Chapter Text
Caermen first noticed that no one had truly begun to leave. The Dornish host still filled the Kingsgrave Alcazar as if the battle was just pausing for breath. Their noble guests still occupied their empty chambers and their banners still decorated their courtyard. Martell, Dayne, Dalt and Santagar silks still obscured the view of the fountain on their inner yard, their soldiers still satiated their thirst on them.
Caermen had not had much chance to speak to either of her siblings. Xeymena had been busy reuniting with Almudehna - as Oylvar had ridden with her to battle. Rodrygo had been busy still hanging about the soldiers instead of his not-warrior-older-sister. But it was her understanding that the rebellion had been thoroughly quashed. But she wasn’t so certain now. She had heard her mother tell Manoel, the steward, that they would be expecting more guests.
She half expected to find her father’s solar bursting with people. Maybe Ser Vorian or Prince Jonae Martell sitting behind his desk. But no, his father was alone. He had shed his outer robes and heavy headcloth, and sat now in loose sarawil and a plain linen qamis. He was pinching the bridge of his nose and almost didn’t seem to notice her entering.
“Papa,” she said softly, “I was going to verify with you if we won, but by the look of you we’re expecting Ser Aegor Rivers,”
“Oh, my honeyed clove,” her father laughed half heartedly, “What about I’m glad to see you healthy and whole, papa?”
“I said that yesterday,” she said, kissing his hands as she sat across from him.
“I’d like some rejoicing over my state after battle,”
“Papa, you didn’t fight in the melee,” She said, rolling her eyes.
“Oh, much worse, I participated in the negotiations afterward,” he half joked, half complained.
“I thought that would’ve been Prince Jonae’s place,” Caermen commented without malice, just curiosity.
“I should’ve hoped so, but no,” Her father said pinching the bridge of his tanned nose, “You were mentioned,”
“I was mentioned?” She leaned forward, almost rising to her knees on her chair.
“I rather you hadn’t”
“Papa, out with itt,”
“You are to be married,” He said and made a pause like it pained him to say it.
“I knew that already, to Ser Yodrick,” she said sitting back.
“To Lord Lyonel Baratheon of Storm’s End,” her father corrected.
If Caermen hadn’t been sitting she would’ve collapsed on the chair. Her father had been negotiating her marriage to House Yronwood for almost two years now. It would’ve been a strategic alliance. Yronwood guarded the Boneway. Kingsgrave held the Prince’s Pass. Joined, the two houses would have controlled half the mountain routes into Dorne. Not to mention it was the second strongest Dornish house and Caermen wouldn’t fool herself into thinking that she would be a match to Ser Jonae.
Though she apparently was a match for the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.
A lord her father held in no high regard. Though that was mostly due to old territorial grudges than first hand knowledge.
She was the step- great niece of The King’s great aunt.
If that was any claim to power.
But her father wasn’t close to Elaena Targaryen. She rather thought he’d never met her.
“And you - Lord Aelfonso Manwoody of Kingsgrave” she said pointedly, “Agreed to it?”
“It was more an order than a request,” he said apologetically.
Caermen send a confused look his way.
“If you knew how to listen,”
“And that is something you are quite adept at, papa,” Caermen conceded.
“I marry you to one of those brutes and here I receive a compliment,”
“Then lay in stores of honeyed cloves while you still may,” she deadpanned, then turned serious “It would - at least - push for peace in these lands,”
Well only if her marriage proved successful. For if rumors of unhappiness even reached the skirts of the Red Mountains it would be used as an excuse to start a war. If the right - or wrong - people anchored their momentum they could even return to their old ways. But if she managed it correctly it could even save lives.
Not only that.
If the Crown had insisted on the marriage it was because it was advantageous for them. It would remove power from the Yronwoods - thrice traitors to the Crown now - and pass it over to a Great House that had been loyal for two centuries. It placed Yronwood between the Stormlands, a now-allied Kingsgrave, and Starfall, seat of Prince Maekar Targaryen’s good-brother.
All that by marrying a Lord Paramount to the second daughter of a lesser lord.
Lord Rivers was indeed as cunning as they said.
“I marry you off to a Stormlander. Twice your age! Closer to mine as a matter of fact!” Her father lamented.
If she let him continue, her father would spend the next hour listing every grievance House Baratheon had ever inflicted upon Dorne.
“Then I am grateful he was not thrice my age,”
“He could be your father!” Aelfonso was angry, not sad.
Caermen recognized that now.
“Does mama know?”
“Yes, your mother knows. I told her last night,” her father said.
“I suppose then that I have many things to prepare,”
Her father rubbed his temple and handed her a folded document. It bore Lord Rivers’, Prince Maekar’s and Lord Baratheon’s seals. Her marriage contract. She didn’t need it to be told.
“Read it at your leisure,” Aelfonso said, “it is not final, you have room for requests. Minor ones, but ask at your heart’s fancy,”
Caermen understood she was dismissed. And she made her way to find her sister. Xeymena, as a woman grown, and a married one at that, had her own apartments in the alcazar. It was hardly the hour of the robin. The sun had not reached its peak. So there’s where she would be. Whether with Almudehna or Olyvar, who was to say?
Caermen entered her sister’s apartments making as much noise as she could. In vain. She removed her marlotte and threw it over the barely awake, naked bodies tangled on the floor. Almudehna paid her no mind, while her sister and good-brother hurried to cover the important bits.
“A warning might have been kind,” Caermen said, staring daggers at the back of her sister’s head while she finished dressing.
“These are my apartments and I didn’t know you were such a prude,” Mena said over her shoulder.
“That is not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Caermen snapped.
Mena sighed and asked her husband and their paramour to leave them alone.
“I didn’t know,” Once they were alone.
“You expect me to believe that papa let you ride into battle and did not allow you into the negotiations?” Caermen asked, crossing her arms.
Mena didn’t answer, fumbling with her hair.
“It serves your purpose, my marriage, I mean,”
Mena huffed again and sat down.
“Braid my hair, clove,” She said sweetly, as if her pet name would work the way it did for their father.
Caermen sighed in response. Feeling the anger leave her body, she plopped behind her eldest sister and did as told. Trying to disentangle her sister’s curls without damaging them. Her sister waved her hand as if saying that it was no use. So Caermen combed her hair with her fingers.
“It does serve my purpose,” Mena admitted, “A purpose I remind you that you share,”
Caermen didn’t answer, just allowed her sister’s curl to be pulled by her rings.
“I did make sure it was to a man you would not hate,” she said in an offended tone.
“Am I expected to like him?” Caermen asked, carefully disentangling her hand and removing her rings to avoid further discomfort to her sister.
“He’s smart,”
“Smart like Uncle Michael or like papa?”
Uncle Michael was by no means an ignorant or stupid man. But he was philosophical and mercurial in his knowledge. Rarely applied to anything except his music. While her father had a sharp political and practical mind, even Prince Maron sought his advice every once in a while. Even if her father was prone to rambling when emotional.
“Both…” Mena mused, leaning her head back against Caermen’s hands.
“Don’t do that or I can’t braid your hair,” Caermen admonished in a mumbled, pushing her sister’s head forward.
“Both… to some extent,” Mena repeated, bringing her chin closer to her chest.
“That usually means neither survives contact with reality,” Caermen said, scrunching her nose.
“Both survived contact with battle,”
Caermen scoffed in disbelief.
“He’s fun,” her sister offered as consolation.
“Like Almudehna or like Rodrygo?” Caermen continued her interrogation.
“Like himself,” Mena said firmly.
“You did…?” Blush rose to Caermen’s cheek, all the way from her neck.
“I did not, Caermen, who do you take me for?” Xeymena exclaimed, a bit of offence slipping into her voice.
“I assume you have the marriage contract,” her sister continued after a moment of silence.
Caermen handed it over to her sister. And followed her holding on to the braid trying not to hurt her, as the heir to Kingsgrave crawled around the mess she called a floor looking for quill and ink. Then Mena sat back down where she found it and read out loud and annotated her sister’s objections, questions and requests.
“Lady Caermen - and so on - shall take up residence primarily at Storm’s End…” She read.
“Define primarily,”
Her sister dutifully annotated on the parchment. By the time they reached the sixth clause Mena had taken quill to parchment ten times. And Rodrygo joined them.
“Oh, my brave squire!” Xeyemena exclaimed dramatically, opening her arms for a hug.
“I am a knighted man,” He reminded her, laying his head on her lap instead.
“You’ll always be my squire,” Mena said kissing his nose, “I’ll use your flat forehead as a table then,”
“Are we going to war with the Stormlands?” Rodrygo asked, good-naturadely.
“I’m marrying its Lord Paramount,” Caermen muttered and instructed her sister to continue reading.
“Six. Succession and widowhood,” Mena read evenly.
“Oh! you added one,” Caermen exclaimed, touched.
“I’m a Manwoody I will not allow death to go unmanaged,”
Mena read the entirety of the clause.
“Ask for clarification regarding retention of household staff and personal guard,” Caermen said, “Do you need help with your veil?”
“If you can find it,” her sister answered as she noted down Caermen’s thoughts.
Caermen looked around blindly, afraid of what she might find. When her fingers touched the gauzy cloth of what could be a veil.
“Also write down ‘Widowhood provisions are written as though death were unexpected.’” The middle sibling said showing her sister she had found.
“That is Almu’s” Mena commented starting to write down, “It’ll do,”
“People die,” Rodrygo said, trying to move his face so his sister wouldn’t make good on her threat.
“They do,” Caermen agreed, looking for hair pins, “Contracts should remember that,”
“So they should,” Mena commented, “But Lyonel was uncomfortable speaking about his death,”
“One would think he wasn’t a soldier,” Rodrygo commented disapprovingly.
Caermen fastened her sister’s veil to her hair and by the time they were done. Rodrygo had an annotation himself, regarding Caermen’s protection. And Caermen had added another regarding her bedchambers.
“Did you orchestrate this?” Caermen asked from the door, just before she stepped out.
“What do you mean?” Xeymena asked from the floor.
“This marriage - It aligns more with your intention than papa’s,” Caermen explained, but she sounded like a child.
“No… it was all Bloodraven,”
After that Caermen went off in search of their maester. To request all the tomes they held on the Stormlands.
“I’ll bring you the stories my lady,” the old man said bowing.
“No, Maester Samn,” she called out “The useful ones,”
“What do you need specifically, my lady?,” He asked her with the same exasperated expression he used in her lessons as a child.
“Military structure, border conflicts, house loyalties….” she listed.
The maester bowed and walked away.
“And Lord Lyonel Baratheon.” Caermen called out as he turned the corner.
A wave of his hand was the only sign that he had heard her.