Maron II
Maron rose from his feather bed, wrestling the silk sheets tangled around his chest and the lively young washer girl lying naked next to him. Still soundly asleep from their late-night romp, she was useful indeed, and proved of further use once her soft dark eyes had finished watching for him, and her full lips finished whispering their secrets of Sunspear.
Reaching for his breeches and a freshly cleaned shirt, Maron cast a reluctant glance at her. A sweet mouth and sweeter curves more than made up for the chapped roughness of her working hands. Resisting the temptation to rouse her, or arouse her, he tugged on his boots and headed for his father's chambers.
Dawn had yet to break as Maron made his way from the royal apartments, the light from the sun already enough to see by once he reached the crenellations overlooking the training yard. The morning's stillness was stained only by the grumblings of the youngest boys in training, who were tasked with setting up the yard for the day's lessons.
Enchanted by stories of knights and heroes, Maron had enjoyed training at arms in his youth. On his seven-and-tenth nameday, he'd been knighted by his lord father. Once he'd earned his spurs, he was instructed to cease training henceforth. The Prince of Dorne had replied in his typical manner when Maron had inquired as to why:
"As with all of my lessons, my son, let me first begin with a question. Why have the dragons never conquered Dorne?"
"Because we are the superior people, Father," Maron assured him, smiling with pride. "We have finer warriors. We have the benefit of the mountains and deserts. Even our women can slaughter their knights from the north. We are the blood of the Rhoynar and Nymeria. We are the blood of the Andals. We are Dorne!"
His father almost applauded, "Good, boy. Very good! Just the type of thing you should be seen saying of your people. But it is just the two of us, now. And you need not lie to me."
"What do you mean?" Maron asked, blinded by the naivety of youth.
"You wish to train, to hone your skills, yet I ask you, in every battle the Dornish have ever fought against our Targaryen rivals, with or without dragons, have we not lost, time and again?"
Maron pondered the question for a moment, mentally combing the histories he could remember, before reluctantly admitting to himself that Dorne's defeats numbered ten times that of their victories.
Theos answered the question he'd posed before his son could reply. "They outmatch us, outman us, and overpower us in the field, nearly without fail."
"Then how have they never beaten us?" Maron asked. "Even so, we remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken!"
"Aye, despite never winning a battle, we've never been subjugated," Theos nodded. "So, I ask again; without victory in battle, why have we never lost the war?"
Maron paused again in thought. It was a good question.
"I don't know, father. How?"
"There are other paths to victory than overpowering strength in the field, my son. The right ally in the right station, the right dagger hidden in the right pocket, well placed snakes in the calm grasses, even a paid off servant of a rival, can be worth more than a battalion of the finest spears inDorne. A seductive, pliant mistress can be as deadly as all seven Kingsguard, armored and on horseback."
Maron did not reply, but met his father's eyes with a new understanding.
"You are to be Prince of Dorne, Maron, and must sharpen more than your spear. Dorne is, and will likely forever be, at war. Whether within the limits of our fruitless and sandy lands, or with the Iron Throne and the pale dragons that sit it, there will always be a knife at your back. This is the life you've been groomed for, and a life that I feel will suit you."
"As such, you must be prepared for the wars to come. You must prepare to fight the battles we can win. Need to win. Fight with spears, and you will be crushed. So, instead, fight with words and quills. For the sword has no power over whispers, and the dragon no defense against deception."
Maron had never returned to the yard after learning his lesson that day.
Now, in the faint light of the rising sun, as he strode past the place he'd spent years of his life training, he realized how useless those efforts had been, in the end. He was about to prove more to his father with the whispers he'd cultivated and collected than he could have ever done with a sword or a spear. Despite the grim news he was about to share, Maron strode to his father's chambers with a level of pride and confidence he rarely allowed himself to feel.
Holio Tennofar and another of his father's guards were stationed on either side of Prince Theos' door, standing stiffly at attention. There was a solemn air about them, and neither Maron nor the guards seemed inclined to engage in the banter that normally accompanied his visits.
"I've come to speak with my father. It is of the utmost urgency," Maron said softly.
"At once," Tennofar replied, bowing as he opened the door to admit him. As though sensing that something was badly amiss, he closed the door behind Maron instead of approaching the Lord of Sunspear's bedside to announce his arrival.
It was just as well that father and son were alone. The Prince of Dorne aged overnight more than he had in what seemed a decade. Maron had seen his father just the other night, drinking with, and then bedding, the lovely Essenay. He looked and seemed lively enough. In the beam of sunrise that shone through the covered windows, his father's aged and pale face looked nearer to the Stranger than a Prince.
"Father," he called softly. Theos' eyes opened slowly, as if they had weight to them.
"Son," he replied feebly, as he shuffled and tried to sit up. Struggling to raise his shoulders, he squirmed almost helplessly until Maron rushed to his side and gently eased him upright against the headboard of his enormous teak bedframe.
"Ah, the sun," he whispered as if to himself. "Most mistake the sun for our sigil, my son," Theos continued, fighting to keep the strength in his voice, leaning his head back on the pillows after blinking out the glare from the crease in the curtains. "House Martell is not the fire but the spear that slays it!" He gestured, only to gently flail an arm meant to show power, receding back into the fetal position to withstand another sudden fit of cough.
"Yes, father." Maron was concerned. He had come to know of his father's slight decline. But this was something else entirely, all but confirming that which he already knew.
Maron took his father's wrinkled hand in his own. After Theos stopped, he gripped his son's hand tightly for moments after, as if he meant to hold on. He cleared his throat, wiped the red spittle from his lip, and continued as if uninterrupted, "There is much I must tell you."
"Father," Maron began, finding it hard to bring his findings to words. In his father's state, he knew not how the news would affect him, and Maron was not prepared to see his father this weak.
"Patience, son. First, you must listen."
Maron saw the grit in his father's eyes as the old man fought to form words. All my efforts, were they for naught? If his father was too far to save, and he struggled so to speak, he would let him before he said his own peace.
His father steeled his gaze and continued in his full voice, a victory in itself. "It was naught but eight years ago that Fat Aegon sent forth his fleet in hopes of ending us, foiled by Shipbreaker Bay. Now, he plans to build dragons of wood and wildfire to burn us once again, pushing through the Red Mountains and setting our castles aflame, like the Conqueror and his sisters nearly two centuries ago."
"We would smash him back against the mountains, father! They would fail, as they have always failed before," Maron insisted.
"Would we?" Theos asked. His rheumy eyes narrowed as he continued. "With the drought, the Mountain Dornish are all but apathetic to our cause, and merely struggling to survive each day. If there were an attack, much less an army, who's to say they would even crawl from the safety of their caverns to defend the pass?"
Is it that bad? Maron thought, the weight of his future office heavier with each breath from his ailing father. "So how do we defeat them?"
"You know the answer, son. Or have I taught you nothing?" Theos winced, either from pain or frustration.
"Words and quills," Maron said, slowly, as his father's grip on his hand tightened again. "Well placed daggers to find their weakness."
Prince Theos nodded before another bout of coughing took hold. It was a violent, frightening cough for a man so near his eightieth nameday, and Maron began to fear the worst. Am I too late?
Another bubble of red spittle caught in the corner of Theos' wrinkled mouth as he hacked a few more times.
"Save your strength, father, you'll need it." Maron ordered, through with waiting. He stepped to leave his father's bedside to call for the maester, but his father's weak grip fought to keep Maron near. He stopped, yelling to Holio as loudly as he could without breaking his façade of strength.
"Let it be, my son. I fear I'm finally beginning to fade."
"That might not be so, father. That is in fact what brings me to you. I just pray I am not too late."
Maron made a show of striding through the halls, samite coat swirling, an intense look of pain and purpose carved into his features. Ignoring every member of the household that he passed, he chose a winding route through the palace to his destination, intent on being witnessed by as many people as possible.
Let them talk. Let them see.
His pain was as genuine as his purpose, for part of him wanted to delay the inevitable as long as he possibly could.
It was just past midday. He was about to bring news to the young woman; unpleasant news, and tidings she would never forgive him for. Which was fair enough, for he found he couldn't forgive her, either. But this was the life he had been groomed for. This was the path he had chosen, not that he liked what he needed to do.
But thrones bit back. A Prince of Dorne must be prepared for attacks from without – and within.
He reached her private chambers, having passed nearly the entirety of his household on his way, flustered and near tears, as if he knew what to say to them wordlessly, his destination all but common knowledge.
The whole staff would know by now. Even his distant kin would know by now, and his storming through them all was a show he intended them to see. He intended them to tell, as well.
Maron hesitated once he reached her door. Like Essenay herself, it was dark and beautiful. Ebony wood carved with filigree, its handle was wrought in hard black iron, a simple curve of twisted metal that felt both foreign and familiar in his grasp as he pushed it open.
Rarely did he risk meeting his father's paramour in her chambers. It was considered indecent, and far too public besides, but it was already whispered that something more than words had long been shared between the two of them. What kind of castle would Sunspear be, without salacious rumors and gossip to see the staff through their days?
Now, it seemed, none of that mattered. None of it would ever matter again.
"Essie!" Maron cried out as he stumbled through her doorway, unfeigned pain in his voice
"My Prince?" Essenay called, sounding surprised. "What is it? I'll be there in just a moment!" She was deep within her chambers and out of sight.
Well more than a moment passed before the curtains parted, and the enchanting Essenay emerged from around the corner in sheerest scarlet cendal. Her silken excuse for nightwear was tied just above her navel, contrived to accentuate the smooth, bared flesh of her cleavage and inner thighs. Her feet and legs were bare as well, fine golden anklets emphasizing long, shapely legs as she approached across luxurious Myrish carpets. Lustrous hair tumbled over her shoulders in dark, flowing falls of sleek, straight black that bounced in time with her breasts as she drew near.
Maron knew he had already won, yet had no wish to claim this prize.
"Whyever do you sound so distraught, dear one?" Essie's kohl-lined eyes were dark, liquid pools of concern as she took both of his hands in her own.
"It is father. My father—" Maron began, biting his lip to hold back tears. "My father has passed."
Essie's eyes widened. "Oh, darling," she said, opening her perfumed arms to him, and molding her lush curves firmly into his body as he stepped into her embrace. She sighed, running her clever hands up and down his back, then nuzzling his neck.
"I know he was an elderly man, yet the maesters believe the cause was not old age. He has only just passed, they're still tending to his body. I don't know if I can do this." Maron buried his face in the silken curtain of Essenay's beautiful hair, wishing there could be another way.
"There, there, my Prince. Just be. It is me, you're safe," she whispered, stroking his cheek. Her hand came to rest over his heart, and she gazed up at him. Somehow, she'd arranged for her silk to part, affording a tantalizing glimpse of what she'd always kept just out of sight before today.
Maron nearly laughed. "I fear this a day we all knew was coming, but hoped would never be."
Essie held him tighter, and he rested his head against her shoulder. He wouldn't cry, for he never did, and besides, it would seem wrong to do so. So he bit his lip again, keeping his face buried at the base of her neck.
They stood together for a long, hard moment. Maron found himself fighting back tears, knowing what had to come next. For so long, he had truly felt for the woman in his arms, despite it being forbidden. He would never go as far to say he wanted her, and had never genuinely fallen for her charms, but he thought of himself as more than a monster who only used those around him to suit his own needs.
He hoped he was.
Essie pulled back, claiming his hand and inviting him to sit. If she was disappointed that she hadn't gotten more of a reaction from him, she didn't reveal it. "There now, I'll pour us some tea. It's freshly brewed, but I haven't had the chance to drink it. Won't you join me? If today doesn't call for it, nothing does," she laughed, ushering him to the comfort of a plush violet sofa, with golden tasseled throw pillows to lean into. Then she sauntered away to fetch their tea, her hips swaying seductively in a manner clearly meant to catch his attention.
Oh, how I'll miss seeing her leave.
Maron tried his best not to reminisce, finding the memories of playfulness and laughter dangerously distracting. He needed to stay focused on his goal. Death was not something Maron was comfortable around, not since losing his mother.
Essenay returned with the tea tray, gracefully setting it down on the table between them, leaning over as she always did, all the better to play up her charms. Her bracelets clinked as she placed the teacup meant for him on the circular ivory table between them, daintily lifting the Yi Tish cup and filling it with steaming tea. He couldn't help notice that her cup was already filled.
Maron began talking. Rambling. Asking her questions in succession, repeating things over and over, intending to convey that he was distraught and beyond consolation. It was a vulnerable place to be, and she, as she'd been in passing for his convenience, was a worthwhile ear. Or she pretended to be.
Life for Maron was beginning to feel like a series of mummer's scenes, every character acting their role, delivering their lines, and holding their demeanors in the way that best fit their parts. This was his moment to step beyond the confines of his role as a player, and become the playwright, forging his own narrative for those cast in his story. Which meant not drinking the tea. Not yet.
"I don't think I've eaten today," Maron frowned, after making a point of mentioning the advice his father had given him as he lay on his deathbed, that being to send his uncle Taron on a diplomatic mission, just to keep him away from Sunspear.
Essie set her teacup down, her painted lips parted. "Your uncle is to be sent away?"
"You know how father was," explained Maron, watching her closely, and lifting his teacup up to his mouth. "He had this way with his brother, holding him close, but far enough away. Distancing himself by keeping him beneath him, then ingratiating himself by sending him off for glory." Maron sighed, setting his tea down again, before leaning back against the cushions on the couch. "The push and pull that was their love."
"Are you going to? Send your uncle Taron away? Surely you need him now more than ever."
"I'm not sure what to do, Essie." Maron leaned his elbows on his knees, dragging his hands through his hair. "I'm locked in grief. Is there nothing to eat?" he asked, meeting her eyes again. "I'm famished. I'd rather a bite before drinking tea. You always brew it strong. I fear I'll be lightheaded." Maron stood as if to see himself to the rooms around the curtained doorway. Essenay stopped him with a caress to his cheek and the brush of her breasts against his arm.
"I'll fetch you something. Just sit. Sip your tea before it grows cold. I don't want to have to brew a fresh pot," she called over her shoulder as she sauntered away.
She returned from beyond the curtains with a blood orange and a ripe melon, round as the sun, halved, a spoon buried deep into its sweetness. The silver spoon piercing the melon reminded Maron of the spear piercing the sun of the Martell sigil. That would have eluded Essenay, who'd only known enough to contrive to bring him his favorites.
Setting the tray of fresh fruit beside their tea, she turned to face him, eyes dark as she slipped a slice of ripened orange into Maron's mouth. Her fingertips lingered on his lips before trailing along his cheek, then down the column of his neck. Frowning slightly when he accepted the fruit but ignored the open invitation, she tossed her head and retreated to the velvet seat opposite the sofa.
"Thank you, Essie. You are too kind," said Maron, sampling a few bites of perfectly ripened melon as she eyed him, feigning patience, as she sipped her own tea in what seemed to him encouragement for him to do the same. "And now, for our tea," he smiled. " Let us drink to Father, for he preferred tea to wine any day!" Maron raised his cup as if to share in a toast with his father's paramour. "To father," he said warmly, looking Essenay dead in her eyes to see if she'd reveal something. Anything.
"To Theos," she stared back, the curve of a smile across her lips, but her dark eyes as icy as the frozen north.
Which suddenly made it all so much easier.
Maron brought his cup to his mouth, sipping its lukewarm contents. He watched Essenay take a few sips of her own cup as she smiled at him over the rim. She wound a long strand of silky hair around her index finger, a gesture that only served to emphasize the exposed skin of her breasts as she leaned back in her seat.
He smiled in return, wondering what his eyes conveyed. Then he took three more sips of his tea. Essie's smile grew broader, and she leaned back in her plush velvet chair with its tasseled golden cushions.
"You can come out now," Maron called past her.
"Whatever do you mean, my Prince?" Essie gazed at him, wide-eyed.
Maron sighed, all but rolling his eyes. "I know he's here. I know he means to catch me bedding you. I know the two of you plan to blame my father's death onme."
Essenay rose to her feet with a smirk, pulling her silk close around her. "What little you think you know, you know too late. As did your father, it seems. Perhaps it's fitting you die in the same way, on the same day. Then again, his only focus in this life was to turn you into him," she sneered, its ugliness marring her beautiful features. "It seems he did too good a job."
"What, you mean this?" Maron asked, lifting his tea to his lips and finishing its contents with a flourish. "You mean the tea you poured into the cup you had – the one placed in front of you?"
Essenay's eyes flitted from the cup in his hand to the one she'd just set down.
"You see, now?" Maron drawled, his smirk mirroring hers. "Do you?"
Maron turned his cup to show the mark that Essie's painted lips had left when she had drunk from it earlier, before she'd left to fetch them their fruit. While Maron babbled on, he had watched her sip it several times, as if to encourage him to join her. He was already sure she had poisoned his tea, but he hadn't been sure if her own cup was safe until he watched her sip from it as he spoke.
The moment she had gone to fetch the orange and the melon, he'd switched their cups, turning his own so that the rouge from her lips was difficult to spot from her vantage point.
"My darling Essie," Maron murmured. "Thank you ever so much for the tea. You're right, of course. The situation called for it. And now that you've just finished drinking whatever you poured me, let's have him come out now, so we can settle this whole affair as painlessly as possible."
"He knew!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet in a panic, and clearly addressing someone else. "How did he know? You impotent snake!" she shrieked.
"Do you see now, my love?" Maron began, her reaction giving him permission to start enjoying himself. He stood, shedding his veneer of despair, his heart racing with the knowledge of how close he was to both victory and misery. "My uncle Taron has always had one flaw. He always thought he was better. Deserving. Entitled. He believed his service had proven and paid for his path to become Prince one day, and upon tasting the hope left when Myriah was married off, at his behest no less, it was never something he was going to relinquish without contest."
Maron lifted his head as if to project his voice further. "You never underestimated your worth or your power, Taron! Your mistake was that you thought yourself infallible."
"I drank it—I drank it—-" Essenay mumbled, hugging her arms to herself. Then she picked up her teacup and hurled it violently in the direction of the tapestry across from their violet velvet chairs, where it bounced, undamaged, off the fabric and onto the thick carpet below. "Gods! Fuck! How did he know!"
"Taron isn't so cunning as to outwit my father, love," Maron replied, reaching for Essenay, just as she had reached for him when he'd first entered her chambers. "There," he said, with exaggerated reassurance. "Just be. Isn't that how you put it? It is me, dear one, you're safe."
His was an altogether different type of embrace than what she'd offered him, though the words he gave her matched the ones she'd given him when she'd feigned comfort. What was it going to feel like to hold the life of another, a woman, no less, in his arms, as she slipped from the world in agony?
Maron held her firmly against his chest, restraining her, giving Essenay nothing more, and nothing less, than the same cold expression she'd given when she thought he'd drunk the poison. Maron didn't feel as bad as he'd expected to. He was shocked to discover that he almost enjoyed it.
Essie's breaths grew strained as her throat swelled, and she whimpered as he held her hard against him. This was a more immediate poison than the one she'd been dosing his father with. Maron knew very well that his uncle Taron lay in wait around the corner, waiting to strike him down and kill him, had he actually climbed atop his father's mistress to claim her. Maron had done no such thing, despite Essenay's efforts to entrap him. The alternate plan was to poison him, with a faster acting poison than that they'd used to try and kill the Prince of Dorne.
After removing Theos, they'd planned to say they'd caught his killer in Maron, the heir who'd grown impatient for the throne and the chance to bed Essenay. Taron would have gone on to rule Dorne, with Essenay remaining the royal paramour, keeping her station and all of her wealth, and possibly allowing her the chance for children.
"The problem with your plan, Uncle Taron, is thinking anyone in my father's household would prefer you to him!" Maron shouted. "You take money from Martell coffers, and think my father too blind to see it. You bribe men loyal to him with his own money, because you think the gold worth more than a lifetime of service. You should have known better! If you were so worthy."
The curtains parted, and Taron crept from around the corner, sword in hand, defeated and dead-eyed. Essenay struggled in Maron's grasp, desperate to break free of his hold and find breath. There could be no doubt she suffered.
"Just think, you meant this for me," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear in a cold imitation of a kiss.
She had to have wanted to reply. Essenay always did. But, now, she couldn't, and the dark olive tone of her perfect skin paled and purpled, both at once.
"Father wishes to be lenient with you, Uncle," said Maron quietly, tightening his grip on the weakening Essenay. " There is a path where you walk away from here, with your life, and a shred of dignity. I do not blame you for your attempt, but I will know, now, the extent of your treachery, from your own lips! Assume I know it all, but to move forward, you must admit to it," Maron demanded, still holding the dying woman in his arms, her body convulsing more than it was trying to free itself from his hold of it.
Her dark, beautiful eyes were rolling back in her head, almost fully red from the tiny bloodways bursting in the whites of them. Essenay's once unshakable confidence, now, all but a blind desperation and despair, as her features sank from fear to failure. The final moments of her once vibrant life were approaching all too quickly.
"I will say nothing, Prince," said his uncle Taron quietly, with barely a glance at his dying conspirator. "Good luck with the fate of Dorne. With you at its helm, we will all burn," he said bitterly.
"As you wish, Uncle. This brings me no joy."
With that, Maron pulled a dagger from beneath his flowing sleeves. Taron's serving staff had managed to confiscate the ceremonial weapon granted him after returning from captivity during the Young Dragon's Invasion.
All had seen it before, as it was something his uncle took great pride in, and was like as not to bring it with him to formal events, or even nightly suppers, to invoke the validation it afforded him. The staff from the times of war had all moved on, so none had actually witnessed his supposed prowess at arms. But all had heard the stories Taron told when displaying his dagger.
It seemed fitting that his proudest trophy, commemorating his valiant efforts in defeat, would be what sealed his final demise.
Maron raised it, plunging it into his father's Paramour, providing more mercy than anguish, as the woman's face was unrecognizable, swollen and purple it was, the veins of her neck protruding from her skin like snakes, blue and black and twisted. When the blade sank into her chest, she jolted wildly in Maron's arms for an instant, only to fall limp and heavy the next.
"It was you that killed her, Uncle. To cover up your plot to poison my father," Maron declared, tossing the bloody dagger to his uncle's feet.
"Nonsense, boy! 'Tis a trick," Taron scoffed.
"Holio!" Maron called. From behind him, Essenay's chamber doors opened to the burst of men filing in, armed, armored, and in formation behind the Head of the Household Guard.
"It is done. Make not an utter fool of yourself, and concede. Ghaston Grey is in need of a Castellan, Uncle. And there's always that Wall the Northerners keep boasting about."
Taron turned to run. "Seize him!" Maron yelled, Essenay still in his arms. Tennofar and his guards pursued, and there was nowhere Taron could flee, save for the bedchamber around the corner. Maron wrapped both arms around Essenay's limp body and gently eased the woman onto the plush violet velvet of the sofa where he'd sat earlier.
He laid her on her back, and with as gentle a touch as he could, closed her eyes for the last time. He hadn't noticed her blood on his hands until looking down on them. It was dark. Like her.
He kept reminding himself that she had meant for him to meet the same fate. It didn't help though.
The guards followed Taron to the window of the bedchambers, where his uncle leaped to a death of his own choosing. His end was kept quiet, as was his treachery.
Though as Maron looked down from the window at the splattered body of a once promising Dornish nobleman, all knew what Maron had intended them to know.
His uncle had tried, and as he always had.
And had failed.
Father will be pleased.
A/N
Sorry for the haitus (broke my hand, hard to type) but I'm not going anywhere for long. Please leave me with some type of comment-y type feedback as well, especially if you like my writing as it is hard to keep going with the effort necessary without some kind of engagement. Yet, either way, if you never ever comment or fave or follow, thank you so much, as always, for taking the time to read my work. Look forward to more from this, and my other works soon
Harwin Snow
