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Suns and Storms

Further Down the Road

The blood orange in front of Arianne glistened wet, bright and juicy, its rich red deepener than usual, saturated into scarlet. When she placed a piece of it in her mouth, it tasted of ripening moved to rotting, sweetness that had been so full that it had started tasting slightly sickening, old and weary, and deceptively enticing with life it no longer had. Frowning, she swallowed it nonetheless but did not reach for another piece.

The children were playing in the pools down, shrieking with laughter. Someone saw her and pointed her out. Arianne smiled and waved at them. They returned the gesture enthusiastically but her own smile grew sad when she remembered the time she had been such a child, with no greater care in the world than unseat the occupant of another pair of shoulders. Alric had been her preferred partner. When with him, she had very rarely fallen down. That's because you're so small, he had used to explain. It's easy to hold you and you don't lose your balance as easily as the taller ones do. She had nodded wisely, agreeing that it wasn't so hard to keep oneself balanced when there wasn't so much of them to keep balanced in the first place!

Once again, she sat down and kept reading the latest words arrived by ravens' wings. Her eyes grew stormy at the news that Lord Yronwood had returned to Dorne. After the fiasco of five years ago, he had spent much of his time abroad. He'd been scared of Arianne and most of the Dornish lords and ladies turning against him for his betrayal. As he should have, Arianne thought angrily. Another thought, quite unwelcome, made her frown even more. Could it be that he had heard about her affair with Artos and taken it to mean that Alric's influence over her had been diminished? House Gargalen had more reasons than anyone else to bear a grudge against him. Aelinor Gargalen, Alric's sister, had ended up used and dishonoured. Yes, hiding away had been wise on Edgar Yronwood part. And it must have been very jarring to his pride, too. A small smile of malice crept over her lips, swiftly replaced by a look of both fear and longing when she looked up from the terrace to the gates that remained so stubbornly closed. No cloud of dust, no Alric storming in and jumping off Flame in full gallop to demand to know what had gotten into her.

She rose and went back to the railing, staring at the cheerful activity around the pools. Her eyes swiftly made out her own children's frames and her dark eyebrows knitted together when yet another unpleasant thought came to her: Alric had promised Oberyn that he'd send for him and Elia to be brought at Salt Shore and he hadn't. That wasn't her husband's style: Alric took his promises to their children as seriously as he did his promises to adults, be it treats or punishments.

All of a sudden, Arianne made her mind up. This waiting was no good to anyone. If Alric wouldn't come to her, she'd go to him and see just how bad things were. People often claimed that time apart was a good thing for a marriage, giving tempers time to cool down. But to Arianne's marriage in her current situation, there was nothing worse than time apart. Getting the storm raging and passing was the best way to preserve the relationship that meant more to her than the world would ever know.

She turned around and headed for the door to give orders to prepare for leaving.

Wherever their party went, the devastating effects of the storm could be felt all around: the mud, the overflowing streams, the bad roads. Far on their left, the sound of the sea resembled a widow's lament, rather than the glorious roaring of eternal strength that had always accompanied Arianne, each time she chose to travel along the coastline, instead of by sea. Here and there, people had ventured to work in the olive groves and once, a little girl ran to the party and offered Arianne her clenched fist , so small that it could contain only four olives; smiling, the Princess ate them without hesitation, savouring the taste most people found impossibly bitter.

"It's vile!" she heard another little girl's voice, her own, complaining indignantly, rinsing her mouth frantically and looking around that same olive grove. A few steps away, Alric bravely ate his own olive, even managing not to frown as the poison burned its way through his throat.

Prince Mors Martell laughed, took them by the hands, and led them deeper among the olive trees. "Look at that, children! This is your land and this is one of the things that feed us all. Olives are not vile, they are the blood that runs in the veins of Dorne. Try it, feel it as it comes raw, and remember that with the efforts of our people, it turns to the food that you both like so much at the table in Sunspear and the Water Gardens. Nothing comes without effort… and you need to respect the things that give Dorne life."

Princess Carissa's ladies shook their heads and started muttering among themselves about their Prince's peculiar ideas. Arianne and Alric, though, listened entranced. Not because they understood fully, they were too young, but because his tone spoke to them more eloquently than the words themselves. A moment later, Alric stood on tiptoes, reached for an overhanging branch, picked a handful of green fruit, and offered them to Arianne, palm open. She picked a few, leaving him another few, and they both ate and tried to taste Dorne in the bitterness that was not so bitter now.

The precious memory made Arianne's eyes fill up. Her father would have known what to do now, how to help her. Or not. A man can have many women but the wife is only one, he had been heard saying repeatedly. And as far as Arianne knew, Lady Carissa Jordayne had never paid much attention to his affairs – except for that girl who had boasted that she held the Prince's heart in public and giving Carissa's own ladies orders contradicting hers. Only a month later, the chit had been packed off to the desert and wed to a minor lord there. Prince Mors had always drawn a sharp line between his Princess and his mistresses, with Carissa always having the lion share of his support. He would have been troubled to know that Arianne had blurred the line. I cannot help you, child, he would have said now. You must find your own way if you want it to lead you somewhere.

Arianne bit at another olive. I won't lose him, she thought as the black juice filled her mouth. Not the love of her life; not her companion from before they were old enough to know what a companion was.

Here and there, they encountered trees stricken by thunderclamps, mightly trunks that had risen proud and green at Arianne's last trip down this road a few months ago, now shrunken, split in two, dead and blackened. She tried to remember whether there had been any signs to predict the sudden unleashing of the storm or its ferocity and came up with the unnaturally hot weather, the one that had lulled everyone sleepy and careless, completely unprepared for what had to come.

It was already late at night when the huge gates of Salt Shore opened to admit them; as soon as her Captain of Guards helped her dismount, Arianne headed for the building, ignoring the stares and whispers of those guards and servants who were still awake and had gathered to meet her.

Just as she expected, Mikkel and Isanne were not abed despite the late hour. He sat with a book in front of the fireplace and she as working on her embroidery; for a moment, Arianne remembered that when given time, Mikkel could outdo the late Jaehaerys Targaryen in being bookish. Carral sat in a big chair with his eyes closed and his head resting over the edge of the back. To her relief, Doran was nowhere to be seen. But neither was Alric.

At the sound of her footsteps, they all looked up.

"Welcome, my lady," Mikkel said formally and her blood ran cold. His brief smile, though, made her sigh with relief. At least someone there wasn't set up against her. Everyone else, from the servants to Carral and Isanne, seemed to judge her and find her lacking. Mikkel, though, had struggled to keep Dorne stable alongside her and he had seen firsthand the strain she had been under, the tension that had made her unable to make the right calls in her private life. Maybe he's forgotten that he hinted to me I was going too far with Artos, she thought without much hope. For now, his lack of judgment would have to do.

"We weren't expecting you," Isanne said. "Come, sit down. You must be tired."

She went to the table and started pouring wine, the perfect hostess as ever. Arianne, though, had no time for niceties. "I thought I might find Alric with you," she said.

There was a perceptible thickening of the tension in the solar before Mikkel said in a level voice, "He has retired for the evening already. He was tired."

Arianne blinked. She had been expecting to hear anything but that. Alric rarely went to bed earlier than midnight and often later; him citing tiredness was equally rare.

"And Lady Daella?" she asked. In truth, she was pleased she didn't have to deal with her goodmother who had warned them – just once, in the beginning – that they were courting trouble. Daella Targaryen was the kindest soul there was but Arianne was sure she'd hear the unspoken, I told you so.

"She's still in the Red Mountains, with the Fowlers," Mikkel said. "In fact, Alric insisted that she'd not be apprised of his situation."

All of a sudden, Arianne wished she had accepted that goblet. What was the matter with Alric's situation? Why hadn't he come to have a quarrel with her? Why wasn't he here now?

"I am going to see him," she said and was quite unsurprised at seeing the looks exchanged between the other three.

"I am not sure it is…" Isanne started before Carral cut her off.

"Isanne," he said. "Let her be. They'll have to meet at one point. She's come all the way from the Water Gardens, so why not now?"

His voice sounded so very reasonable, almost considerate; in the tapestry of light and shadows his eyes were anything but.

"I'll take you there," Mikkel said quickly, ignoring Arianne's arched eyebrow. She did know the bedchamber she shared with Alric while they were here, for the Mother's sake.

Once they were out the solar and on the staircase leading to the upper floors, Mikkel looked at her. His Targaryen eyes flickered like drops of wine spilled in a burning hearth. "He isn't well, Arianne," he said. "If you have come with storms and apologies, I'd advise you to reconsider. I don't know how he'll react to either. He isn't ready for them."

Her heart sank. "What do you mean, not well?" she asked. So that was why he hadn't come to confront her or sent for the children. She cursed herself for not guessing the truth earlier. Only incapability would have kept him at bay.

Mikkel stopped and reached for a torch that had died out, busying himself with taking it off the holder and putting it close to another torch so it could be relit. "Exactly what I mean," he said. "The maester says his condition is quite serious. Anxiety only makes it all worse, so I'd like for you not to let him drag you into an argument… or start one yourself. And if he's fallen asleep with the compress, don't wake him up to have it changed."

Those instructions scared her even more. "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

He sighed. "In body? A wound that would not heal. Exaustion. Weakness of the limbs. A constant headache. And severe malnourishment."

Arianne's jaw dropped. "Malnourishment?" she echoed, truly stunned. "How can he suffer from malnourishment?"

He gave her a look that clearly said, Well, usually the reason is not enough food. But how was that possible? As harsh as his conditions had been, others had returned, emaciated but not malnourished by any means. It was hard to believe that Alric, of all people, would not have enough food.

"There's something wrong with him," Mikkel said. "It looks like physical exertions have pushed his abdominal organs down and that seems to be quite painful. As I told you, his body is a wreck. He is quite revolted by the very idea of food."

Arianne's hands went cold. Without another word, she resumed walking. Mikkel turned and headed back down the way he had come.

Salt Shore was one of the castles where torches burned in the hallways almost till dawn, so Arianne walked steadily, without hesitation. She opened the door slightly, trying to do it as softly as possible. But Alric was not asleep anyway. She barely contained her gasp at the sight of his bloodless skin and the drops of sweat on his face in the room that was clearly being kept cold to fight his fever off. He had removed the thin cover, as if he was too hot, and she saw just how emaciated he was, a little more than a corpse. He was lying on his side, as not to disturb the bandaged wound on his shoulder. On the carpet near the bed lay a piece of cloth smelling of some potion that he had clearly held on his bloated belly. His lustrous black hair had thinned out, not because of balding but because of his general exhaustion. The dark eyes taking her in were glazed.

"Close the door," Alric said.

Silently, she did and remained at it, fighting to keep the tears off. Now, she realized why he had not sought her out, what he had seen at coming home. How could I risk so much for the sake of convenience and the joy of having pretty boy near, she thought. For the first time, she realized that she might not win him back, that he might never forgive her, that without knowing, she had dealt him a blow he could hardly deal with. For all his wild nature, he had always craved a certain kind of stability and he had always found it in her, most of all. Even when they were children. He had been taken from everything he knew to be brought here; he had had his life split in two between his parents and his life in Dorne. And she had always been the one to anchor him when he had had to adapt to life here over and over again. This time, though… As he had been losing his health and vitality wielding the sword she could not wield for her gender, she had been going on romantic walks at night with Artos in their own home, close to their children, thinking that no one would see or if they saw, they'd see it the way she meant it, as a distraction in that hectic life of hers. That alone would have been hard enough for his pride to swallow; but the pitiful condition that he was in made it all more painful. He was clearly unable to take logic into reasoning. In fact, Arianne was not sure he was even capable of thinking at all, with those glassy eyes of his. But when they fixed her again, they were clear enough.

"Come here."

She did and hesitated before sitting at the edge of the bed. He did not indicate that he minded. She reached for his hand and he drew it back. "I am sorry," Arianne said softly. "It wasn't what it looked like. It wasn't what I wanted to happen. I just…" Her voice trailed off. "I just didn't think."

"That's quite new." His voice was even. Arianne realized how flimsy this excuse sounded. If anything, she was prone to overthinking things. "Are the children with you?"

She shook her head. "No. I left them home. I didn't know what to expect," she added and gave him an open look.

"Good," he said. "I don't want them to see me like this. It's bad enough that Doran does, every day."

"I daresay he's going to see much worse things in future," Arianne said dryly. "But yes, I agree about Elia and Oberyn."

Alric closed his eyes, as if he had decided to ignore her – or was tired of her presence already. Arianne followed, although her gesture was due to a new fear. He had not thrown her out or started a quarrel. She could only hope that was due to his weakened state and not because he had decided to deal with the problem in the most effective way possible: keeping appearances of accord in public, being remote and aloof in private. Arianne was the Lady of Dorne but Alric had taken some things from his mother, the Targaryen princess: he could just cut people off his life with them still being there every day. This way, he could be sure that she'd never be able to cause him such pain ever again.