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Lady of Dorne

Secrets Unveiled

They came to him when he had just broken his fast in the apartment Elia had installed him in – a bedchamber with a small antechamber and a solar. It was well appointed and while Arthur wanted to see this as confirmation to Elia's interest in his wellbeing, he knew it was more likely due to the fact that she would seldom make someone's life uncomfortable just because she could. She hadn't done it even with the Stark girl, in the beginning, when the foolish girl had been so crushed under the weight of the reality of what her actions had led to.

Bread and honey, and milk, and blood oranges. Five days into his return to Sunspear, Arthur was still surprised by how much a single meal mattered. At King's Landing, he had gotten used to the daily round of the other Kingsguard, starting the day with a solid breakfast and a few goblets of watered wine; here, he had returned to his one time morning meal almost without thinking. Milk and blood oranges were the best way to fight the swelter as the day rolled away. And bread and honey filled him just like the much more copious morning meals at the Red Keep.

He was just rising from the table when Elia's father entered without much ceremony. At least he knocked, Arthur reasoned, laughably happy to see someone who had come to his chambers, no matter the reason. And then he saw the boy behind Alric and startled, immediately transported to a time of laughter and shining waterworks, and bracing wind with a tang of salt in the seaside castle he had started turning into a man at – a long gone time of dreams.

Alric smiled, pleased by Arthur's reaction. "This is my grandson," he said. "Laval Gargalen. And he is to be your new squire… if you'll have him."

If I'll have him? Was this a jest? Arthur couldn't quite grasp the incredible honour Alric was willing to bestow upon him, a demonstration of esteem Arthur felt he did not deserve at all. He had already heard that there were many lords willing to foster Laval, eager to establish a closer relationship with both Alric and Mikkel. And Elia's father had chosen him?

"I thank you," was all he managed to say. "But why?"

The older man narrowed his eyes. "Because I believe you can still prove yourself worthy. Because I have suffered from other people's cruelty, as well. Because I have also been cruel in my selfishness. I'd like to give you a chance." His black eyes suddenly turned cold. "But not at my grandson's expense. If you treat him in a way I find disgraceful, if you neglect his training, if you teach him the wrong values, I'll destroy you, Arthur. Not send you away or some other half-measure. Destroy you. I want you to think well. Will you still have him?"

Arthur's eyes moved from Alric to Laval. In the boy's eyes, there was a curious mix of awe and resentment that struck a vaguely familiar cord within the knight. He's heard both sides of what they say about me here, Arthur realized. He had had squires before. The memory of his last one, Valler, haunted him still. He had left the boy at King's Landing when he rode at Rhaegar's side for that cursed enterprise of theirs. Valler had perished in the flames of the Red Keep when Aerys had committed his last act of madness. Arthur prayed that the smoke had suffocated him, that he hadn't actually burned in the fire. Valler had admired him, wanted to be like him. Arthur had never taken another squire since then – his sworn brothers were there to help him with the armour and he preferred taking care of his weapons and horses on his own. Could he do it now? Could he take a boy who was already prepared to dislike him, resent him, maybe? But he couldn't take anyone who idolized him either! Not again.

Alric was offering him a chance, though. Showing trust. No one who had seen him with the boy could doubt that he adored Laval. Maybe even more so because the boy's mother was dead. Arthur hadn't known Loreza Sand very well but he remembered her as a kind and merciful lady, worthy of the affection Princess Arianne had shown her and the love her trueborn siblings had borne her. Alric couldn't possibly offer a greater proof of his acceptation of Arthur than entrusting this child to him.

"My lord, I will."

Alric nodded, ever so slightly, and a faint smile played about his mouth. "I'll see you whenever Ser Arthur can spare you," he turned to Laval and without saying anything more to anyone, turned back and left. Arthur and the boy were left staring at each other with the same discomfited expression on both their faces. They didn't know what to do with each other and Arthur knew he was the one who should start. He was the grown man. The knight. His mind was racing from Dawn to his armour when the expression that had suddenly crossed Laval's feature upon entering the room became clear to him. Elia, of course, Elia when she had been staring at him at his much belated return at King's Landing, Elia who had been torn between the boy she had known, the knight she had thought him, and the man who had betrayed her so cruelly.

I didn't, though. I was selfish and placing myself before everyone else but I didn't know. If I can win this boy's respect, then I might be able to win Elia's respect, as well.

"Well," he finally said. "Let's go and see what you can do on horseback."

The boy eagerly nodded and was out of the door before Arthur had even risen.

The day of Elia's official stepping into her new role was getting closer, bringing along more suffocating heat and dazzling sunlight.

During the day, the sky shimmered in heavy rich blue haze; at night, it sparkled with orange and emerald hues cut by the dark silhouette of the towers. Elia couldn't remember this sight from before, as stunning as she found it now. She simply had never noticed it. But the sounds of activity picked up faster at the bracing breeze brought by the sunset were something she had never heard before: the castellan was trying to find the lords and ladies who were expected to arrive lodgings that would hurt no one's pride, the maesters argued with Ciar as to the true form of the ceremony, Alyse Ladybright was trying to balance accounts, so all that could be paid for, and there was a neverending flow of seamstresses, carpenters, smiths, and goldsmiths in the Old Palace. Elia could hardly go out of her private chambers without running into some of them.

Two days before the ceremony, everything looked in order to Elia, albeit the people who fretter over the details they were responsible for begged to differ. Finally, Elia sought refuge in Rhaenys' bedchamber. "If someone comes looking for me, you'll say I am not here," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Rhaenys looked at her with wide eyes. "You want me to lie?" she whispered back, thrilled by the idea. "Fine," she agreed. "If someone knocks at the door, we aren't here at all. We won't open the door."

Elia smiled, pleased by the fact that her daughter's adjustment was proving easier than she had feared. They spent the evening holding their breath as soon as they heard steps down the hallway and to Rhaenys' enormous delight, Elia hid in the adjacent chamber when Rhaenys' septa came in to check on her young charge.

Finally, Rhaenys was settled in bed; with a kiss on her forehead and a pang for Aegon who should have been put to sleep sometime before, Elia left the bedchamber and headed for her own rooms but Oberyn appeared from a side door and came near. In his hand, he was carrying…

"Yes," he grinned. "It's just what you think."

"Rum from the Summer Isles?" Elia wanted to make sure.

"The very same one," Oberyn confirmed. He looked freshly bathed, his dark hair was still damp.

They started walking side by side. "I didn't know you were back," Elia said. "I was afraid you'd miss the ceremony."

He pretended to be wounded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I would never miss that," he said smoothly. Then, his smile disappeared. They both knew that he would have, gladly.

"The outlaws?"

"What outlaws?" Oberyn asked simply.

Only now did Elia notice that they were not going towards her chambers. She was about to ask where he was taking her when Naeryn appeared out of a side chamber. Like Oberyn, she also carried a bottle of rum.

"What?" Elia asked, immediately alerted. The three of them had gotten drunk more than once in their youth and the hangovers she had suffered could not compare to anything else. "It's getting late!"

"Before it gets any later, we of the Gargalen blood and our dearest friends want to toast you," Oberyn said, very seriously. "We haven't had the chance to see you properly since your return and it isn't likely that we'd get it anytime soon."

Elia was well aware that it wouldn't end with a single toast. Well, who cares, she reasoned. The worst thing that can happen is that I might head for the ceremony with a splitting headache. So she let them drag her along to Oberyn's solar. On their way, Oberyn opened the bottle and the three of them started passing it around.

The rum burned Elia's throat like a strong poison. She started coughing, her eyes watered, breath was cut off in her lungs.

It was heavenly.

"Our new lady," Naeryn said. "You'll do a fine job."

"Better than Doran?" Elia asked sadly and immediately wished that she hadn't.

Naeryn took the bottle back and slurped a solid sip.

At their destination, they found most of the people invited already there. All of a sudden, Elia's eyes watered again at seeing so many relatives and friends together. Alynna, beaming – "That's because she managed to squeeze herself into one of the gowns she used to wear before the twins were born, I think," Naeryn whispered – with her husband at another corner of the solar. Her cousins Alor and Blaze Gargalen. Larra and Elvar who had arrived just a few hours ago. Myriah Jordayne. Ryon Allyrion with his Yronwood wife – no, no, she should really stop thinking of Ynys Allyrion in this term. Still, a centuries' old distrust was not an easy thing to overcome, no matter how much effort one put into it. Ilsa Uller – my, this one had grown quite lovely! When very young, she had been pitied for her looks. Alaenys, flirting outrageously around.

"The little one would better stop looking all around with these huge eyes of hers," Oberyn murmured. "From what I've heard of her betrothed, he won't tolerate such behavior."

"No," Elia agreed softly. "He won't." No more than Robert Baratheon had. Even Rhaegar had started giving her the evil eye since the end of the war when she had made it clear that she would never forgive him. He seemed to take every smile she had given another man as a proof of… Elia still didn't know what exactly. Rhaegar had taught her that – that loving someone was not necessary for being jealous. Maybe I would have been jealous of him, as well, if I wasn't so very disappointed. She decided to talk to Alaenys as soon as possible.

"Isn't Vaela here?" she asked absent-mindedly.

"She's here," Naeryn said, looking around. "At least, she was at one time. I have to find her. Mother will never forgive me if the babe arrives five months earlier than expected. And that Yronwood of hers was with her…"

"Envious much?" Oberyn joked. "I've heard you've got an Yronwood of your own… ouch!"

Naeryn drew her elbow back and ordered angrily, "Go and find her!"

Oberyn bowed mockingly. "As you wish, my lady. I am at your service, as ever."

Quite surprised, Elia actually saw him head out. Was he truly going to scour the palace for Vaela and the young Yronwood? If he indeed caught them together, he'd likely insist on explaining them in person how exactly moon tea worked.

She moved around the solar, with everyone raising goblets to her. Someone pressed one in her hand and she kept walking, chatting with people and drinking each time they toasted her without much protestation. Soon, her goblet was empty and they took care to give her another one. Pleased, Elia saw that it was not wine, even Dornish red, but that lovely rum again.

"Is that one of your old gowns?" she asked, halting to a stop in front of Alynna. "Oh. T'was not proper."

"But it's so nice to hear!" the other woman grinned. "It is, indeed. I thought I'd never be able to don one of those again. The first time around, the weight went off in just a few weeks but this pair made me think that belly would stay most of me till the end of my life."

Someone was playing the lyre, a mournful song that briefly reminded Elia of Rhaegar's harp – by the Seven, not listening to this constant wailing was one of the perks of leaving his court! Immediately after, though, somewhat to her surprise, she felt the tears coming to her eyes, brought by another memory – her very last gathering with those same people, in her own solar, a few days before her leaving for King's Landing and her royal match. Errol had played this same song – a very untypical choice for someone who had a taste for joyous melodies. But that night, he had chosen the old song of the rage of the sea and the heart's blood. The prolonged sounds of grief undiluted with time animated the faces of everyone who had been here this last time and no longer was. Doran. Loreza. Her cousins. Poor Jaline Uller… Inar Allyrion… Before she knew it, her face was so wet that she could not hide it. No doubt the rum helped either. But she was far from the only one affected. Alynna was weeping openly, albeit silently. Elvar stared right ahead with his teeth clenched and his fine eye as unmoving as his damaged one. Ryon had covered his face with his hands. Even Alaenys who had been too young to attend this last gathering seemed to be affected by the general feeling of grief in the solar. Is there someone who had not lost a loved one since we were last together, Elia wondered sadly.

The tremulous sounds slowly died away. Elia looked up and her head suddenly felt so heavy. No one dared to look at anyone else.

Oberyn crossed to the centre of the room, a new goblet in his hand. "To Doran," he said simply, his voice steady despite the fact that his face was still contorted with grief. "We will not forget him."

He drank and everyone followed. The silence in the room was broken only by the crackling of the candles.

"To Mellario," he went on. "Our Essosi rose who managed to thrive in the Dornish desert."

They drank again.

"To Arianne and Quentyn who lost their future before they were old enough to have one."

Her throat closing, Elia toasted the children she hadn't seen grow.

Oberyn paused. "To everyone who should have been here, with us, and isn't," he finally said. "We will not forget you."

This was the hardest toast of all, for Elia still felt irrational guilt for the absence of so many. If only she had been stronger… if only she had given Rhaegar his damned three heads of the dragon… would it have made difference? She believed that he had lunged at the first pretext to chase after Lyanna Stark – but she had given him this pretext, hadn't she? If only, if only, if only…

"And now," Oberyn announced, "we must look toward the future. Let's start now."

The lyre was picked up and though slow, hope for the new beginning and the joy of being reunited started pouring off the strings.

"If no one has other preferences," Ashara's voice came, loud and clear. "If no one has other preferences, Ryon, would you play my other favourite song, Fury of the Sun?"

"Very well," he laughed. "But only if you sing along, my lady."

"Here it is!" she agreed readily. "We'll all sing along, right?"

"Yes, of course!" Oberyn confirmed. Ryon started the refrain and everyone started singing. Some of them – quite off-tune and in a drunken drawl.

Arthur drew further down the hallway and walked away. Tonight, the door leading to Oberyn's chambers was thrown wide open, clearly to make clear that each of their belated friends was welcome. Each but Arthur, that was it. The feeling of loneliness and rejection was stronger than anything he had suffered until now. He knew he deserved it but the Stranger take it, it hurt. A few hours ago, Arel had went right by him with no more than a perfunctory greeting and Alynna had actually tugged her skirts closer, as if brushing against Arthur in the narrow hallway would stain the yellow silk. She's vengeful, Alynna, Arthur remembered. Even if Arel was ready to forgive, his wife would always be there to remind him of his wretched brother's many failings.

He raised a hand to his face and felt how hot it was. He knew he could not go to sleep anytime soon, so he settled to find himself a place in the gardens where he would not hear the music and laughter.

He had made it only to the door leading to the inner courtyard when someone collided into him and pushed him away angrily, but quite feebly. "Can you not watch your way?" a raucous voice snapped.

"I could say the same to you," Arthur snapped back; as they passed each other, he startled and looked again, even entering the building back to make sure that he had seen right. The man who was entering the private chambers – or rather, trying to – was Alric Gargalen.

But by the Warrior, it was an Alric Arthur had never seen in his thirty-odd years of life. Feeling Arthur's stare, he turned to him and the younger man's surprise turned into horror. The torches in their sconces lit tired and hopeless eyes, like those of a hunted beast that could find no shelter. Alric wore a grey silken robe and the expensive material somewhat masked the disarray about the rest of him. His hair was disheveled, his face completely yellow. The vacant eyes made it even more colourless and ghostlike save for the bloody grooves on his cheeks, a face from an old portrait bleached by dust, humidity, and the passage of time, a portrait that might crumble to pieces any moment now out of the ruin of its fabric. He seemed to be unable to walk properly – every movement seemed to cost him a great effort, he was staggering and holding to the walls as if he feared that he'd fall down. Arthur expected to see his knees buckle any moment.

"What?" Alric spat again, in this strange hoarse voice. And it was now, by watching and listening to him, that Arthur realized the older man was drunk, dead to the world. He was clearly returning from some lowly inn, for the stench around him was that of a ban wine and even worse rum. And everything that he had taken was starting to paralyze him, prevent him from going down the entire length of the hallway, climbing the stairs and actually returning to his chambers. He would have fallen right here and stayed like this, Arthur realized. He has no way to regain control. The wine and rum are barely starting their effect.

"Come on," he said and took Alric's arm, leading him down the hall. "I think you'll feel better when you reach your chambers. Just try not to vomit."

"I won't," Alric said. "It was just some bad wine in a bad inn."

More like ten bad inns, all with bad wine and rum, Arthur thought. Now Alric was walking slowly, calmly, leaning against Arthur's arm, his previous anger lost. It was astonishing, this self-command that made him pretend that nothing of what was happening concerned him and he was in full control of his faculties, as if he meant to say, "I happened to get drunk… just like that… because I had a fancy…", as if there was no other reason running more deeply.

When they reached the bedchamber, Arthur spat a startled curse. In the flash of a moment, he realized where the grooves of parched blood on Alric's face originated from. It had not been a drunken brawl as Arthur had suggested.

There was something ugly and heartrending in the objects thrown haphazardly all around the room, the upturned chairs, the broken mirror, the torn curtains. The candles were burning, though, and in their light the scratches on Alric's face stood out even more sharply.

"Why haven't your servants…" Arthur started and paused, helping him to lie down.

Alric's lips curved into a disgusting parody of a smile. "They think it's the Targaryen madness," he murmured. "Too scared."

"They think…" Arthur started and fell silent because Alric had already closed his eyes.

He stayed for a while, wondering whether Elia's father was asleep until a soft crack turned his head towards the door.

His brother entered the room without hesitation, a terrified servant cowering behind him. Arthur thought that Arel didn't look surprised. Instead, he turned around and gave the servant a level look. "Since when has he been in this state?"

"I heard him breaking things as early as the afternoon," the old man said readily. "Then, he went to sleep, rose and left. I came to collect you as soon as I saw him coming back…"

"Went to sleep, did he," Arel said absent-mindedly. Arthur shared his doubt – whatever Alric's fit, he had likely collapsed, exhausted, not gone to sleep the usual way. Arel reached into his pocket and handed the man a coin. "If no one gets to know that my lord has had a fit, it'll be good to you. Early in the morning, come here and put the room in order. I'll take care of him now."

Visibly relieved, the man scurried outside, lest the lord changed his intentions. Arel stared at his foster father and then started walking around the room and peeping here and there.

"What happened?" Arthur finally asked. "What is all that?"

Arel who had been kneeling in front of a pile of books rose and gave him a long look. "Can't you guess?"

"Since when has he been like this? I never noticed a thing."

"You couldn't possibly see. His fits of hard drinking come three or four times a year, for five years now. The rest of the time, he's completely normal and never gets carried away with his cups. But when it's one of those three or four times…"

He fell silent and resumed scouring through the debris.

"What are you looking for?"

Instead of answering, Arel moved to a side table and Arthur followed. His brother knelt in front of a darker spot near a fallen goblet and nodded, as if he had resolved a mystery. Taking the goblet, he rose, sniffed it, and nodded once again.

"What did it contain?" Arthur asked. It was surreal, having this conversation with Arel who avoided him, in the havoc of the chamber Alric himself had ruined in some fit…

"Viper wine," Arel said.

Arthur drew back, as if the words themselves were vipers that could bite him. He had heard of viper wine, of course, which Dornishman hadn't? But it was mainly in the realm of rumours. Even among the maesters, there were few of those who dared prepare the pain killer. From offhanded comments, he had heard the suggestion that Alric and Oberyn had mastered the dangerous art but he had never considered that they might use it for themselves. A lapse in judgment. I knew they were overconfident enough to try it.

"Why doesn't he use the milk of poppy instead?"

"Because it's addictive."

Arthur barked a laugh. "Sorry," he apologized as he saw Arel's look. "It somehow amuses me. He's afraid that he might get addicted, so he uses a drink instead that, with a simple miscalculation of the dose, might kill him?" He paused, reconsidering. "It isn't funny at all."

"Not in the least," Arel agreed dryly. "It seems that after getting drunk this last time, he accidentally spilled the goblet with the viper wine and his chances of sweet oblivion soaked into the carpet. You can see what happened next."

Now he went to the bed to have a look at Alric, dipped a cloth in a basin of cold water, and started bathing Alric's face and hands. It looked to Arthur that even in this heavy sleep caused by the alcohol, Alric's features were not so terribly stretched now. Arthur's imagination vividly drew the terrible scene that had taken place here a few hours ago.

"Elia doesn't know," he finally said.

"Of course she doesn't," Arel said, vexed, and returned to cleaning a particularly nasty-looking groove on Alric's cheek. "Why should we tell her? She'll get to know soon enough. It isn't easy even for Oberyn and I think we both know which one is more tender-hearted." He sighed. "I'll have to tell him, though. He'll have to make the viper wine since Alric is in no state to do it himself."

Arthur was about to ask about the proportions of the drink before realizing that he didn't truly want to know. He felt that Arel would mention a dose of poison that would be likely to kill two robust young men but was normal for Alric. Five years. Immediately after the end of the rebellion. It looked like Alric had cracked under the weight of his losses and the immense pressure that had been his constant companion since before he could walk. And yet Arthur thought not of his collapse but of their clash at the door, that hellish loftiness of Alric's, the pride that nothing could break that made him look so defiant. Elia had this pride, too. Arthur remembered the day they had finally returned to King's Landing and the haughty, contemptuous grace Elia had somehow managed to make visible under her impeccable manners, despite the fact that she had yet to venture out of her chambers after the damages she had sustained in the fire and the thousands of eyes ready to pounce on her weakness and humiliation. People always said that she was like her mother. I wonder whether someone ever saw just how much she takes after her father. Arthur only prayed that she'd never find herself fighting demons like the ones Alric kept at bay with sheer will assisted from time to time with alcohol and a dangerous potion.

"Go to sleep," Arel said. "I can take care of him by myself. And then I have to send for Oberyn."

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked.

"Yes."

More than a little grateful, Arthur wearily dragged himself to his bedchamber, undressed, blew the candle off, and slid under the covers. And then he almost screamed when his foot touched something soft.

"Be quiet," Elia said, reproachfully, and the hoarseness of her voice immediately brought the thought of her father back to Arthur's mind.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you."

"You came…" he echoed, "… to find me."

"Yes," Elia confirmed, pleased to be understood. "Too tired to hunt for someone else. Didn't want to, either."

She slurred the words in a way that made his next question useless but he asked it anyway.

"Are you drunk?"

"Only half-drunk," she replied. "That's why I came to you. I thought we could get the task done. I even brought the bottles."

Bottles. More than one? Arthur didn't want to light a candle since that would probably hurt her eyes, but started feeling around the bed and damn him if he didn't found two bottles on the coffer at the bedside. His bedside. Elia might be drunk but she remembered who should open them.

"Listen," he said, uncomfortable all of a sudden. "It isn't that I don't want you here but I don't think you truly realize…"

Elia laughed huskily, found his hand in the darkness and squeezed. "I told you, I am only half-drunk. I am completely aware of what I am doing and who I am doing it with. It isn't about love or anything." She said the word as if she were saying, a rampant dragon. "I like you, you like me, you're saving me time to seek a bedmate. We can make each other's nights more interesting."

He had had some idea of just how she was when she was drunk. But this brazenness? This bitterness? Drunk or not, she couldn't let go of her hurt entirely. Her distrust. Her determination to cleanse herself of her life with the man who had shamed and betrayed her.

But she still liked him. She had said so. He had hoped but before, he hadn't known for sure. She had guarded her secret with jealousy that only grew with his desperation to know. No matter her reasons, she wanted to be with him, for the nights, at least.

"And I have not forgiven you," she finished. "Just for you to know. Don't think that I have."

"Right now, I don't care about forgiveness," Arthur replied huskily and drew her near.