Maron I

From the moment of his birth, Maron Martell was the heir to the throne of Dorne. His elder sister had been the next in line, but two years before Maron was born, to seal the treaty with the Targaryens, Myriah's hand had been given to the young Prince Daeron. Upon Maron's birth, Theos Martell, the Prince of Dorne, was eight and forty.

Prince Theos groomed his young son in every aspect of the governance of Dorne, or as much as the boy could stand. As young as seven, Maron remembered falling asleep in the corner of locked chambers while Lords discussed the same sands, rivers, wines, and fruits, as if anything in Dorne ever changed.

Targaryens were always foes. Reachmen were always targets. Stormlanders were their fiercest rivals. And the lands of Dorne were near desolate. Every Lord claimed impoverished conditions for their small folk, and pressed their relations within King's Landing for aid.

It was said the only aid that would ever come was across the Narrow Sea. In the form of trade, support, or loans, Dorne had closer ties to the Free Cities than to any of the other Kingdoms of Westeros, and in Essos, the Dornish were welcomed.

Once through the Boneway or The Prince's Pass, the Dornish were persecuted.

As his father said, "Tis a tough time to lead."

Yet, at those gatherings, Maron always remembered waking from his boredom for the feast. Anytime a prominent Lord of Dorne visited Sunspear or Theos himself visited one of the other Lords' seats, extravagant feasts were thrown, and Maron would eat his fill of fine food from all over the known world.

As young as he was then, he wondered how such a struggling land could afford so much. After a while, it became so routine he never thought to question it again. It was just how things were done in Dorne.

Theos was now nine-and-sixty, approaching his seventieth nameday. When he spoke to his son, it was as if each moment could be final, or each lesson might be the last of its like. The night previous, Theos bid his son a good evening with the parting words, "On the morrow, we journey to the last place you must know before you rule this land. It is of a more nefarious nature, so I have kept it from you until now. Rest well, for the journey will not be pleasant."

Maron had become accustomed to his father's cryptic nature. It added an air of mystery and import to all that he said and did. But rarely did he speak of things that could be described as "nefarious." Rarer still did Maron see his father take any part in the rumored shady dealings nobles were known for in Dorne.

Like as not, on the morrow or soon after, I will learn the rest of what Father's kept from me.

As was his way, Prince Theos never clarified the specifics of their journey, forcing Maron to puzzle it out for himself. "Rulers answer questions as much as subjects ask them. Seek out and covet information above all else. Answers can be more valuable than gold to a wise man. Fools will always pay for that which they do not know."

Only a few would know their destination. Most of the Prince's retinue would just blindly follow as they always did. In the majority of Dorne, the sun was so hot, especially throughout this long summer, none would spend the energy to do anything but. It was an honor to ride with the Prince. They would ride with him to the Wall if he led them there. At least it wouldn't be as hot.

Leaving Sunspear, they waved to the crowd that saw them off, a meager collection of rabble, but an event all the same. At times, it seemed like the Shadow City residents were slowly dwindling away, as the normal noise Maron would hear each morning from his west windows seemed to quiet each passing moon. It might have been nothing. It might have been the drought.

Just before they left, he questioned the Castellan Juros Boneway, finding little in the way of solid information, but general things of note, like the estimation of approximately two fortnights away. Or that they had brought with them enough water for a much longer journey over land, which likely meant a time at sea, for stops to other castles and keeps would be easier than carrying barrels of water if it were the land they were truly crossing.

The destination was unsavory, to hear his father's coded words tell it, so it wasn't a usual progress to the Reach for some negotiation or the Stormlands for reparations for some raid. As they rode through the North Gate, Maron still needed more to puzzle it out.

On the first evening, they set up camp off the road and rested in tents and around small fires. Dorne rarely suffered attacks on the roads. Brigands would be stupid to try. As flat and dry as the lands were, an opposing force had nowhere to hide but underground, and the days were too hot to live in for more than journeys from one keep to another. At times, there were benefits to Dorne's hardships. Brigands couldn't make a living on the roads of Dorne, not without dying of thirst first.

Prince Theos' closest confidants were difficult to pry the truth from, sober. The Head of the Guard, Tennofar Holio, a wide-shouldered former captain of a free company in Lys, was Maron's easiest mark. For a few wineskins and some coppers, he'd sing like a bard with a ballad.

Holio had drawn first watch, though, and Maron would not stay up long enough to try him. Hercule Ridger, his father's accountant and chief informant, couldn't be bribed with coin. Maron figured the greasy Braavosi banker had filled his pockets enough already. What he was more likely to be caught slipping with was a woman, or even a fine young man from time to time. On this trip, however, there were none to offer. There were no camp followers in Dorne for the same reasons brigands were scarce. That, at times, was a shame.

So, it was only Essenay, his father's lovely young paramour, that he could try and use to learn their destination. Maron could let it go, follow like the rest of the herd that surrounded him, and meekly meet whatever they faced with the gratitude of an ignorant subject.

Or he could find the answer for himself, and make the next move to stay ahead of whatever his father was planning. That is how he'd been groomed.

Prince Theos rarely stayed awake past the hour of the ghost, which left his paramour oft as not during the hours of the owl and wolf alone, awake, and restless. In Dorne, a man's paramour was as bound to him as his wife was, sometimes held in higher regard. Maron was not dim enough to actually sleep with the woman, despite her interest, or what she showed to seem like interest in an effort to potentially entrap him in a blackmail scheme that would see her continue on in prosperity after the old man's death. She was as clever as she was seductive, and her soul seemed even blacker than her long, thick, silky hair. Maron would have to push further than he had the last time, in which he found out of the surprise wedding plans for his cousin Tiarra Martell to a Tolland of Ghost Hill, by rubbing the wench's shoulders and legs to ease her soreness. He refused to rub her feet. One, for she was beneath him, and furthermore, rubbing a woman's feet was seen as a sensual act in Dorne.

He feared he'd have to rub them to find out where they were going tonight. I'd almost rather fuck her.

Maron waited for most of the men to find comfort in whatever luxuries they were afforded. Nobler subjects had tents. The more common knights and men-at-arms found spots of cool flat sand. The wine would aid them all to sleep. He preferred most of them halfway gone before attempting such a maneuver.

His father would understand what he was doing if it didn't go too far, but he also feared what a man loyal to his uncle Taron might embellish into the tale if he were caught. Maron feared his father's wrath as much as he respected him. He knew not if he would survive the wrong accusation. As with all valuable information, he aimed to gain it, not disseminate it to others.

With two ripe blood oranges, he snuck to his father's grand tent and clicked his tongue to summon her. It was not uncommon for the two to consort with each other, platonically, so it was a gesture Essenay was familiar with and she appeared quite quickly.

Dressed in her night wear, which wasn't much in the sweltering sands of the desert, a sheer red robe tied with a golden sash which she arranged to plunge down the front of her, exposing the smooth, warm, olive flesh of her cleavage down to her navel, she crept in the moonlight toward him with a sinful grin. Her hips swayed as she tip-toed to the stone he found to sit, and sauntered her way, teasingly, with a goofier grin to replace the more honest smile of seduction he had seen first.

"Good evening, my Prince. What is it that brings you to me so late in the evening?"

"It is still early in the evening, though late in the day. Depends on how you see it."

"And what do you see?" she asked as she approached, standing in the still heat, widening her stance, barefoot in the sand shaded blue in the moonlight. As her legs separated, so too did the robe. One side slipped down, as she'd purposely tied her sash too loose, and she caught it, covering her chest with her arms, just in time to keep a breast from slipping free from the silk. She was blessed by the gods with full, round tits that bounced in place as she moved. He tried not to think of them, but failed. His face flushed, and she hesitated with her sash, seeing that she'd gained the upper hand.

"The moon is a sickle. Its light makes the sand look like a still ocean. The stars shine brightly tonight. The Sword of The Morning, the brightest. Most of the camp looks to be abed, or near passing out on the ground."

"What is all that babble, my Lord?" she replied, confused.

"You asked what I saw. I listed the things I did."

"Do you not see me?" she asked playfully, bending over so her eyes were level with his. The robe poured off of her like a liquid, and it lowered her folded neckline, revealing more of the tanned flesh of her curves.

"I cannot see you, my dear. You are my father's, and not for the eyes of others. Not for the anything of others."

"Tis true," she replied in the way his father would. "A shame though. As you learn from everything your father does, would he not see this as a lesson? There is much still to teach you."

Maron tried to look unimpressed. "It is not extensive experience I currently seek in a woman."

"And why not, my Lord? Younger, dumber girls lack the refined movement that makes all the difference. And I am not so old, my sweet. Remember I am only two years your elder."

"It is not your fruit I seek, flower," Maron replied, extending the blood orange. "It is fruit I offer."

Essenay hesitated, her face betraying her disappointment.

"I know they're your favorite. Don't deny yourself the pleasure just because I deny myself mine own," Maron smiled, hoping she'd continue to play along.

"Fine," she said, pouting and snatching the orange from his hand. "And what pleasure is that? You find me too worn to want, to hear you say it. You only ever want me to talk and talk. Pleasure isn't what you're after. You deny yourself nothing."

"How could any man not wish for you to wrap," he said softly, reaching a hand to her thigh and grasping it gently, "your long legs around him?"

He slid his hands up the side of her leg to her hip, clutching it firmly in his grasp as he pulled her closer, until she was standing inches from his face. Then he stood from the rock, brushing up against her as he rose, until her face was at his chest. He looked down into her narrow amber eyes, his mouth gleaming with a sinister smile. Maron paused before speaking again, allowing her to savor the moment as they looked into each other's eyes.

"And take a taste of your delectable fruit," he said sensually, exaggerating his tongue and lips as each sound left them. Maron leaned a tick lower as Essenay closed her eyes. Then, he jerked her to the side, gripped her wrist and bit into the blood orange she peeled as he wooed her, until its juice dripped down her hand to her elbow as she fought him off.

"I wanted to eat that!" she yelped as she swatted him away.

Maron released her arm and stepped back, laughing, gulping down the bite he'd taken. He began to choke, unable to control his amusement.

"Serves you right, you snake. You made me want it and then you ruined it!"

"You can still enjoy yourself. I brought another," he replied with a smile, tossing the other orange to her as soon as he caught his breath.

"You're always one step ahead, aren't you?"

"I have to be."

Essenay proved willing enough to share what she knew. It was romance she lacked, not sex. When they played their game, it wasn't for the physical pleasures they insinuated sharing. It was the intimacy in more than the act, the bits of banter, the deep true laughter she couldn't hide if she tried, and the ache in her cheeks from the smiling.

It was that she craved, and Maron used it.

"Where in seven hells is he taking us?" he asked simply.

"I don't know, really. I wasn't taught maps and lands."

"Surely he's said something we can use to try to figure out where together," he smiled at her again, to ease her into answering.

Essenay wanted more of his offering first, "You were about to give me something before, when you were speaking so softly. Then you promised you were prepared to give it back, after you took it away."

"I don't have any other oranges, sweetling. I only brought the two."

"You misunderstand me, Prince. Are you tasting my fruit, or not?"

"I took a taste. What more do you ask of me?"

"How was it?" Essenay would not relent.

"Sour."

"Hey!" she struck him, her face as sour as the fruit.

"It's a blood orange. They're hardly sweet. You would know. They're your favorite."

"Enough of these games. They're no fun once I know where they end." She turned back to the tent.

"Wait," Maron said, chasing after her and grabbing her hand. "I'm not eating any fruit, but before you go, tell me. What do you know?" He looked into her eyes and waited. She did not want to tell him, taken for a fool, as far as he could tell from her defeated features. But he knew, if he waited long enough while looking into her eyes, she'd break, and tell him something that would help him solve it.

"It's like a dungeon or something. Wherever we're going has prisoners everywhere and he wants me to stay on the boat. I will do as he says, I told him, but that's all I know."

Ghaston Grey.

"Thank you, Essenay. You've have been most helpful. Goodnight."

Maron woke, dressed, and left his tent to approach his father with his findings. It was a point of pride for the both of them when he'd figure out riddles or mysteries, and it was the first thing Maron had planned for the day. Ghaston Grey must be the worst place in Dorne. No trials. No mercy. Just punishment for the worst of the worst. Maron considered the existence of the isle an effective deterrent for crime in their land of sand and rocks. As hard as many people were forced to live, something had to be.

When he approached the tent, he saw the sun rising in the east, half hidden beneath the flat desert as far as he could see. He imagined the horizon to be a spear, seeing in the scene the sigil of his house, and smiled. He was a proud son of the Sun, and he enjoyed nothing more than making his father proud.

His father's advisors stood sentry outside of the large red tent, their backs to the Prince's shelter, and their faces sullen in disgust. As he drew nearer, he heard why, for Essenay was performing her morning show upon his father's lap, her squealing throes as sincere as any lie as her silhouette rode up and down upon him.

"Seems we're a bit early for his grace," Maron called as he walked up to the group, amused in their discomfort.

Tennofar Holio's mouth dripped down to his chiseled jaw in a pout comparable to a child's. He remained still in his stance, his arms crossed, and his feet firmly planted. But the sounds behind him unnerved him in a way that violence never could.

Ridger replied to Maron, less uncomfortable than annoyed. "It is our duty to be ready for when our Prince needs us. As is hers, it seems."

"Too true, though, I'm his heir and wish to please him, not pester him."

Holio laughed as he replied, "She's pleasing him enough already. How are you supposed to compete with that?"

"It is a different sort of satisfaction, Tennofar, I could never lie like that to my father as she does in those wails."

The group snickered, as Essenay finished with a few more bursts of feigned ecstasy. Maron could hear his father grumble, ordering his paramour to dress him, then herself, and fetch him wine and food to break his fast.

"Should I get any for your men?"

"No. You serve me."

She slipped through the tent's opening dressed in a dark grey robe much more concealing than that which she had worn the previous night. She stepped barefoot through the sand, and pushed past Ridger and Holio, catching Maron's glance and smiling. She winked her long-lashed eye, and mouthed what he thought was, "I was thinking of you."

The other men had already turned to enter the tent. They wouldn't have seen it, but he feared the girl's gall all the same. I'm going to have to stop using her. She's getting the wrong idea.

Abruptly, the two men stormed back out of the tent. Holio called to Maron, "He wants to speak with you first."

"Aye. Don't worry. I'll be quicker than the woman."

Prince Theos was still in his bedroll, thin sheets spread and wrinkled over his withered old legs. As old as he was, when he spoke, he stiffened, as straight as the spear of their sigil. Half of what you say is in how you hold yourself, he had taught his son. Lord Martell gestured to the sand beside him, "Sit, son. What is it that brings you to me so early?"

"Ghaston Grey, father. It's what brings us all here."

"Very good, son. Though, I know it must've been the woman you pumped for information. Hopefully you know not to pump like I just did whilst I live. Dorne cannot afford such a severe slight left unpunished."

"I only have truth for you father. Yes, Essenay said last night that she was to stay on the boats. She thought it was a dungeon, but I was obviously able to piece together the extra water, general direction, dungeon reference, and that she would not be welcomed where we were going. And on the first night, no less."

"Splendid, as always, yet, you are older now. Let me teach you where you've erred."

"I'm sorry? Father, I assure you, nothing happened with your paramour. I only use her for her words, not her . . . other things," Maron knew not what to say. He thought he had been successful.

"As we are set to see the isle, you must now face more truths. You said, 'You only have truth,' for me. No more. It is not a lie to withhold truth. And many lies are the better course. Take my paramour, for example, do you think she means those noises she makes?"

Maron failed to reply.

"No," Theos answered for him. "It is not her truth I desire from her. It is those beautiful lies she tells me."

"I lie to women as well, father. But what do you mean? I figured out where we were going. I thought that was the test."

"The true test was to see what you would do to get the information and what you would do with it once you had it."

"Did I fail? I swear upon the gods and mother I only toyed with the girl, brushing my hand against her leg was the worst of it."

"Gods rest your mother's soul, and no, son, you did not fail. This was a lesson, not a test."

"Then, what was the lesson?"

"You wanted to know where we were going. You pressed your informants to learn it quickly. Then, you immediately came forward and presented the knowledge. This has been our game. You've excelled at it, but no more. I want you now to focus on the periphery. The consequences of obtaining that information, which was worth only the praise I'd give you for discovering it." Maron listened to his father intently, but nervously, wondering what consequences he faced, and why.

Essenay returned to the tent with fruit and wine for his father, nodded, and turned to leave them in privacy.

"Essie, my sweet," Theos called.

She turned back immediately, sinking in a low curtsey to her Lord. "Yes, darling?"

"When you were with me earlier, was it not this handsome lad you imagined inside you? Come dear, You can be honest with me."

"Of course not," she replied, aghast, crawling to the seated Prince and wrapping an arm around him. "Tis but a boy I see beside you. I need not imagine, when the truth is much more pleasing, my Lord." She planted a soft kiss on his dry lips. "Is that all?"

"Yes, dear. Leave."

She nodded, rose, and left.

"Lies. See?" his father chuckled. "Ahh, yes. Now, how did you get your information?"

"I-"

"Silence, boy," Theos ordered softly. He didn't need to raise his voice to sound frightening. "Just listen as I explain. "Surely you spoke to the Castellan for the amount of time he was expected to remain in charge. You might have spoken to the attendants and stable master for other meaningless facts, but still a good source at times. Your diligence may have even led you to other clues I'd left, or not, but none would help better understand the true where." Theos paused to drink from his skin, swilling the wine around in his mouth before gulping it down, extending each moment Maron was left in anticipation for what remained of his father's lecture.

Theos wordlessly, grabbed a ripe pear, examined it for the best target, then bit into it, chewing and swallowing.

"I didn't tell Holio, but I also assigned him to first watch to deter you from bribing him. I didn't tell Ridger, but there weren't any of his vices to entice him with anyway. It was only my woman who knew, and it was only my woman you'd have access to. So, you got your information and blurted it out as soon as you got it."

"I told you, father. I told you I knew, and I told you how I got it."

"I also told you I knew how you got it, didn't I?"

"I suppose," Maron didn't understand.

"What you will learn of Ghaston Grey, only few others will know. It is a truth as deadly as any lie or deceit. I know it has long been our game, but you will not be playing against your father any longer. The men of this realm, and the others, angle only for themselves and their benefit. You made two errors: the first was risking being seen close to a Lord's paramour late at night. I'd be willing to wager a great deal of wealth that she was scantily clothed and eager, despite your assurance of innocence. I know you, and I know the woman. If you were seen pressing information from another Lord's paramour, you could be killed - or worse."

"The second," Theos continued, "was leaving a trail so that I knew who'd you gotten your information from. If people know who informs you, you'll be misinformed. Are you certain we're going to Ghaston Grey?"

Maron thought for a moment, finally starting to get what his father meant to teach him.

"I am now."

"How so? Have you not learned this lesson?"

"You confirmed it earlier, so, now I do, but before entering this tent, all I knew was what you planted for me to find."

"Good lad." His father smiled. "We are going to Ghaston Grey. But the lesson still holds. From now on, Maron, gather information more discretely, and temper that information, for what it is worth, within the greater understanding of all the other things you know. We've been playing at a child's game. You're a man, now. Your very life is at stake."

His father's words always lingered longest. His most recent lesson still hadn't left Maron's mind. Days passed on their way through the sands to the shore, and from the shore to the isle. Maron's thoughts circled, remembering what his father said, still confused about part of it.

Maron had always known to lie and withhold truths. He had always known to move with caution, and he had always respected the honor of other Lords, especially publicly.

His father was teaching Maron to lie to him. To withhold truth from him. From kin. My own blood.

Maron did not trust his uncle Taron, but no man in all of Dorne trusted him. His cousins were uninvolved with the responsibilities of Martells, whoring and drinking their way through the Free Cities in the guise of a term with the Free Companies, which was as much a lie as could be told. His mother had passed, and would have never been one to mistrust, and the only other close kin he had was a sister lost to the Targaryen line of succession. A sister he'd scarcely met, and knew little about.

Myriah.

Was it Myriah his father meant? Was Maron thinking too hard on it? After reaching his conclusion, and correctly, he had fallen asleep nights prior with the confidence of an heir.

Since the tent, both atop his black Dornish Sand Steed, galloping at the miles before him, or upon the rocking boat they boarded when they'd reached the shore, he wandered behind his father, another blind sheep, as unsure as he could ever remember.

Until he saw it. A tall white stone spire, piercing the sun behind it, standing high above the isle, casting shade enough as they climbed up the steep rocky shore to the keep. The island itself seemed a stunted mountain, steep, and from the shore, ever rising. At its peak, tall walls bordered the spire in a simple square, though from a distance, the outside of the walls looked queer. As they climbed higher still and the party neared, he noticed the crenelations of the walls were on the inside of the battlements as well.

The defenses were constructed to withstand attack from without and within.

From the tip of the spire, the sun flashed, glaring a darting beam of brightness through a window at its peak, like the eye of a needle. Mirrored glass reflected the sun. At night, it would reflect a fire below.

Greeted by uniformed guards in grey and white, but certainly not Starks of the North, Maron joined his father at the head of the smaller group brought in to escort Prince Theos to the commander's chambers.

The time spent was brief, but as impactful. He had seen Yronwood, and the enormous men of their family. He had seen Starfall and the raging rush of the Tourentine. He had seen Hellholt and tasted the sulfur in the air.

As the guards lead them across the battlements and closer to the spire rising from the northeast corner of the wall, Maron tried to peer down through the openings in the wall's interior defenses. It became difficult as the party sped up, but once he managed it, he knew he'd never forget the sight.

Carved into the earth, in as rough a fashion as a grave digger a ditch, wide flat steps spiraled down a vast circular hole as wide as the walls erected from the mountain around it. So deep it was, that at midday, as Maron peered down into its depth, his grip tightened to the course stone in fear, for the pit sank to the world's core, into darkness. It must have been hundreds of feet down, and each dirt inch he could see descended irregularly, as if it were a maze. There was something offensive about the symmetry of the cylindrical carving into the earth, for as it followed the square shape of the walls above, it descended into a spiral, and a queer vertigo almost took his balance.

His heart raced as he forced himself back. He took a deep breath in, and his mind and body eased. There was no true threat, he realized, as he regained his composure, flat on his ass and looking up at the wall from the floor of the battlements.

But the fear was real when he looked into whatever that offensive darkness was. His mind ached from the sight, troubled deeply yet indescribably. He tried to shake his mind of it, but couldn't, haunted by the unnatural quiver in his spine as his eyes peered into the eerie endless black.

Maron's mind was adrift as they finished their walk. The escorts formed rank on each side of a door to the private chambers, assuming their posts, remaining outside. Only the Prince and his heir entered.

When Theos sat down, Maron sat to his right. A man wearing a darker gray uniform entered after, taking the seat across from Theos. His eyes, skin, and hair were dark, like a Dornishman. His receding hair was shorn short, and he wore a beard, spotted with grey on his jowls. He was never identified, yet he sat the table as if he were nobility.

Before they could begin to discuss the nature of the place, Maron couldn't help but ask, "What's inside the pit, Ser?"

"Your Grace," he replied in a deep voice with as much courtesy as any man could muster, "pray you never learn."