Here in the depths of Maegor’s Holdfast, servants walked with hushed purpose about their tasks beneath the eye of the mightiest lords of the Seven Kingdoms. One such, paired with two of the king’s retainers and no less figure than Ser Aleyn Florent of the Kingsguard, escorts Valeria Blackmont to answer a royal summons. Brooking no delay, the men bring her to a chamber among many chambers, with an unlit fireplace and a pair of heavy chairs decorating it.
In one of those chairs: Daeron, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm . . . and Conqueror of Dorne. The crown of Aegon the Conqueror is on his brow, as he sits in a chair, a heavy goblet in hand.
Valeria has come, for not even the most defiant of hostages dares ignore a royal summons. She is dressed for the visit as well, in a pretty gown of coppery sandsilk, her hair neatly plaited and even prettily dressed. But her face shows her enthusiasm—or lack thereof.
It is not the face of a woman happy to be summoned. It is not even a face with any respect for the man who sits before her. It is a face stony as the mountains from which her lord father mounts his rebellion, hard and unreadable as she makes him a passable curtsy.
Ser Aleyn raps at the door three times, waits a moment, and then opens the door into the chamber. He ushers the Dornish hostage through. The servant follows behind her, and then Ser Aleyn; the guardsmen, on the other hand, stay outside. The king, young and beautiful to look on, takes a last swallow of wine and then sets his cup aside. There is a pitcher, and another goblet, on the ornate table between his chair and the empty one across from him.
Daeron does not rise. “Welcome, Lady Valeria,” the king says, amiably enough. He gestures towards the other seat, “Sit, and have some refreshment, summerwine from Lemonwood.” The slightest motion of head and eyes, and the servant hurries to take up the pitcher and fill the empty goblet for the lady.
Gracelessly Valeria sits, giving in to enough curiosity to cast her gaze around the room. She even takes the cup that is handed to her, holding the goblet in both hands, but not drinking. Finally she clears her throat and says, “Thank you.” At a subtle sound from the servant, she adds: “Your Grace.”
The king takes up his goblet once more, and takes another swallow as Valeria assumes her seat. He watches, and is silent for a moment before he says, “By your reputation, you are a lady who prefers directness instead of lengthy niceities. So I will be direct.” Another pause, perhaps as those purple eyes gauge her reaction, and then he says, “The Lord of Storm’s End desires to have his heir wed. The kingdom desires peace in Dorne. And you, I imagine, wish to find a way out from these high red walls.”
Valeria nods her assent to the King’s assumption, but warily says nothing. “Not by marriage to Tancred Baratheon,” she says when he has finished speaking. “My father would never consent to it. The bloody Stormbreaker would kill me before the month was even out.” If there is shock from the others that she would speak so bluntly, she ignores it. “I wish to wed a Dornishman if… if it please your Grace.” This last courtesy sounds as alien in her voice as it must feel on her tongue.
The twist of his lips suggests it most certainly does not. The king acts as if he did not even hear. “Your father is an outlaw and a rebel, my lady. He has forfeited any right to have a say in the disposition of your hand,” Daeron says. “As to the Warden of the Kingswood, he may be huge and implacable, my lady, but he is my servant, and he is dutiful to his brother. You jump at shadows.”
“My father is a hero and a loyal servant of Sunspear,” refutes Valeria, equally calm and just as sure of her assertion. Then she smiles a strange smile, and touches a scar the scar that lies faintly at the top of her lip and makes a white line into her cheek—not disfiguring, but visible just the same. “He does ill whenever your back is turned, your grace. But even if he were dead, I would not wed Tancred Baratheon. Storm’s End is not Blackmont, nor anywhere else in Dorne.”
“Blackmont will not be Blackmont, Lady Valeria,” King Daeron replies, “if it is true that you and your brothers are as disloyal as you imply. It’ll be a pile of rubble, if you are not wise.” He takes a swallow of wine, and then goes on, more mildly, “‘Loyal servant to Sunspear’ is an amusing thing to hear, when Prince Marence has lent Ser Mavros men to hunt down your father in the Boneway. Yet, for all Lord Andrey’s faults, I’ll grant he has courage. I have perhaps been too lenient, because of my regard for bravery, even when it is turned against me. But I’ll be lenient this last time ... if you play your part. You _will_ wed ... but if you shall wed as merely Lord Blackmont’s younger daughter, or as heiress to Blackmont, is up to you.”
It lets that hang in the air a moment, and then adds with a small smile on his lips, “Lord Corwen, I fear, hopes for the latter. If you wish to disappoint him, however, you need do only one thing.”
Pallor beneath golden skin is not a pretty thing, and Valeria goes decidedly sallow as the King lays out his plans. Finally she looks at the goblet still in her hands and drinks it all down at once before she hazards to speak again.
“My brothers,” she says slowly, biting her lip in hesitation, “are supportive of this marriage to Storm’s End.” The words come slowly, as if tortured from her. Troubled are her eyes on the empty bowl of the cup, and she clenches her fingers ‘round it to keep them from shaking.
Finally she speaks again. “What must I do to prevent Blackmont passing from Arrant’s hands?” she asks.
“Are they? They’re clever men,” the king says, casually. “All you must do is write a letter. I shall ask your brothers to do the same. A letter informing your father of what I have told you, and letting him know that I offer him a last chance to accept my pardon.” The king pauses then, and Daeron shifts in his seat a little, taking another swallow of wine before continuing. “If he does so, he shall be treated honorably, and his crimes ... well. I’ll not forgive them, but I may forget them, if he remains true and turns his courage to more loyal purposes. If he accepts the pardon, Ser Arrant shall remain heir. If not ... he can look forward to knowing that, if the gods are good, a scion of House Baratheon will rule Blackmont in years to come.”
Valeria looks up, shock making her start up from her seat with fire in her eyes. But a wary glance at the white-clad Kingsguard checks her motion and she remains seated, fire in her dark eyes. “You hold Blackmont hostage to this marriage,” she says, her words measured. “If my father should bend the knee—and he will not—Blackmont stays with us. And if he does not? I am trapped in a marriage not of his choosing!”
It is with great and visible effort that Lord Blackmont’s wildling daughter swallows her anger. “If I write this letter, and he accepts, you will not disinherit my brother. If I do not write it, or they do not, Blackmont will come to me and -rot- for want of care. And if I refuse to wed…” The goblet clatters to the floor as she puts her hands to her face, and it is a long moment before she speaks again. “And no matter what I choose, I remain a hostage.”
“I would not say it will rot. I am sure Ser Tancred would be pleased to rule there; a chance to practice the skills of a lord, for the day that gods call his father to them,” the king says, and he shrugs, negligently. He doesn’t really care very much, neither about Tancred’s particular desires nor, plainly, Valeria’s. “In any case, that is what lies before you. I have given Ser Mavros the command to try and arrange a parley, under a truce banner. If your message arrives in time, he shall present it to your father, and give him the choice.” He drains his glass then, and sets it aside.
“If you wish your father to live out his days in peace, to see his children freed in time,” the king says, with a sense of finality, “I suggest you write a very plaintive letter, as a dutiful daughter ought. And do so quickly.”
Again a silence, Valeria’s every muscle taut and her shoulders shaking suspiciously. “I will write it,” she says finally, in a strangled voice. “I would have my father here to see me wed, if he capitulates. I will not say the words if he is not here.” She lifts her head proudly. “I hope that I may set that one condition. May I go now?”
“Hmm…” the king murmurs, considering that. It is not usual for a king to have conditions set before him… or at least, not this king. Yet Daeron waves a hand at that, “So be it. If he capitulates. I will have Ser Alyn send a swift ship to Starfall, to see it done.” And with that, the interview comes to a close. The young king stays seated, and briefly dips his head. “You may retire, my lady,” he says, with courtly grace.
Valeria rises, and even bends to retrieve the goblet. She makes the king a curtsy and moves stiffly toward the door. There, however, she pauses and looks at the man. “The gods curse you should you ever return to Dorne. We will not long stomach this harsh coercion to your will. Good day, your Grace.”
The king doesn’t even dignify that with any articulate response. He smirks, and nods a head to Ser Aleyn. The Kingsguard opens the door, and escorts the lady away with the other guards.