"Aerion!" the boy shouted. "He's hurting her. The puppet girl. Hurry." (The Hedge Knight)


He loved her fear, Tanselle could see, relishing and savoring it as if nothing else in the world could possibly give him as much pleasure as this.

If I show him enough fear, perhaps he will stop.

If I show him any fear at all, perhaps he will go even further.

There was no right answer. There was never going to be any right answer, with a man like this. He would say that it was her fault, whatever she did, no matter how she reacted to him hurting her. You caused this. It's your fault. You're the one to blame, not me. You provoked me, goaded me, egged me on. You made me do it. You forced me to hurt you. It's because you defied me. It's because you pleaded with me. It's because you were too afraid. It's because you were not afraid enough. It's because you spoke in a whisper. It's because you raised your voice. It's because you could not defend yourself. It's because you dared to defend yourself. It's because you fought back. It's because you did not fight back. It's because you were too weak and pathetic. It's because you were too stubborn and unyielding.

Every answer was most likely the wrong answer, with a man like this. But she still had to try. She could not do nothing.

"It is not meant to be treasonous, Your Grace," she tried explaining. "We do not put on the show to incite a rebellion against the king. The puppet dragon is a black dragon, to represent the Blackfyre pretender who rebelled against your royal grandsire. The puppet knight who slays the puppet dragon is meant to represent King Daeron's most loyal and puissant knight."

He did not care. He did not care at all about the explanation she was trying to give. That smile was still on his lips, while his hands continued twisting her arm, continued hurting her. His men were looking furious, shouting, "Treason! Dornish treason!" in an effort to drown out her words, but the prince himself merely looked amused. Cruelly and maliciously amused, almost exhilaratingly amused. He was enjoying this, enjoying the fact that he was the one inciting the crowd, inciting them against Tanselle and her family.

"The penalty for treason is death," he said, still smiling.

Oh, how she yearned to wipe that smile off his face.

If I lay a hand on him, it will be my hand on the chopping block, or my head on a spike.

Not just hers, but her aunt's and uncle's too, most likely. Her own life she had a right to put at risk, but their lives … no, she could not do it.

"How could it be treason, Your Grace, to depict the slaying of the king's enemy?" Tanselle said, very reasonably and quietly.

He was furious now. No more smiles. No more amused glances at the riled-up crowd, the crowd he had riled-up himself. "Burn the puppets. Burn everything!" he ordered.

"Please, Your Grace. If we have done you wrong, we will make amends. We beg for your mercy. Your royal mercy."

His hold on her arm tightened, twisting it even harder. The pain was unbearable. She could no longer speak.

I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream, she repeated in her head, like a mantra.

When he broke her finger, her scream was equal parts physical pain and a different kind of pain, a pain caused by her unquenched fury, a pain that festered and lingered much longer than the pain caused by her broken bone.

You had no right! No right to do this to me. Even a prince of the blood has no right to treat anyone in this manner.