In her dreams, Arianne never noticed the candle at all. Never walked closer to her father's desk to blow it out. Never saw the unfinished letter lying next to it. Never succumbed to her unbridled curiosity, never read the words that would etch themselves permanently into her memory, never cried the tears that would be her constant companion for many, many nights to come. She would make her way to her mother's room instead, found her father there, and gave him the goodnight kiss she had come to his solar for. Her father would smile, and she would not doubt his smile. He would kiss her cheek, and she would not turn away from his touch. He would call her name, and she would not grow to resent the sound of his voice. Even her mother would look pleased, and not so unhappy for once.
In the land where dreams did not rule supreme, however, Arianne did notice the candle. How, she did not know. She had been thinking of Daemon Sand; her thoughts were always about Daemon lately. So preoccupied was Arianne, she had forgotten to knock before entering her father's solar. But the room was empty, her father was not there. She was about to turn around and leave the room when her eyes noticed the flickering and swaying flame. Rolls and rolls of parchments and a few pieces of paper were lying on the desk, so very close to the flame.
It was unlike her father to be so careless. He must have gone out of the room in a hurry, Arianne thought. Another bad news? She prayed that was not the case; her father had had enough bad news to last a lifetime. Bowing her head to blow out the candle, some of the words scrawled on a piece of paper caught her attention.
One day you will sit where I sit
It was her father's handwriting.
-and rule all Dorne
Her first thought had been – why would Father write me a letter? He could speak to me any time he wishes.
-and a ruler must be strong of mind and body.
The letter trailed off there, without her father's signature. An unfinished letter to the heiress of Sunspear, and the future ruling Princess of Dorne? Arianne's eyes strayed to the top of the page.
To my son Quentyn
No, it could not be. Her eyes must be deceiving her. She read the salutation again.
To my son Quentyn, it still said. Not To my daughter Arianne.
I am the oldest. This is Dorne, the inheritance laws of the Seven Kingdoms do not apply here.
And yet saying that to herself over and over again did not make the words alter on the letter. Not in the slightest. She reread the most wounding sentence over and over again.
One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne.
Do you doubt me, Father? Why? Because I am not a man? Yet your lady mother ruled as Princess of Dorne for many years, and you have nothing but great admiration for her.
One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne.
What did I do? How have I displeased you? Please, Father. She pleaded to the empty room, to the air her father had breathed just a short while ago, to the flame that seemed to burn too brightly in a room that had gone cold and desolate for Arianne.
The tears came first, that night, and countless nights after. Her pillow was soaked, and so were her sheets and blanket. She grew weary of her own tears after a while.
One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne.
My birthright! You cannot simply steal it from me to give to Quentyn.
Anger was better than tears, she soon discovered. Much, much better. Anger fuelled her determination, fortified her conviction, dried her tears, and toughened her heart.
I will be the ruling Princess of Dorne, as I am meant to be. You will not rob me of my birthright, Father.
She would never run to her father again when she skinned her knees. Or when she had her heart broken, or her faith tested, or her love and loyalty divided.