Chapter Text
The galley cut through the millpond-still waters of the Narrow Sea, the oars rising and falling in time with the boatswain’s constant rap. There had not been a single gust of wind for days, not even the faintest whisper of a breeze. Aerion was dripping with sweat. He had long since abandoned his mail shirt and doublet in favour of a lighter linen tunic, but it did little to ease the heat. Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he grimaced. He had only just found his sea legs when the sails died and the ship was reduced to its present slow crawl.
There was little to do aboard the boat. He had exhausted his small supply of books, meagre though it had been to begin with. There was no room to practise at arms, and even if there had been, there did not seem to be a true warrior among his fellow passengers. Of course, there was the woman. She travelled alone, though he had yet to set eyes upon her.
And, as if summoned by the thought, he heard a voice above him from the quarterdeck.
“Captain.”
“My lady,” came the soothing reply of the ship’s captain. “How might I help you?”
“You might explain why someone has defiled the privy that was set aside for my use.”
Ah.
Aerion had only just found his sea legs that morning.
“I am afraid I cannot explain the matter, my lady, but not all our passengers have borne up so well upon setting foot aboard the ship. I will have the deckhands see to it at once.”
“Thank you,” the woman said. “No sign of the weather changing?”
“No, my lady, but we shall see you to Lys yet.”
“I have no doubt of it, Captain.”
From his place on the main deck, Aerion resisted the urge to laugh. He had been doing what his father would have called snooping — something dishonourable, behaviour unbefitting a man of his rank and station. Yet what Maekar did not know would not hurt him, and the things he did not know of Aerion could have filled several of Aemon’s dusty tomes.
The woman who travelled alone had been given the second-best cabin aboard the ship, well away from both Aerion’s own lodgings and the greater part of the other passengers. Naturally, he had been curious to learn more of her, but thus far she had taken her meals in her own quarters and had not deigned to seek her repose amongst the other nobility in the aft cabin. In this, Aerion could almost respect her, for he himself had been roped into nightly games of cyvasse with the Dowager of House Blount and her daughter. The dowager’s husband had died without issue, and with great bitterness she was taking her daughter to Lys in search of a suitable husband, after the new head of House Blount had cast them out with little enough ceremony. Aerion was doubtful of her success. The Lyseni were famed for their beauties, and the Maiden had not been especially generous to young Roslin.
It had not escaped Aerion’s notice that Roslin, poor witless creature, always seemed to mislay something in his presence. A handkerchief, a ribbon, once even a slipper. The Dowager was plainly of the belief that fortune favoured the bold, and that a disgraced prince might be persuaded to lower his standards if a girl was paraded before him often enough. The notion alone was enough to sour his temper.
Worse, his barbed remarks were met not with affront, but confusion. The girl was too stupid to know when she was being mocked, and there was no sport in tormenting someone who could not even feel the cut. Aerion had soon lost interest in provoking her and resigned himself instead to becoming an unwilling cyvasse champion.
Lost in his thoughts, he found himself near the woman’s cabin. The scent of saffron and amber lingered in the air, strongest at her door.
“Roslin, now you must try again…”
Aerion bit back a groan. He was boxed in; with the Dowager and her daughter behind him, the only way back to the main deck was blocked. Acting on instinct, he yanked open the door to the woman’s cabin and slipped inside before their little procession could round the corner.
The scent of saffron and amber deepened at once. Turning slowly, he took in the room. The narrow bed was neatly made, and several books and loose papers lay in careful disorder across the rickety desk beneath the small window. Blessedly, there was no sign of the woman. She was likely above on the main deck taking the air, unless the Dowager had managed to snare some other hapless victim for cyvasse. Unhurried now, Aerion crossed to the desk and began leafing through the papers with idle curiosity. His fingers found the creased spine of a small book. It looked exactly like the sort of tedious thing Egg would devour with shining eyes, a volume on the Age of Heroes. On impulse, Aerion tucked it into his pocket.
Later, Aerion had eaten his fill and was seated, at last undisturbed, in the aft cabin. Blessedly, the Dowager and Roslin had not appeared. He had made a beginning on the book he had pilfered from the woman’s cabin that morning and, much against his will, found it diverting, tales of the First Men, from before the coming of the Andals and their Seven gods.
“Excuse me,” said a voice sharp in his ear, like hot honey laced with spice. “Pray tell, how am I to address you, thief? Ser? My lord? Or, judging by your hair, do I have the singular honour of addressing one of House Targaryen?”
The woman sank into the most theatrical curtsey Aerion had ever seen.
“In which case, my prince.”
Aerion could not help the smirk that curled his mouth. He let his gaze travel over her at leisure. She wore her hair long, woven into an elaborate Dornish braid, and an emerald-green silk gown clung to her frame with careless elegance. Gold adorned her throat, her ears, and both wrists.
“Come now, my lady,” Aerion said. “We are far from court. You may spare me the ceremony.”
The woman gave a small huff and rose to her feet. Her brown eyes met his, her mouth tight, her fists clenched at her sides.
“Yes,” she said coolly, “we are far from court, my prince, and yet courtesy seems to have fled further still. If gossip speaks true, I address Prince Aerion Targaryen, a man not overburdened by honour.”
Aerion bit his lip to hide his pleasure. Here, at last, was something to relieve the tedium of the voyage.
“You place me at a disadvantage, my lady,” he said lightly. “How am I to answer your insults if you will not favour me with your name? Though I would wager you are Dornish. You have that look about you.”
The woman practically quivered with anger. At last, she forced out the words.
“My name is Allyria of House Jordayne.”
“Well then, Allyria of House Jordayne, how do I stand accused? Of thievery? You know, it is a dangerous thing to accuse a prince of the realm of wrongdoing.”
Allyria’s eyes narrowed. “It is not an accusation, my prince. It is a fact.”
“Fact?” Aerion echoed, widening his eyes in false innocence. “I confess, I have no notion what you mean. What are you suggesting?”
“I suggest nothing,” Allyria said, stepping towards him. “I can plainly see that you are holding my book.”
“This book?” Aerion lifted the battered leather-bound tome. “I am quite certain it is mine.”
“Only because you stole it,” Allyria snapped. “Now give it back, you knave.”
Aerion smiled, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips in anticipation.
“I might let you borrow it,” he said, “if you ask nicely.”
“Ask nicely?” Allyria spat, stepping closer still, her chin lifting in defiance.
“Yes. Ask prettily, and perhaps I shall permit you to share it with me.” Aerion paused, something wicked glinting in his eyes. “You may sit with me and read it aloud. I could not possibly trust you to take it away.”
Aerion could feel her fury coming off her in waves. Her brow was drawn tight, and her pretty mouth was pinched with temper. He wanted to see how far he could push her. Wanted to hear her scream.
“Well?”
Allyria rolled her eyes. “Fine. Might you let me borrow your book?”
Aerion gave a low snort. “I said, Lady Allyria, that you were to ask prettily. Were you raised in a stable? Or is this the sum of Dornish refinement?”
Her eyelid twitched, her mouth now a tight ball. “My prince, perhaps you might allow me to borrow your book.”
“An improvement,” Aerion said. “But I cannot say I am convinced. You still seem to be holding something back.”
The Dornishwoman turned on her heel and clapped a hand over her mouth, loosing a strangled cry into her palm. When she turned back, her expression had been smoothed into something almost serene. She brushed down her skirts, then sank to her knees before him. Bending forward at the waist with infuriating elegance, she lifted her face to his.
“Your Highness,” she said, each word honed like she were trained by the most gifted courtiers. “Would you do me the rare privilege of lending me your book, so that I might read it aloud for your pleasure?”
“Ah,” Aerion breathed. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to grant that request.”
He moved to place the book in Allyria’s outstretched hand, but before her fingers could close around the leather-bound cover, he snatched it out of reach.
“You will, of course, sit at my feet whilst you read.”
“At your…” Allyria muttered under her breath, then quickly schooled her expression. “Of course, Prince Aerion.”
Aerion smiled broadly, though there was no mirth in it, only thinly veiled pleasure. Dropping the book firmly into her hand, he motioned for her to begin.
Allyria turned to the middle of the book, as if she where already familiar with the order of the stories. Clearing her throat, she began in an exaggeratedly halting voice, sounding out each word with deliberate slowness.
Aerion stiffened, then felt amusement stir within him. So, that was her game. The little chit thought she could outplay him.
“My lady,” he said, with veiled contempt, “I know the Dornish are famed for their appetites rather more than their accomplishments, but I had not thought reading beyond even them. Shall I find you a primer? Something with pictures, perhaps? If that proves too difficult, I can always summon Roslin Blount. Between the two of you, I daresay you might manage a page.”
Allyria snapped the book shut. “Very well, Your Highness, you have caught me out in my little game. The next time you find yourself in need of diversion, perhaps I might ask one of the deckhands to stand with an apple on his head, so you may loose an arrow at it and feel yourself accomplished. We both know you have no true interest in books. You have no love of learning, no patience for wit, and no esteem for those who possess either. Steel and spectacle suit you far better. After all, one need not be clever to sit atop a horse, wear bright armour, and preen before a tourney crowd. And yet, from all I have heard, even that modest burden has proved too great for you.”
“You presume…” Aerion began. A vein pulsed at his temple, his jaw hard with fury. The dragon in his chest was uncoiling now; what had begun as sport had turned, suddenly and utterly, to offence.
“I presume nothing,” Allyria snapped.
“You presume everything,” Aerion said softly. “You presume that you — some insolent Dornish sand snake — may speak to me, the blood of the dragon, as though we stood on equal ground. You presume that you may dress slander up as truth and expect me to endure it. You mistake yourself. This exchange has continued only because I permitted it. You amused me for a time, and that was the full measure of your worth. Now you overstep yourself and dare insult me?”
“Your vanity does not alter the truth,” Allyria said. “You were beaten by a hedge knight and forced to take back your lie. There is no slander in speaking plainly of what the gods already judged.”
Aerion stood and stepped into her space, his hand shooting out to seize her upper arm. His grip tightened, not enough to bruise, not enough to cause pain, but enough to leave no doubt that, if he wished it, he was capable of far greater violence.
“You would strike an unarmed woman?” Allyria whispered. “Then you are even less than I thought, a pathetic wormling who cloaks himself in honour and chivalry whenever someone important is there to admire the performance.”
“I ought to have you beaten for your impudence,” Aerion replied, his voice taut, his temper only just held in check.
“We are on a ship, my prince. You have no retinue here.” Allyria tore her arm free. “If you mean to beat me, you must do it yourself.”
Aerion frowned, his thoughts a tangle of temper, pride, and something less welcome. At last, he bit out, “Get out.”
“My prince.” Allyria bowed low and swept from the room. The scent of saffron and amber clung to the air she left behind, and Aerion did his best not to choke on it.