Obara
The inn went by the name of the Dornishman's Head, and right away Obara wanted to skewer somebody on the end of her spear.
Or just wrap a whip around someone's neck and drag them around on the ground for a while, either one would sate her anger.
It did not look the most salubrious place in the world, sitting as it did on the very edge of Oldtown. It was unlikely to see many maesters or aspiring maesters, and even the most well-off travellers were likely to press further on into the city itself. It looked, in fact, as though it only existed to service the denizens of the shanties round about, the shacks sitting on the verge edge of the oldest city in Westeros, not quite out of it but not quite a part of it either.
Obara supposed that that was why Sarella had chosen here as their rendezvous: of all the inns in Oldtown this one offered probably the lowest chance of her being spotted by anyone who recognised her.
That still didn't make Obara any happier about the name, though.
The only thing that did please Obara Sand was the fact that she would not have to go very far into Oldtown itself.
Gods, how she hated this fucking city. She hated the antiquity of it. She hated the smell of it. She hated the smug sense of importance that pervaded everything about the place. She hated the way it was full of sanctimonious maesters who prated of learning while breaking every vow they swore at every opportunity. She hated the sight of it, she hated the sounds of it.
She hated the fact that it was her home, and she would never be able to escape that.
Obara shook her head, a scowl settling on her features as her horse trotted closer to the Dornishman's Head. I am a Dornishwoman. I am the daughter of Oberyn Martell of Dorne. Aye, the bastard daughter, who bore the name of Sand, not Martell, and her mother had been a whore in this very city of Oldtown. Had her father not come to claim her, Obara might have grown up with the name of Flowers, if she had grown up with a name at all.
She did not like to remember that. She did not like to remember what her life had been like before her father came to claim her: being stuffed away by her mother so that the sight of her would not distract the clients, listening as sweaty sellswords, drunken sailors, maesters and acolytes in robes and chains all grunted their way over and under and into her mother. Listening to them use her, listening to them hit her. Listening to her mother weeping when they were done.
Such could have been her life, had things been different. Such would have been her life: a doll for men to amuse themselves, to treat as they wished, to twist and warp and to discard when she was too old to please them. Her father had saved her from that. He had placed a spear in her hand and taught her how to use it. He had taken her away from this cesspool of hypocrisy and given her a home, a country. Oberyn Martell might not have been what many would call a devoted father, and certainly he had not been a traditional one; but he had given Obara Sand a family and a life. And to repay that debt she would do anything her father asked of her. She would come to this city which she hated, she would make peace with the sister she liked least. She would fight for him, she would go to war for him, she would die for him. She would go to Valyria or even to the Seven Hells themselves in Oberyn Martell asked it of her.
From what she knew of this mission, it might well come to that in the end.
Obara reached the inn, nudging her horse off the road - the sound of the beast's hooves upon the stones ceased, and was replaced by a softer thudding sound - and towards the stables leaning haphazardly against the side of the building.
A stableboy with hair the colour of straw and a face full of freckles was sleeping at the stable entrance. Or he had looked to be sleeping anyway, he certainly leapt up quick enough to take the reins of Obara's horse as she dismounted near the stable door.
"Are you come to stay for the night?" he asked.
"Only for the one night, I hope," Obara muttered. "But I doubt my business will be done before nightfall. Why? Not full up are you?"
"No, no, there's plenty of room. There's always plenty of room." The boy said, a touch of despondency entering his tone. He eyed her curiously, his gaze lingering on the spear she carried in one hand and the shield in the other, and on the whip she wore upon her hip.
"Are you a sellsword?" he asked.
Obara snorted. "Tywin Lannister himself isn't rich enough to buy my spear."
"But you know how to fight?"
"No, I carry this spear because I enjoy getting questions from curious stableboys," Obara said. "Yes, I know how to use it. Better than most men too, I wager. I don't sell my spear, but I give it to causes I approve of."
"But you're a woman," the stableboy blurted out.
"And?" Obara demanded.
The boy flinched from her gaze. "Nothing, ser. I meant no offence."
Obara sighed. "I'm not a knight, you don't call me ser."
"Is it m'lady then? Only, you don't look like a lady."
"Thank you," Obara said, her voice flat and deadpan. She was well aware that she was not and would never be considered a great beauty, not even in Dorne. In fact she was aware that in many people's eyes she was downright ugly; that was why, unlike Nym and Tyene, she had never been invited to share the bed of Princess Arianne. But that didn't mean she enjoyed being told it so baldly by a boy with front teeth that could have come from a rabbit and a nose that was long enough to joust with.
"Do you see a lot of ladies around here?" she asked sarcastically.
"No," the boy muttered. "We see a knight though, every now and again. And some sellswords. Ma says my father was a knight."
"Does she?" Obara asked. She did not doubt that in a place like this, there were hundreds of whores and tavern wenches claiming their fatherless children where noble bastards, sired by acolytes studying at the Citadel, or knights or lords sworn to House Hightower. She did not doubt that few of them were ever acknowledged by their supposed fathers. "Does he have a name, the knight who sired you?"
The boy looked down at his feet. "No."
Obara suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. He was not so different from her, though perhaps he was luckier to have a tavern wench for a mother rather than a whore, but stuck in the same city, in the same circumstances. He was not so lucky in his father, though.
She tossed him a pair of silver stags. "Take care of my horse, and there'll be more when I leave."
"Yes, right, thank you."
"I hope your father returns one day," Obara said, turning around and walking swiftly - she walked everywhere swiftly, and saw little reason to slow down - out of the stable and into the inn itself.
The interior of the Dornishman's Head vindicated Obara's impression that the place was a bit of a hole. There was what might, optimistically, have been spilled wine on the floor but was more likely to be someone's piss. A fat man was passed out on one of the tables, his head half submerged in a bowl of soup. Only a few people else were still in the inn, and they all looked at her with such suspicion that she half thought they hadn't seen anyone from outside the inn before in their lives.
Or perhaps they just didn't see a lot of Dornish in a place called the Dornishman's Head.
Obara strode up to the innkeep. "I'd like a room."
"How long," the innkeeper grunted.
"One night, maybe longer but probably not."
"A dragon," she said.
Obara handed over the gold piece with the feeling that she was being ripped off. Most like the bed would be full of fleas and she would get no sleep for hearing rats scurrying across the floor. "I'll want a meal later as well."
"That'll be six stags," the innkeeper said.
Obara handed that over too. It would probably be leftovers from the kennels but she had to eat something. She ended up paying two more stags for a mug of sour Dornish red wine, and then settled herself at an empty table in the corner, where she watch for Sarella coming in without getting snuck up on.
It did not take her half-sister very long to put in an appearance, although it took Obara a few moments to recognise her. The fourth of Oberyn Martell's daughters had cut her curly black hair shorter than most men, which combined with her features to give her the look of a comely lad. Of course, that was the whole point, she could hardly have gained access to the Citadel otherwise. If Obara had not known Sarella for years she might have been fooled herself.
Sarella was wearing a green coat over a white tunic, and in one hand she carried her goldenheart bow, with a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She walked more slowly and more carefully than Obara, but she did not hesitated to make her way over to her sister.
"Obara," she murmured, her voice soft, almost devoid of emotion.
"Sarella," Obara replied. "How are you?"
"I was very well," Sarella replied. She nodded towards the wine. "What are you drinking?"
"Dornish red, what else?" Obara asked.
"Of course. Slightly sour, like you," Sarella said, a quick smile flashing across her face. She waved over one of the wenches, and asked for a cup of Arbor gold.
Obara's eyebrows rose. "Arbor gold?"
"It is the drink of choice, here in Oldtown," Sarella said. "We are quite close to the Arbor, after all. And I find I like the taste."
"Traitor," Obara said.
Sarella chuckled. "I am only half Dornish, if you recall. Just like you and Nym and Tyene."
Obara grunted. "I am Oberyn Martell's daughter, Dornish to the bone."
"Oberyn Martell's daughter by a whore from this city of Oldtown," Sarella murmured. "Which is not in Dorne, as even you know." She paused for a moment. "I know you'd rather focus on being father's daughter...but we are bastards, and a pack of mongrels, the four of us. There's no point denying it. Truth is truth."
"And sometimes lies are better, and of more use," Obara replied.
Sarella took a sip of her Arbor gold. "What are you doing here, Obara? I know you didn't come here to visit Oldtown, or for the pleasure of my company?"
"Do you object to me being here?"
"I object to you threatening to give away my secret."
"Your secret doesn't matter any more," Obara said. "Father wants you."
Sarella said nothing. She took another drink, staring into Obara's eyes. They had the same eyes, both like a snake, just like their father, but Sarella's eyes were a shade lighter than Obara's.
"Father," she said eventually. "Does not want any of us. He wants Ellaria, he wants his children by her perhaps, he wants his vengeance on House Lannister. He doesn't want us. He wants to make use of us, perhaps, but the answer is no."
"It isn't a request," Obara growled.
Sarella's expression did not change. "He is my father, not my master of my liegelord. He does not have the power or right to summon me."
"He is our father, we owe him our obedience, even you," Obara replied. "He sent me to bring you back to Dorne."
Sarella laughed. "You may be content being his messenger raven, but I have other plans."
"Plans," Obara snorted. "Plans to spend your whole life pretending to be a man? Joining the grey hypocrites?"
"Plans to find out their secrets," Sarella hissed, leaning inwards. "Something is going on here. In Oldtown, in the Citadel. Something to do with magic and dragons. Something big, something that will make the War of the Five Kings look like a child's tantrum. The secrets I'm uncovering, the things that Marwyn speaks of...they go back centuries. I am close to unravelling all of it, but I need time. I cannot abandon all of that now."
Obara was quiet for a moment. "These secrets...some sort of conspiracy?"
"I think so, yes."
"Then perhaps best you leave now," Obara said, taking a swig of the sour wine. "Before they decide to kill you to protect their secrets."
"I can protect myself."
"I wouldn't have bothered coming here to fetch you if you couldn't," Obara snapped. "Father needs you for something more important than Maester's secrets."
"What?" Sarella asked sceptically. "His vengeance?"
"Dorne's vengeance," Obara replied.
"Forgive me if I don't leap from my seat with fervour," Sarella said. "But I never knew Princess Elia, or her children. Father's grief is not mine. Nor his anger, or his thirst for vengeance."
"I met her once," Obara said softly.
"Really?" Sarella asked, her eyebrows rising. "At court?"
"Of course not at court, do you think Father ever took me to King's Landing?" Obara asked. "No, Princess Elia came to Sunspear, with Prince Rhaegar and Princess Rhaenys. I was thirteen, kept well away from the crown prince and his daughter of course, but Oberyn presented me to Aunt Elia, in private."
Sarella looked curious. "What was she like?"
"Kind," Obara said. "Too kind probably, that's why she ended up dead and cuckolded; but I liked her. She seemed...kind."
"And that's why you want to avenge her?" Sarella asked. "Because she seemed kind?"
"I want to avenge her because Father wants to avenge her, and I'm a good daughter," Obara said.
"A good soldier, more like," Sarella remarked.
"That too," Obara said, taking another great gulp of wine.
Sarella leaned backwards, drumming her dark fingers upon the table. "I am not a soldier. And, if you define good as obedient, I am not that either. Tell Father, but I have my own work to attend to."
"Leave it," Obara said. "This is important."
"Have you been listening to a word that I have said?" Sarella demanded. "The maesters have been manipulating the course of Westerosi history for thousands of years! They wiped out the dragons! They eliminated magic! What is the quarrel between Martell and Lannister compared to that? What is Princess Elia's murder compared to that? What is Father and his desires compared to that?"
"Watch your mouth," Obara snapped.
Sarella sighed. "Your cause is Father. That is well and good, but he is not my cause and his cause is not mine."
"And what is your cause?" Obara demanded.
"Knowledge," Sarella said. "I want to know the truth, I want to know what's really going on. I want to know...everything."
Obara leaned in, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Would you like to know about dragons?"
Sarella blinked, and Obara felt a small frisson of pleasure from being able to catch her curious sister out.
"Dragons?" Sarella repeated. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about seeing them with your own eyes, in the flesh and flame," Obara whispered. "Something you can't find in your dusty books."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sarella said. "The dragons are gone."
"They were gone, but you must have heard about the Targaryen girl, the last Targaryen. She has hatched three dragons in the east."
Sarella shook her head. "Sailor's tales and wild rumours."
"Nuncle seems to believe them," Obara said. "That's why Father wants you. We're going east, to find the Targaryen princess and bring her back, her and her dragons, to marry cousin Quent."
"Cousin Quent," Sarella repeated. "So she's ugly or desperate, this Targaryen? Or just not fussy?"
Obara snorted so hard some nearly came out of her nose. "I know what you mean, but what else is Nuncle to do? Ask her to wait for Trys to become a man? There's a dearth of handsome, eligible men in our family."
"Father?" Sarella suggested.
"Don't say that where Ellaria can hear you," Obara said. "Anyway...marriages, dynasties, alliances...leave that for Nuncle and Arianne to concern themselves with. Our part is the journey. Now do you understand? We could use someone who can shoot a bow like you...and, honestly, we probably use someone who knows as much as you as well."
"There are archers in Dorne, and maesters too," Sarella said.
"Aye, but none of them Sand Snakes, and so none of them trustworthy," Obara replied. "Besides, don't you want to be the first person to study live dragons in over a hundred years? Don't you want to be in the books? To be read about instead of reading?"
"There's nothing wrong with reading," Sarella replied. "The reader lives a thousand lives before he dies."
"None of them as exciting as the life that Father's offering," Obara said. "Come on, Sarella, dragons! If we do this our names will live forever in song and story."
"Who's we?" Sarella asked.
"You, me - if you're with us - Father, Nym, Tyene, Elia. Ellaria too, I think, though I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Ellaria's not like us. She can't protect herself."
"Neither can Tyene."
"Don't tell her that," Obara said.
"So, a family affair?"
"In the main," Obara said. "Father's squire too, Daemon Sand, but I suppose that can't be helped."
Sarella was silent for a moment. "Dragons. I must admit you...to write the first work on dragons from live study in... seven hells that would be something. And Essos...there is a lot of fascinating culture there."
That's it, Obara thought. Convince yourself, where I have failed to move you.
Sarella closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again they were alight with resolve. "I will come. You are right, as hard as that is to admit; this will be a greater opportunity to learn things than anything I could discover studying here. I will come."
"I knew you would in the end."
"I suppose even a great ox like you can be right once in a moon's turn."
"Very droll."