[h3][b][color=gold]Dorne, Sunspear, Midmorning[/color][/b][/h3]

The sun was already in the sky, a clear brilliant blue above the haze of dust and heat shimmers that danced like light on water. Aliandra stood behind the litter that bore her father’s body, she could smell the staleness of the dead flesh even beneath the scented oils and desert flowers that surrounded him. Qoren Martell’s dusky skin was ashen and when she looked upon him, she realized there was little of the man that was her father left. It was just a husk and if the Father was fair, then he was in the Heavens already. The Prince of Dorne was dead, his copper crown of suns still in place but soon it would rest on her brow. Wrapped in red and gold silks, he was stately as ever, his salt and pepper beard combed out, decorated with gold and copper rings. The Silent Sisters had done well enough, her father’s expression was slightly sardonic as it ever was.

She could hear the din of noise from outside the sept, the large crowds gathered to pay their respects to their Prince. Among them would be representatives from the Houses that were vassals to the Martells, visitors from Lys and Myr and other ports of the Free Cities that Dorne traded with. Aliandra glanced to her side, her mother, Dorea who was draped in black silks with small winking garnets and black sapphires trimming the bodice and sleeves. Her face was taut with grief but still managed to be elegant, her high cheekbones and firm chin that was held high. She had cut her dark curls, leaving them just at the nape of her neck, as a wife in mourning often did. 

[hider=Aliandra][img]http://makeup411.com/411_product_images/1349_Freida-Pinto_Immortals.jpg[/img][/hider]

Aliandra wore a gown of fiery orange samite embroidered with the sun and spear of the Martell sigil in golden thread though it was covered with a diaphanous black cloak, pinned at her shoulder with a simple polished sun shaped copper brooch to dull the luster of her gown until it was time. Her dark hair was left loose flowing across her shoulders and her back and she wore dark kohl around her eyes to protect the from the bright sun. She also knew it would make her look more somber and stately, so that the crowds might look at her eyes and see both a bereaved daughter and a strong leader. She touched the litter once more, looking down at her father before nodding to the septon. 

When the doors of the sept opened, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply as the sounds of the crowd grew in anticipation of seeing their prince for the last time. The septon held up his staff as hundreds rainbows shimmered like butterflies, dancing along the faces of the funeral party. Aliandra could hear her half brother make a soft sound of annoyance as Septon Albin finally stopped with the prayers and began the slow walk outside. Even if it had not been a funeral procession, Aliandra doubted the old man could move much faster. His broad stomach swayed as he lumbered down the stairs, followed by the litter bearing Qoren carried by four stout guards that had served him in life. 

She walked just behind and behind her was the members of her household along with distinguished heads of houses. The lords and ladies followed along and once they were moving a cheer from the crowd rose. The voices of the seven septons and septas rose in their songs as the rainbows capered over the corpse.

The Dornish would mourn their dead by celebrating their life and standing in the bright sun it was hard not to smile. Her father had been loved by his people and his death a shock to them all. A simple accident of his horse shying at the sight of a viper coiled and the fall had taken him. The walk down the road paved in white limestone that gleamed in the sun was not very long as the party cut straight through the Three Fold Gate, avoiding the labyrinth of the shadow city that had clung to the sandstone walls of the stronghold. 

“They really did love the old man, but perhaps they cheer for you too, sister..”

Aliandra turned her head to see her half brother, the famed Dervish of Dorne, Maron Sand. He was well dressed in flowing robes of silk in reds and golds, his thick black hair pulled back with several thin braids scattered through it, decorated in copper rings. His handsome face was still for once, the devilish smile hidden under a rare moment of melancholy. She supposed he mourned not only the loss of their father but the fact Qoren had not got around to legitimizing him. 

“I should hope so,” she replied quietly, keeping her head tilted slightly downward, enough to be respectable but not bowed. She was a Martell afterall. “I plan on having a very long reign.”

“Hmm, I wish that as well,” Maron said sincerely, “Be sure to not to ride skittish horses.” 

She glanced at him, seeing the merry twinkle in his dark eyes and had to press her full lips together. He always managed to find a jest, even at a time like this and it was hard not to smile back. Though it was painful, she took comfort in knowing her father died doing something he loved, riding through his lands on his favorite steed rather than wasting away from some disease. 

[hider=Qoren’s steed][img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/27/58/5c/27585c516ef9d953e3589deb1306cb12.jpg[/img][/hider]


Once the procession was outside the city, the litter was placed on a gilded wagon drawn by four matched golden sand steeds. Qoren’s chestnut stallion was fully tacked in ornate dressing, the empty saddle symbolic of the last ride of his master. The wagon was pulled along the road at a slow pace until they reached the shore. In a ceremony that was distinctly created to celebrate the Nymeros Martell heritage, the Prince of Dorne was taken past the sea and towards the crypts where he would be laid to rest.

The funeral feast was in full swing as Aliandra sat at the head of the table with her cup filled with good Dornish wine. To her left her mother ate sparingly but indulged in stories of her late husband to those who asked, entertaining the ladies of Gargalen and Fowler with a rather tawdry tale involving pomegranates. At her right was Maron, drinking freely and dandling a serving girl on his knee, the thin gauzy gown doing little to hide her ripe body. It was near sunset and most people were tipsy and happily on their way to being drunk. The table was scattered with numerous dishes half eaten and stained with wine sloshed from goblets. 

Aliandra rose when she spotted the pale figures that could only be from the House of  Yronwood. Lord Osmond was a dour faced man, his hair streaked with grey where he still had it, he wore a fine black velvet doublet and pale cloak with the gate of Yronwood embroidered on it. Just behind him was his wife and daughter, Gwenyth and Gwendolyn also finely dressed. Her dark eyes flickered at the young woman, they had known each other growing up for Gwen had been a ward of the Martells until just a year ago. The young woman was soft and pale as a peach, sweet faced and gentle spoken. The glint in the pale blue eyes told Aliandra the girl had not changed much, the outward appearance was something not to be taken lightly. 

“Princess,” Lord Osmond spoke, taking her hand and bowing over it, “We grieve for your father, please know you have the condolences of all of Yronwood. While our houses have had our differences, I respected Qoren, he kept us out of the wars of the bloody dragons.” 

“That he did,” Aliandra replied lightly, “He was always concerned with Dorne keeping out the Targaryen's affairs,”

“As will you, Princess?” he asked, his watery blue eyes observing her carefully. 

Aliandra Martell raised her eyebrow and smiled enigmatically, “Today is for my father, tomorrow will bring many things to light.” 

*********************

She was crowned Princess of Dorne as the sun reached its zenith, despite the heat the crowds were just as big as they had been for the funeral the day before. The copper was warm against her skin, the small suns glinting as she stood still for Septon Albin to anoint her with the seven oils. Another day of feasting and drinking was ahead of them, the Martells set a fine table and there was a lighter mood today. A celebration of life and the future, of a young beautiful princess taking her place. Aliandra was stunning in her golden dress, her brown skin shining in the sun as she stepped forward. 

“Today marks a new chapter in the long history of our land,” Aliandra spoke to the crowd,her lovely face infused with pride and passion, “My father kept the peace for a long time, kept Dorne from the trouble of the north. We value that, our freedom is our life’s blood but we are not made to hide. I look at you all, how blessed am I to serve such a wonderful people, we deserve abundance and greatness and that is what we will have. Peace in our land and prosperity for all. We shall continue,'unbowed, unbent and unbroken.' ”

Raising her hand, the fire opals of the red-gold bracelet shimmering in the heat, Aliandra toasted the crowd, smiling as they cheered. Dorne would prosper, increase its wealth from trade across the sea but there was the north as well. While her father preferred to stay away from anything outside of the desert, the Princess had other plans. Beyond the desire of the rest of Westeros for Dornish wine and fruit, she knew that Nymeria was no merchant queen, she was a warrior queen and  Aliandra would be as well. 

Once the public display was over, Aliandra strode down the hall with her attendants following along. She would feast with the heads of her vassal houses and make herself known to them, as a leader rather than a woman. Her footsteps echoed along the pale marble floor, the thin cloth of gold and yellow gauzy silks floating around her long legs. Up ahead, she spotted the figure of Maester Ulrick Dayne hustling towards her. 

A lean man with a shock of silver hair and pale violet eyes, marking his heritage, approached her with a grim look. He held a tightly bound letter in his hand and stopped, bowing slightly before speaking, “Princess Aliandra, I hate to interrupt but I’ve just received a raven from King’s Landing.” 

Blinking in surprise, the young woman waved him forward to walk with her, slowing down her pace. “What did it say?”

“King Aegon II is dead,” he replied, touching his chain thoughtfully, “No word on how.” 

“Another Targaryen king dead? Well, this is a joyful day,” Aliandra smiled a little, giving him a wry look, “They do tend to drop like flies, must be that sickly Valyrian family tree with so few branches. No offense.”

The Dayne shook his head, “None taken, your grace.” 

Aliandra took the letter, reading it for herself. It said little other than just the facts, “So the young prince is now King, a child on the throne. That bodes well. Do you think they’ll raise arms again?”

“I cannot say but though their war is over, old wounds tend to fester,” Ulrick replied, stopping before the doors to the hall. “What I can say is that there will be unrest and hardship in the north. They have been burned and bled and winter has set in with a vengeance.”

“They are weak,” Aliandra said quietly, her dark eyes meeting the lavender ones, “They follow a child no doubt attended to by a council full of greedy men with their own agendas.”

“No doubt,” the maester agreed, raising his eyebrows at her, “What is on your mind, your grace?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, her old teacher giving her a penetrating look, “It is just surprising, to hear their king is dead nearly at the same time my father died. Odd how that works. Luckily, we all know who is the princess of Dorne and there is no need to shed our own blood over it.” 

Maester Ulrick Dayne took a deep breath, he recognized the mischievous glint in the lovely dark eyes of the princess. Something was on her mind, he knew her since she was a child and she could not hide it from him. Cautiously, he cleared his throat, “And whose blood might be shed?”

Aliandra glanced at him askance, “Why ever would you ask that?”

“Because the stories of Nymeria were your favorite, Princess,” he replied, his eyes holding her gaze. 

“So they are,” Aliandra gave him a slight smirk and opened the door to the hall, ending their conversation.