Arianne I
The heat was a homeward hug for her skin. A comfort that lingered on. Never once did it leave her, never once did it abandon her, never once did it betray her.
The Princess, Arianne Martell strode with dignity and with grace, across the lustrous marble floors of her father. The Palace of Sunspear remained as grand as it sounded, true to its name. Elegant tapestries lined up upon its walls, fortune adorning every corner of the castle, here and there, glimmering and sparkling. The servants and guards alike nodded and bowed when she went past them, as only befitting for that of a Princess of Dorne. I am their Princess, they all shall love me.
Hers was the steps of the daughter of Nymeria. Hers was the steps of the future of Dorne. Hers was of the blood of the Sun and the Dragon. Hers was the beacon. Let all Dorne know that I am not my father. Let them have what they want, wish what they wish, desire what they desire. Hers was of the future where lions laid toothless, laid dead, and trampled upon their broken rocks, their carcasses and corpses rotting away under the blazing glory of the sun. Let them rage. Rage, rage, like the sun. And the stags in the forest shall join them, their antlers broken and crushed. Or at least, she believed... that she believed so.
In her walk, her hip swayed from side-to-side, from one to another, left and right, to left and right, in a manner ever so slowly. The silken reimagining of the traditional Dornish garb hugged her eloquent figure, fully showcasing her maturity. Nine-and-ten, a Princess of Dorne, and a woman grown.
In spite of the guards and knights flanking her by her sides, the Princess was alone. This time, there was no handsome, no dashing knight of gallantry and chivalry. No rogue for the Princess. No cousins, sweet and beautiful, or sharp and rough. No comfort of a childhood friend was upon her. Yet the Princess remained. Pride. . . was what remained with her. For after all these years, as her dreams were stripped bare, and her world shattered and turned to ashes. To remain defiant and proud, it was all that she had left, after all that happened... She strode just all the same, with confidence. In belief of herself. For her belief was what she relied upon, her belief was the one that stayed true.
Her smitten, sweet, Daemon Sand, was sent alongside that of her uncle, the Prince Oberyn. For reasons she knew not, and for whereabouts she knew not. Drey, her Andrey. . . was confined to Lemonwood, by his brother who was the Knight of Lemonwood, Ser Deziel Dalt. Her Syva was yet the same, spotted Sylva in the Spottswood. Garin. . . Garin was at the Greenblood, when he was due to visit his cousins and kin, or so it was told to her. And her cousins. . . scattered to the four winds, sent away for various reasons, which she couldn't even imagine.
Is it to torment me? Is it to punish me? What is it that I ever do, oh my princely father?
Obara, the eldest of the Sand Snakes, was sent to Gods-know-where, but not Oldtown. . . that's for sure. Second, after her, was Nymeria. The Lady Nym was nearly half a world away. The vastness of the Narrow Sea and Summer Sea flowed between them. Inside the Black Walls of Old Volantis, she resided with that of her maternal family. And then her sweet, sweet Tyene. Sisters, the both of them are. Tyene was left, back in the Water Gardens, for her father had forbidden her from bringing her along and had commanded her to be alone. If he is going to disinherit me, then so be it, and I will look him in the face when he does it, unflinching. I will not bow. I will not bend, and nor shall I break.
Off in her own little world doing her own little things, was Sarella. And oh does she envy her. . . how she longs for the same freedom. Arianne rarely paid any mind for her free-spirited cousin, yet she now thought of her the same as the others. I will rejoice even if it was Sarella here. Even Ellaria was away. Away at her father's castle, Hellholt, with her Uller family and where the rest of the younger Sand Snakes were, little Elia and Obella, and the babies… Dorea, and Loreza.
As the thoughts came and went through her mind, Arianne drifted away to the one memory of that particular night. Arianne remembered the night. And oh how her heart was so full of love back then. A child's faith, such sweet innocence she had. Not yet shattered, not yet trampled, not yet broken.
The night when she went to her father, a kiss of goodnight in her mind, only for her world to break apart.
"One day you will sit where I sit and rule all Dorne."
She had cried for days after that, cried her heart out. Cried herself silly like the silly little girl that she was. Silly little girl with silly dreams, a fool in the game of her father. And to this day, the words still burn brightly inside her, and her tongue tasted naught but the bitterness of the ashes left behind.
What did I ever do?
Arianne still can't find the answer to that question. He loved her, she knew that. There was a time when she loved her father more than anything else in the world, more than herself, and she knew that he had loved her once. What is it? What is it of me that shames him?
My own father would see me grace the bed of Walder Frey. And the news of his death brought consolation for her. She had smiled upon receiving the news. That gave her some small comfort in her present pass; she could not be forced to marry him if he was dead. And with the subsequent ruin of House Frey, she was also safe from any of his sons. Beesbury, Grandison, Rosby, Estermont, Arianne hoped that they would perish soon, for she was a year away from being twenty, and sooner or later, she might be forced to take. . . direct actions for her future. I will not be sidelined, being wasted away like some rotten food. If my father would deny me Dorne, then so be it, but I would have him tell it to my face.
Arianne was a Princess of Dorne. And so, she pushed her troubling thoughts out of her mind, and set her aim on the upcoming meeting with her father. I must be strong. Arianne didn't fear Prince Doran. Yet her resolve. . . her strength, they wavered yet all the same when she thought of a confrontation with her father. If only mother was here, then perhaps. . .
When Arianne came upon the stairways leading to the Tower of the Sun, she had regained her confidence, and a sultry smile was plastered over her face. I must not be unsure. She took the first step with a hint of hesitance. Her pacing had halted at that, only just the slightest, yet halted all the same. How long has it been? The days had turned into weeks. Weeks, to months. . . even perhaps years, already.
Almost a year ago. More than ten turns of the moon had she not stepped foot into the Tower of the Sun. Prince Doran had chosen for her to spend her time in the Water Gardens. Pleasant, beautiful, charming Water Gardens. My exile. I am a Princess, exiled in her own homeland, exiled in her own kingdom. He hasn't seen me, not once. Ever since that, quiet and silence filled the distance between the father and daughter. Prince Doran remained in the dark, doing what little he did, shutting himself from the world outside Dorne, outside of his solar.
Arianne took sure steps as she climbed into the grand Tower of the Sun, belonging to that of the Lord of Sunspear, to the Prince of Dorne, where her father waited for her. My strength must not waver.
As the stairs died out, her steps coming to an end, once again did Arianne halt in her progress. She raised her hands, olive skin, and bracelet of gold. And albeit slowly, she did knock all the same. Three rapid knocks she gave to the door. Rap-tap-tap. The sound was a reminiscence, the one she always did, that she always gave when she was but a child, the same that would grace her father's door, and had rung every night she visited him before she went to sleep. She knew not why she did what she did. Mayhaps, it was the little princess inside her. The little part of her still clinging to the comfort of the past, to that of the days of foolery.
The door swung open.
Areo Hotah, ever so vigilant and watchful, bowed upon her entrance.
"Little princess," he said, and a hint of affection could be traced in his short words. His gruff voice gracing her presence, still carrying that thickness that the Norvoshi held, still deeply rooted, in spite of the fact that Areo had belonged to Dorne for years and years already, yet the once trained by bearded priest still took on his origin quite strongly. It was always good to hear that gruff, deep voice and thick Norvoshi accent, and see his seamed, scarred face. The face of her protector and old friend.
She nodded back at Areo.
When she observed the room, she was surprised to see that it was nearly stark empty. There was no Ricasso, nor was Maester Caleotte there. It was nearly the middle of the day, and the sun was rising to its peak, yet the room was shrouded in shadow, for the rays of sunshine were blocked by the various banners and tapestries. The candles were not lit either, and no fire illuminated over the vast yet empty room. The only sole inhabitant of the room was the figure sat upon the Sun Throne, half-draped in shadows.
Before she could speak, however, a voice cut clear into the silence of the room, "Leave us, captain". The voice sounded weary, not at all commanding of what a Prince of Dorne should be. And once again, the captain of the guard nodded and bowed, and then he stumped the butt of his long axe on the floor, a heavy thumping sound with it. He turned on his heel and then strode out of the room, taking his leave. His footsteps echoed heavily in his trail, even after he had left the room.
Once again did she observe the room, and once again did she notice the emptiness of it. There were no guards on sight, for it was devoid of life save for the both of them. Has my father lost his wits? Has he forgotten the enemies of Dorne? Indeed, the room that was supposed to be the peak of the blazing glory of House Martell looked almost. . . desolate. She didn't know what she felt, she didn't know whether it was anger, sorrow, or pain that had coursed first through her heart.
It was then that she noticed the lone table sitting upon the middle of the room, two chairs, a set, each on each side of the table. Laid atop the table, was a board of checkered pattern. It was black and white, and black and white. She counted six-and-ten figurines of carved wood, intricately shaped and designed. Six-and-ten on each side of the board. Six-and-ten in white, and six-and-ten in black. It was the game of chess. A quaint invention, born out of the fancy of those in the Reach, or so it was said, at least. The board game had arrived on Dorne no more than three turns of the moon in the past, yet it was climbing its way fast upon the ladder of the Dornish court, and was quickly becoming the center of attention for every nobleman and woman in Dorne.
The silence remained upon Arianne and her father. Prince Doran had climbed his way down from his throne silently, and was walking toward her. Arianne took the seat that was facing the throne, and sat upon the chair.
"I didn't give you permission to sit."
"Father," she regarded him curtly, eyes defiant and looking up. She didn't regard him with any more attention, after that. Instead, she idly took a hold of one of the figurines, the White Queen. She brought it closer to her face, inspecting it closely. She twirled the piece around, wrapping it against her fingers, all the while the tension between them remained, yet silent all the same. She knew that the queen. . . was the most powerful piece in Chess. Strange, that, for the sole woman in the game to be the most powerful, towering and triumphing over that of the King's piece.
"Strange, those Reachmen. . . "
Her father's voice startled her. And it was only then that she finally fully noticed him. The Prince wore orange, the shade of blood. Standing upon his feet, his father's height towered over her, who was seated. Her father's hand was in front of her, taking with him another piece of the figurine. For him, it was the King's piece. He doesn't look so old, she thought. Indeed, even if Prince Doran didn't hold a candle to that of his brother, the Prince Oberyn despite their age difference of only ten years, he had looked better than the last time Arianne had seen him. She remembered, Maester Caleotte had begun treating his swells, yet they were now gone from her sight. Distant they might be, Arianne still felt relief upon the revelation. A little triumph for Dorne, perhaps my father wouldn't be so lax any longer.
Arianne finally looked at her father, his eyes weren't meeting her, for they were drawn to the King in his hand. "Why am I here, father?" she asked. She made sure her tone remained. . . polite, and that she didn't wish to draw out the matter any longer. Swift and quick.
His father played her game, and was now disregarding her, instead. "Dorne. . . and the Reach," he said, while his gaze was far-away. "Tell me, Arianne, what do the two of them share?"
Arianne considered the question. What is he playing at? Does he take me for a fool? I am your daughter! Yet she thought of the answer all the same. The Reach and Dorne had shared a common history. A history painted in red, for years, thousands of years. The Marcher lords would attest to that. And so, she raised her head to meet with that of his father's, who had now taken a seat in front of her. She said, "War. . .," she added, "and blood. . ."
There was no change in Prince Doran's expression.
"Do you remember, seven years ago? Your uncle rode in a tourney, at Highgarden. You were begging me to come with him, as did your cousins. . . his daughters. I warned Oberyn not to do it. I told him that it was dangerous. Did he listen to me? No. And now the venom has made its short work, and there's no pulling it back out, I'm afraid."
Still trying to figure out his father's intention, Arianne nodded along. Of course, she remembered. It was the talk of all Dorne, how Mace Tyrell sent his son into a tourney at the age of two-and-ten. How he wanted another Leo Longthorn, only for her uncle to happen upon his son. The boy turned crippled, and the long enmity between Dorne and the Reach stirred once more, tens of years of peace nearly broken. Willas the Wilted, they call him. Yet it was salvaged, and now Prince Oberyn wrote regularly to Willas Tyrell. A viper in the rose, Prince Oberyn had warned her.
"It could've been worse, perhaps. The boy could still walk, after all. The Heir of Highgarden is a strange one. For my own agents told me that it was he that had created this game. Queer, no?"
That came as a surprise for her, for she didn't know that the crippled Heir of the Reach was the one, the mind behind the tricky little game. "I suppose it means that he is smart then. Won't you agree, father?"
The Heir of Highgarden was not someone new to come to Arianne's mind. Indeed, she had considered him a strong potential suitor for herself, for her uncle had spoken highly of the boy. She even tried to go despite him, with Tyene's help . . . but Prince Oberyn caught them at Vaith and brought them back. Lady of Highgarden. . . would I have been happy? Would I wont to surrender?
Prince Doran had put the King piece back to the board and now rested both of his hands on top of the table. He glanced at the board, a quick flickering glance, before looking back up, this time at her. "How well do you know the game, Arianne?"
"I know enough to play," she said. To which a hint of a smile passed over his father's lip. I never saw him smile, she realized. I never saw him laugh.
"Enough to play. But is it enough to win? When you play a game, Arianne, you play it if you know you could win, not because you could play. And sometimes... sometimes it's best when you study a game first before you play it," he said. Silence dawned on them both. That was until the sound of a wood hitting wood echoed in the room. When she looked at the board, she noticed that one of the white pawns had been moved, two tiles from its original place.
"Play with me."
A game. Is this what he thinks this is? A game. Fury raged through her. But she knew better than to burst into anger in front of her father, and so she kept it inside. "A game, father. You haven't seen your daughter in a year and it is a game that you desire. . ."
Then, Prince Doran spoke, in the heavily accented drawl of the Dornish accent, "And what it is that you desire, then, daughter?"
He is baiting me. He calls me his daughter yet he abandons me. A daughter. . . exiled from her own father. A princess. . . exiled in her own kingdom, from her own kingdom. My rights! I have done you no wrong! She wanted to shout.
When she remained silent, it was her father that had spoken for once again. "I know... you have many questions for me, I know. You do not believe in me, and perhaps it is my fault. Oberyn is the only one who truly knows me. Play with me, Arianne, and when you have learned, I shall answer all your questions."
She gritted her teeth, but she relented nonetheless. She took a hold of one of her knights, and then put it forward.
"Where are my cousins? My friends. . . where are you sending them?" she asked, her tone fiery and fierce.
"Obara is with her father. Oberyn, of whom, moves to do my bidding, and your… friend, Daemon Sand is with him, too, for he is his squire. As you know, Nymeria is in Volantis, with her mother. We have a daughter of a Volantene noble here in Dorne, so I thought, why not try to build bridges with them? Tyene is, as you know, remained in Water Gardens as I had commanded you. You are wont to gossip and Tyene would only make it worse. Sarella is busy with her own little game, pushing where she shouldn't be. I let her so, I left her alone. Because they would do no harm. Ellaria is simply wanting to spend time with her father, her children with her, especially with Oberyn currently gone. Your friend, Garin is with his kin in the Greenblood, as I am sure you are already told. There is nothing strange nor wrong for an Orphan of the Greenblood to visit his own home, no?" he said in a long drawl, his words drawn out and stretched long.
By the time Prince Doran had finished answering her question, Arianne had already paved the way clear for her Queen to move around.
"That's your clever reason, father?" she asked bitingly. "I am wont to gossip... You sidelined me, abandoned me as a Princess of Dorne, and your heir, because I am wont to gossip?"
Her father breathed out a tired sigh. "Sidelined you? I never abandon you, Arianne. All I did, I did because it is for the goodness of yourself."
"Oh yes, such goodness it gave me," her words dripped out of her mouth, laced with venom. "An exile to the Water Gardens. You left me there, for a year. I asked for you every time my uncle visited there. Have you truly had no care left for me? For your own daughter? When is it that you decided you hate me so, father?"
"I never hated you, Arianne."
The words gave little solace for her, little comfort, little meaning.
"Your love, father. Such love that you offered me to Blind Ben Beesbury, Old Walder Frey, Greybeard Grandison, Eldon Estermont!"
Arianne had now lost three of her pawns, her knight, and her bishop. Meanwhile, Prince Doran remained with all of his pieces, save for his queen. Her father stared at her as he lifted his gaze from the chessboard. His eyes seemed to have softened for a flicker of a moment. Is that sadness that I see? And he raised his hand in a placating manner.
"Because I knew that you would spurn them. I had to be seen to try to find a consort for you once you'd reached a certain age, else it would have raised suspicions, but I dared not bring you any man you might accept. Hoster Tully wrote to me for your hand, to that of his son, Edmure. Your uncle, Oberyn, had proposed to me about arranging a match for you with one of the Tyrell brothers, more than once."
Arianne stared at him incredulously. The answer hadn't been an answer for her question, and had simply confused her even more so. Lies! What game is he playing at? Another lie. . . Arianne wanted to shout. Just tell me, father, tell me why is it that you love me no longer? Better it be quick and simple. Say it! That you love Quentyn and not me. You are a Prince of Dorne! Just say it!
"Edmure Tully. . . Willas Tyrell. . . They would've been great matches for me. And you deny them so. . . and you didn't even tell me why. You just refuse them. Please, father, I don't need you to lie to me any longer. This is to get rid of me. To finally pave the way clear, for your beloved son?" and when her voice had once been hard and full of anger, it turned soft and fragile as she finished her words.
"Trystane is but a boy, Ari-"
"Quentyn!" she shouted, rage burning and anger flaming. Enough of the useless words! "You wrote him all those years ago. One day you will sit where I sit and rule all Dorne. Don't you bother to deny it. Yronwood! I saw it, I read your letter. All those years ago. I wept and I cried, for days I did. When is it, father? Is it the day Quentyn was born? Is it the day I was born? I always long to be a dutiful daughter, yet you push me away, passing me over. You abandoned me. Insults upon insults, you heaped unto me. What is it that I ever do to you? Just tell me, father. Let me hear it." To her fury, it relented nonetheless against her sadness, and tears pooled on her eyes.
Her father's face now turned to that full of grief. "Very well. Indeed, it seems that you must know. Oberyn himself chastised me for this, yet I didn't listen to him," he said, his voice soft and as thin as a parchment.
"Arianne… I never intend for you to marry any of them. Yes, Quentyn is supposed to follow me, but you, my daughter," and he looked Arianne in her eyes. His own eyes were soft and wilted, almost as if he was regretful. And if Arianne looked close enough, she could even trace hints of genuineness, and even that of. . . love. Impossible. She didn't know if her mind had betrayed her. Delusion, she thought. "You were promised."
A heartbeat skipped through her at the daunting words. Promised?
AN: Anyway, Sunspear is a part of this chapter that I decided to separate. Particularly because it didn't match well with the tone of this one, and to avoid this becoming overlong. This chapter is a friggin monster for me. So, Willas' deductions in the previous chapter are mostly correct. With the rising trade power of the Reach, Dorne obviously receives the luxury, too. And with great relations with the Free Cities, Dorne's standing is now better than it was in canon (cordial relation with the Reach included), and richer, too. I tried to portray Arianne with her inner arrogance but conflicted with that of her insecurity. A somewhat arrogant and proud princess on the exterior, while a broken daughter on the inside.
Regarding Doran, gout is said to be a King's disease, particularly because this is attributed to the rich and extravagant lifestyle, especially food and drink, of the gout patient. So, I imagine that it's more common in Essos (what with the many magisters, merchant princes, etc, etc). And I think it wouldn't be that much of a stretch that Doran's gout was able to be cured in its early stage because now they have information and other examples of the sickness (Well, actually, I just love him and wished to do him some good). Yeah….. the betrothal is broken. Hmmm, I wonder why? And perhaps a certain delicate spider is out there, busy spinning its webs, while subtly nudging here and there.
Anyway, I tried to write some clever Chess, but I figured that it's futile if it is from Arianne's POV, especially since she is not a master at the game by any means (There are already several metaphors in this, but I'm not satisfied). Also, this is a chapter cut in half, so the next Dorne chapter would continue in Doran's POV (which would give more clarity and thoughts). But, I don't promise that the next chapter is going to be Dorne. Right now, it is either Edmure, Doran, or Garlan.
