her head remains bowed.
if her brother had witnessed this, he would have shook himself with fury; he would have demanded, quite justly, of respect to be shown with which house martell deserves — they are the folks who do not bend, after all. they are the unbowed, the unbroken. but he is not here. he has not been with her since neith had been sent to king's landing; the last memory neith had had of qoren martell was his fierce brown eyes, breaking apart as he holds her for the last time. he had spoken in their mixed language of rhoynar and common tongue, telling her to be careful. to call for him, for anything she may need.
she has, and yet dorne remains stubborn from siding with any faction as the rest of the seven kingdoms break, and burn, under targaryen's hefty thumbs. neith likes to believe she does not resent them, that she is not capable of unreasonable resentment, the sort she had seen her ancestors passed from one generation to the next. when she had arrived in king's landing, bright-eyed and young, years ago, she had naively thought that their houses could be joined; these children of the dragons and her, a daughter of the sand, could be friends. it would have been the beginning of a new teaching, of a new age.
the slaughter of prince jaehaerys changed that.
she does not resent. she does not want to, but neith's eyes remain on the floor. her voice is mechanical, cold. she used to dance through these halls once; her queen helaena, then princess, had clapped along, joyous, despite the foreign beat and rhythm neith had represented. they were girls together, however briefly. those are gone now, as well, with her queen on spikes. ❛ — your side have won. will you spare the princess jaehaera ? ❜
@lcerys — starter call