Chapter Text
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POV Vincenzo
Let's just say, this was not what I'd expected.
The Daynes' castle — Starfall — was nothing like your standard Dornish stronghold. I now saw, far more vividly, the difference between sand Dornish, salt Dornish, and stone Dornish. And spoiler: I had a serious soft spot for the stone variety's architecture.
Massive, with spire-like towers and windows everywhere. It looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. One of those ancient Disney jobs — princess on a balcony, singing to birds while they dress her. Except here, the birds probably shat on the statues and fought to the death over fig scraps.
And the worst part? It looked damn good. Not that gaudy gold-flecked nonsense from King's Landing, nor the bare stone of the North. No — this place was luminous, polished, elegant. Too clean. The kind of place that made you feel grubby just by walking on the tiles.
I glanced over at Julia, who was staring in silence. Even she seemed a bit impressed. Or maybe she was just sizing up the drop height for a future brawl. Hard to tell.
Caspar, true to form, was already doing mental arithmetic.
"If that's not a maintenance nightmare, I'll eat my hat," he muttered.
"You say that about every castle, Caspar. And you don't have a hat."
"Exactly. I take no chances."
Tycho, meanwhile, was cataloguing every column and archway. You could practically hear the banker-cogs turning. He'd probably give me a build cost estimate before supper. Spoiler: it was going to sting.
We passed under a small arched gate, then through a series of inner courtyards and colonnades. Everything was immaculate, eerily still, perfect. No breeze, no birdsong, nothing. Even the plants looked dignified. You'd swear the trees had been trained not to drop their leaves willy-nilly.
And then — just for a split second — I thought I saw a figure between two distant columns. Pale robes, delicate frame, vanishing like a memory that refuses to stay buried. One of those shadows you never quite catch, but that plant just enough doubt to keep your mind churning.
Could it be…?
No. Don't be daft.
Probably the sun. Or the silence. Or just my instincts playing a cruel little encore of a past I had no business remembering.
I shook it off. Nothing there. Nothing to see. Keep walking.
As if the place hadn't already hit peak perfection, there were fountains.
Yeah. Actual fountains. Sculpted, spotless, with crystal water flowing in the kind of serene trickle that either made you want to meditate… or take a piss.
I counted three on our way in. Looked like the closer you got to the throne, the more water you had to listen to. Maybe a metaphor? Purity, fluidity, divine wee? Who knows. Couldn't care less.
Julia stayed quiet, but her gaze was sweeping every detail. She was clearly calculating how many men she could knock out with a ceramic urn. Proper romantic. No wonder Robert had fallen head over heels for my charming half-sister.
I let out a loud sigh as we stepped over a floor mosaic.
"Even the bloody tiles have patterns. You reckon they sell blessed brooms to clean this without committing heresy?"
"I wouldn't doubt it, my lord. As you so often remind us — there's no such thing as small profit."
I shot Caspar a wink. The man soaked up my every word like a sponge, which honestly suited me just fine.
We finally reached a grand double door in pale wood, framed by carved constellations. Standard Dayne fare. Bet they get hard every time a rock falls from the sky.
One guard signalled us forward while the other pushed the doors open with theatrical slowness — like he was expecting applause.
And just like that, we entered the audience chamber.
Or, the "throne room" of House Dayne. If you could even call it a throne. More like a carved chair on a low dais, surrounded by plants, cushions, candles, and of course — another bloody fountain. Dead centre. Because of course. Welcome to the House of Refined Taste.
The ceiling soared above us, supported by pale stone pillars carved to look like sabres pointed skywards. Probably symbolic — "the blade is always above your head," or maybe just "we've got size issues but we wear them well."
And there he was.
The infamous, entirely unremarked-upon Lord Aron Dayne.
Seated. Upright. Not old, not young — somewhere in that comfortable forties bracket. Trim beard, clean gaze. Dressed modestly, of course, but with those subtle flourishes that scream, I'm loaded and I know it, but I don't need a gold-plated chain to make my point.
He looked at us calmly. No smile, no scorn. Just… a quiet curiosity. The kind of man who knows exactly who he is and doesn't need to shout about it. Already, that made him more credible than half the clowns I'd met in King's Landing.
I stopped at the respectful distance, Julia at my side, Caspar and Tycho a bit behind, and Moore — big, silent, and uselessly imposing — standing sentinel like a decorative golem. Let's not forget the meat-wall Robert had assigned to both his precious sister and me. Because apparently, I'm VIP now. So if I chipped a nail, Moore here was going to turn into more of a corpse.
Yeah, alright, weak pun. Moving on.
Now I had to wait for Lord Dayne to address me.
Because in this sort of house, you don't speak until you're spoken to.
And I was damn curious to see how a lord locked away in a dream castle was going to handle me — the walking nightmare of every self-respecting noble.
The silence held for a few seconds.
Not the awkward kind — more like theatre silence, the kind you engineer to build tension before dropping your first line. And the worst part? It worked. Even the bloody fountain seemed to slow down its trickle, like it knew it wasn't its time to speak.
I kept my hands visible, face neutral, tongue ready. Because I wasn't the sort to be marched into a marble cathedral without expecting some ancient sermon to drop any minute now.
And then he spoke.
"Lord Bardatto, welcome to Starfall. Or should I say… finally."
Deep voice. Calm. Razor-sharp. No need to raise it when the room echoed like a cathedral of silence, when the throne was carved stone and the servants in the background stood straighter than their own spines.
But it wasn't the voice that caught me.
It was the finally.
I bowed, just enough to avoid a diplomatic incident, not enough to suggest I was about to grovel. Let's not get carried away — pretty castle or not.
"I suppose subtlety's no longer my strong suit."
I lifted my head and gestured vaguely around the hall.
"But for what it's worth — thank you for the welcome. Your castle has something I rarely find elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms."
A beat. Just long enough to sound like I might actually give a compliment.
"Clean floors."
He smiled. Properly. Not a court-mandated smirk — a real one. Brief, honest. The kind of smile you give a cheeky kid who's just said something ridiculous, but stylish.
"Let's say we had time to prepare for your arrival. And you've become… rather difficult to ignore."
He stepped down from his dais — soundless, no entourage, no pomp. The kind of man who knows each footstep does more than a whole opening speech.
"I won't lie — when we heard that some Braavosi merchant, seemingly from nowhere, was toppling lions from their thrones and shaking the Seven Kingdoms like a dusty rug, we… raised an eyebrow."
He stopped a few steps from me, hands folded behind his back. Posture immaculate. Too perfect to be natural, not stiff enough to be rehearsed. That careful balance — trained never to look weak, but without the need to show off either.
"Some in Dorne applauded. Others panicked. We… observed."
"And now you receive me."
"And now, I receive you."
He glanced slowly around, as if weighing the very stones of his hall before continuing.
"Because the man who ends Lannister supremacy without spilling a drop of blood… deserves at the very least a cushion and a fountain to talk beside."
I narrowed my eyes. Not hostile. Just perceptive.
"I didn't start the rumour of the lions' collective suicide. I just held up a few mirrors. They collapsed on their own."
"Like many great beasts. Their weakness isn't the blade — it's the reflection."
He turned just slightly toward a guard. Didn't say a word. Yet somehow, silver goblets appeared, filled with cool wine. Subtle, elegant, traditional — the sort of service that says: you're free to talk, but take a sip first — odds are, you're about to say something stupid.
I took the cup without hesitation.
"You've read me well, Lord Dayne. I came with ideas, maps, plans… and yes, a few ambitions. Nothing official, nothing carved in stone, but enough to keep a negotiating table warm for a few hours."
I turned the goblet slowly in my fingers — something for my hands to do while my brain worked out whether this atmosphere was genuinely relaxed or just politely loaded, like one of those family dinners where no one dares mention politics, but everyone knows one wrong word and grandma's going to lob the roast at racist Uncle Greg.
And Lord Dayne? He looked like exactly the kind of man who knows how to throw the roast — without ever touching it himself.
He kept watching me, unblinking. That look of a local lord who's seen enough foreigners not to be dazzled by every new accent, but who still reserves judgment for the interesting ones. And judging by his posture, calm, and the unnervingly low blink-rate, I'd been filed under high-level diplomatic curiosity — somewhere between miracle-worker and ticking bomb disguised as a trade agreement.
He tilted his head ever so slightly, as if to say: Go on then. Impress me or implode.
And then, calmly:
"You crossed Dorne for these ideas… Saltshore, Stonehelm, the Twins… Some say you're weaving a web. Others say you're digging a grave. At this point, I suppose one doesn't rule out the other."
I grinned. Because yeah, that was good. And because I loved it when clean-shaven lords served up punchlines like an HBO finance drama.
"Let's just say I'm laying roads. If a few people fall in, maybe it's because they stopped watching where they were walking a long time ago."
He nodded slowly. Was that approval? Disinterest? Or was he just buying time until Ashara Dayne herself swept in with perfect timing and maximum dramatic impact?
Hard to tell. The Daynes were exactly the sort of family that could redraw a map in silence — never raise their voices, never bare their teeth, just smile softly while the rest of the realm bled itself dry arguing over whether the stars were gods or just stones that shine.
Then he locked eyes with me — that quiet sort of gaze reserved for men who no longer need to prove who's got the biggest — because, well, he's already got the land, the castle, and a bloody sacred meteorite for a family heirloom.
"You're in a hurry, Lord Bardatto. But you didn't come all this way just to talk about stones, ports, or profits."
I took a sip of wine — partly to buy time, partly to look more relaxed than I felt. The wine was good. Too good. The kind you serve to a friend… or to an enemy you don't plan on seeing alive again. Definitely one to watch.
"Let's just say I like to see the full board before placing my pieces. And there's one piece on it that caught me a bit off guard."
I turned slightly toward Caspar, then toward Julia — just enough to check whether I was the only one hallucinating. Judging by their faces, they knew exactly what I was on about — and were simply waiting for me to drop the bomb and watch the fallout.
I straightened a touch, set the goblet down, and delivered it in that tone that says the world's gone mad but I'd still like an explanation before dessert:
"Is it a local tradition to let the dead stroll through the corridors like it's no big deal, or is this your idea of testing visitors' composure by playing ghost tag with national tragedies?"
This time, he smiled. A real smile. Not the polite twitch, not the rehearsed smirk — but the kind of grin that says not only did he know I was going to ask, he'd actually been placing bets on how many minutes it would take me to crack.
"Ah. You saw her."
"I saw her, yes. Ashara Dayne. Alive. Whole. Walking like a goddess carved from a mural and casually dropped into a castle. And the best part? She didn't even look surprised to see me. Which is rich, considering I walked in thinking, 'hello, thought you'd been dead a decade, don't mind me.'"
He picked up his cup, turned it slowly — the kind of move you make when you're seasoning a punchline.
"We never claimed otherwise. It was others who preferred the version that suited them. Westeros loves its tragedies. A beautiful woman dying young — far easier than a silent survivor."
"Right, except what you've got here is a secret the kingdom's turned into an opera. A beautiful woman, a tower, a leap into nothing, tears, whispers — and the rest of the realm going, 'perfect, that's our melodrama quota sorted for the next ten years.'"
I shrugged — not angry, just slightly irritated at having been caught off guard.
"And me, like an idiot, I show up expecting a shrine and some poetry… only to bump into a ghost strolling about like nothing happened, chin high and eyes that scan your soul like a bloody bullshit detector."
He laughed.
A real laugh. Short, dry, not too loud — but with that undertone, that slight flicker that tells you he's seen far worse, that keeping your cool is for professionals, and that sometimes a well-kept secret is worth more than a shouted truth.
And that's when it hit me.
What I'd thought was a detour, a picturesque little layover in a mountaintop castle, was about to become a pivot. A turning point. Because if Ashara Dayne was alive — and no one in the kingdom had thought to mention it — then I hadn't just stumbled upon a long-lost noble with good hair.
I'd stumbled upon a goddamn political lever.
And I hate levers I don't yet control.
Still… secrets are like the fine print in a loan contract. You curse when you find them — then you flip them to your advantage.
And I hate levers I don't control.
But hey… secrets are like the fine print in a loan contract. You curse when you find them, then you twist them to your advantage.
And this one? This was a gem. A whopper. The kind of clause that doesn't just tweak the last page of the deal — it rewrites the whole bloody contract, shuffles the paragraph order, redraws the signature hierarchy, and changes the notary's face for good measure.
I'd come here to negotiate a trade post, not get slapped in the face by a walking historical scandal. A dock, some warehouses, a few agreements for access up the Torrentine, a smooth redistribution route from the Red Mountains to the coast — that was the plan. Clean, calculated, profitable. The kind of setup where rivers cough up gold in exchange for stone, timber, and a handful of well-placed bribes.
Not… this.
Not a resurrected noblewoman with the poise of a tragic icon, calm as a mountain lake, walking into my neatly plotted negotiations with the expression of someone who's seen too much, knows too much, and is now quietly evaluating whether I'm equipped to handle it like a grown man — or just another boy playing architect in a sandbox full of skeletons.
And the worst part? I shouldn't have been surprised. This was Dorne. House Dayne. Nothing's ever simple. Even the morning light here looks at you sideways.
I glanced at the lord, then at Ashara, then back at my goblet — half-forgotten in my hand, like the wine might suddenly whisper advice.
I took a sip.
"Well then… seeing as I've clearly stumbled into a deleted chapter from the Continent's Grand History, let me rephrase the question more directly."
I turned to Lord Dayne — and to her. No attempt to pretend I only had one conversation partner anymore, even if only one of them had been on the itinerary.
"Is this impromptu resurrection going to make my plans easier… or just much more of a pain in the arse?"
Ashara raised a single brow — just enough to make it clear she wasn't one to take offence easily, but that she was memorising every word, every inflection… and probably the exact coordinates of where to bury me if I stepped out of line.
"That depends," she replied, voice perfectly controlled. "Did you come to lay stones… or to understand what it is you're truly building?"
And right then — I knew I was done for.
Not in the dead by dawn sense.
More in the you've just walked into a political vortex disguised as a family estate sense. This woman, this castle, this whole bloody family — they weren't a stop on my map. They were a crossroads. And if I wanted to leave with more than a dock and a customs register, I'd need to play this very tight.
I stared at her for a moment longer, saying nothing, because frankly, I needed a solid ten to twelve seconds of mental buffering. Her miraculous non-deadness, her glacial composure, those uncanny eyes scanning me like an emotional AI… and the lingering feeling that I was swimming in a pool whose depth and fauna I had yet to measure.
Then I turned — slowly — to Lord Dayne. Lips half-parted, in that way you do when you're about to ask a big question, but you're not sure you want to hear the answer.
"Alright. Just so I don't miss an episode here: you knew I'd ask questions. You knew I'd push for my damned trade post. You knew I'm the sort of bastard who pokes around in places even the crows think twice about. And instead of hiding the skeleton in the closet, you serve it up on a tray — dressed, brushed, and with the bloody bearing of a duchess."
I tilted my head, half-curious, half-ready for impact.
"So tell me — what's the actual plan here? Because I came for trade. For a dock, a deal, a road to move goods from the Torrentine to Braavos. Not to audition for some surprise wedding slot in a Dornish political trap."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was dense. The kind of heavy quiet that fills the room when the stakes shift under your feet.
And that's when Lord Dayne, standing tall as a spear and calm as a monk ordering tea, simply said:
"I want what's best for my sister. Her happiness… and her safety."
I raised a brow. Because that was a clean line. Too clean. The sort of response that sounds noble on the surface, but reeks of long-game strategy underneath.
And sure enough, he followed through — voice level, eyes steady. The tone of a man making what appears to be a rational offer, but who's just opened a political labyrinth without so much as a map.
"I want you to marry her."
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then a short laugh slipped out — not nervous, not mocking, just that dry sort of chuckle you let loose when reality socks you square in the jaw and your brain, out of sheer self-preservation, hits the sarcasm switch. Because really, it's either that or admit you may have just walked straight into a trap lined with toxic nobility, arranged marriage proposals, and emotional bribery disguised as family duty.
And for a brief, sincere moment, I wondered if I hadn't just witnessed an elaborate piece of performance art — "Dornish Diplomatic Theatre" — where the local lord drops a marriage proposal like a cup of lukewarm tea, just to see whether the guest spits it out or drinks with a smile, praying it's not been poisoned for fun.
I turned slightly toward Caspar — more reflex than strategy — hoping for a glance, a smirk, some small sign that I wasn't insane, that someone else in this utterly surreal room had also clocked just how absurd this was.
Thankfully, he didn't wait for permission.
He straightened slightly, adjusted his posture — that signature movement he used when deciding it was time to gently eviscerate social decorum — and spoke, calm and clear, in a tone cool enough to curdle cream and sharp enough to slice through any lordly posturing.
"I must admit, for a House famed for its wisdom and restraint, proposing a political marriage to a man who came to discuss trade routes and port infrastructure seems more like a veiled coercion than a genuine offer."
He let that hang in the air — just long enough to steep in the overly perfumed atmosphere — before continuing, still level, every word honed like an accountant's dagger:
"Even in Braavos, where marriages of convenience are a matter of course, we tend not to slide them mid-discussion like a surprise tariff. And especially not when one of the involved parties appears to have been kept conveniently uninformed."
The silence that followed lasted barely a breath — before another voice cut through it.
Sharper. Trembling with fury. And unmistakably personal.
"That's indecent."
I turned, just enough to catch her stepping forward with that refined sort of rage you only see in nobles who've spent far too long swallowing their objections. Her eyes could have scorched stone. Jaw locked. Her walk — taut as a bowstring about to snap.
Allyria Dayne.
The youngest of the siblings. And clearly the only one in the room who'd had enough of the polite-lie version of diplomacy.
"You want your sister's security, do you, Aron?" Her voice sliced through the room. "And you're going to get it by bartering her away to a foreign merchant you met five minutes ago? Is that your idea of brotherly love — a property transfer with footnotes?"
She took another step, fists clenched. For a heartbeat, I caught tension ripple through the guards — that shoulder-tightening twitch that said do we step in or wait to see if he silences her himself?
But she wasn't finished.
"Ashara is not some piece to be placed on a board to finalise a deal with a foreign fleet. She's already given enough — for the realm, for Elia, for that godsdamned war everyone here conveniently pretends to forget. And you dare… you dare—"
"That's enough."
He hadn't raised his voice. Not even slightly. But the words cracked through the air like a whip — not seeking debate, just quietly reminding everyone who held the keys, the titles, the walls, and the ancestral sword hung above the fireplace.
He turned to face her with the slow precision of a man who doesn't need sweeping gestures to assert himself — his gaze sharp as a hidden blade, cold but not cruel, distant without indifference. The kind of look that says the fury's locked away somewhere deep, sealed behind the serene mask of a lord who always has a contingency clause — and a witness.
"I am the lord of this House," he said at last — with that calm finality known only to people who are never contradicted without consequence. And who, even when contradicted, have already planned the rebuttal, the outcome, and the succession documents to match.
A pause followed — short, measured. Not for effect, but to let silence do the dirty work.
"And whether you like it or not, I will do what must be done to protect her."
Another beat. One too many.
"I did not ask for your opinion."
And just like that, I felt the moment tip — like the air had thickened, soaked through with bitterness and the unspoken. Words were no longer tools. They were weapons. And from here on out, everything would be calculation, obligation, and quiet warfare.
And me? I was still standing there, dumb bastard in the middle of this velvet-coated family drama, now choking on its own traditions — flanked by an ice-cold brother, a fire-eyed sister, another who'd decided to rise from the dead at the most inconvenient possible moment, and a trade plan that, originally, only needed a dock, three boats, and a half-decent notary.