ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 20: The Dragon Princess
POV: Princess Rhaenys Targaryen (294 A.C.)
Through the arched window of Sunspear, the late afternoon sun entered like a golden blade, illuminating the dust dancing in the air and bathing the room in a suffocating heat. In front of the large mirror of polished bronze, I stood, admiring the contours of my own naked body. I had completed my fourteenth year that very year of 294 A.C., and observing my own silhouette brought to mind a recent and rather peculiar conversation I had shared with Arawyn before my journey. I had teased him about the glaring differences in development between boys and girls, commenting on how a girl my age could already flaunt a perfectly formed and curvaceous body, while a boy often still maintained the clumsy shape of a child.
Arawyn, with that cold and shrewd pragmatism of his that mixed science with disdain for tradition, let out a dark laugh and replied that it was merely natural evolution shaping our cruel world. After all, if a girl blossomed faster, it only meant her father could sell her as a breeding mare much sooner to some lord in dire need of heirs. I always ended up laughing mentally at his acidic views on how society operated.
The bronze of the mirror reflected what anyone would call a beautiful Dornish body. I displayed the exotic, olive skin tone of the Martells, inherited from my mother, and a face shaped by symmetrical and expressive lines, configuring a beauty that leaned far more toward the seductive and elegant than the purely voluptuous. From my Targaryen lineage, I seemed to have inherited almost nothing; perhaps only a slightly lighter skin tone than that of my Dornish cousins, but even that detail I suspected to be merely the result of spending so many years living under the grey skies and closed ceilings of the North.
My eyes drifted to the golden runes adorning my skin, etched with surgical precision along my arms and flanks, and I found myself recalling the complex process of their creation. Being a Targaryen on my father's side and a Martell on my mother's, I did not possess a single drop of the blood of the First Men running through my veins. Because of this hereditary barrier, my body was entirely incapable of accessing or channeling the raw power of the original inscriptions used by the Starks.
However, Arawyn did not accept the limits of nature. Using his genius intellect, he began to study and modify the ancient runic matrices, altering their frequencies and compositions so they could resonate specifically with the magical heritage of the Rhoynar and Valyrian bloodlines. And, to the surprise of the maesters, the experiment worked perfectly on me.
I looked at the small droplets of water that still clung to my skin after the bath and, focusing my mind on the warm energy pulsing through my golden marks, made a subtle movement with my fingers. The water responded immediately, sliding off my skin and gathering, floating above the palm of my hand, shaping itself into a perfectly spherical liquid bubble. With a casual flick of my finger, I tossed the floating sphere out the open window, silently hoping there wasn't an unfortunate guard or servant passing directly below at that moment.
Despite this glimpse of power, I was fully aware of my limitations. Perhaps due to being away from Winterfell for some time, or perhaps because my very nature simply wasn't as inclined toward the mystical, I knew I never possessed a truly overwhelming talent for high magic. Of course, runic magic still made me a dangerous force compared to ordinary warriors; the power coursing through my veins allowed me to dispatch up to three fully armored knights without them even managing to touch me, combining my Rhoynar hydraulic manipulation skills with the darker precepts of blood magic that Arawyn had unraveled.
But all of that seemed insignificant when I compared myself to my brothers. Aegon possessed a formidable magical affinity, and Roderick was a terrifying prodigy who could manifest both Rhoynar elemental control and the physical hardening spells of the First Men with outrageous ease. And as for Aemon? Well, Aemon was an anomaly completely distinct from all of us. I felt there was a deep and dark secret surrounding his existence that I had not yet been able to uncover. Whether it was my mother Elia, Lyanna Stark, or even the most seasoned knights of the Kingsguard, everyone seemed to keep an analytical, watchful eye on him every single second of the day. Aemon's mystical talent was simply terrifying, and his precocious skill with a sword only made his presence more enigmatic.
With metal weapons, at least, I can stay close to them in combat. Wielding a well-balanced longsword, I can best the vast majority of veteran knights from the South, but the naked and raw truth was that magic was the element that completely unbalanced any political or military scenario in this new world.
I dressed in my Dornish attire of light silk, a garment that left very little to the imagination and had been specifically designed to enhance the glow of my golden runes whenever I moved. Upon opening the door and stepping out of my quarters, I found Ser Oswell Whent standing rigidly like a sentinel, his hand on the pommel of his sword and his eyes sharp as he scanned the corridor. I greeted him with a subtle nod and began walking toward yet another of the endless banquets my uncle Doran organized to celebrate our visit.
In dull moments like that, I liked to lose myself in thought, and the study of runes had always been my favorite subject. The runic system implemented by the Winter Throne had become a fascinating science that existed in different forms, combinations, and intensities across the entire Northern population. There were those who preferred pure simplicity, carving the mystical marks directly onto clean skin so the power could flow without visual obstructions, while others chose to combine the geometric inscriptions with traditional cultural tattoos from their respective regions, blending the symbols of power with artistic representations of bears, wolves, warships, or whatever else the creativity and pride of their clans could conceive.
The intensity and arrangement of these marks also dictated how an individual's power would oscillate, creating distinct paths. An ordinary person or a foot soldier might choose to have dozens of smaller runes scattered across their arms and legs, which would grant them a wide array of utilitarian abilities and minor physical augments—such as resistance to fatigue, sharp night vision, and slightly enhanced reflexes—while an elite warrior or a focused mage might choose to carry only a single, larger, and extremely complex rune upon their chest, forfeiting versatility to obtain a single ability of massive destruction or absolute defense.
But in the end, the efficacy of any of these arrangements would always depend on the raw talent of the bearer. I recalled, for instance, the king's personal assistant, a girl named Ros whom I had briefly observed during my journey last year. Currently, she has become an extremely powerful mage and enjoys great renown for holding a position of such immense trust directly beside the Winter Throne. Possessing a level three talent in greensight and skinchanging—which for a commoner represents the absolute pinnacle of mystical potential, given that level four is a rarity restricted to young Bran Stark and level five belongs exclusively to Arawyn himself—Ros demonstrates brilliant mastery in reconciling utilitarian runes of beauty, softness, and everyday comfort with rune matrices of immense combat power, displaying vast, complex runes across their body—a load of mystical energy so dense and violent that it would cause a giant's body to explode were they to attempt to channel it. When I thought of these disparities and how talent determined each person's limit, it became obvious that even in this, the gods are deeply unfair in the distribution of their favors.
As I neared the great banquet hall, even before crossing the ornamented wooden gates, the sound of a thunderous and typically Northern burst of laughter echoed through the corridors. The moment I entered, my eyes locked onto the central courtyard of the hall, where young Jon Umber was surrounded by a cluster of young noblewomen, including several of my Dornish cousins. The body of the heir of Last Hearth was a true patchwork of training scars and tribal runic tattoos, marks so dense and dark that it was difficult to discern the original color of his skin beneath all that ink and magic.
Seeing the subtle touches and glances full of ulterior motives that Arianne Martell directed toward him provoked an immediate sting of irritation in me. Not that I was in love with young Umber or harbored any romantic feelings for him, but rather because I knew my cousin's ambitious mind perfectly and knew she was trying to use him as a chess piece to forge ties of influence that could favor Dorne in the future.
When I approached the main table, Jon Umber noticed my presence and quickly dismissed the women with a clumsy bow, walking in my direction and taking the empty seat right beside me. I greeted him with my warmest, most diplomatic smile.
"So, Jon... anxious to return to the North for good?" I asked, tilting my head.
He let out another of his loud laughs, a booming sound he had inherited directly from his father, the Greatjon, drawing glances from a few of the more refined Dornish lords sipping wine nearby.
"But of course, princess!" Jon replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Dorne certainly has its beauties, the wine is strong, and the women are fascinating, but an Umber's body belongs to the cold of the North. My skin is already starting to itch from all this sand."
The banquet proceeded within expected normalcy, filled with polite speeches and exotic dances that I barely deigned to follow. Later, after the festivities concluded, I returned to my private chambers, secretly accompanied by Jon, who ensured we were not followed by Sunspear's spies. As soon as I closed the heavy door, I turned to the young Northerner with a serious expression.
"Very well, Jon. What do you think? What did you manage to find out while pretending to yield to my cousins' charms?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Your suspicions were right, princess," Jon replied, his voice dropping to a low, focused tone as he leaned against the stone wall. "Using the flesh of a few rats that infest the kitchens and the meager greensight capability I can manifest through my utilitarian marks, I saw that they are indeed in direct and constant contact with the Targaryen remnants exiled in the Free Cities of Essos."
I felt a slight jolt of adrenaline rush down my spine at the confirmation of what I already feared.
"And what exactly are they plotting through these letters and ships?"
The mention of the matter seemed to bring a distinct wave of irritation to Jon Umber's face, who furrowed his brow and clenched his fists tightly before responding.
"They are scheming a large-scale revolt to overthrow the Baratheons, intending to bring Viserys back across the sea to take the Iron Throne by force. And your uncle Doran's plan relies entirely on using the military and economic power of the North to finance and crush the Southern forces in the war to come. But from what I could gather through the whispers of servants and my readings, they have left Aegon completely out of all the main leadership plans. Or perhaps they did that just to placate the ego and madness of the Beggar King, since, judging by the tone of the letters Viserys sends, the lad is already showing signs of following the same path of insanity as his seven-times-damned father."
I let out a genuine, amused laugh hearing a man of the North, raised under the rustic customs of the old gods and heart trees, use an expression so typically Southern and bound to the Faith of the Seven as "seven-times-damned."
Despite the gravity of the situation, I knew perfectly well the real reason why the Dornishmen and the conspirators had left my brother Aegon out of their dynastic restoration ambitions. The truth was that, unlike me and Viserys, Aegon wants nothing in the South; to him, the Iron Throne is nothing more than an ugly, distant metal chair that holds no value, even if it is his by right of birth. And I could not blame him for thinking so, because the North has always been the only real home he has known since we were rescued; he does not remember our biological father or the Red Keep, only the North, its relentless snow, and its living magic.
Aegon's great dream has always been to build a powerful noble house in the North to protect the Starks. However, there is a massive hidden problem in my brother's path to achieving this dream: Aegon is gay. It's something he realized from a very young age. My brother possesses a certain melancholy and wisdom that have allowed him to know what he wants since he was young. Pursuing this dynastic goal means that, inevitably, he will have to marry a woman to perpetuate his lineage and consolidate traditional political alliances—a bitter burden given how he looks at his closest companions and, most notably, the deep and loyal friendship he developed with Robb Stark, not to mention the bonds he formed with Renly Baratheon, despite all the bloody history that exists between our families. But even in the face of all these barriers, he made it clear to me in our last conversation that no matter the scale of the sacrifice, he will fulfill his duties with sword in hand when the time comes.
I bid farewell to Jon Umber with a confident nod and retired to bed. Before closing my eyes, I lay on my side and watched through the window the bright, clear stars that blanketed the Dornish sky, knowing deep down that it would be the last time I would see them for a long period. Tomorrow morning, we would begin our definitive journey back to the North.
My uncle Doran maintained the firm expectation that I would use my beauty and Dornish charms to seduce the King of the North, dragging Arawyn and his runic industries into the center of his plans for vengeance against King's Landing. That blind ambition only proved that, even though he was considered a brilliant and extremely patient man, he could still be a complete fool in certain areas of the political game, for he vastly underestimated the implacable and unyielding mind of the wolf who rules the winter.
I also remember when my other uncle, Oberyn, and his daughters accompanied me on a previous expedition to the North, a journey that Arianne also insisted on joining after much pleading on her part. That did not end well at all. My uncle bears the name Red Viper for an excellent reason, and in his Dornish arrogance, he thought it fitting to openly insult the she-wolf Lyanna Stark for running away with my father, spewing the sarcastic argument that the young girl surely carried all the blame for seducing an adult, married man. Mind you, I am very fond of the memory of my biological father, but I would never waste my breath defending him over the idiotic choices of that era.
Obviously, Oberyn's insolence nearly ended in tragedy; the monumental effort I had to make to prevent my brother Aemon from killing my uncle right there, in the middle of Winterfell's hall, was absurd. And yes, even with my uncle being a famous warrior throughout all the Seven Kingdoms, there was not the slightest chance he could defeat Aemon in actual combat. On the other hand, seeing the humiliating rejection Arianne received from Arawyn when she tried to cast her charms of seduction upon him wasn't entirely bad. In fact, that public rejection ended up opening the doors for what truly mattered: our own secret and intense encounter in the Godswood of Winterfell, where his bold touch and the incomparable skill of his fingers in the darkness showed me exactly the kind of man I wanted for myself.
Not that I won't try to get closer to him now in a more definitive manner—after all, I am also genuinely interested in Arawyn—but I doubt he will ever agree to take part in a Southern war that is not in the interest of his people. And, to be entirely honest with myself, I don't care much for the dynastic conspiracies of Sunspear, because I too have come to view the North as my only safe home, and I do not want to drag them into a conflict that does not belong to them.
Looking now at the ceiling of dark oak beams and runic stones of the royal bedchamber in Winterfell, I realize how time flies when the right plans are set in motion. I certainly had not imagined it would be so easy to get into the bed of the King of the North. I expected to find dynastic barriers, hesitations, or political formalities that would delay my goals, but the truth was that I barely needed any effort or complex intrigue for him to accept me into his most intimate space.
Arawyn possesses a monumental body, a colossal structure that becomes even more evident and intimidating when positioned right beside me. Feeling the raw weight of his body over mine, pinning me relentlessly against the mattress of his royal bed, leaves me entirely defenseless, aware that he knows me completely, stripped of any mystery or defense. This sensation of absolute surrender is magnified by his large, calloused hands, which hold me with supernatural strength, locking my movements while his vigorous and deep thrusts strike my core with full force. But it is fine; we Dornish women were made beneath the sun to endure and thrive in this type of intense, overwhelming love.
After a number of intense rounds that I myself completely lost count of, the rhythm finally slows. Exhausted, with skin glistening with sweat and my chest rising and falling heavily, I find myself staring fixedly at the ceiling of the king's room, knowing that the dice have been cast and that winter has never been so hot.