to the north, among Snows and Winterfell's shade.

Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing. Let everyone know that you have a reserve in yourself; that you have more power than you are now using. If you are not too large for the place you occupy, you are too small for it.

-- James A. Garfield.

-----

Ceren Martell was lounging about her personal phaeton in a practically indecent manner that likely would've shocked and scandalized her Targaryen travel companions were they present to see it. However, the Princess of Dorne traveled North in the same Dornish phaeton in which she'd arrived, drawn by two Dornish Embrys, the fast, agile horses bred by her Uncle Koray, and so had the leisure of being alone, and was inclined then to be privately scandalous. Princess Cilarys Targaryen had visited her hours before, and the two had sped through a bottle of fine Tyrell wine, but since her departure, Ceren had gone through another bottle and several rolled cigars, and had decided that traveling was perfectly detestable if one was forced to remain sober for the duration.

Her personal guard, Hakan Sand, rode alongside the phaeton, content to ignore his Princess' whining over the lack of good journey companions, perhaps even relieved that he had excuses for staying outside the compartment. Their traveling together from Sunspear to King's Landing had, at least, been passed with dice and gambling, but in moving at the King's pace and being surrounded by the shining white Kingsguard, there were no opportunities for Ceren to lure any of the knights or squires in for a roll or a game of cards. She was perfectly unbearable when she grew restless, and so Hakan much preferred the relative sanctity of his saddle.

Presently, Princess Ceren lay on her back across one of the phaeton's cushioned benches, her bare feet straight up into the air. The various sashes and tails of fabric that constituted the Dornish gown she wore were tangled and draping around her waist, as she had been pedaling the air with her feet for the better part of an hour. The phaeton smelled of smoke and vice, and a glass of wine sat on the floor of the compartment, in arm's reach, beside a collection of dice that had been rolling helplessly from side-to-side.

"To the North, among Snows and Winterfell's shade," she sang prettily, her head lulling from one end of the pillow to the other, dark curls tumbling.

"Where even the wives demand to be paid," a second voice finished, from beyond the phaeton's curtained window.

Upon recognizing the voice, Ceren let out a joyful squeal and toppled down off the phaeton's bench, knocking over the glass of wine and scattering the dice as she stumbled and shoved the curtain aside. Aydin Martell was riding the side of the phaeton, grinning, his handsome black stallion, Sargon, trotting along beside, reins held in Hakan Sand's hand.

"Aydin!" she exclaimed delightedly, pulling the door open.

"We only just caught up with you," he told her, shoving her playfully backward so that he could climb into the compartment. He shut the door and pulled the curtain, and then turned to see the debris that cluttered the couch. His dark eyes widened and he laughed, plucking up the bottle of wine and kicking aside dice.

"You're perfectly hedonistic," he chided amusedly, dropping to a seat on one of the benches. He popped the cork from the bottle and took a swig. Ceren laughed merrily and toppled down beside him

"Well what do you do on long journeys?" she asked haughtily.

"I read," he replied seriously. "Or I think--"

"And I drink!"

At this, both Martells descended into inconsolable laughter. At length, Ceren's voice faded into drunken giggling, and she sank into a sprawl against her brother, letting her head drop into his lap.

"Have you had many adventures with the lions?" she asked absently.

"None songworthy," he said, and let his fingers sink comfortingly into the dark curls of her hair. "But nor have they tried to eat me, and I'm thankful for that."

He peered curiously down at her.

"How have you fared among the dragons?"

She looked back up at him for a long moment, and then turned away. He felt her shoulder shift beneath his hand.

"Ceren." Concern etched into the Prince's dark features. He squeezed her arm, tried to pull her face back toward his own, but she shook her head and buried her nose in his leg. "Ceren, what happened?"

"Nothing," she murmured to his knee. "Nothing's happened."

"You lie poorly," he told her and then brooked no further argument; he hefted her up into his arms, dragging her bodily into his lap, and forced her to look at him. He saw the ghosts of frustration, anger and shame flickering through her darkbright eyes, recognized every emotion boiling inside her, both because he was her brother, but also because she had never been capable of hiding her baser, wicked emotions. "What is it?"

"I wished you'd been here," she told him quietly, reaching out to twirl one of the strings of his leather vest around an index finger. "You would've stopped me being foolish, I know it. And then I wouldn't be so stupid as I am now."

"What have you done?" he pressed, alarm in his eyes, but his voice quiet and coaxing. "Whatever it is, we'll make it right."

"I haven't done anything," she assured him, fierce suddenly. "I haven't, and I won't, but Mother help me, Aydin, I think I've fallen in love -- and I hate it, it's horrible, and if you've kept a secret of it like I think you have, you'll understand me."

Aydin, for all his Princely manners and his careful stature, could only stare at his sister.

"Well don't gawk!" she cried, hiding her face in her hands.

"Ceren," he apologized, his own hands circling her wrists. "I'm sorry, I just don't -- I don't have a secret, not that kind, but -- in love? With whom?"

The princess sighed and let him pull her hands away, and their eyes met, obsidian to obsidian, almost perfect mirrors.

"Prince Aerion," she murmured helplessly, nose crinkling miserably.

"The Kinslayer?" Aydin echoed, shocked. "What in Father's name--"

"Don't!" she warned.

"Ceren, have you lost your mind!" Aydin sputtered, his hands gripping her arms now, tightly, as though he could shake sense into her if he had to. "Never mind that father would have a heart attack over any Targaryen, but that one, how many bastards has he sired anyhow? You know he lives with his mistress on Dragonstone --"

"Well I know all of that now--"

"He's a knave, Ceren, a perfect rogue, and you're a Princess of Dorne!"

"But Aydin!"

"No," he told her furiously. He shook his head and then held her so that she had to look into his face. She struggled to be free of his hands for only a moment and then wilted into them.

"I know you're brash," he told her gravely. "I know you let your feelings rule you, and that isn't a bad thing, Ceren, but you cannot continue in this way -- you have to stop. You have to govern yourself, especially here -- you have to act a bloody princess, not some simpering fishwife -- you know how!"

"All right!" she cried defeatedly, wrenching her arms from his hands and shoving him in the chest. She climbed awkwardly to her feet and then sat roughly down on the opposite bench, arms folded petulantly. She sank into a drunken, miserable sulk and went on, "All right, I know -- I know, Aydin, but you make it sound so simple to just -- just --"

"You have responsibilities," he told her.

"Yes, of course I do, but--"

"More responsibilities than you know, Ceren."

She looked up at him, her features twisting confusedly.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you take everything for granted, sister, and you shouldn't. There will come a time when you can't dodge your duties, when you can't hold your feelings and your desires higher than your own crown, and you have to be ready for that. You have to look to that time, because it is fast approaching."

Even through the glimmer of wine in front of her eyes, Ceren could see that her brother's ambiguity was purposeful, and cruel. He stood on the precipice, inches from dropping a secret into her lap, but he was resisting. Anger rose in her suddenly, the Rhoynish blood in her veins burning.

"What are you saying?" she repeated, leaning forward. "What don't I know, Aydin? What are you hiding from me?"

"You're drunk," he evaded, shaking his head.

"You're being wicked," she accused hotly. "You know something -- what do you know, Aydin?"

"I know that the heir of Dorne is sitting in this compartment, Ceren, and that she is risking the reputation and prosperity of her people over a broken heart."

"Heir of--" Ceren sputtered, flushing with fury. "What sort of drivel are you--"

"Mother and Father were afraid Westeros would think a female heir weak," Aydin went on, his voice rising above her own. "They wanted to keep you safe -- they hid you behind me."

"But you're my--"

"Cousin," he finished, firmly. She stared at him in disbelief. "I've known since I was sixteen."

"You're my brother," she argued frantically. "Aydin, you're my brother!"

"You're going to be married, Ceren, and then father will announce that you're the heir, and you will have to rule Dorne some day. You have to grow up -- you have to open your eyes -- it would have been apparent to you, for years now, if you'd just looked around yourself. Even in Dorne, that you would be schooled in strategy and war, a girl, along with all your pretty training in dress and manner -- they've been grooming you, and you took it all for granted!"

Dorne's children stared at each other when Aydin had finished, and a silence opened up between them, echoing and wide.

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