[center][img]https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57711face3df287500cc2dca/1536245193377-P7D7ROWIT12GZ47EUKIQ/PMGOT5-006-wheelhouse-interior-flat-as.jpg[/img]

[h3]Summerhall.

The Serpent’s Dragon[/h3][/center]

In the long years of the marches there had rarely been a peaceful reason for the Sunspear sigil to fly. The blazing red on bright burnt orange was a sign feared as much as the personal sigils of the Dornish lords more likely to be raiding the lands to the North. Quarrelsome as they may be, the citadels of Yronwood and Starfall still knelt beneath the Sun.

Thus of all the arrivals of the great and good to Summerhall, the banners of Nymeros Martell caused a stir through the camp. There were other Dornish in attendance, but they came as part of the assembled Northern parties, guests of the Crown to secure the alliance which had finally brought the Dornish, in part, into the fold. It was not a vast train, no doubt smaller in many ways than less contentious houses, a set of three wheelhouses, and accompanying Dornish riders. They had taken ship from Sunspear, landing in the South of the Reach before traveling North to the tourney. The mountain passes between Dorne and the Reach were not necessarily safe at the most peaceful of times, roamed by raiders and Bandit Kings, and this was not the most peaceful of times.

“Is it a relief, Princess, to feel the cool air of home?” Opposite Daenerys sat the tall figure of Prince Nymos, the younger, previous estranged, brother of her lord husband. She had never felt hard done by in her marriage to Maron, despite being her elder by some years he was still a handsome man, one who had aged well into it. A fact she had teasingly suggested made her fortunate for the years he had lived before her. Nymos was another matter, he was shockingly beautiful, an easy charm that seemed to work on men and women alike. She could understand now, how cut off from his family and wealth, he had still attained great heights of success as a leader of men. It did not help how he reclined in her presence, a casual display at odds with his largely respectful words.

“The climate is pleasing, dear brother, and I can admit to being happy to see my loved ones after so long, but Dorne is my home now, the home of my children, I will miss it more while we are here than I ever dream of King’s Landing in Sunspear.” Despite her words, her eyes still remained  out the grated window of the rolling home, watching the sloping hills of the Reach drift by. She had not seen such uninterrupted green in such a long time and no matter how pleasing to the eye the younger Martell brother was, he could not eclipse the Reach in the last hints of bloom.

The slight hum of approval her words earned from him did fight for her attention though, but not in the way she was sure many young maids would find. It was so similar to Maron’s, the little exhalation of vindication. She smiled at that, warm affection for her family  now that the brothers were reunited, she understood what a chasm in Maron’s life Nymos’ rumored death had been. “Considering what we were told about you Targaryens when we were young, my brother is very fortunate to have you for a wife, Princess.” He paused, studying her in a appraising manner which would be entirely unwelcome on someone not so achingly appealing. “They sung songs of your beauty, but they failed to capture your soul, that is the true fortune.”

She laughed gently, a noise as pretty as any of the songs, “You are too kind, but I should have expected it, Maron is the same. You are both far too charming.”

“That is because you have earned our kindness, Princess, we are different in many ways, but we are both warm in love, and bitter in vengeance. It is the Dornish way.” 

“You may call me Daenerys if you like, Dany, if you are feeling particularly familiar.” She sat back against the rest of her seat, finally pulling her attention fully back into the shady interior of the wheelhouse, as the glare of the Sun obscured the countryside from her.

“I prefer Princess, lady-sister, it helps me to behave.” He grinned, and that did make her flutter, although it was an interaction only approved because the pair both loved their mutual connection greater than any fleeting heat might eclipse, “And more importantly, it reminds the rest who you are. You are a Princess of Dorne now, Daenerys of House Targaryen, that means something far more than the trappings they aware their women here.”

“Martell. Prince Nymos, that is my house.” She corrected him, but the smile that touched her lips was far from reproachful.

“Of course, Dear Princess, you have earned that more than any others not born to Sunspear.”

Any further interaction between the pair was interrupted by the sudden swell of noise as the Dornish train advanced into the tourney grounds. The noise of human habitation had been building for a while, but is suddenly surrounded them, bouncing between the walls of the wheelhouse. Much of it was far off background sound, knights and their servants preparing for the martial display to come, further away the smallfolk encamped in their wider, sprawling, accommodation as they readied to watch the events of the coming days. The most intense portion of the noise, however, erupted from those clearly responding to their arrival. As far as she was aware, her attendance was widely known, but she considered now that perhaps the connection that this would mean the formal presence of her marriage-house had not quite sunk in.

Finally the wheelhouse came to a halt, a brief, but heavy, knock on the frame of the carriage all the warning those within received before the main door opened, blazing light into the shady confines. She was well used to such things though, and was quickly standing and at the doorway, accepting the chivalrously offered hand of Ser Corbray from the ground to assist her down the stairway. 

If the arrival of the Dornish had sent a rustle through the camp, the sight of her pulsed like a wave. Princess Daenerys had been the darling of court in her day, Nymos had not exaggerated the songs, but Northern Westeros had not seen her for what, in the standard of courtly gossip, had been an age. Her beauty had not faded, but blossomed, the mother had surpassed the maid. Silver-gold hair shone in the light, and her choice of gown would not doubt echo through the consensus for some time. She had, of course, chosen Dornish lace, bone-white trimmed with red detail in a style that drifted about her in a way that was entirely Dornish, yet suitable for the more conservative tastes of the North. The red had been a choice of caution, those who wished could read it as Targaryen or Dornish Red, but all the same, it made its mark.

Nymos followed a few moments behind, just as Daenerys thanked Ser Corbray for his assistance. The murmers through the crowd already assembled were of a more hushed nature, a Dornish Prince was a dangerous, exotic, sight, but still certainly an appreciated one. His outfit stood in contrast to her’s, black, and finely cut, the leathers trimmed in details of the same shade. He gave a nod of appreciation to Ser Corbray as well as he stepped clear of the wheelhouse, before offering his arm to the Princess.

“Princess, it does seem they remember you.”

His voice was loud enough to carry to the onlookers, but nothing was quite loud enough between them to eclipse the surge of cheers his words had taunted from the Westerosi.