shoulders to force them another direction, narrowly avoiding a collision with another couple.
Maestro groans and promptly allows her to lead. “I hate dancing.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Somebody had to rescue you from the vultures.” Maestro beams down at her. “Congratulations, Princess. You finally made an honest man out of him. He’s your problem now.”
“Only outside of the battlefield.” Carmilla smiles. “I’m afraid there, he’s all yours.”
“For now, perhaps.” Maestro smirks knowingly. “You’ll be back on war councils soon enough.”
Before she can reply, Lucifer steals her away.
“Carmilla! There’s the good-sister I’ve always wanted and finally have!” The King is several cups into his wine and entirely too cheerful, his steps a tad late to the music, as he clumsily guides them around the floor.
“Your Majesty.”
“Oh, don't 'Your Majesty' me.” Lucifer waves a hand. “We're family now. Officially.”
She acquiesces. “Lucifer.”
“There! That wasn’t so hard!” He beams up at her. “I’m grateful for you, Carmilla. Lily’s never had a friend in court. And I’m sorry for always stealing Zestial from you. Duty and all that.”
“I understand. Duty to the realm comes before all.”
“Not tonight! He’ll be all yours tonight.” Lucifer wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “If not, Vaelkor will probably burn down King’s Landing out of frustration.”
Carmilla snorts. “I think one kingdom turned to ash is quite enough.”
“Ha! I see those fangs!” He pushes her shoulder playfully. “We’ll make a dragon of you yet.”
Lilith swoops in and Lucifer immediately kisses her deeply. “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hello, yourself.” Lilith smiles fondly. “Now come along before you talk her ear off about baby names.”
“I still think Quackers is—”
“Absolutely not,” both Carmilla and Lilith snap. Lilith gives Carmilla a wink before dragging her husband away.
Laughing in spite of herself, Carmilla retreats to a corner to grab a drink, cheeks flushed from the dancing.
Across the hall, she catches sight of her father speaking with Zestial. Her father is smiling. The war has aged him terribly, but tonight he looks years younger.
Perhaps this treaty might work after all.
It’s the first moment of respite she has had all day.
“You’re the Dornish whore who killed my son.” The words shatter the illusion.
She turns around to see a man dressed in gold and green, a golden rose embroidered across his chest. There is no wine in his eyes, only white-hot grief and hatred.
Carmilla searches his face to see if she can remember Tyrell’s son, but there are too many faces, too many battlefields, too many nameless boys who had died for banners that were never theirs.
“I’m sorry,” she says at last.
“Words do not bring back the dead.” He raises his voice above the din. “It’s time we bed them!”
The minstrels strike up The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown, and the crowd cheers. Hands grab at her in every direction. She loses sight of Lord Tyrell completely as she is swept towards the doors amidst a sea of laughter and wandering hands.
“No—”
She twists free from one pair of hands only to find three more upon her. Fingers claw impatiently at the laces of her bodice. A hand catches her skirts. Another reaches for her hair.
Somewhere amidst the chaos, her sleeve tears, hands grope at her, and bawdy jests are thrown quicker than she can answer them. There are too many of them to fight off, and too much bad blood between them for anyone to intervene.
For the first time since arriving in King's Landing, Carmilla cannot see a way out.
“Enough.” Suddenly, Zestial stands in their path. No one has dared to lay a hand on him.
She finally sees the Shadow Prince, the same man who set half the Free Cities aflame to make a point.
His gaze falls to her torn sleeve, and something dark flickers across his face. Zestial reaches out and removes her from the group, tucking her protectively beneath his arm, as if she belongs there.
He presses a kiss to her temple. “Come, my lady. Let us depart.”
No one dares stand in their way.
They quickly exit, ascending to the Tower of the Hand. Only when it is just the two of them does Zestial finally release his grip on her.
Carmilla exhales a long breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “Thank you.”
“You’re my wife,” Zestial says simply. He gently reaches out to examine her wrist, mouth tightening as he sees the reddening skin. “I am sorry. I should have been by your side.”
“I do not ask for much.” She lifts her chin. “I know my duty. If half the court is to be believed, I am merely your broodmare, but I will not be humiliated publicly again.”
“Do you really think so little of me?” Zestial crosses to the solar, pouring them both a cup of wine.
“I only know of you from the stories.” She meets his eyes. “Tell me, husband, what you actually want.”
The mask of the Shadow Prince is gone, and before her stands simply Zestial. “I want a wife, Carmilla. Not a hostage. Not a broodmare. And certainly not some meek, submissive slip who agrees with every foolish thought that tumbles from my head.”
“And you want Dorne.”
“A political necessity.” He hands her a cup. “But not the reason I chose you.”
The glass nearly slips from her fingers.
“I want your counsel. I have seen you on the battlefield. Across the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities, there is no one like you. I wish for a wife who would stand beside me as my equal.”
“And if I disagree with you?”
“I should certainly hope so.” His lips twitch. “Even my men disagree with me often enough.”
“And my people?”
“Are under my protection.”
“And if they defy you?”
“Then I shall deal with them.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “But if Dorne keeps faith with the treaty, then Dorne is mine to protect. I promise you this.”
“And if I defy you?” she challenges.
“Behind closed doors?” His lips curve upward. “My dear wife, I should be worried if you didn't.”
He closes the distance between them, his hands resting on her hips. “Tell me, wife, what you actually want.”
For a moment, Carmilla simply stares at him. His honesty leaves her with pressure room for doubt.
She rises onto her tiptoes and kisses him.
To her satisfaction, his breath catches. For one glorious heartbeat, the Shadow Prince looks utterly dumbstruck, his wine glass slipping from his fingers and shattering against the floor.
He kisses her back with enough hunger to steal the breath from her lungs, one hand burying itself in her hair while the other pulls her flush against him. His composure crumbles beneath her lips.
Carmilla reluctantly pulls away for air. “Husband—”
“Zestial,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire.
“Zestial,” she repeats softly, savoring the way his eyes darken at the sound of his name. "I think," she whispers, cupping his cheek, "it is time we stopped pretending we are strangers."
—
—
Carmilla wakes tangled against Zestial's chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns against her bare shoulder as sunlight streams through the windows.
She tries to slip out of bed, but he pulls her back against him, burying his face in her hair. “Where are you off to, Carmilla?”
“We ought to get up, Zestial.”
He hums contentedly. “Not yet.”
“I thought you wanted my counsel.” She frowns.
“I do. More than ever.” He reaches over her to kiss the scowl off her face. “But today the realm can wait, for my wife is far more important.”
“Oh?” Heat floods her cheeks. “Perhaps you should show me.”
Before he can move, she flips him onto his back, pressing him into the mattress. She leans down to kiss him, his arms immediately wrapping around her waist so she is flush against him.
“Gods.” He looks at her as if he still can’t believe she is real. “I truly am luckier than most.”
She laughs and kisses him again, delighting in the way he holds her, as if he never means to let her go.
As morning slowly gives way to day, Carmilla has to concede one thing.
Perhaps, one day, she would call this place home.