Chapter 7: Two Homes
The sun in Dorne didn’t shine; it hammered. It beat down on the pale stone of the Water Gardens, turning the air into a shimmering veil of heat. At five, Rhae had been a curious shadow. By ten, she was a bolt of contained lightning, shaped by two opposing hands.
Oberyn’s hand was the first, and it was never gentle. Their training ground was a dusty, secluded courtyard behind the Tower of the Sun, where the scent of blooming lemon trees clashed with the tang of sweat and sharpened steel.
“Again,” Oberyn commanded, not even breathing hard. He held a blunted spear loosely, a wicked smile playing on his lips. “Your feet are a song, niece. A clumsy, off-key song. Make them dance.”
Rhae, drenched, her dark hair plastered to her neck, adjusted her grip on her own practice spear. Her arms ached. Her lungs burned. She hated that smile. She loved that smile. She launched herself forward, not with a straightforward lunge, but with a twisting, sideways move he’d shown her—a move meant to bypass a shield. He parried it effortlessly, the wooden shafts clacking, and hooked her ankle with the butt of his spear. She went down hard in the dust, the breath knocked out of her.
“Good,” he said, offering a hand. “The intention was right. You are thinking. But you are also predictable. Your enemy watches your eyes. They watch the tension in your shoulders. They know you are Dornish, and they will expect the flashy move. Sometimes, the Northern way is better. Straight through the heart. Efficient.”
He pulled her up. “Uncle Doran wishes to see you. Wash the dirt off. He dislikes dirt.”
Prince Doran Martell held court from a rolling chair amongst the whispering fountains and shaded colonnades of the Gardens. His pain was a quiet, constant presence, like the murmur of the water. His eyes, however, missed nothing.
“Come, sit, Elia,” he said, using the name that was her armor. A servant placed a tray of iced melon and sweet, pale wine between them. “Tell me of your lesson.”
“He knocked me down seven times,” Rhae said, picking up a slice of melon. The juice was blissfully cool.
“And what did you learn the eighth time?”
“That I should get up an eighth time.”
A faint smile touched Doran’s lips. “A worthy lesson. But not the only one. In the Reach, Lord Tyrell’s youngest son has taken a sudden interest in hawking. He has purchased three prized falcons from a Lyseni trader. A costly hobby for a third son.”
Rhae chewed, listening. This was Doran’s training. The spear was Oberyn’s language; the quiet flow of information was Doran’s.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means his father wishes to make him a presence. An expensive, noticeable presence. Perhaps for a match with the daughter of a wealthy, but lesser, house. It is a move of perceived ambition, but small ambition. It shouts to hide its smallness. Remember, the loudest moves in the game are often the weakest. The most dangerous player is the one you forget is playing.”
He sipped his wine. “Your friend in the North. Robb Stark. What news from him?”
Rhae’s face, guarded during the talk of hawks, lit up. She had received a letter just that morning, carried by a dusty rider on the moonsblood route. “He says the first snow fell. It melted by noon, but he caught some on his glove. He drew a star in it for me. He’s learning the greatsword now. Ser Rodrik says he’s strong but impatient.”
“Impatience is a luxury of the young,” Doran mused. “And of those who have never lost. The North remembers, it is said. But it also hopes. A boy who draws stars in snow hopes. Remember that too.”
Her time in Dorne was a rhythm of heat and sharp lessons. She ran wild with her cousins—Obara, all fierce intensity, who tackled her into the shallow pools; Nymeria, who taught her how to apply poison to a pin without pricking herself; Tyene, who could smile like a summer flower while discussing which venom caused the most pain. They were sisters in everything but blood, a cacophonous, loving, combative tribe. They knew she was different, that her “father” was a story, but in Dorne, such stories were common. Her violet eyes were a marvel, not a threat—a touch of exotic beauty. They protected her as one of their own.
Then came the summers, the long journey north.
Each year, the journey felt shorter, because each year, the pull at its end was stronger. The landscape shed its colors, green to grey, and the air grew teeth. And each year, Robb was different. Taller, shoulders broadening, his face losing its boyish softness, the solemnity in his blue eyes deepening. But the smile that broke through it when he saw her—that remained, a constant star in the Northern sky.
At seven, she found him waiting in the courtyard, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’d carved her a wooden wolf, clumsy but recognizable.
At eight, he’d taught her to properly hold a bow, his hands gently correcting her grip, his breath a cloud by her ear. “Steady,” he’d murmur, and her heart would pound for reasons that had nothing to do with archery.
At nine, they’d ridden out to a secluded glassy tarn in the Wolfswood. The silence was immense, broken only by the horse’s snorts and the wind in the pines. They’d sat on a rock, sharing a wedge of hard cheese. He’d told her, haltingly, about the pressure of being heir, about his father’s quiet disappointment in Theon Greyjoy’s arrogance, about his mother’s wish for him to be more cautious.
“She says a lord must think of his people, not just his glory,” he said, throwing a pebble into the water.
“What do you think?” Rhae asked, her legs swinging.
“I think… a lord who doesn’t seek glory for his people is no lord at all. But maybe that’s the impatience talking.” He looked at her, his gaze earnest. “You’re lucky. You have no weight like that.”
She looked into the dark water, seeing her distorted reflection, the purple eyes that marked a weight he could never imagine. “Everyone has a weight, Robb,” she said, a phrase she’d heard Doran use. “Some are just better at hiding it.”
That winter, when she was ten, the dynamic shifted. It was in the small things.
They were in the library of Winterfell, a room heavy with the smell of old parchment and beeswax. Rhae was searching for a book on ancient sigils Doran had mentioned. Robb was supposedly reviewing household accounts. She reached for a heavy tome on a high shelf, straining.
“Here,” he said, suddenly beside her. He effortlessly pulled the book down. His chest brushed against her shoulder. They both froze. He was so close she could see the faint scatter of freckles across his nose, the darker ring of blue around his irises. The air between them crackled, charged with a new, awkward awareness. He smelled of leather and the cold outdoors.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.
He cleared his throat, stepping back. “Any time.”
Later, they walked along the inner battlements, the wind whipping their cloaks. A sudden gust caught her, and she stumbled. His hand shot out, catching her elbow. His grip was firm, sure. He didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed the inside of her arm, just above her glove. A simple, accidental touch. It felt like a brand.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s not that cold.”
They looked at each other, and the unspoken thing hung between them, vast and terrifying and thrilling. He was the first to look away, releasing her arm as if it were white-hot iron.
The climax of that summer came on the last night before her departure. A feast, modest by southern standards but roaring by Northern ones. Theon Greyjoy, older and sharper-tongued, had been drinking. His eyes followed Rhae with a lazy, possessive interest that made her skin crawl.
“Your Dornish flower is blooming, Stark,” Theon said loudly, sloshing his ale. “Soon you’ll have to put a glass bell over her to keep the frost off.”
Robb’s knuckles were white on his tankard. “Watch your words, Theon.”
“Or what? You’ll practice your lordly glare on me? She’s a pretty thing. Exotic. I wager she’s been taught warmer tricks in Dorne than how to knit by the fire.”
Rhae stood up. The hall fell quieter. She fixed Theon with a look she’d learned from Oberyn—a gaze that promised a slow, creative violence. “I have been taught many things, Greyjoy. Which would you like a demonstration of? I am proficient with a spear, a dagger, and three different poisons that cause a man’s bowels to dissolve before he dies. My uncle is generous with his knowledge.”
The silence was absolute. Theon’s smirk died. Robb stood, placing himself subtly between Rhae and Theon. “She is our guest,” he said, his voice low and deadly calm. “You will apologize. Now.”
Theon, outmatched and suddenly sobered by the cold fury in Robb’s eyes, muttered an apology. The feast stumbled on, but the mood was broken.
Afterward, Robb found her on the bridge to the old keep, staring down at the dark water of the stream below. The torches guttered, painting their faces in shifting orange and black.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he said, his voice tight.
“He’s a fool. I can handle fools.”
“I know you can.” He leaned on the parapet beside her, their shoulders not touching. “It’s just… I wanted to handle him for you.”
“Why?” she asked, looking at him directly, challenging the new, fragile thing.
He struggled for words. “Because… you’re here. Under my roof. My father’s roof. It’s my duty to—”
“Don’t talk to me about duty,” she cut him off, a spark of her Dornish temper flaring. “Was it duty when you took the blame for the broken tower? Was it duty when you taught me to skip stones?”
“No.” The word was torn from him. He turned to face her fully. “That wasn’t duty.”
“What was it?”
His control, the careful Stark restraint, frayed. “Gods, Rhae, you know what it was!” The name, her real name, hung between them, a secret shared in the dark. He looked stricken the moment he said it, as if he’d drawn a weapon.
She didn’t flinch. She stepped closer. The space between them was a charged void. “Say it.”
He was breathing hard, his breath pluming in the cold air. He was a boy becoming a man, a lord learning his strength, and in that moment, he was utterly helpless before her. He raised a hand, slowly, and cupped the side of her face. His palm was rough with sword calluses, warm against her cold cheek.
“It was you,” he whispered, his voice raw. “It’s always been you. Since you climbed on that roof and laughed. Since you weren’t afraid of the crypts. Since you tried to muck the stables with me.”
Tears, hot and sudden, pricked her eyes. She leaned into his touch, a soft sound escaping her lips. He took it as permission, his other hand coming up to frame her face. He leaned in, hesitant, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn’t. She closed the distance.
Their first kiss was not the gentle meeting of children. It was clumsy, urgent, a desperate press of lips fueled by years of hidden longing. His mouth was soft but insistent. Hers opened under his, and the taste of him—ale, mint, and the unique, clean scent that was Robb—flooded her senses. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. Her hands fisted in the rough wool of his tunic, holding on as if the world were tilting.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in ragged clouds. “Rhae,” he breathed, her name a prayer.
She kissed him again, harder this time, learning the shape of him, the way his bottom lip felt between her teeth. A low groan vibrated in his chest, and his arms slid around her, crushing her against him. She could feel the hard planes of his body, the pounding of his heart against hers. One of his hands slid down her back, over the curve of her hip, possessive and shaking.
This was no longer childhood. This was a line crossed, a borderland entered. This was heat in the heart of winter, a sun she carried within her finally meeting its counterpart in him. It was terrifying. It was inevitable.
They broke apart, gasping. They didn’t speak. Words were useless now. He kept his arms around her, and she buried her face in his chest, listening to the wild drumbeat of his heart. They stood there for a long time, holding onto each other as the torches burned down, the future rushing toward them like a river in spring flood.
Far to the south, in the red keep of King’s Landing, a different kind of awareness was dawning.
In a room that smelled of dried roses and dust, Varys the Spider listened to a report from his little bird, a pale-haired girl from Lys. The girl whispered of Dorne, of the Martell brothers and their spirited niece who spent every summer in the North. Of the quiet trade agreements, the mutual respect, the letters that flowed between Sunspear and Winterfell with unusual frequency for two kingdoms with little common interest.
Varys steepled his fingers, his expression bland. “A curious thread, spun across the length of the realm. Sun and snow. Fire and ice. A thread so fine the drunkard king would never see it, nor the scheming stag. But a thread can be pulled. Or cut.”
He sighed, a whisper of sound. “Watch the girl. And watch the Young Wolf. Childhood friendships have a way of growing thorns… or roots deep enough to crack stone.”