The Rising Sun

Ninth Day of the Tenth Moon, 370 AC

A moon since she’d last seen the beauty of Sunspear. A moon longing for the hot embrace of home, the familiar smell of oleander, cyprus, oak, pine and myrtle. Elia had watched the horizon since the early blue morning of dawn and as the sun rose in the direction she came, even looking at the silhouette of her home was too much to bear. On her eyes, on her heart. She was finally home safe, and yet it didn’t feel that way.

She vaguely registered the smell of frangipanis on the wind when Valysar clattered through the uneven streets of the shadow city; flowers, freshwater groves, baked saltbread, and freshly caught fish. With her mother’s impressive dowry followed some small wealth from Braavos. Lady Naeris brought more than heirs to the throne of Dorne, but a boost to the economy.

With her had followed bankers, builders, glassblowers, merchants, and sailors, and for the first time since before the Young Dragon, Sunspear flourished. Certainly not as well off as Casterly Rock, nor as beautiful as Highgarden, though that remained a matter of opinion. She had always loved the harshness of her home, the desert flower city that grew and hardened even in the worst of times.

With Elia’s ascension Plankytown expanded. An influx of builders and artisans brought trade and knowledge for the people of Dorne and the port of the Greenblood saw more trade from Essos and the Free Cities than ever before. The princess herself had never known the hovels her father had recalled from his childhood; in their place were sandstone and mud brick terraces, built high to avoid the wintertime floods, beautiful and laced in climbing vines. Pathways were lined with green, and yellow and orange tile adorned the sea of rooftops, and olive trees and fruit trees lined the way to the keep.

She crossed the seven bridges to the walls of the Old Palace as the sun began to shine a little brighter. She was still young when their repair had begun, only sometime after her father passed.

Her crowning achievement.

Elia Martell’s legacy stretched even further than she knew years before. It had become something of a hobby of hers, creating within her mind, overseeing the construction personally at times. Even the Threefold Gate had been made new. Each barrier was inlaid with tiles in different shades of the sunset, pale yellow on the outer, orange in the middle, and gleaming red on the very inner layer, the shields of every Dornish house displayed proudly in defense.

The throne room of the Old Palace was nearly empty. Lords and ladies gathered there frequently while on business, a comfortable hall that offered peace and plush seats while servants brought sweet teas and wine. Court had been put on hold in her absence, and though she hadn’t missed their squabbling, their complaints and grievances, she did take notice of their presence. The boys were already waiting for her, clinging to the skirts of their septa and rubbing at eyes still heavy with sleep.

Morgan Martell was to be the ruling Prince of Dorne one day, but until then he was her son, her own blood and her spitting image. The boy had large eyes, dark, and serious, a broad smile, and skin so lovely and brown and smooth. His septa had told her not long before she’d left that he was more than adept with his numbers already, though his letters had come at a more difficult pace. Garin was fair of skin like his father, delighting more in stories of knightly valour and heroes of the Rhoyne, and begged for lessons with his uncle Tryston in sparring.

“Maman!” Their voices were sticky with exhaustion as the pair ran the short distance between them. Little arms hugged at her legs and little faces nestled against her hip. Bending at the knees, she tugged Garin away from his embrace as she came to level with him. So much like his father. She held out her arms and, awkwardly but gently, he fell into them. His face pressed to the side of her neck, and his small fists clutched carefully at her back and long braid. He smelled of good things, like lemon sweet bathwater and the warmth of the desert.

“Darlings.” Her voice was a coo, quiet and kind, while her fingers stroked through those thick dark curls atop their heads.

Why couldn’t it always be like this?