Arianne

The Capital had become especially boring of late.

Oppressively so, in absence of the King and the Royal Family, the court and its functions had ground to a halt. Without a Hand, or a King to serve, the Small Council had drawn into itself. Rarely met, and even rarer still was within the eyes and sight of the rest of the Court. They went about their own business of office or person, and without them the rest of the business of Court had become a tedious and frivolous series of farce.

Arianne had barely been able to stomach one day of the Court as it stood before she was done with it. The true worms of the place, the likes of Lord Gyles Rosby and the Stokeworths, continued to skulk and convene in the Throne Room regularly, desperate to suck on the table scraps of power – only for Lord Renly Baratheon to emerge and tell them "No business today, my lords." To which they would grumble and disperse to their caves to brew and do whatever meagre things they had to fill the void left by the rest of the Court.

She meanwhile, and those who were not worms in hoc to the seat of power, did what they did. The regular politicking, discussions, dinners, pageantry and hunts, yet without any royalty to act as a centre for such events, Arianne found them to be far lesser than they would be regularly. Much of her days were spent with Lord Beric Dondarrion, who was acting instead of Rickard. She could perfectly see why: Dondarrion was loyal, able, mistrusting of her, and those he felt had worst intentions for the Prince to whom he had become servant to. Yet their talks had none of the fire or the playfulness that were the joy of her and Rickard's. Beric was always serious, and teasing him had no pleasure to it, only a stony look of indifference. As such, even these engagements had grown boring – and with nothing else to do, the boredom had grown intolerable.

She rose late, and went to bed early.

Not that she has nothing else to do. As for the moment she is breaking bread with some of the less boring of court, yet they, like her, seem to be at a loss without the Royal family. The talk is stale, enough to match the bread that Ser Robar Royce had laid out for his guests.

"In the Vale, we are all fine hunters," their host announced suddenly, "not just the men, but the women too. Its why King Robert remains so fond of the place." He adds a laugh that few return. Of course they all know his meaning, that when Jon Arryn was meant to be tutoring the future King he was gallantly sheathing his cock in every moving thing. Royce motions to Lord Renly, who has been convinced to make an appearance, "I'm sure your brother taught you the same tricks and virtues, my lord."

This time, Lord Renly politely smiles and returned the laugh, and said, "My brother taught me everything." Which prompts more laughing from the table.

Except from her, who seeing the tightness in Lord Baratheon's mouth, now blushes to recall years before the way she had thrown herself at Renly, and how he grew flummoxed and turned her away, his eye on her Uncle Prince Oberyn instead. That, she mused, was one lesson that King Robert had not passed on to his brother.

Then she felt a squeeze on her hand, and looked to see that Robar Royce was holding it, "Ah, my lords, we have made My Lady uncomfortable." To more laugher, while he gazed at her with his most excited expression.

She repressed her urge to sigh, and merely smiled at the gesture to placate the man, before she withdrew her hand before Royce could get better purchase of her into his clutches. "Not at all, my Lord," she advised him, sounding as disinterested in the subject as she was, "In Dorne, the ladies have a better stomach for this kind of talk than the men." He gives a bawdy laugh, slaps his knee, but does not try to touch her again.

Royce has always been at her skirt tails, ever since she arrived in King's Landing. At first she tolerated it, but now its grown tiresome, he would not take her dissuading him from further advances and would appreciate if he stopped. Its this thought that causes something evil and devious to rise in the back of her mind – what if she mentioned it to Rickard.

Ah, Rickard!

The thing that had become the bane of her existence, Rickard Baratheon – his presence and the lack of it.

Since leaving the capital, he had come to infuriate and enrage her, every thought of him that slithered into her mind she resented. That she, a Princess of Dorne, should be so suddenly needy of any man, let alone this jumped up Baratheon Princeling. Yet, she had told him she loved him. Returning to herself, Arianne shook her head, and banished the thoughts of the Prince and Love.

The conversation has rolled on and left her behind, plunging back into it is like she jumping from a cliff into the sea. "He has a quirk for the number, does our Lord Littlefinger. Nothing comes through the Ports without him knowing, no nugget of gold, no scrap of cloth," Lord Renly said.

A soft, effeminate voice rises out of nowhere, "Westeros would be a poor country without its ports, My Lord." Lord Varys, the Spider, tells them from his place almost in the corner. Arianne can almost imagine his face atop the body of some hairy, eight-legged monster, spinning webs above the table for their entertainment. "His Grace should be glad to have a Master of Coin familiar with them."

Smiling, she said aloud, "Why should he, Lord Varys? When you already know everything?"

A chorus of laughter follows, Lord Renly looking appreciative for her intervention, and Ser Robar banging the table far too enthusiastically. Varys merely simpers, "Alas, Princess, as Master of Whispers, even I cannot know everything…"

See that you don't, she thinks, taking a sip of her wine. That is a man she despises, the creature that slithered out of the wreckage of House Targaryen unscathed, across the bodies of her aunt Elia, her cousins Rhaenys and Aegon to be embraced by the new regime. The conversation then canters off in its own direction, leaving her behind for the final time.

It's a show of her standing at court exactly how small and far away from the action that her rooms are, not that she has cause for complaint at the moment, as the walk there and back kills time for her. And there is no guarantee of interception by those she doesn't wish to meet, except tonight it seems. When she enters her corridor, who should be there to greet her but the wide and bald figure of Varys. She is surprised, truly, but its disgust that she fortified her voice with, "Ah, My Lord, the last person I wished to have visiting me in the hour of the wolf."

Yet the Spider does not seem impressed by her remarks, "I'm sure, Princess, that even I would be a more welcome sight tonight than Ser Robar?"

"Perhaps," she conceded, and thought for a moment before reflecting, "though I'd rather go to bed with rotting eels than either of you. Apologies to disappoint." And she offered him a patient smile before going to move passed him, except he made a move to cut her off that stopped her in his tracks.

Seeing the disgust and the outrage on her face, he held his small, powdered hands up to demonstrate the fact that he means her no harm. "Forgive me, Princess. You misread my intentions.

"No," she said, cutting him further off, "I merely feel too disgusted by you to take anything you have to offer seriously. Now get to the point of this farce before I vomit."

The eunuch sighed, and she repressed the urge to smile that she had clearly irritated him so much.

"My Lady, I am tyring to be a friend to you…"

"Really?" Now that annoyed her, that this thing, this lying creature that oozed out of the walls of King's Landing decades ago and has had every thing and one running scared of him. He dared to come at her like this, on some pretence with a dagger hidden behind a smile. "I don't recall asking for your friendship. And it's a fabulous assumption that you believe I want it. So now I'll say it once more: get to the point."

He glanced at his feet then back at her, still uncomfortable, but she knew that with the resigned look on his face he might well speak honestly with her, though Arianne nevertheless remained reticent that it meant any briefness to this conversation was rapidly going out the window.

"Prince Rickard." He said simply, and she must have reacted without realizing, for the eunuch then went on, "Forgive me, was I speaking too plainly now?" He smiled as she scowled back at him before he continued, "I do not wish to insinuate anything, but it might be better if you both conducted a more 'distanced' relationship."

She stared at him. The fat, domed headed eunuch, neither woman nor man; the paleness of his skin and smallness of his soft hands; the powdered face and smell of lavender hanging off him. What had become of her, what crisis and crimes had stricken the House of Martell, that she, its eldest daughter, was forced to suffer the admonishing's of this thing, like she were a little girl and he her father.

"The Prince and I are friends. Not that it is anyone's business."

Now he sighed, as though he was annoyed. "My lady, I know that you are not that naïve. The Prince is a Prince; you are a Princess. And we are not living in a fairy-tale. King's Landing is not a crystal city on the hill, where star-crossed lovers from blood feuding families live our their days in love and contentment. Here: errant lordlings are ground to dust under the weight of their hypocrisy; Maidens of fourteen are wed and bedded against their wishes so that their new husband will give up on their father's debt. This is a place where ambition is the fuel that keeps the fire burning. It is not a place to play games, Princess."

"Except I am not playing a game, Lord Varys." She told him. "I am living my life. Just as Rickard is living his. If people take issue with that it is our problem. Now if whoever sent you here like this has issue with that, go tell them to come and face me in person."

"I come here on behalf of no one, Princess. I meant what I said, I come here in friendship, because if you and Rickard Baratheon keep going the way you are then the people who you think I am here on behalf of will move into action: the consequences will all fall on Rickard, and when he reacts you will be caught in the crossfire. And after that Seven Hells will break loose because of it."

She could feel her knuckles turning white, clenched into a fist as her hands shook. It wouldn't have been too much effort to run across and slap him hard, she would like that, to watch his lip tremble as he turned his powdered cheek away from her. Something in the back of her head rises up, and she imagines one of her cousins, what they would do in the situation. Any of the Sand Snakes would just run across and simply knife the eunuch. Rickard would probably like to see that.

Rickard.

Rickard.

And Rickard again.

It always comes back to Rickard.

And because of that she cannot do any of the above. The reason she and Rickard are where they are is because he wants someone to do what he can't. Someone who is more cloak than dagger. So she simply thanks Varys for his kind words of advice, bids him goodnight and closes her door against the evening. Because then it comes to her: she is not a Sand Snake or Rickard, and that is why she has the advantage. Rickard and herself are not merely star-crossed lovers as people obviously thinks they are, more than that they are allies, with their own ambitions that balance one another out: he wants to be the replacement that his grandfather has trained him up to be, to do that he needs some he trusts to manage spies and tell him what other people won't to his face, and maybe further down the line a respectable wife that won't produce the same misery of a marriage his Mother and Father had; while she wants some power and a chance to reclaim the birth right her own father has plotted to take away from her, and maybe in the not too distant future a husband that respects her will not hold being a woman against her, as well as being young, dark and dangerous between the sheets as much as on the battlefield.

So she will wait, and consider, and cultivate information that will give her and her ally the knowledge he needs to land a knockout blow that will send them all reeling into the dust.