Chapter Text
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POV Vincenzo
Starfall – 287 AC
The funny thing about well-placed silences, precisely delivered humiliations, and truths flung into people's faces with the finesse of a war symphony, is that once you've thrown the stone, the shock does all the work. Discomfort becomes your envoy. Eyes meet, jaws clench, breaths hitch—and all you have to do is sit back, sip your wine, and enjoy the moment as the world buckles around you.
And in this particular case? A proper masterpiece.
The crater, the marriage, the symbolism, the past ripped off like a rancid bandage—it was all laid bare. I'd just shoved a mirror in their faces, and not one of them liked what they saw.
And Aron Dayne? Still frozen. Eyes lost somewhere far away, like a worn-out lord watching his authority melt into wine and muffled laughter. He was breathing hard. Not like an angry man. Like a man realising he's cornered.
Because that's the heart of it, isn't it?
They needed me.
Took me a bit to put it together, but once Caspar reported the usual rumours and Ashara shared what she knew, it all fell into place. She took this whole "gods-ordained marriage" business very seriously…
At first, it was about protecting Ashara. She was Elia Martell's best friend—call it an adoptive aunt, if you like, to the late Aegon and Rhaenys. In other words, she represented the last shred of Targaryen legacy in Westeros. Utter nonsense if you asked me, but that's how they saw it.
Then there was the other reason: House Dayne was broke. And I don't just mean financially—socially too. Everyone knew they'd backed the Targaryens. On top of that, Arthur Dayne had been one of Lyanna Stark's gaolers. Their reputation was six feet under, and just for kicks, they'd had to shell out a small fortune to the Starks to reclaim Dawn.
That bit never made it into the songs or the plays, but Eddard Stark had bled the Dayne coffers dry when he brought Arthur's body back. His sister's death, the fall of his bannermen at the Tower of Joy, the war—it had all eroded his noble restraint.
And of course, after the Martells started publicly licking their wounds and swearing vengeance, the whole realm grew suspicious of Dorne. Exports plummeted. And the Daynes? Entirely dependent on trade.
They made salt, dates, and dornish wine—a strong, heady stuff that had fallen out of fashion in favour of Reach varietals.
So there they were: flat broke, with a target on their back, and embroiled in a cold war with their own liege lords.
Because, yes, here's the cherry on the cake: they were at odds with the Martells, who never forgave Ashara for returning to Starfall. They thought she should've stayed in King's Landing and died with Elia. Personally, I thought fleeing the Mad King's court was the only sane choice. Otherwise, she'd have ended up flambéed… or skewered by Clegane. And I don't just mean the sword.
I snapped out of my thoughts and stepped toward Aron Dayne, locking eyes with him.
"Come now, Lord Dayne. It's only a rock. Offer it. Do it for your sister. For your house. Show them you believe in this union. In this future."
I smiled.
"Or say no. And prove to everyone here that this marriage was always a farce."
He didn't move. Rigid, tense, palms braced against the tablecloth like he was holding himself upright through sheer will, his gaze lost in a void all his own—a private mental chamber no doubt filled with the dead faces of his forebears, dust-covered vows, half-faded symbols he still bore but never dared question—and I watched him. No pity. No malice either. Just that quiet lucidity of the man who's already won, who knows he's won, and who savours—not the fall, but the moment the other man realises there's no way out.
Then it happened.
No shout. No outburst. Not even the decency of a formal declaration.
Just a few words. Low. Strained. Heavy with a weight he could no longer carry alone.
"You'll have… the meteorite. All that remains. All of it."
And in that hall, it wasn't an explosion.
It was worse.
It was that near-religious silence, that freezing of the air, the held breath and wide eyes, where thoughts scream but lips stay sealed—because no one, not a single soul, had imagined he'd go that far. No one thought, even for a second, that the Lord of Starfall, the man with starlight in his veins, the one whose title curled around a stone from the heavens… would give up the very relic of his legend.
To me.
But it wasn't over.
Not yet.
I let a few seconds pass—a tribute of silence to his crumbling honour—and then, without standing, without raising my voice, without even changing expression, I let slip a final sentence. Soft as velvet, taut as a bowstring:
"A fine gesture, Lord Dayne. But while we're in the spirit… there's something else."
He looked at me. And in his eyes I saw it—that rare cocktail of fury, exhaustion, and clarity. The look of a man who understands he no longer has the luxury of saying no.
So I went on.
"I want outposts. Along the Torrentine. Permanent ones—docks, warehouses. I bring the flow. You give me the shore. Tax exemptions. Market rights. Local materials. Labour. Protection. You open your river, and I'll turn it into a trade route—not a backdrop for moon-sick poets."
I'd just laid out the terms of the deal with the calm precision of a merchant who, having bought the rare pearl at the cost of silence, decides—just because he can—to dictate the cabinet that will house it, the lighting, the entrance, and even the bloody welcome sign. All without raising his voice, without so much as lifting a brow—just with that quiet assurance that comes from power, legitimacy, and the sheer pleasure of flipping a losing hand without ever drawing a blade.
And yet—despite all that, despite a defeat nearly sealed—Aron Dayne still had the gall, or the stupidity, or maybe just the lingering pride of those not quite broken yet, to frown. To part his lips like a man who suddenly remembers he still has a voice, even if every word costs him dearly.
"It's not… that simple," he breathed, throat tight with the strain of holding it in—a blend of wounded pride and lucid fear. The fear of saying no to a man already gripping the reins, who, out of sheer courtesy, pretends he's asking for permission. "There are old rights," he went on, "traditions, lineages that've held those banks for centuries, families who… who—"
But he never finished.
Because she cut in.
Ashara.
With a voice sharp and clean, as if strung from silk drawn tight just before it slits the throat of a doubt.
She didn't shout. She didn't rise in fury. She didn't cast dramatic glances across the room. She simply spoke—and it was a thousand times more violent. A thousand times more political.
"Precisely," she said, with that unteachable calm—the kind that comes from elsewhere, from the far side of something, maybe the edge of the grave, or the lips of the Stranger himself. "Precisely. The Torrentine is, today, a river without function, without voice, without future. A noble current, perhaps—but one that carries little more than the memory of vanished grandeur. It's a mirror for the nostalgic. Dead water for dreams frozen in place."
She paused—briefly—and then went on. But in her words, there was surgical precision. Not born of blood, or status, or education, but from observation—from a hunger to understand, to engage, to finally play the game.
"Reviving it means more than restoring trade. It gives this house a chance to breathe again. To pulse. To matter. What you're calling a sacrifice, brother, is a rebirth."
And the silence that followed was more brutal than any outcry.
Not the polished hush that trails after a royal toast or a solemn prayer. No—this was the dense, suffocating kind. The kind that seeps into the cracks of a man's pride and scratches at the back of the skull like a migraine triggered by a truth too raw to ignore.
The kind of silence that screamed: holy shit, she just did it.
She'd opened her mouth in public.
Against him.
And it meant something.
And around me, in the stares locking across the table, in the faces frantically trying to piece back together a chessboard they hadn't even noticed was flipped, I read the panic of a world outpaced. That gaping inability to process what had just happened—because they weren't ready. Weren't built for this kind of turn.
A noblewoman—meant to be dead—who'd just risen from the ashes to deliver a bloody lesson in geo-economics.
And me? I sat there in that over-decorated chair, back straight, but my mind leaning forward—privileged spectator to a reversal I hadn't orchestrated, yet was savouring like I'd cooked it myself. Like when you invite a client to convince him to sign a deal… and he ends up begging you to add more clauses just to be part of it.
Only this wasn't a client.
This was a fallen princess, rewiring herself in real-time—into a strategist.
She stood.
Not with some grand flourish of silk or a dramatic sweep like a Valyrian opera heroine—no. With a measured grace. The natural poise of a woman who no longer needed permission to exist. A way of rising that said everything without a single exaggeration—like she'd simply slipped back into the mantle of what she'd always been, but had been coaxed to forget with polite silences and background roles.
And when she walked—circled the table, crossed the invisible fault lines of Dornish hierarchy—I watched the world retract around her. As if the air itself pulled back slightly to make room. Not out of reverence. Not out of belief. But out of that instinctive fear we all have when someone dares to take one step further than they're supposed to. That step you thought was forbidden, dangerous—and they take it anyway.
Aron didn't flinch.
He was watching her, yes—but with the hollow stare of a man who no longer understands the script. The stare of old generals facing drones. Blank. Spent. Unsure whether to react or simply accept that the game had slipped beyond him—like a toy king realising they'd declared a republic behind his back while he was finishing dessert.
And me?
I didn't say a word.
Because there was nothing to say.
She had just done what I'd only ever dreamed of seeing in someone besides myself: grasped the game without having it explained, understood the mechanics, the stakes, the leverage—and above all, dared to seize it. No permission asked. No apologies made. No hesitation shown.
She'd listened. Digested. Adapted. Formulated.
She'd taken my demand, turned it, sharpened it, reframed it into a constructive proposal—a strategic inevitability—and delivered it in a language this room could actually hear.
She had taken my cynicism and refined it into wisdom.
And that—that—was the proof.
Proof I hadn't just agreed to a convenient marriage.
I'd struck a deal with a fucking partner.
And gods, I loved it.
He stayed silent for a few more seconds—long, heavy, dragging seconds during which he wasn't looking at Ashara, nor at me, nor even at the room. No—he was staring at the tablecloth, the rim of his plate, maybe some fixed point inside his own mind, a mental bolt-hole where he could still pretend he was in charge of the sequence of things. That this This moment, this posture, this outcome—he had chosen it.
But the truth sat there, searing and unmissable, echoing in his sister's voice and in my quiet presence: he had lost.
And he knew it.
So, slowly—almost reluctantly—he nodded. Not a grand gesture, not a clear, resolute "yes," but one of those small, dry nods that reeks of resignation wrapped in dignity, like a clean napkin pressed against an open wound.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice steady though his gaze slipped sideways. "The counters will be opened. You'll get what you came for."
That's when I smiled. Not a smug, toothy grin—no. A small one. Measured. Satisfied. The kind of smile you give a business partner who's just signed a contract without reading the fine print, and doesn't yet realise the real clause was his silence.
"Perfect," I replied, calm, casual—as if I had just closed on a plot of forgettable farmland rather than planted a Dornish banner in the beating heart of the Starfall estate.
"Caspar will send over the contract tomorrow morning. Terms, logistics, safeguard clauses—everything we need to avoid… misunderstandings. Or nasty wake-ups."
And I finished with a discreet wink. Just for style.
But of course, he had to cling to something, patch together the scraps of his shredded dignity. So he straightened, squared his shoulders, and spoke with a thin layer of regained control, as though the deal being done allowed him to pretend the reins were still in his hands.
"We must now… begin preparations for the wedding."
Inside, I cracked. Not out loud—not a snort or a giggle. It was a silent eruption of pure sarcasm, a kind of internal combustion, like the acidic belch you swallow after too much nonsense. Imagine it: a man talking about wedding logistics when I've just bought his house, his sister, his sigil, and probably his future—and he still thinks he gets to pick the caterer.
Seriously? The coming days? Really?
This man had just been flattened with a handshake, and now he wanted to save face by inviting me to a quickie wedding, brunch format, under the pergola—sandwiched between moon-offerings and three stolen silver candlesticks.
And me? I stayed perfectly calm. Because that's real luxury. To humiliate without shouting. To re-educate without raising your voice. To smile while they sink.
So I looked him straight in the eye, polite as ever—my banker-of-Lys expression, the one I reserve for robed idiots who believe etiquette can hide desperation—and said:
"Of course, Lord Dayne. We must prepare the wedding."
And boom. He jumped on it straight away, full steam ahead—"yes yes, let's do this, a moon, a song, and off we go," like we were wrapping up a mule sale at the market. Like I had nothing better to do than cram this into my schedule before the drapes come down.
Meanwhile, in my head? Full inferno.
Are you daft? You think we're planning a child's birthday party here? You think I'm showing up with my men, a bottle, and a grilled leg of lamb, and we're calling it a day between dessert and the septon's blessing?
Mate, I've got fleets. Fleets. I've got banks. I've got lords, allies, informants, vultures, titled bastards, deranged nobles with more money than sense, all of whom will want their golden seat and their slice of the spectacle.
And you? What are you offering—some canvas and a saffron cake? Have you lost your godsdamned mind?
But on the outside? Still that perfect stillness.
I leaned back slightly, as if weighing something important, thoughtful, calm. I took that soft, polished tone—like a man about to announce the demolition of your home, but gently, over a cup of green tea.
"You see, Lord Dayne, this marriage isn't some formality to slot between market days and fair weather. It's an alliance. A merger. A historical pact. Something people will watch, dissect, fantasise about, monetise—and trust me, there's a crowd to invite. On my side too. And not just a few dusty cousins from the back yard. I mean real people. Houses. Investors. Families that make the world turn. Not a band of local minstrels with a tambourine and an out-of-tune harp."
Then I settled back, resting my hands on the armrests. Composed. Relaxed. But ready to drop the next line like a glittering bomb.
"This wedding isn't just joining names. It's a banner. A billboard. A product launch. It needs to dazzle. It needs to burn. It needs to be so grand that King's Landing throws a tantrum for not being told. And for that, my dear lord... Three days and two purple curtains won't cut it."
And I let the silence settle.
Just enough.
Not one of those contrived silences people use to ramp up the drama—no. This was a real one. Clinical. Surgical. The kind that lets a man hear his own helplessness echo in the hollow cage of his pride. The kind that hammers in the nail of domination without ever needing to raise your voice.
And right on cue, he walked right into it. Tried the condemned man's last gesture—bargaining for the length of the rope. As if he could still salvage the frame, the image, the façade.
He sat up slightly, adjusted his shoulders like someone trying to mend cracked armour, and said, with a tone that aimed for firmness but mostly oozed resignation dressed up as formality:
"Then… so be it. But I want a contract. Something clear. That the marriage be celebrated… before the year's end."
And inside? I bit my tongue not to burst out laughing—not a loud laugh, not contemptuous—but that cold snicker you get when someone thinks they're setting terms, when you've already taken the board, the pieces, and the damned table too.
Because what he didn't know is: I was going to sign that contract. Gladly. Hell, I was going to write it myself—tailored, ironclad, sealed, and ready to wield. As proof of commitment. As legal leverage. As a political tool.
See, to me, a contract isn't a leash. It's a weapon.
A framework I know far better than any noble bloated with ancestral rites and outdated customs.
So I nodded—with that slow, measured calm people mistake for empathy. That "of course, I understand—you're a careful man" energy. Meanwhile, in my head, Caspar was already drafting clauses, locking in phrasing, sliding hidden blades between lines of gilded language—like tucking explosives into a floral arrangement.
"Entirely reasonable, Lord Dayne," I said, perfectly poised, as if it were a brilliant idea, a strategic masterstroke on his part—a written contract, with a deadline, a formal commitment. "That will certainly reassure all parties. Caspar will send you a first draft tomorrow. And for additional peace of mind," I added, the words light but loaded, "we could even have it sealed by the Iron Bank. Just to ensure the promise is… how shall we put it… non-negotiable."
And the look he gave me? Worth its weight in gold.
A mix of bitter triumph and poorly digested defeat. Like he'd just realised that every line he drew, I turned into a ladder. A receipt. Capital.
But I was still riding high—still basking in the glow of victory—so I pushed it. Just to see how far I could go before he snapped or melted into his chair. I turned to Ashara—still seated, calm, regal, radiant, like the chaos around her was just set dressing for her political rebirth—and then looked back at her brother.
And with the smooth, detached tone of a man proposing logistics, not detonating a family bomb, I said:
"Since everything's sealed, and the agreements in motion, I was considering taking her with me. That she accompany me on the journey. That we begin, together, what we are to build. There's no sense in leaving her here, waiting alone while the months pass. Wouldn't you agree?"
I dropped it like it was nothing. Not a demand. Not a threat. Just the obvious continuation of a monumental alliance. "I'm leaving with my future wife"—in a normal world, who blinks at that? And yet. Of course. There's always some relic desperate to play morality police.
Tonight, that role was played by Aron Dayne, who fired off his "no" as sharp and dry as if he'd just swallowed a mouthful of sand and convinced himself it was powdered honour.
I looked at him with the kind of exhausted patience you reserve for people trying to use a hammer to make a phone call, and sighed:
"No? Really? And why's that? I'm willing to humour your local quirks, but you'll need more than a dusty 'no' to back it up."
And predictably, he hit me with the ancient incantation. The holy trifecta of backward minds: "tradition, custom, purity."
Oh Aron. Please. You're not original. You're reciting.
And just when you thought the stupidity quota had been met, Allyria—ever the lurking fury—chose that moment to fire off her poisoned crossbow. That cold, repressed-sister tone, honed from years of bitter sidelining, aimed straight at her sister's spine:
"My sister hasn't been pure in a long time."
I swear I nearly applauded.
Some people hand you opportunities on silver platters.
She'd just gifted me the perfect counter to her brother's feeble argument—while publicly sabotaging herself in the process, hoping to tank the marriage and slip into its place. Pathetic. But efficient.
I inhaled—one of those long, deep breaths you take before dropping a rhetorical slap—and answered, calm, composed, as if offering a wine review:
"Perfect. Then at least she has experience."
And without blinking, I slowly turned toward Allyria.
Held her gaze just long enough to ladle in every ounce of ironic disdain I could summon. Then, same composed tone, I added—unrolling the words like truths finally released:
"Unlike others, it seems."
And there it was—that flicker.
That micro-second of panic in her eyes. The shame. The real kind. The kind that slinks up your spine when you realise you gambled and lost—staked your reputation on a weak jab and got shredded in public.
She sat back down. Stiff. Red. Shattered.
And not because I forced her. She detonated all on her own.
But I wasn't done. No point stopping when the walls are already crumbling. I pressed on, swinging the sledgehammer through the last bricks of this local farce:
"And really, let's drop the whole purity theatre. Last I checked, Dornish folk weren't exactly poster children for chastity and quiet convents. You dance, you drink, you fuck, you bend traditions like you bend lovers. And now, because it's your sister, you're selling me this sacred-virgin-of-the-falling-stars act? Come on. Otherwise, I'll have to assume you're taking the piss."
And that's when the room broke. Not all at once—but in waves.
Snickers at first, muffled. Then open laughter.
Smirks. Glances traded like currency.
One crusty old goat nearly choked on his wine. A couple of court ladies ducked behind their fans to hide their giggles as the Daynes' moral sandcastle collapsed under the tide.
But Aron? Nothing. Cold as stone. Stiff. Frozen in whatever shred of dignity he had left.
He stared at me, unblinking, with that look men wear when they've lost the war but are hell-bent on winning the last skirmish—just so they can say they didn't surrender everything. And with a tone as rigid as his bloody customs, he repeated:
"She's not leaving. Not until you're wed. Not until she's your wife. Non-negotiable."
And I didn't blow up. Didn't even sigh. Just raised an eyebrow, slowly—because for fuck's sake, we were talking logistics, not a kidnapping. But apparently, to this guy, letting his sister leave was tantamount to tossing her in a Braavosi brothel cage, when all we were proposing was a trip, a plan, something we were building together. That's when it hit me—logic wasn't welcome here. Just ego. Family pride. And a raw, throbbing fear of losing everything at once.
So I folded.
But not without terms. Because I never back down without getting a grip on something else.
"Very well," I breathed at last, all conciliatory, the picture of reason, like I was being understanding—when in truth, my mind was already off carving the detour.
I turned to Julia—still standing straight-backed and poised, ready to spring like a hatchet behind the armrest—and I continued, slowly:
"She won't leave alone, fine. But there's nothing stopping us from doing what all the noble families do—she can be escorted. Chaperoned. Supervised. Accompanied. Call it whatever the hell you want. Julia can do it. Or someone you choose. Not to cage her. Just to soothe your nerves. Because if all this theatre's for the sake of appearances, then let's give the façade its goddamn scaffolding."
And that's when I saw it: the hesitation. The crack. A flicker of doubt.
And I knew—I knew—I was still playing him, while letting him think his belt was on tight.
Silence settled.
And as the air thickened like barley stew left to boil over, ready to spill the moment someone blinked, it was once again Joryn Dayne—quiet, composed, the no-frills diplomat—who spoke. But not like the others. He spoke without raising his voice, the way you'd toss a perfectly weighted stone to hush a barking dog.
"If I may," he began, voice calm, hands planted on the table like he meant to root his words into the grain, into the earth, into truth, "I propose to accompany your sister. To look after her. To ensure her safety… and yours."
No uproar. No explosion. Just a ripple—a shift in the air, like that collective shiver you feel when an old general stands up among petty captains. Because everyone knows this man doesn't need a title to command. He only needs to speak.
I turned slightly towards him, not hiding the interest—because truth be told, from the start, he was the only one in this room I had an ounce of respect for. He spoke little, but when he did, it counted. He got it. He knew how to play. And he knew exactly when to rise.
But of course, that idiot Garrick had to open his mouth again—like a mosquito that keeps buzzing in your ear no matter how many times you slap it.
"You've no authority to do that!" he hissed, springing to his feet, red as a lobster left too long on the flame, voice trembling with unspent pride, eyes wide with the dawning horror that once again, the story was moving on without him.
But this time, Joryn didn't just interrupt..
He stood. Slowly. Dignified. Perfectly straight—not to shout, not to threaten, but to remind.
"No, Garrick. I am not the Lord of Starfall", he admitted softly, almost gently, with that cool detachment that cuts sharper than any blade. "And I chose that. Freely. I chose knighthood over command. The sword over the ledger. The field of honour over the olive groves. I renounced the title… not out of weakness. Out of conviction."
He turned to his brother, unhurriedly, and in his gaze now was that chilling clarity—the kind of look that doesn't need volume to freeze your blood. The look of a man who's seen war, returned whole, and knows that crowns and thrones must be earned, defended, respected.
"But don't mistake humility for absence. I'm not dead, Garrick. I'm still here. And if you keep dragging our name through the dirt with your asinine outbursts and salon-room indignation, I will take the reins again. I don't want to. But I can."
And just like that—absolute silence.
Garrick paled, like he'd been slapped with a branding iron. Then he sat. No theatrics. No puffed-up pride. Not even a whisper of protest. Just… crushed. Done. Scraped clean.
And me? Gods, I was enjoying the show.
What was this family? A full-blown Greek tragedy in Doric tunics. We've got philosopher-knights, idiot brothers, vengeful sisters, and centuries-old customs tighter than a Braavosi purse string—and me, caught in the middle with a wine glass in hand and a vision of post-feudal corporate empires.
I leaned back slightly, savouring the moment like opening night at the theatre in Braavos, and said—tone flat, but eyes glinting with delight:
"Well. That seems settled."
And Caspar, seated to my right, likely carved a note into some dusty corner of his brain:
In the finest political alliances, there's always one quiet brother worth more than all the rest combined.
And me? I'd just won the bride, the deal, the docks… and a bloody knight chaperone to pretty up the brochure.