The Haunted Princess
What time is it now? She found herself wondering. Is it the hour of the owl, the wolf, or the nightingale?
Everything had passed so fast since the very moment she saw the body. Nobles and ladies panicking, her uncle blazing up in a fury, and now she was here. Sitting in front of the Hand of the King.
''You're not as clever as you fancy yourself, sister. You never have been.'' Quentyn's voice echoed in her head.
Ari had laughed then, she remembered. ''And you think you are? Gods, you open your mouth and think everyone hears Father, but all we hear is a frightened boy. All of Dorne sees it—a shadow of him, nothing more. Be your own man! If I had to choose, even Trystane would come before you.''
''How fortunate for us all, then, that the choice is not yours to make.'' Quentyn's slurred voice echoed.
''Princess?''
So lost was she in her thoughts that the call startled her, drawing her gaze sharply toward the Hand of the King. He was a weary man with kind blue eyes. Beside him stood two men she would rather not have seen here—Eddard Stark and Stannis Baratheon.
''I believe I never offered my congratulations on the Vale's second place in the melee; it was a close thing,'' Arianne said.
''Thank you, Princess. I have seen Lyn Corbray fight firsthand—he is a fine swordsman.''
''Not as good as Clegane, though, and I daresay my uncle would have bested them all.'' Arianne added with a faint smirk. He would've, were it not the wrong Clegane.
''Prince Oberyn's prowess is well known. I must admit, I was a little shocked that he chose not to participate,'' Eddard said.
He would split you in half if he ever got the chance, Lord Stark. ''He would have gladly participated, though, unfortunately, the competition was not to his liking,'' Arianne said. ''He would have preferred someone taller than the Dog.''
Stannis frowned while Eddard Stark cast a weary glance at the Arryn Hand.
''Shall we begin?'' Arianne asked, her tone clipped. ''I would rather not linger here longer than necessary. 'Tis a long journey back to Dorne.''
''Are you certain you will not stay longer?'' Arryn asked slowly. ''There is still the final tilt. That will now be... delayed. I am sure th—''
Father, give me strength. ''Unfortunately,'' she interrupted, her voice firm. ''There is work to be done, arrangements to be made. My uncle Oberyn has likely already informed you of this.''
''Jon Arryn is the Hand of the king,'' Stannis Baratheon said, his tone stern. ''Allow him the courtesy to finish his words.''
Arianne's eyes burnt with a sudden fire. ''Allow?'' she echoed. ''We Dornish already allow so much. Allow my aunt and her children to be butchered; allow your king and council to deny us justice. I need no lesson in allowing, Lord Stannis.''
''King Robert is our king, Princess,'' Stannis replied.
''Yes,'' Arianne said with a smirk, almost a sneer. ''And what a king he is.''
''You are free to do as you please, Princess.'' Jon Arryn interjected.
''Good, that settles it then,'' Arianne said, rising gracefully from her seat.
''You should know, nonetheless, that we intend to conduct a thorough inquiry into what transpired,'' Jon Arryn continued, his tone measured. ''You are most welcome to participate in it. I believe it would be beneficial.''
She paused briefly, her gaze lingering as she took in their faces once more, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, searching for even the faintest hint of deception. ''Why?''
''You do not wish to know what happened to your own brother?'' Stannis asked, frowning still.
''He got drunk and fell from one of the towers. A tragic accident, everyone keeps telling me. Others still whisper that it was Harrenhal's curse that claimed him.'' Arianne said, her tone laced with scepticism. ''Unless, of course, you suspect something else?''
''Throwing around accusations like your uncle serves no purpose,'' Jon Arryn replied evenly, seeing through her facade. ''We want the facts, nothing more, nothing less. Hence the inquiry.''
''I'm sure the inquiry will prove most illuminating, my lord Hand,'' Arianne said innocently.
''As I said, it is in neither Dorne's nor the Iron Throne's interests for you to leave with assumptions clouding your mind. I am offering you a chance at answers, Princess Arianne.
''Then answer this, Lord Arryn,'' Arianne said, her voice sharp. ''If this investigation does not point to some drunken mishap—if the answers lead to a culprit—what will you do then?''
All three men understood the weight of the question the moment it was asked. If it is Lions or Roses, will you turn a blind eye, as was done for Princess Elia?
A silence followed, heavy and expectant. Stannis and Eddard both turned their gazes to Jon Arryn, their expressions unreadable yet purposeful, as if the answer were as plain as night and day.
But for a moment, Jon Arryn's eyes grew distant, his face a mask of contemplation. Then, suddenly, his gaze snapped to Arianne's, carrying a newfound grimness.
''Then may the gods punish the accused,'' he said firmly.
Facade aside, the offer had suddenly become quite tempting. The very fact that they were even entertaining the notion suggested that they, too, harboured doubts about the tale spun by the other nobles. But still, she was uncertain—and besides, she rather liked the idea of these frail milky men stewing in their own unease for a while longer.
As such, she only looked the Arryn up and down before she turned and made for the exit.
''You'll have Dorne's answer on the morrow, my lords,'' she said coolly as she departed.
The sun had vanished, was the first thing she noticed as she left Harrenhal proper and made her way toward her family's camp. Above, the sky was alive with stars—so many, glittering like distant flames. She leaned against a pillar, the cool stone pressing into her back, and let her gaze wander upward. Was her brother among those same stars tonight, wherever he might be? Do you see the white one, Quentyn? she thought. That is Nymeria's star, burning bright. And that milky band behind her, those are her ten thousand ships, sailing forever in the night.
The body... had been so unrecognisable. She could have thought of so many things when she had first seen it, felt so many things. Yet, despite that, the first thing that came to her mind once she had glimpsed the remains was a lesson from Maester Caleotte. The meekly, fat maester has been serving House Martell since Arianne's grandmother ruled as Princess of Dorne. The lesson had been about the tales of man's attempts to fly.
Arianne struggled to recall all of the tales and all their names; all the tales were the same, that with some divine intervention from the Gods, they had flown or managed to survive a great fall. Maester Caleotte had dismissed it all, claiming that falling from a small fall was indeed survivable, while a high fall was up for debate; it depended on the height in question and if it was mud, stone, snow, or water they had fallen on. But a great fall, Caleotte had claimed, would do nothing but bring a man certain death.
The Red Viper had once told her that the Citadel held differing accounts on the matter. Some who perished from a great fall appeared, for all intents and purposes, untouched—so much so that an untrained eye might even presume them still alive. While others... others looked like a squashed tomato.
As a child, Arianne Martell had always thought that peculiar; how could a man turn into a squashed tomato? Though when she had seen the remains of it all, there was no question that her uncle had the right of it.
As she sighed and began the long walk back to her tent, a single thought gnawed at her mind: all of this had been for nothing. They had gained nothing. Their journey to the Riverlands, made in the hope of justice—of vengeance—had amounted to naught. Tywin Lannister and his hounds had not even bothered to appear. But why? she wondered. Had the Old Lion seen through my plans?
Arianne and Quentyn Martell had not laid eyes on one another since their father, Prince Doran, had sent Quentyn to Yronwood to mend the rift between their house and the Yronwoods. That rift, born of a duel turned bloody more than a decade past between their uncle, Prince Oberyn, and Lord Edgar Yronwood, a 'blood debt,' as her father had called it. But there was more to it than that, wasn't there, Father?
She could still recall the day she was but four and ten when she stumbled upon that half-written letter. In it, her father had instructed his son to obey and learn from the maester and the master-at-arms at Yronwood, for Quentyn was to one day rule Dorne. She had cried herself to sleep that night, she remembered bitterly.
She had believed she could master her emotions when they finally met at the tourney, but she had been so wrong. Had it even passed a day since our journey here, where she and Quentyn were not at each other's throats?
''I don't know what happened to you—how you became so easy to hate.'' Quentyn's voice rang in her mind once more.
''You know why,'' Arianne answered. ''You intend to usurp me.''
''You think I want this?''
''Well, I don't see you doing anything to stop it!''
''Gods, you are so naive, Arianne! Perhaps it is for the best—you would drag Dorne to the Seven Hells. You're not fit to rule. You are impulsive! And you are so full of selfish desires, I wonder if the Kingslayer could get you to forgive the Lannisters with his 'good looks.'''
That had hurt, Arianne remembered—far more than Quentyn could have known. She was no whore. Had she been born a man, he would never have dared to harbour such doubts.
''Shut your mouth! Look at yourself—can you even call yourself a Dornishman? You fret at the sight of a girl, and I doubt you could even beat little Elia in single combat.''
''S—Shut up!'' Quentyn said.
''You're weak! Father or Uncle Oberyn will never tell you, but you're a fucking disappointment!''
''Shut up!'' Quentyn roared, throwing his cup at the ground. ''Get out of my sight!''
She could feel her eyes grow wet, so she blinked it away furiously. That was one thing she shared with Jon Arryn, no matter how much she disliked admitting it: the dread of uncovering the reason behind all of this. Oberyn and much of Dorne gathered here in Harrenhal seemed convinced of foul play.
But what if it isn't? Arianne thought, a cold knot tightening in her chest. What if he had been drinking so much because of me?
He had been harsh with me, yes, but had I been too harsh? The thought gnawed at her relentlessly.
Did he... no, I cannot think that. I will not. It would break me.
''Princess?''
Arianne knew that dangerous voice, so she turned her head toward the man. He is highborn enough to make a worthy consort, she thought. Father would question my good sense, but our children would be as beautiful as dragonlords.
If there was a handsomer man in Dorne, she did not know him. Ser Gerold Dayne had an aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. He kept his face clean-shaven, but his thick hair fell to his collar like a silver glacier, divided by a streak of midnight black. He has a cruel mouth, though, and a crueller tongue. His eyes seemed black as he sat by one of the many illuminating fires, sharpening his steel, but she had looked at them from a closer vantage, and she knew that they were purple.
Dark purple, she thought. Dark and angry, as all of Dorne.
''What do you think of it?'' He asked.
Arianne blinked before shifting her gaze, looking at nothing in particular. ''Apologies, I wasn't listening.'' How long have I been standing here with them?
''Princess, the—''
''Madness,'' Ser Daemon cut him off. ''What you're suggesting is sheer folly.''
Gerold's gaze shifted to Deamon Sand. ''Do you tremble, then? Is it fear that grips you?'' He asked in a low, dangerous tone.
Then they went on again. Gerold Dayne, Deamon Sand, Andrey Dalt, even Obara and Sylva Santagar were going at each other. What it was that they were so engaged about, she did not know, for she had already tuned it out as she walked past them and toward her own tent. She had a good guess what they were on about, though. But she did not want to talk about that with them, not right now.
Not when her mind was swirling like this, not when all she could think about suddenly was that scene.
As Arianne opened the tent flaps and stepped inside, she found only Tyene Sand within. Her cousin sat in silence, eyes closed, a stillness about her that was rare amidst their company. The soft rustle of Arianne's entrance stirred Tyene, their eyes meeting briefly before Arianne crossed the space and settled beside her without a word.
''They're wroth.'' Tyene observed. All of Dorne is wroth.
''And you're not?'' Arianne asked, mayhaps a little to harshly.
''I am.'' She only said as a reply.
Then a small silence fell between them; had it been in any other situation, Arianne would not have hated it. But now, there was a comfort in it.
''And what of you?''
Arianne stiffened. ''What do you mean?''
Tyene sighed. ''I know not.''
''You think I find joy in this? That I am not as wrathful as the rest?'' Arianne hissed accusingly.
Tyene's blue eyes widened before they narrowed. ''You know well that is not what I speak of.''
''I care not what you are speaking of!'' Arianne roared.
Tyene was silent for a moment before speaking. ''Do you want me to leave?''
No... ''Yes!''
Tyene then rose from her seat and began to trot away innocently, like she always did. A mummer's farce, she was as dangerous as all her sisters. Her soft, pale hands were as deadly as Obara's callused ones.
''Wait!'' Arianne said, mayhaps a bit desperately, once she was halfway through the tent flaps and on her way out.
Tyene Sand did not turn toward her immediately, but once she did, Ari could easily spot the victorious smirk she was trying to hide.
Tyene then trotted toward the wine trinket and began to pour her and Arianne a glass of wine. All the while the Princess of Dorne watched her, trying to figure out what to exactly say.
''Do you remember when we first met?'' Arianne asked as Tyene finished filling up two glasses.
Tyene nodded. ''It was just after my mother passed.''
''You were never much fond of her, were you?'' Ari asked.
Tyene gave her the glass of wine she had filled up for her and sat down once more before she spoke. ''Why do you ask?''
Arianne's eyes turned distant. ''After your mother passed, and Oberyn brought you to Sunspear, he bid me try and lift your spirits. Yet no matter my efforts, you never seemed to brighten.'' Ari said solemnly. ''And moons later, you told me you couldn't understand why you still grieved, for you had never truly liked her.''
Tyene said nothing for a moment before humming. ''I don't remember that.''
Had it been anyone else she had said that to, they would have mayhaps believed her. But Arianne knew the lie from her tone as soon as she said it.
''Why? Why would you say such a thing?'' Arianne pressed, ignoring the lie.
Tyene sighed. ''Because it was the truth. And at times, I still feel the same.''
''How can you grieve for one you held no fondness for?''
Tyene smiled sadly. ''I know not, but I remember when my father took me and brought me to Sunspear, he told me that grief isn't always born of love. Sometimes, it's about... lost chances.''
Arianne frowned. ''What chance did I lose? Quentyn was never going to change. I was never going to change. We were set against each other from the start. Father made sure of that, ever since I stumbled across that half-written letter. He wanted him to be the heir—wanted me to bend. I couldn't. And now he's gone.''
She did not remember when her eyes had glistened or when a single tear had fallen from her cheek, but when she noticed, she chuckled bitterly. ''So foolish, isn't it? I spent so long resenting him, trying to prove to Father that I was better, stronger, worthier. Yet now I am here weeping.''
''It's not foolish.'' A voice called suddenly.
Arianne lifted her head to glimpse at the voice; it was her uncle, Prince Oberyn. ''You're grieving the bond you never had, the words you never spoke, the understanding you never reached. Just as you did your mother, Tyene.''
''Yes, Father.'' Tyene replied solemnly. Though Arianne did not reply, she merely looked at her glass once more.
''Daughter, can you give me and your cousin a few moments?'' Oberyn asked kindly.
Tyene rose with a quiet nod, and before long, she was out of the tent.
''How are you feeling?'' Oberyn asked softly.
''Don't,'' Arianne said, not bothering to look up and meet his eyes. ''If you've come to offer me some wisdom or soothing words, spare me. I've no patience for it now.''
''I thought you might want someone who knows how it feels to lose someone and not know how to feel about it.''
''I do know how I feel. I'm angry, Uncle.''
''Not at Quentyn,'' Oberyn said sternly.
The sternness of his tone was enough for her to raise her head and stare at him; Prince Oberyn's eyes were battle-ready. Ready to jump to her brother's defence as soon as she began to speak.
''I'm angry at him—for being who he was. For being so damnably earnest and so... small. I'm angry that he was the brother I was given, instead of the one I longed for.''
''Even if that is what you believe, it is not the truth.''
''I hated him,'' Ari meekly said.
''No, you hate yourself,'' Oberyn said, ''for always seeing his weaknesses, instead of his strengths. For never taking the first step and reconciling with him.''
Arianne had no reply to that, for it was the harsh truth. The harsh truth only her Uncle Oberyn or Tyene would say to her. So instead, she put the glass of wine to the side and sank her face into her hands. ''Gods, Uncle. It's not fair. Why couldn't he have had more time?''
''Because life is not a song, and Dorne's sun doesn't shine on everything evenly. But you're still here, Arianne. The sister Quentyn wanted, the sister he hoped would be proud of him, even if he never said it.''
''It feels as though the gods themselves curse us, Uncle. We journeyed to Harrenhal so you would kill the Mountain in the melee, yet he did not even deign to appear. And now... now another Martell is dead, and we do not even know how or why.''
''We do know.'' Oberyn practically hissed, but both Arianne and the Seven knew that the hiss was not meant for her. ''The same ones who murdered Quentyn are the very same who butchered Elia and her children.''
''Then, why?'' Arianne pressed.
Oberyn frowned. ''Did it matter why they butchered Elia? The only thing that matters is that they did.''
Prince Oberyn and the Darkstar were alike in that way—fiery and bold, with little care for consequence. Arianne, however, was not so easily grouped. She was not her father, cautious and patient to a fault, nor her brother, Quentyn, ever dutiful and measured. Yet she refused to think of herself as impulsive or dangerous as Oberyn or the Darkstar.
Did the Lannisters murder Quentyn? Did the Tyrells? Or was it merely some foolish, drunken accident?
Did Quentyn carry hate for her to his end? That question would forever remain unanswered.
Did he... jump... because of me?
Cletus Yronwood and Gerris Drinkwater, his companions, surely they must have been with him; they seemed almost glued together. I will speak to them soon; they must feel as enthusiastic about conversation as I do right now.
''His friends, Yronwood and Drinkwater.'' Arianne said.
''I have already tried speaking with them, but they were still quite drunk and in shock. I will speak to them on the morrow.'' Oberyn said firmly. ''What did the Old Hand say?''
Arianne sighed. ''He wishes for me to stay. They are doing an inquiry into Quentyn's death and asked for Dorne's voice in this. For my voice.''
Oberyn's expression hardened, though he made no move to interrupt her. So she pressed on.
''I told him we were to leave, to take Quentyn home to Sunspear. But he seemed insistent.''
''He is scared of Dorne,'' Oberyn said, his tone a matter of fact. ''Jon Arryn is a cautious man, but not a fool.''
''I... I think I should accept.'' Arianne said at last. I have to, for Quentyn. I can't run away.
The silence that followed was deafening. Arianne held her gaze on her legs, but she could still feel Oberyn's pointed stare.
''You think you should stay in this viper's nest while your family and country mourn in Sunspear and wait for their princess?'' he asked, with an eerie calm voice.
''Quentyn deserves justice, just as Elia deserves it; we cannot turn our backs on that.''
''They do, and they will,'' Oberyn said. ''But Doran would never forgive me if I allowed you to remain here after this. You would be their hostage in all but name.''
Father... Will he finally see me as the future ruling princess of Dorne that I am? Did it take my brother's death for him to open his eyes? Or has he already placed little Trys in my stead to spurn me yet again?
''Then what would you have me do, Uncle?''
''I would have you take all those hates you bear—toward Quentyn, toward yourself, and toward your father—and let them burn away beneath the sun. You are Arianne Martell. The sun and spear. It is time to be both. Let only our enemies feel the weight of your hate.''
Arianne took a deep breath. ''And the inquiry?''
''I will stay,'' he said, the words resolute. ''I will take your place in this investigation. If Arryn insists on Dorne's involvement, then he will have it. But you will return to Sunspear, along with Tyene and Obara and everyone else.''
''Uncle, you can't—''
''I can,'' he said sharply, his eyes blazing. ''And I will. You will take Quentyn's body home. You will give him the farewell he deserves, and you will be there for your father and your people. This is not your burden to carry.''
But it is; it so much is... more than you know, Uncle.
Arianne clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she battled against the tide of emotions threatening to consume her. Every fibre of her being screamed to lash out at her uncle, to declare that she was the heir of Dorne, that she needed to be the one to handle this. But she swallowed the urge, knowing full well she could not afford to alienate him—not when she might need his support if her father decided to supplant her in favour of little Trystane.
''You're not fit to rule. You are impulsive!'' Quentyn's haunting voice echoed.
She nodded, her voice trembling with reluctant acceptance. ''Very well. I will go.''
Oberyn's expression softened, though the fire in his eyes remained. ''Good. You're wiser than I was at your age, Arianne. Dorne needs you whole and safe. I will see this through.''
''How?''
Oberyn smiled. ''You need not worry. I have made new friends from The Usurper's court—friends who will help us achieve what we desire.''
''What friends?'' Arianne asked.
''Patience, dear niece. First, you must return to Sunspear with haste. Then, I must speak with Doran.''
''It has been five and ten years since the Trident, and in all that time, Father has done nothing,'' Arianne said.
''Be that as it may, I will not remain idle—not anymore,'' Oberyn said.
''We missed our chance, Uncle. Tywin Lannister saw through our plan—neither the Mountain nor Ser Amory is here. And a part of me thinks that nothing, absolutely nothing, will come of this inquiry.''
Oberyn smiled, a dangerous glint in his black eyes. ''Sweet niece, a blade of steel is not the only way for us to get what we want.''
Arianne frowned. That was their plan, was it not?
''Tell me, sweet niece, how does a Viper strike?''
She thought on his words, her brow furrowing in concentration. And then, swiftly, realisation dawned upon her.
They strike with poison.