Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11912130.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Arianne_Martell, Doran_Martell, Sand_Snakes_
      (ASoIaF), and_more, will_tag_later_as_they_appear
  Additional Tags:
      Uncle/Niece_Incest, Pseudo-Incest, Daddy_Kink, Dorne, Alternate_Universe,
      Canon_Divergence, Mostly_Fluff, and_SMUT, there_is_plot_but_im_playing
      fast_and_loose_with_both_book_and_show_canon, to_suit_my_whims, basically
      petyr_and_sansa_go_to_dorne_and_have_a_sexy_schemy_holiday_with_a_bunch
      of_new_friends
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-26 Updated: 2017-09-19 Chapters: 2/? Words: 8773
****** Desire in Dorne ******
by Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary
     Sweetrobin is dead, Harry the Heir has been executed for the crime,
     and the realm is more unsteady than ever, but there is no rest for
     the wicked, as Petyr Baelish and Sansa Stark are already planning
     their next move in the game.
     They travel to the sun and sands of Dorne, welcomed by Prince Doran
     and his sultry daughter, the Princess Arianne. In this new and exotic
     court they find new faces, and old ones, as alliances are made,
     pleasures are to be indulged and a Queen is to be crowned...
     They best not let the heat go to their heads.
Notes
     Now, this is very much a 'for fun' fic.
     Because the show is shit, and angsty, and at this point I'M BLACKING
     IT OUT.
     I want some FUN, I want some FLUFF, I want some SEX, and this fic is
     Petyr and Sansa basically having a holiday. It's what they deserve.
***** Arrival *****
Sansa stepped on to the docks of Dorne with unsteady feet, letting out a silent
whisper of ‘thank you’ to the gods for solid land. Having survived the
miserable journey that seemed to never end, she fanned her self desperately
with the ivory fan in her possession. She also vowed to never, ever travel by
boat again in her life, not if she could help it.
The boat, Petyr’s grand ship that he loved so dearly, had docked at the port of
Sunspear at the time of high noon, and the sun was mercilessly hot above them.
Everyone around her was a flurry of activity, not that she was in any
particular mood to take it all in. Sansa closed her eyes and breathed in the
ocean air, along with the strange new smells of a foreign land, feeling as if
she could happily collapse and simply sit here on the wet wooden planks as
sailors shouted around her, merchants unloaded cargo, and seagulls squawked
above them all. It was blissful compared to being permanently attached to a
bucket in a low ceilinged cabin, smelling of her own vomit. The least painful
moments of the journey would be the late evenings, where she convinced herself
to go to the deck to be discreetly sick over the railings in fresh air. Only at
night though, as less people were about to witness the embarrassment.
“Sansa!”
She turned around at the sound of Petyr’s voice calling out to her, watching
him sweep down the gangway, the sea winds causing his travelling cloak to flare
out behind him, his gaze fixed on her in the bustling crowds. He looked so at
odds with the rough ship types surrounding him as he walked, with their bare
chests and rough spun clothes stained with sea salt. They rolled barrels of ale
and hauled trunks past him, and Sansa watched as Petyr quick stepped around
them like a cat slinking under foot, effortlessly avoiding a collision, or
worse, a stain to his clothing.
How he managed to look so well put together at the end of such a horrid
journey, Sansa didn’t know, as she dreaded to see her own self in a mirror at
this point in time. His beard had grown to look more unkempt than usual, but it
did him no disservice, whereas Sansa could only hope her complexion was less
sallow than it felt, and the state of her hair and crumpled dress would be
forgiven. She felt very conscious of being in such a state of ugliness,
especially in front of Petyr. In truth, she’d seen very little of him during
the journey for this very reason, though it was surely not hard to keep himself
from her den of misery anyway. He had given her the ivory fan though, as a
kindness.
“By the gods, girl, don’t run off like that. One moment I’m speaking to the
ship master and the next you’re out of sight.” He said with only a slight scold
to his tone “A foreign port is no place for a young girl to be un-escorted. You
could be dragged off onto any number of boats and sold to some king across the
jade sea for all I know.”
“I didn’t run…” Sansa fanned herself, in no mood to be chastised, but looking
meekly at the crowds around her, so strange they looked to her now she took a
moment to take them in.
“Please, you practically pushed men overboard in your hurry to that gangway.
When we first spotted the port in the distance, I half thought you’d dive into
the water and swim yourself to shore.”
“I was only glad to know I’d soon be on dry land. That I could soon have a
bath, and wash my hair. Sleep without being ill.” She said, rather irritably.
“Yes, I know, sweetling,” Petyr said with tenderness, his hands coming to rest
on her shoulders “You were certainly not born for a life at sea, that we’re
certain of. But we made it. So here’s to testing how you fare in the desert. A
Lady of Winterfell steps forth onto the sands of Dorne! A pretty contradiction
of terms, don’t you think?”
He began guided her forward through the crowds with a hand at her back, their
entourage before and behind them.
He’d arranged for gifts to be brought from the Vale. Bags and bags of wheat,
corn, barley, and pumpkin seeds, a great show of prosperity in times of war.
“These are gifts that a practical man such as Prince Doran Martell will
appreciate.” Petyr had explained as they had planned back at the Eyrie “While
for the princess Arianne and Myrcella, more frivolous gifts. Jewelry, fabrics
and perfumes from Gulltown.” Then there was a pack of thoroughbred hunting dogs
and exquisitely made longbows for the younger princes, and he had even arranged
seven fine horses, one for each of Oberyn Martell’s bastard girls.
From the docks, the winding walls surrounding Sunspear rose up before them. A
labyrinth of square flat roofed houses huddled close around alleyways and
bazaars on the outer rim, rising up into grander two storied buildings, and
finally to two structures that commanded the eye. The tall and slender Spear
Tower and the great domed Tower of the Sun, both rising behind the thick
intimidating sandstone fortifications of the old castle and grand home of the
Martell’s.
“Ugly thing, isn’t it.” Petyr commented.
“It looks ….strong.” Sansa tried to find words for the squat, dun colored keep,
unlike any castle she had seen before “We were perhaps spoilt for beauty in the
Eyrie.”
“Hm. I only hope it’s more appealing on the inside.”
“Isn’t there water pools and pink marble? People always speak of their beauty.”
“You’re thinking of the water gardens, some miles away.”
“Oh,” Sansa tried to reconcile her disappointment.
She looked up again at the castle and felt less fond of it already.
The docks made way to the edge of a market place, with traders and fish mongers
calling out to passersby. Men with great bronze trays full of bags of spices
and women with arms laden with jewelry for sale rushed forward, their eyes
trained to spot wealth, begging them to buy. Petyr gave them no notice, happy
to let the Vale guards push them back. Sansa’s gaze was briefly taken by a
Summer Isle man in blue and red striped trousers, who had a small monkey on a
chain that climbed up his shoulders, and a whole cart of wooden cages full of
the brightest birds she’d ever seen.
Their envoy was greeted by a fair girl, with golden hair that spilled from
under a gauzy hooded cloak of faint blue. She stood in front of royal guards
with golden spears, but she looked gentle beside them.
“Lord Baelish. Lady Stark.” She greeted warmly “I am Tyene Sand, third daughter
of Prince Oberyn Martell. Welcome to Dorne. I hope your travels saw you here
well.”
She bent her head prettily, and Sansa felt even more aware of her disheveled
state. She glanced to Petyr, to see his reaction to the girl.
Sansa was glad to see he looked less than pleased, his eyes taking in this
meagre welcome party. If she had to guess, by sending a lone bastard, not even
a first born, and a woman at that, Petyr had taken offence. This was a perilous
trip for them, a great gamble of their fates, their very lives, and this is the
reception they are offered?
“We had good winds and calm seas, and are glad to have finally arrived.” Petyr
said, nothing but charm and enthusiasm in his voice “Tyene Sand? The daughter
of a septa, if I recall correctly?”
“You have heard of me?”
“I have inquired about you. Who isn’t intrigued by the so infamously named Sand
Snakes.”
“Infamous?” she giggled “Now you flatter.”
She turned to Sansa “But you have brought someone infamous yourself. Sansa
Stark. Betrothed of the murdered Joffrey Baratheon, wife of the missing Tyrion
Lannister … and the rumors of a cousin’s death have reached our ears?”
Sansa cast her gaze downwards at the mention of Sweetrobin “And may the gods
keep him.”
“Truly, was he smothered in his sleep by the apparent heir? Your betrothed?
Such a horrid way for a child to die, and by someone you loved.
Tyene’s saintly beauty did not quite match her words, Sansa noted, her morbid
curiosity badly hidden as pity, and if she was clearly making little effort to
act the fool. Sweetrobins death, Harry’s swift trial and execution, her
unveiling as Sansa Stark and the coup that had put Petyr Baelish in power was
all well known now, surely. It was why they were brought here, afterall.
However, Sansa kept her face somber in an apparent show of reflection on her
own misfortunes all the same.
“We all have our grief’s to bear.”
“Too true.” Tyene replied, before smiling sorrowfully, and beckoning them to a
waiting carriage.
To avoid the maze of streets and narrow alleys of the common folk, their envoy
travelled through the straight passage on a brick path to the palace, protected
by high walls and three strong gates. Guards in gold robes stood alert with
spears, cloth wrapped around their heads and necks in the Dornish fashion.
Their carriage took them all the way to the front of great stone steps, where
they were ushered into the castle, led by Tyene.
The inside of the castle was indeed nicer than its exterior. Vast and opulent,
with light streaming in from tall windows from behind gold latticed screens,
casting intricate shadows on polished floors. The walls were decorated with
patterned tiles. Room to room there were high domed ceilings were richly
painted with murals of Dorne. Sweeping sand dunes and starry skies, charging
stallions, dashing figures of past kings and Queens in battle. Sansa slowed
down under one ceiling to spy Nymeria and her ten thousand ships above her, and
then there were softer scenes of dancing princesses’ and Dornish orange groves
after that.
I was beautiful, and Sansa found herself hopeful to see what their rooms may
look like. She dared to feel a glimmer of excitement of being in a new land and
a new castle, but the dour part of her mind made her remember that every new
place brought some new misery.
‘One false step and I am dead’.
Let this please be different, let Dorne not be a false step, she begged in
silence, following behind Tyene and Petyr.
They were led to where they would be staying as Doran’s guests.
“Prince Doran will see you formally introduced in his audience chamber in the
early evening, where you will have the chance to present the gifts you have
brought before the court. Then, we shall have a feast.” Tyene spoke as she led
them inside.
It was a grand and spacious room, richly decorated. Large arch windows looked
out over the city and ocean, its breeze gently moving delicate gauze curtains.
There was a low table, covered in fruit and flowers, with pillows and carpets
surrounding it to sit upon, and candle lamps with brightly colored glass hung
from the ceilings, not yet lit. Sansa brushed a hand across a great stone vase,
almost as tall as she was, which had a great carved snake curling around it,
with shining emeralds for eyes.
There was one bed close by, its canopy dropping from the high ceiling in much
the same way as the curtains. A second bed could be seen further across the
room.
This made Sansa stop and look questioningly towards Petyr. He caught her look,
and either by reading her very well, or perhaps having the exact same thoughts,
he spoke to Tyene.
“We’re both to sleep in the same room, are we?” he gestured to the beds across
from one another.
Tyene cocked her head in a way that both suggested she found it strange that
they would find this strange, while also clearly anticipating it, and enjoying
playing coy to perhaps make them feel out of place.
“Why, would this not suit you, my lord, to share quarters? You are family, yes?
A niece and her uncle… are families not so close where you come from? In Dorne,
it is common for close family to share quarters. I live this way with my
sisters.”
“I am only his niece through marriage, we are not family by blood.” Said Sansa.
“Even so, you spent some time as father and daughter did you not?” Tyene said
so casually it caught Sansa off guard “I would have thought you two may have
grown as close as blood relatives by now?”
Sansa made herself look out of the window, across the ocean, only so she would
not have to look at Tyene. Her and Petyr’s deception of father and daughter was
no longer a secret, but to hear it spoken from another’s mouth felt wrong
somehow. In her mind it still felt as something that should have stayed just
between them.
“We are close,” she could hear Petyr respond confidently “and have no qualms
with the room you have generously provided us. It is only different from what
we are used to, you understand.”
“Of course.”
“And tell me, does this screen come across then? It looks as if it does.”
“Yes, for privacy.” Tyene demonstrated how a thin latticed screen could be
brought across the room, dividing it somewhat into two. Though you could
clearly see through it in the small holes that made up the elaborate five
pointed star pattern.
“I would also request that a bath be brought up, if you’d be so kind.”
“I will send for attendants at once.”
After Tyene made her leave, Sansa shifted around in her trunk for a fresh dress
to wear, and by the time she had chosen one, an array of serving girls had
arrived, bringing with them a large copper tub, pitchers of water and other
bathing accompaniments.
They set it up behind the screen, as Petyr made himself comfortable on the low
cushions, popping a grape in his mouth.
“May I bathe first fath-, uncle?” Sansa caught herself, somewhat clumsily. The
serving girls appeared to pay it no mind, but Sansa had learnt that that they
never truly stop listening.
“I would have suggested you go first anyway. Take as long as you want, in this
heat I dare say I wouldn’t even mind if the water grew cold.” Though he
gestured his hand towards one of the girls as she made to leave “Some wine, if
you could. Dornish red.”
Sansa was more than aware that as she un-dressed Petyr’s eyes were on her
through that screen. Perhaps if she was not so desperate to finally be clean,
she would be more self conscious. As it were, she let a serving girl unlace
her, her dress dropping to the floor, along with her sweat stained shift, both
of which she allowed to be taken to be washed. Stepping into the warm water,
Sansa glanced through the screen to see that petyr’s figure was at least
obscured enough where he sat to assure her that she was as equally hidden. He
would only see the vague outline of her body, and now as she sat below the
waterline, she tried to force her mind away from such thoughts at all.
Tipping her head back, she wet her hair, and it was bliss. For weeks on that
boat she had made do with wiping a damp rag under her armpits and between her
legs, what Petyr so graciously called a whore’s bath. One attendant went to
work on combing some kind of scented oil through her hair, while another added
perfume to the water, and a third took feet to scrub a cloth thoroughly between
each of her toes. It was a stark difference, and as perfumed steam rose from
the water, Sansa closed her eyes and felt as if she could very much fall asleep
right here and now.
“The noble families of Dorne. Let me know you remember them.”
Sansa forced her eyes opened as Petyr spoke from across the room.
“Yronwood. Allyrion. Blackmont. Ladybright. Vaith. Fowler… Manwoody…Wells and
Wyl…The Daynes…” Sansa recited, though her mind was hardly at its best, knowing
there were ones she had missed.
“I know them, I do, but I cannot think. Must I do this now?”
“In a few hours we will be in Doran Martell’s court, it is best you know now
more than ever. When a man introduces himself with nothing but a smile and his
name, I want you to smile back, but from that name you will know his keep, his
reputation, how many children he has, and how best to talk to him. You have a
natural talent for this Sansa, use it as best you can.”
“Yes, father,” she said with closed eyes, knowing she had slipped for the
second time, but was too relaxed to care for longer than a second. It is
because he is using his lecturing voice, she thought, almost smiling, thinking
of all the nights in his solar where he taught her as Alayne…
“You forgot Gargalen, Jordayne, Qorgoyle, Toland and Uller.”
“Will all of these houses be in attendance at court tonight?”
“I could not say for sure, but I would say most. The Qorgoyles fostered young
Oberyn Martell, and the grieving Ellaria Sand’s father is an Uller, so it is
best to not forget either of them.”
“I can remember Oberyn’s daughters off by heart.” Sansa offered.
“Let me hear then.”
“Obara, daughter of a whore. Nymeria, daughter of a noblewoman from Volantis.
Tyene, who we have met. Sarella, whose mother comes from the Summer Isles. And
then there are the children Ellaria’s bore him, Elia, Obella, Dora and Loreza.”
“Dorea, not Dora.”
“Dorea.” Sansa quickly corrected herself.
“And what of Arianne Martell? Tell me what you know of her.”
“She is Doran’s heir, even though she is a woman.”
“Mm, that is how they do things here. I would dare say she is as bold as a male
heir, if I’m to believe all I’ve been told of her. Prepare yourself for the
ways of Dornish women, sweetling, they have a different kind of courtesy than
the kind you are used to dealing in.”
“You say they are not courteous?”
“Not at all, only that they have a certain manner that might affront you. A
Dornish woman will sit on pillows such as these and splay herself in whatever
manner she finds comfortable, no matter which company she finds herself in.
They play at cards and dice, and they can be just as bawdy as the men among
them.”
“Elia Martell was always said to be gentle and gracious.” Sansa pointed out.
“I don’t paint them all with the same brush, I only warn you not to look too
wide eyed if they start discussing the going’s on of their bedroom with you. In
my experience, sex and cocks and cunts is what Dornish women like to gossip
about most.”
Sansa did get a little wide eyed at that, but she was glad Petyr could not see
to be proven right.
“And are you sure that is fair to say, and not born from the fact that most
Dornish women you have met have been ones hired in your brothels?”
He was silent for a moment.
“…a mans experience shan’t be taken away from him, Sansa.”
“Of course.” She smiled “If any such gossip takes place within the circles of
these higher born ladies, I shall be sure to inform you.”
“Oh, please do.”
He continued to test her on sigils and house words, keeps and castles, feuds
and families all the way through her bath, as well as a story of a Dornish
woman he had met in a Gull town tavern and the strange things she could do with
a bag of walnuts and a spoon, until the water grew lukewarm. It was no matter,
as a serving girl who had washed her hair went to fetch more warm water as
Sansa got out, was dried off, and wrapped in some kind of long cloth robe that
was put on her and tied at her waist.
They all but swapped, as Petyr went to take his turn, and Sansa flopped down
lazily where he had sat, chancing a taste of the grapes as well. They were the
kind with seeds in them though, the kind she did not like.
One of the serving girls approached her, dipping her head lightly, holding some
kind of carved pearlescent box with gold edging. Sansa sat up, staring at the
beautiful box.
“What is that?” she asked the girl.
“It is for you, my lady. For your face.”
Sansa stared in question before the women knelt in front of her on the carpets,
opening the box and revealing an array of what looked like paints and brushes.
She started to arrange and sort through them but Sansa cut her off, realizing
what they were.
“Oh, no, I don’t wear powders.” She said, thinking of the way Lysa had
slathered her face ghostly white to hide her sallow skin, but looking at the
colours here she could see jade greens and plum pinks.
“Powders?” the girl looked confused.
“Yes. No, I don’t want anything on my face.”
“Not on your face, my lady. Your eyes! Your lips. This is what these are for.
Here, look.” The girl lowered her lashes and pointed to her own eyes, where
Sansa could see an outline of black, and a faint ochre colour against the
girl’s tan skin.
“Ah. I suppose it is pretty on you…I am not sure how it would look on me
though.”
“Would you like blue, to match your eyes perhaps?” the girl suggested, but
Sansa cast a doubtful look at the bright sky hue.
“No….no. You can do what you have done on your eyes on mine, but nothing more.”
She instructed, still wary, but sure this was the least drastic of her choices.
Besides, this may be what was expected of her, and the girl may even have been
sent by the likes of Tyene or Princess Arianne, and she would not want to
offend them.
She knelt on the cushions in front of her as the girl got to work. Sansa
watched as she took a small pot of the ochre colour and tapped a miniscule
amount of the powder onto a small pallet, before taking another jar of what
looked like water or perhaps was some sort of oil. She mixed them with her
brush and instructed Sansa to close her eyes. She felt the mixture glide across
her lids.
“I shall not put much on. Your skin is so pale, like milk. You do not need much
for it to stand out.” The girl told her.
Next she mixed a jet black colour, and that was what was to go around her eyes,
and then after that her eyelashes were coated with dark powder.
“Us Dornish sometimes run this through our eyebrows too, but your hair is so
red and so fine, I fear it would look strange.”
Sansa did not mind that her eyebrows were left alone, as she then went on to
let her lips be stained with a reddish tint.
“There,” she said as she finished “What does my lady think?”
The girl held up a gilt mirror for Sansa to admire her artistry, and her
initial reaction was surprise. For a second she did not know what to think. Her
eyes looked somewhat severe with the harsh black line around her pale blue
eyes, making them stand out fiercely, but as she looked and turned her head,
she rather thought it wasn’t bad. The ochre colour did not look as strange as
she envisioned, and rather blended into the shadows of her eye, and her lips
looked as if she had just eaten fresh cherries.
“It is…nice.” She said eventually, blinking, trying to adjust to seeing her
face like this.
“You look beautiful, my lady.” She was assured, but Sansa wanted to see what
Petyr thought.
She let herself be dressed and laced, and waited for Petyr to do the same on
his side of the closed lattice screen. He soon emerged in a burgundy and gold
doublet, laced over a loose linen shirt.
“Thank the gods that the suns setting soon, this heat does nothing for ones
comfort, and I say this as a man who’s lived through summer in Kings Landing
for a time, I cannot imagine how you’re faring.” Petyr chatted idly as he
approached her where she sat.
Once he caught a look at her face he stopped.
He seemed to need a second to react to her look, just as she had, but she hoped
nervously he did not think it looked strange.
“Well. I had wondered what the girl was doing to you as a I listened in.”
He said, still observing her “Come, stand up. Let me get a look in the light.”
She made her way obediently to him, where he placed a hand under her chin and
tilted her face this way and that, her eyes darted to the ground so that he
could see how long and dark her eyelashes looked.
“Very beautiful.” he said softly, and her heart soared.
“You think so? It does not look out of place on me?”
“Not at all. If anything, it enhances your features. Your eyes are dangerous at
the best of times, now I feel sorry for any man un-prepared to face their
charms.”
When the time came, she placed her hand over Petyr’s arm and they were escorted
together to the throne room.
***** A Welcoming *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They had Vale men either side of them, but as they approached the ominous
doors, Sansa felt the same nerves she had felt her first time in Kings Landing,
with none of the girlish thrill. Chin up. straight back. Sansa walked with
practiced perfection. They would only see the girl she wanted them to see.
“Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lady
Sansa Stark, Dowager Lady of the Vale of Arryn, and heir to Winterfell.” The
herald cried as they entered to the gaze of a hundred strangers.
They were all dressed in an array of colours, from pale purples to the
brightest oranges. The hall itself was vast and spacious, with high ceilings,
the last light of the day streaming in from uncovered windows. Sansa could not
let her eyes roam more, as she focused her attentions on the prince.
As they made their way towards the throne, Doran took the measure of them with
a clear dark-eyed sweep. Petyr had told her he suffered from gout, that his
legs were grossly misshapen. You could not tell from looking at him here, with
his fine robes of rich amber silk falling to his feet, but she must not think
of what they hide now. At a place to the thrones side, on large cushions, sat
little Myrcella Baratheon. Sansa spotted her at once, even as she was dressed
in Dornish garb. Even with a sweep of silk that covered half her head, there
was no mistaking that spun-gold Lannister hair. Myrcella looked excited to see
her, and Sansa smiled a small smile for her, trying not to think of who her
mother was, or her brother, or her uncle. Who know what Myrcella had heard or
been told. The boy next to her must be the young prince, Trystane, her
betrothed. There was a similar pillow on Dorans other side, though no one sat
there.
Close to the throne stood a figure dressed all in black cutting a somber
figure. The widow Ellaria Sand. Sansa remember her from her time in Kings
Landing, the way the Dornish woman tipped her head back to laugh at jokes told
at Joffrey’s wedding feast, and Sansa had envied her happiness. Now she stood
with her four little bastard girls close to her side, her face devoid of
anything, and there was nothing to envy now.
They stopped before them all, and Sansa dropped in curtsey, while Petyr swept
an immaculate bow, and came up as if he owned the room already.
“Dorne welcomes you.” Doran spoke with a low ease.
“We count our blessings to have made it here, your grace, to be here in the
great land of Dorne” Said Petyr.
“It is beautiful here.” Sansa added prettily.
“That it is. The last place winter will touch. Enjoy it as it lasts, before the
hard years start. The support you bring from the Vale is greatly appreciated
Lord Baelish. As are the ties in the North in you, Lady Stark.”
It gave Sansa a sense of respite to remember that just as Doran was useful to
them, they were of use to Dorne.
Petyr smiled “A great alliance is in the making, I am sure. But support is not
the only thing we bring you, my Prince.” He gestured for the Vale attendants
that accompanied them to step forward, each of them holding a wooden chest.
They stepped forward before the throne, dropping to one knee as they each
opened their chest to present to the court.
“Wheat, barley, rye, oats, seeds and more. The Vale is plentiful, and we share
our bounty with our allied friends.
“Such small amounts, father?” Trystane said questioningly. He was only a young
boy.
“This is only a taste of what we have brought you.” Petyr addressed him kindly
“The rest of which has already been taken to fill your stores, barrels upon
barrels worth.”
Doran nodded “They are well received. We thank you.”
He might have said more, if not for the interruption of a door to the side of
the room being loudly opened, and the attention of the court shifted. Sansa
turned to see movement in the crowds of ladies and courtiers. Someone had
entered from behind where they stood, and in haste they moved as if parted by
an invisible hand.
The cause was a girl. No. A woman grown.
Brown skinned, with long dark hair to her waist, in a dress of bright
turquoise, adorned with gold.
“The Princess Arianne Martell.” Came the Heralds somewhat uncertain cry, as
Arianne walked as if she had not disturbed anyone at all, right to the pillow
besides her father. People were looking aglance to the people besides them, a
few low murmurs from those with more daring.
Doran himself however, gave her an unmistakably withering look.
“How nice of you to join us, daughter.”
“Forgive that I am late father,” she said with nary a care as she took her seat
beside him “We travelled farther on my days ride than planned. You know I can
never say no to my mare when she wants to run.” And then she turned her gaze to
Petyr and Sansa, still stood before them.
“And these are the Valemen, I presume? Lord Baelish and the Lady Stark?”
“That we are, my princess.” Said Petyr “And may I say that I have been under
the Dornish sun since it rose this morning, but it is only now in your presence
that I am truly dazzled.”
There were a few titterings from the court, and Arianne’s own features spread
into a curious smile at his brazen flattery.
“And you chose the right time to arrive, I’d say. Just as we are giving gifts.”
Petyr beckoned forward another array of attendant’s.
“I do so love gifts…” Arianne sat up slightly to look over the open chests and
their treasures presented to her.
“Fabric for you to have dresses made, my princess, with Gulltown pearls for
trim,” Sansa spoke “A shadowcat skin for your bed, and perfumes made from the
wildflowers that grow in the fertile hills of the Vale. Picked before the
Winter overtook them.”
“We have no need for shadowcat skins here in Dorne, it is far to hot, but as
for the fabrics and perfumes, I thank you.”
“It is hot now, but as my lady’s words remind us, winter is coming. You will
want to be warm, I trust?” said Petyr.
Arianne smiled coyly at him “I have other ways of warming myself at night, Lord
Baelish. That you can trust.”
Sansa did not let her face betray her, but she observed closely the very low
cut of Arianne’s dress, and the sheer fabric that showed almost the entirety of
her nipples.
The gifts for Trystane were presented next, the hunting dogs brought in on
leads, to which the young prince was charmed with. He was thankful as well for
the bow made from springy Vale wood, taking in good grace the one intended for
his brother for safe keeping.
The horses too, all eight of them, were brought through to the delight of the
court. They wore golden bridles, and had been finely trained to stand
impressively in a straight line.
“Mother, mother, can we choose one now? I want the white one.” Little Obella
tugged at her mother’s skirts.
“I want the chestnut, he looks the swiftest.” Elia, the eldest, spoke just as
eagerly.
With a nod of his head, and the slightest of smiles, Doran allowed the girls to
run to them with the joy most little girls have for horses, as they patted
their soft hides and held their palms up to be nuzzled. The mood of the entire
court was lifted to see them pleased. Bastards truly are treated with less
scorn here, Sansa noted. She thought of her half-brother Jon, and how he had
never been gifted anything from any Northern bannermen, save Uncle Benjen of
course.
It was not soon after that that Prince Doran called for attention. The
formalities were over, and the night’s feast would be taken in the gardens this
evening, with all permitted to attend.
As they were ushered out and they moved along a vast corridor, Petyr spoke
lowly in her ear “He cannot sit in that throne with his legs unsupported for
long, it gives him great pain, but he will stay there until every single man
and woman has left that hall. He will not let them see him struggle, with his
attendants lifting him from throne to his chair.”
“He seems a man with great dignity.” Sansa mused.
“A welcome change to the usual ilk we have dealt with that sit their asses upon
a throne.”
Sansa let out a humorless laugh “I would like to see Cersei with swollen
painful knees.”
“And more besides.”
When it was said the feast would be held in the gardens, Sansa had wondered how
that was to work, but they were led through halls and under archways to a well
sized open courtyard. They stepped out under stars and palm leaf trees. The
tiles on the ground and walls were in beautiful patterns, and there was a long
pool of dark water as the centerpiece, lily’s floating on its surface, along
with little tea light candles. There were lanterns lit as well, hanging from
archways and the trees, creating a low glow in the dusk.
“It’s beautiful.” Sansa marveled.
Petyr was more concerned with where they were to sit “Is there a table of
honored guests? I don’t see one. Where will Doran be sitting?”
But if there were any formal arrangements, they were not apparent. The feel of
the room was languid, with ladies and courtiers moving freely about, sitting as
they pleased, standing and talking in small groups as they arrived and greeted
each other with kisses against their cheeks.
Petyr and Sansa did not stand alone for long. Many men and women came up to
introduce themselves. Minor houses and major houses alike. Sansa parroted off
niceties to each of them, curtsying, smiling prettily and occasionally having
her hand kissed by some of the bolder young men. Petyr, of course, they engaged
with more political discussions. Talk of the coming winter, of the Vale, and of
commerce. Sansa stood to one side of such a conversation, wanting to listen,
until she heard a cry from behind her.
“Sansa!”
She turned, to find Myrcella, who hurried over excitedly to clasp Sansa’s hands
in hers. Trystane close behind her.
“Oh, it’s a joy to see you!”
Sansa was taken by surprise but quickly gathered her wits about her.
“Myrcella, yes! Look at you, you are a sight to see, in your Dornish dress and
all!”
“Yes, they’re all I wear now. They are so comfortable and so lightly made here,
any other fabrics make you sweat so! I don’t know how you are faring in this,
as pretty as it is.”Myrcella gestured to Sansa’s dress, which was light blue, a
Kings Landing fashion, off the shoulders with big puffed sleeves and a corseted
waist
“I am a bit warm, but it is not so bad.” Sansa said.
“Mm, it is not so bad at night time, it is always a little bit cooler. Come,
sit with us. I want to tell you all about it here.”
As she was pulled along by the hand, Sansa sent a bemused look back towards
Petyr, who had kept a glancing eye on her, even as he was entertaining a lively
debate over trade routes.
They were clearly both thinking of Joffrey. Myrcella’s brother was dead because
of her. At least according the rumors that were rife about the kingdom, thanks
to Cersei.
Petyr could only give her the same bemused look back, as if to say ‘I don’t
know why the girl whose mother has a warrant out for your murder wants to be
the best of friends with you either’.
There were many circular tables, very low to the ground, arranged with many
rugs and pillows around them, with many courtiers and ladies having already
made themselves comfortable. Myrcella led them to a table of their own, where
they sat themselves down amongst the cushions. Sansa attempted to arrange her
skirts in some way that they would not crease terribly, sitting on her knees,
keeping her back straight in her corset, and wondering how on earth one sits in
a lady like fashion on the ground.
“You will never believe who else is here,” Myrcella said “Garlen Tyrell and his
Lady wife, Leonette Fossoway!”
Sansa did her best to act surprised.
“Are they really!? When did they arrive?” she asked.
“Only just a week or so ago. They were some of the first to answer the call
Prince Doran sent out.”
Yes, Sansa thought. Petyr had known, or had at least guessed, this was where
Garlen and his bride were headed. He had received a raven from an informant
about the two Tyrell’s ‘discreet’ departure from Kings Landing. One could only
assume they had received the same raven from Doran, the call to Dorne, the
offering of an alliance. Seeing that the tides were turning against Cersei, it
only furthered Petyr and Sansa’s decision to set out to Dorne as well.
Myrcella’s brow furrowed “They’re not very happy at the moment, about
Margaery’s imprisonment. I told them not to fear too much, since they
imprisoned my mother too, but she is free now, and I’m sure Margaery will be
pardoned as well. Tommen wouldn’t let her die and he is the king….”
Did I ever sound so utterly foolish in my innocence? Sansa thought quietly to
herself, even as she reached to cover Myrcella’s hand with her own, in a show
of tenderness. She was sure she did. She was glad not to be this girl now.
“I’m so worried about my family these days, while I’m so far away. Joffrey is
dead and it doesn’t sound as if my mother has taken the heartbreak well. There
is so much happening in the realm, so many bad people out to hurt one another,
one can become suspicious, paranoid…I could not believe she thinks uncle Tyrion
guilty, and you as his wife!”
Sansa hoped the flinch of her hand was not obvious.
“Oh, please! I mean no offence to bring it up! I never believed the rumors. I
simply think….my mother is out of sorts lately. She is grief stricken! First
the loss of my father, and then she widowed, then I went away, and then what
happened to poor Joff,…and those awful lies Uncle Stannis is telling the realm!
That we are bastards! I have no doubt that Stannis was the one to kill Joff. He
has always wanted to be king, and they say Renly was killed by him as well!
Yes, he is the murderer, not you, not my dear uncle Tyrion, I know you both,
you are both too sweet! When I see my mother next I will remind her of this.
Make her see sense.”
“When you see her…?” Sansa gently prompted.
“Yes, I know…,” On better judgment, Myrcella paused to lean in and whisper to
them what she was about to say next “I know Doran has plans for Tommen and
mother to no longer rule. That it is better for the realm. He speaks sense…I
doubt Tommen ever wanted to be King, it is not in his nature…and then once
mother no longer has to worry about running the realm, she can perhaps go back
to Casterly Rock, and I will visit, and she can come here to Dorne! And she
will be much better for it.”
And with that, Myrcella gave her a sweet smile. It was almost sad to look upon.
Their talk moved to less morose topics, with Trystane and his friends and
Myrcella’s ladies joining in, as many varieties of exotic dishes started
appearing on the tables. Amidst the general chatter, Sansa gracefully excused
herself.
She found Petyr amongst a table of many finely dressed men, wine shared amongst
them as they reclined on silken pillows at their low table. There was much
laughter and talk, and Sansa almost startled Petyr as she knelt down besides
him on the woven rug.
“Ah, sweetling.” He regarded her fondly.
“Myrcella told me Garlen Tyrell is here, and his lady wife.” Sansa leant in and
whispered to him, seeing him smile. She knew how much he enjoyed being right.
“How good to have old friends here.” He said, with Sansa knowing there was more
to say when they were back in the privacy of their rooms.
“Here. Have you eaten? Do you have wine?”
Sansa looked doubtfully at the cup he drank from.
“I shan’t want any if it’s a Dornish sour, I don’t like the taste.”
“No, here. They have this dreadfully sweet type of wine as well, fruit floating
in the jug and all, you shall love it.” He said, procuring her a cup and
pouring generously from a jug he pulled across the table.
There was fruit floating in it. Little raspberries, and orange slices, and
white peaches. It was sweet, but were Petyr used the word dreadful, Sansa
thought it was wonderful.
“Oh, I like that.”
They sat like this for awhile, embroidered into the conversation and feel of
the room seamlessly. Blending in well for how much they stood out. They ate and
they drank. They laughed, Petyr’s wit a source of delight when he chose to use
it. Sansa’s sweet wine went down easily, and perhaps it was the balmy heat to
blame, and Petyr’s easy way of topping up her cup when it ran low, but she
drank through three whole cups easily.
Some way through the main courses, a melodic voice called out.
“Ah, there they are! Our newest guests!”
Arianne Martell sauntered over to their table, flanked by Tyene, Nymeria, and
several young men whom Sansa didn’t recognize.
“I hope you don’t mind if we join you?”
The Princess of Dorne didn’t wait for a reply of course. It was a given that
she should sit where she liked. Several men moved to accommodate them as the
entourage made themselves comfortable on the array of pillows and carpets. So
close Sansa was enveloped in the scent of their perfumes. It made her feel
slightly heady.
She was even more beautiful up close, Sansa noted of the princess, but it was
not her beauty alone that made her intimidating as a woman. It was the way she
wielded it so boldly. Her eyes glanced easily over every man at the table,
knowing her effect on them. A jeweled hand brought her thick black hair back
over her shoulder, to better bare her breasts, barely covered in her dress of
sheer sea foam chiffon.
“Princess, your presence is more than minded, it is welcomed.” Petyr smiled
“Tyene we have met, but you my dear?”
“Lady Nymeria, bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell. You may call me Lady Nym.”
She was pretty, with sleek black hair in a high plait, and almond shaped eyes.
She smiled like a girl who had wicked secrets she was keeping from you.
“And this is Garin of the Orphans, and ser Andrey Dalt. Both un-seemingly
characters and two of my closest friends.” Arianne introduced the young men.
Sansa looked at them. They did not seem un-seemly. Why, they were handsome too.
Was everyone in Dorne as beautiful as Arianne and her cousins and her friends?
She should ask them.
As she looked over Andrey Dalt, he smiled at her, reaching for her hand to take
and gently press a kiss to the back of it.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I have not met many ladies from so far North.
Winterfell is as far North as I can even imagine.”
“Unless of course you cross over the wall. But that’s very very north.” Sansa
found herself speaking easily “And I suppose you are one the most southern men
I’ve met. In the North we call even those from Kings Landing Southeners but…but
really, you are the most southern southerners.”
That seemed to amuse him, and Sansa found herself laughing along too, her mind
awash with a lovely feeling as she had another sip of her wine.
“You may call me Drey if you like, most people do.” He offered.
“Drey,” Sansa tested the name “Drey Dalt…. why, what house are you from Drey
Dalt? I can’t remember a house Dalt, is that awful of me?”
“We are no major house, my Lady, I do not blame you. Ser Dezial Dalt, a Knight,
is my brother, and our seat is at Lemonwood.”
“Oh!” Sansa gasped in delight “Lemonwood! Is that where all the lemons in Dorne
come from? I love lemons.”
That made everyone laugh, and Sansa looked about, surprised they had been
listening. It did not make her feel bad though, she felt very, very, far from
bad.
Arianne told her about the way days were spent at Dorne. How she had plans to
show them the castle tomorrow, and have lunch in her private pavilion, which
sounded lovely. Garin explained to her why the Greenwater river was green when
she had asked. She told Lady Nym that her hair was so pretty, and Lady Nym in
turn told her she was so jealous of her blue eyes, and no, no, Sansa said,
brown eyes are just as lovely in their own way. Tyene noticed her makeup and
then there was much talk from all of them about that. Drey kept smiling at her
when she looked at him, and Petyr’s hand had found it’s way to sit gently at
the small of her back, and it was such a lovely, lovely night.
It was only as the night progressed, and the plates cleared away, and after
desert had been served and eaten, and everyone was saying their goodnights,
that Sansa realised that she may be quite drunk.
The exact moment was when Petyr tried to help her up with a graciously offered
hand, and she found that her head was somewhat off kilter with her body, and
her feet stumbled underneath her. Petyr, thankfully, had another hand to stop
her from falling to the carpet.
“Easy now, sweetling,” he said, just to her, as they made their way from the
emptying courtyard up through the halls.
“Are we going to bed now?” she asked, her arm linked tightly in the crook of
Petyr’s. It had gone so fast.
“Yes, I should say so. It has been a long journey, a long day, and a long
night. Are you not tired?”
“Terribly.” Sansa seemed to only just realize how tired she was, almost yawning
on cue “Yes, definitely time for bed. Bed would be nice. Those nice big beds
with the curtains and all those pillows.” She mumbled as they walked. So much
walking. She didn’t want to walk. Petyr could carry her. She giggled at the
silly thought.
When they made it to their rooms, the Vale guards were dismissed, as were the
chamber attendants, until it was only them.
Petyr deposited Sansa on the cushion seats, like a little ragdoll, with little
more than an ‘oof!’ of indignation.
Not that she complained too much. It was comfy. She burrowed her face into the
cushions, mumbling her contentment.
The cushion sank with Petyr’s weight as he came down next to her.
“You’re a silly little thing when you’re drunk, you know that?”
“Mmmnot.”
“You are. Not that it isn’t charming. You had everyone at the table amused and
dare I say endeared. That’s what we wanted. You’re not some harsh icy
northerner, with a price over your head for kingslaying, you’re just a pretty,
young thing with a sweet laugh and a taste for sweet wine, hmm?” he ran his
fingers through her hair.
“That wine was nice. I can’t believe you don’t like it…I drank a lot of it….
are you a bit drunk too?”
“No. It’s best if one of us keeps our wits about us, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that’s smart. You’re always thinking smart things father.”
Petyr smiled “You keep calling me father, even now.”
“Mmsorry. It’s hard to stop.”
“No need to apologise, sweetling. I actually rather like it, in truth.”
“Why?” Sansa asked, innocently.
Petyr seemed to take a long moment to think, his fingers running through her
hair all the while.
“…. It makes me feel as if you’re mine.”
Then he drew her closer, her body slack and malleable as her face pressed into
his doublet, her body draped across his. His warmth was as comfortable as the
pillows, and his hands stroked across her back. He did as he sometimes used to
do in the Vale when she sat in his lap at his desk, where the back of his
fingertips would stroke upwards, and then he’d drag back down the same path
with his nails. Gently though, always gently. Just enough to feel oh so nice.
Sansa closed her eyes and drifted off into some haze between sleep and
consciousness, and at some point a hand came up under her chin, and wet lips
pressed against hers in a kiss. My father wants a kiss before bed, she thought.
He always wanted a kiss before bed. Oh, they had not kissed in so long. Not on
the boat, when she was so ill and so miserable. But she wasn’t miserable
anymore, she felt lovely. She felt lovely, and warm, and comfy, and she was
glad to be kissed again.
She kissed him as long as he wanted kissing, and when he pulled away she could
still feel him so close his breath was warm on her skin. He spoke eventually.
“Let us get you to bed, sweetling.”
“Mmm,” she protested weakly as she felt him shift, and she forced her eyes open
“Shall sleep here.”
“No, you won’t.” he sighed, pulling her up.
He handled her across to the bed, and dotingly pulled the slippers off her
feet, and pulled the laces of her gown so that she could shake herself out of
the billowing dress, left only in her shift.
He pulled back the covers.
“In.” he ordered, and Sansa made no protest, crawling in and burrowing down
into the soft mattress and its sheets, eyes closing. So comfy. Even more comfy
than the pillows.
“Goodnight, sweetling.” Was the last thing she heard, as the ties on the beds
curtains were pulled, and Sansa lost herself to sleep.
Chapter End Notes
     Drey and Garin are here and not banished by Doran as they are in the
     book because creatively I wanted it to happen.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!