Title: a turtle in the dunes
Chapter: 1
Rating: t
Characters/Pairings: Sylva Santagar/Andrew Estermont, Sylva Santagar, Andrew Estermont, Symon Santagar
Word Count: 1633
Summary: In another world, Andrew Estermont tries to get accustomed to Dorne and his role within.
297 AC; The fourteenth year of the Regency of King Aegon VI Targaryen
Spottswood is nothing like Estermont, dry and hot during the day and cool and dry during the night, where the island had always been cold and damp. Andrew doesn't mind the dryness, in contrast, but the heat and sun are oppressive in his new home. His clothes are too thick for Dorne, Sylva insists, brows knitting together whenever she notes the sweat collecting at the collars of his doublets. It's because her worry appears to be sincere that he tries to wear the Dornish garb she gifts him in Estermont colors.
Their marriage had been arranged in the shadow of Robert Baratheon's failed rebellion, when they were both children. House Estermont had supported their liege lord, Andrew's own cousin. As he was no heir, the match was acceptable, and what better way to show the Queen Regent that those of House Estermont were willing to repair their relationship with the crown after the realm was almost torn asunder than to have their spare son's son wed into a loyal Dornish family.
It is strange to have been wed to an heir, to be schooled in the management of a household, that all Dornish children must learn with ease that makes him feel a fool, stumbling through the teachings provided to him when he had arrived in Spottswood. Then, he'd had to bit back remarks that it was a woman's domain and had instead frowned at the sums set before him by Maron – the rather tired looking steward of Spottswood. Maester Cressen had done his best to teach him while he was fostered in Storm's End and later while he squired for Stannis, but some things not even a kindly hand could offer much assistance with. Maron's tired, sharp teaching do nothing to endear him to the steward, but he does learn. He makes sure of that.
His goodfather avoids him; his presence, his eyes – Symon Santagar is a grim man, who showed no joy in his coming to Spottswood. His copper eyes are sharp and calculating, which reminds Andrew too much of childhood chidings, so he makes no attempts to seek him out.
It is a pleasant surprise that his bride approves of him or, if not approves, does not begrudge him. It's easy to liken his lady wife to a cat, content with her life and easily able to navigate their marriage while he so often finds himself unsure of how to proceed in many regards. Sylva watches him with her own cat-like copper eyes, the edges of her lips so often tilting upwards into a smile, and she is... he hadn't expected her to be beautiful. She's beautiful in a Dornish way, of course, but Andrew is in Dorne.
The difference in Dorne is not just the heat, he learns quickly. The Dornish conduct themselves differently than Stormlanders. Sylva smiles more freely, her eyes meet his – never looking away quickly when their eyes meet as he hadn't realized he was accustomed to. The strangest thing, however, was the hours of light they wasted inside the walls of Spottswood. To be sure, the sun was hot on their backs, but he couldn't understand the way the windows of the castle were shuttered mid-day, and the household would rest until mid-afternoon. When he had been under Maron's tutelage the strangeness hadn't even occurred to him, as those had been the hours the steward sat with him inside the cool lower levels of the keep, but since the end of their meetings, Andrew could not stop the restless feeling that had begun to build in him.
The thought of bringing the subject to his wife or her father makes him flush with shame and he refuses to embarrass himself or his family by broaching the topic.
The sun is hotter than he remembered it ever being on his back. The light clothing he'd taken to wearing did some to relieve the heat, but still he could feel sweat forming as the sun shone down on him.
There is no one about outside of the castle. In fact, if he hadn't known better, Andrew would assume that there was not a living soul in Spottswood. As far as his eye can see, there is nothing but empty stalls, unadorned outer walls, and the hot run bearing down on him.
With no one about, it is easy to lose track of the time, if not for the exhaustion that begins to settle heavily upon him. It is that feeling, coupled with his drying mouth, that has him returning to the keep.
In the midday sun, Andrew collapses before the doors.
Andrew awakens to the feeling of a cool cloth against his forehead. His dulled mind is unsure, still caught in an idea that seems just out of reach, before he jolts upright in confusion. Seeing his own chambers alleviates his worry for a moment — just a breath — then the truth that his last memories weren't of the room heightens his worry.
It is a bit of a surprise to see his wife seated beside his bed, one hand still raised, holding a damp cloth forward.
A flush spreads across her freckled face before she leans forward to run the cool rag across his face once more, and he closes his eyes in relief at the soothing touch.
For a moment, he simply lies there and watches her, and she watches him, head cocked just a touch and eyes curious. From behind her, he can see that the sun was low behind his shuttered windows now, and it is that realization that brings heat to his own face. His attempts to explain himself turn to a dry cough.
It is then that Andrew is suddenly aware of how dry his mouth is. The light touch of Sylva's hand on his bare arm sends a shiver through him, as she seats herself beside him. In her other hand, a goblet of water is undisturbed as it is held out to him. When he raises a hand to take it, he's surprised to notice the relief in her copper eyes, the soft curve of her mouth as the edges turn up ever so slightly. "Small sips, Andrew."
Dropping his eyes to the water, he nods and she shifts, still seated beside him though no longer touching. As he sips the water slowly, he can feel her gaze on him. Still he focuses on the task before him. He could at least remember that one mustn't guzzle water — if not for sickness it might bring, then for the look of avarice it may leave in others.
Once the goblet is empty, he's a little surprised as the ease in which she takes it from him to set on the bedside table, touch still light. She does not attempt to meet his eyes after, her gaze on something within the room that he cannot see. But still she didn't rise, and Andrew cannot find a reason to ask her to leave. It was the most time they had spent together in either of their chambers and he felt very much a maid at the thought.
“Do you miss it? Estermont?”
The question surprises him, cutting through the silence and dimming sunlight.
Of course part of him misses the island, poor as it might have been, damp as it always was. But Andrew had not lived there in years, for truth. He had fostered and had squired and there was little there aside from his father — who was ever loyal to their Lord Paramount, and had looked at him with such shame and sadness when he'd gone to Dorne to be wed so he might one day be a Lord Consort of a small house.
“I was within the walls of Storm's End longer than I was ever on Estermont.” He finally admits.
Sylva's copper eyes flash in sadness, but she never looks away from him, even when he meets her gaze. Her hand is light on his own, then, and something about that, a thing so small that it might be meaningless, soothes him. It's a strange moment to realize that, that he has grown accustom enough to her that her actions do not seem as foreign.
"I cannot imagine leaving my home. It is different in the Water Gardens, I always knew I would return-" Her voice cuts off abruptly, and silence retakes his chambers.
"It is different, you were always the heir." It's all he can think to say, taken aback by the emotions in her voice.
"No." The admittance is soft and hallow. “I had a brother once, but Selym died on the Trident.”
For the first time since he'd come to Spottswood, Sylva's eyes are sad, her voice wavers, and Andrew is overcome with the urge to comfort her in some way. His hand finds her own and squeezes gently, brows knitting together. Why was it that everything in his life always came back to the Trident? His cousin died there, and from it his marriage was brokered. And now it was revealed that his own wife's status as an heir was also solidified there. Was it any wonder others in the keep bore him no love?
Again his throat is dry, but now even the empty pleasantries and thoughts he'd been taught fail him.
"You could not have known." Still, her voice was sad as she rose, dark curls framing her face.
"I would not have spoken those words had I known, I swear."
The edges of her lips curl up, and though tears still shine in her eyes, there is also a softness there that makes his heart race. Once again, he's faced with the fact that his wife is quite beautiful.
