ARIANNE
"You must go," her father said, late-afternoon shadows gauzing his face as they sat on the terrace, water splashing from the fountains and bells sounding distant in the hot still air. "I had hoped that he would accept the invitation, but I suppose I cannot be too surprised that he has not. Whey would he sit about sipping ambrosia with an old man like me, when he has enemies to fight and a crown to win?"
"If he had better sense." Arianne adjusted the black sandsilk veil across her nose and mouth; the household was still in mourning for Quentyn, and Prince Doran might well be wearing it for the rest of his life. It made Arianne terribly guilty, and as such she had not confessed it even to her cousins, but she was almost relieved by her younger brother's death. If Quentyn had survived, if he had been successful, he would have become consort to the Dragon Queen, King of Westeros in all but name. If she had been allowed to rule Dorne at all, it would have been as a pitying emolument from him, an appanage, whereupon she would have to kneel at his feet and swear him homage.
Moreover, while she now knew that the Martells had been intending to support a Targaryen restoration ever since the death of Elia and her children – well, child – the mere existence of the plan to promote Quentyn cast continued doubt on her father's repeated assurances that she would have her birthright. When he arrived home in a shroud, escorted by Arch Yronwood and Gerris Drinkwater, only then had she learned the full tale of Quent's misadventures in Meereen, and the end it had made of him. Not even when her uncle died had she seen Prince Doran grieve so openly. You should have spent your tears on Oberyn, my lord. The finest man in Dorne, not my poor overmatched little brother.
Yet nonetheless, the unexpected emergence of a male Targaryen gave things the chance to be put right. And not just any male Targaryen, but her cousin Aegon himself, the Golden Company and Jon Connington at his back. As of Prince Doran's most recent intelligences, he had been raiding along Cape Wrath, reaching as far as the Weeping Tower on the Sea of Dorne, where he had received the Martell envoys and politely but firmly informed them that there would be plenty of time to visit after the fighting was over. With his control secured along the cape by the taking of castles and hostages, he had then returned to the stormlands to prepare for his assault upon the capital.
Prince Doran, however, did not intend to be thwarted so easily, and also saw it as a useful opportunity to teach the lad a few lessons about diplomacy. From the moment they'd received Aegon's first, secret ambassador, Lady Lemore herself, there had been no question that Sunspear meant to declare for him, but that did not mean they had to do it cock-a-hoop. They held all the leverage. Princess Myrcella was still in their custody, and with Tyene Sand whispering in Cersei's ear – her cousin had been born for the task, Arianne imagined – they were in position to pull any number of well-placed strings. As evidenced by news of the plot currently fomenting, they might in fact be able to deliver the Seven Kingdoms to Aegon wrapped up with a bow. It had been foolish of him to deny Doran this modest boon in exchange, which was why the prince was now deputing his daughter to travel in his place. One way or another, they would see him.
"What am I to say to him?" Arianne asked. "What am I to promise? You told me once to make Ser Arys Oakheart most welcome. Am I to do the same with Aegon?"
Prince Doran shot her a wry, weary look. "You are not to attempt to seduce him, no. Nor to convince him to crown Myrcella and cause us another fiasco. You did not much enjoy your captivity, as I recall."
That stung like a whip, but she had left herself open for it. "Fear not, Father," Arianne said stiffly. "Aegon's virtue is in no danger from me and my wanton ways. But since you spend such a deal of time thinking, has it occurred to you that we would do very well to have him marry me? I understand that he holds out hope of his aunt Daenerys, but he's a Targaryen named Aegon. Two wives are quite within his purview."
"It has occurred to me." Prince Doran rearranged the blanket over his lap and grimaced. "It has also occurred to me that we would do very well to consider the larger picture. As my sister's son, Aegon already has a strong command of the Martell loyalty; he need not marry you to secure it. It would be wiser instead to find him a northern bride – Lady Arya Stark, perhaps, assuming both that she is genuine and can be rescued from Lord Bolton. Otherwise Robb Stark's widow, the Westerling girl. Either one might serve to bring an entire half of the kingdom under our – "
"That seems remarkably cruel of you. I am aware of what Tyene and Lord Varys have devised – and Nym will doubtless be in on it, since she's on the small council now. Murder the Westerling girl's entire family, then force her to marry the beneficiary of it? If I were Jeyne, I would claw his eyes out."
"It is distasteful," Prince Doran agreed with a sigh. "But there are few enough options as it is. Do not look at me so stonily, my child. I know you think that I wish to prevent you from becoming a queen, but I only want what is best for our entire family and House."
"Who did you intend me to marry, then? After all the greybeards and greenhorns you mocked me with? Viserys Targaryen has been dead for several years."
Her father turned to look at her. The deepening shadows made him look very old indeed, a frail gouty man, all but bedridden, a man likewise in the twilight of his years, a man with nothing more to gain from lies. "Why," he said. "I thought you might choose for yourself, when you sit crowned as ruling princess in my stead."
Arianne flushed even more deeply and looked down. She had heard quite clearly what he had just told her: that her chances of actually claiming her inheritance might hinge on how satisfactorily she carried out this mission to Aegon, minded her words and manners. It made her hate him, briefly. But he still had her too firmly by the short hairs, and for now, she must dance to his tune. She was certainly coming to have a grudging respect for her father's quiet political acumen, but his meticulous, slow movements were chafing her more sorely than ever.
"Yes, Father," she said, choking. "When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow morning, first light. I have arranged a ship to take you to Griffin's Roost. There you will present my compliments to Lord Jon Connington, then, if Prince Aegon is not there, continue onto wherever he is now billeted."
My compliments, Arianne heard. Not even our compliments. She dipped her head and got to her feet, sorely tempted to rip the mourning veil off her face and fling it into his. Let him take that how he would. But instead she pressed a kiss to his gouty fingers and took her silent leave.
As Arianne hurried through the columned walks, she noticed a confusion of horses and torches on their way up the road toward the palace gates. Even from here, the dusk painting purple shadows, she recognized the tall figure riding at the head, goading her steed more angrily than ever with her spurs. Obara. Obara is returned. The eldest Sand Snake had been sent with Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard to hunt down Ser Gerold Dayne, Darkstar, the man responsible for removing Myrcella's ear and leaving her with the ugly scar that now marred her face. What her cousin had actually done, especially as Doran had revealed that Ser Balon was supposed to take her brother Trystane and accidentally get him assassinated on the way to King's Landing, Arianne had no idea.
Thinking of that, she quickened her steps. She ducked through one door and then another, sprang off the inner ward's wall, and shouldered through the onlookers to the courtyard, just as the portcullis was being raised to admit Obara and her party. They wore halfhelms and scaled copper armor in the Dornish style, but as Arianne's eyes swept the crowd, she glimpsed neither the white cloak of Ser Balon Swann or the distinctive black-streaked silver hair of Gerold Dayne. She had no particular love for the man; he was cruel, unpredictable, and vainglorious, and it was her own foolish fault for including him in her conspiracy, giving him a chance to cause this mess in the first place. Yet nonetheless, she hoped they had not killed him out of hand. Obara Sand's notion of justice was somewhat different from the norm.
"Cousin." As if called by her thoughts, the eldest Sand Snake loomed above her, the torches carving shadows of her close-set eyes. "What a surprise to see you still here. I thought you were destined for greater things."
"On the morrow. Did your venture go well?"
Obara grinned. "Passably." With that she turned in her saddle, unbuckled one of the heavy-laden bags, and grasped something inside. And in that moment Arianne Martell knew what it was, knew and felt her heart turn over, remembering Ser Arys and his valiant self-destructive charge into Hotah's waiting longaxe, imagined what he'd say on beholding this, what he'd think of him and her, as Obara negligently flicked Ser Balon Swann's severed head to the ground. It landed in the dust and rolled, cracking dried blood.
Arianne stared at it silently, then raised her eyes to her cousin's face. "You had no orders to kill him."
"And no orders not to." The Sand Snake shrugged. "Justice, I was told. Vengeance. Why then would I put a blade through Darkstar, whose only crime was missing a stroke that should have landed in Myrcella's neck? Why would I let Ser Balon learn the barest measure of what was truly going on here, then rush back to King's Landing to spill it to his queen? Between you and me, cousin, Dorne is a hazardous place for knights of the Kingsguard. You already got your little princess to lie that Darkstar was also responsible for killing Oakheart, so the Lannisters remain in ignorance of the failed plot to crown her. Well, now we've tried your method. It's time we tried mine."
Arianne told herself not to flinch. "You let Dayne go."
"Of course I did." Obara removed her helm and ran a hand through her ratty brown hair. "If he has any sense at all, he'll wander the Free Cities for a few years, work as a sellsword and make himself a rich man, then come back to Westeros when Aegon's on the throne and buy a lordship and a pardon. He was right, as I said. About Myrcella."
"No." Arianne bristled. "She is only a little girl."
"So was Rhaenys. Truly, cousin, you should be sitting up here in the saddle, and I standing below, so you could prate at me from the high horse. What did you think you were doing with that fool business of yours, but condemning her to death? Given your ineptitude at pulling off secret plots, she wouldn't have survived much longer even without Darkstar's contribution. The instant we openly declare for Aegon, Myrcella has no further use as a claimant to the Iron Throne. Let the Lannisters make the first move against us, then kill her. As an example."
"No, I said." Arianne was hideously aware that there was nothing she could do to ensure Myrcella's safety from Griffin's Roost or Storm's End or wherever her path would lead her. She had loved her uncle, and still loved her cousins, close to her as the sisters she had never had, but now was one of the times when she was uncomfortably reminded that they were called vipers for a reason. With that so, she was forced to deal one of the feeblest threats of all time. "If you do, I will inform my lord father to ensure that you see the inside of that cell atop the Spear Tower again, and this time for good."
Obara Sand barked a scornful laugh. "The day I fear the puissant Prince Doran's wrath is the day I put on a dress and take up embroidery. Hand me back my prize, cousin. There are a deal of men I mean to show it to, men who may understand what it means."
I understand full well. With precise, icy dignity, Arianne picked up Balon Swann's head by the ear and returned it to Obara. Then she turned without bidding her cousin farewell, and strode across the courtyard with every drop of composure she could muster. It was only when she was alone in the roofed passage beyond that she allowed herself to start to shake. Arys, my white knight. . . I never meant that to happen, I never. . .
But was Obara right? Had she?
Hating everyone who walked the face of the earth, herself foremost among them, Arianne scrubbed her tears away with the heel of her hand and mounted the serpentine stair up the tower. Everything here speaks of snakes. At the top she turned left and then right, passed the heavy guard that had been placed on the apartments since all the calamities, and tapped on the cedarwood door.
There was a moment of unpromising silence. Then Myrcella Baratheon's voice called, "Come in."
Hoping that she did not look as rattled as she felt, Arianne opened it and curtsied herself into the other princess' presence. As usual, Myrcella and Trystane sat to opposite sides of the cyvasse table, and also as usual, Trystane appeared to be losing. Yet he had remained so steadfastly at his betrothed's side during her convalescence that it was apparently quite immaterial, and Arianne at once noticed the glance of cold annoyance he was shooting at her. Nonetheless, doing her best to ignore it, she made herself smile at her youngest brother. "Trys. Could I have a word with Myrcella, please?"
"Why?" he said, challenging. "So you can cut off her other ear?"
I deserved that, Arianne reminded herself. "No, certainly not. It will only be a moment."
Still he lingered, glaring at her, but at a murmur from Myrcella he stood down and departed. Arianne was heartened by his evident protectiveness of her; it would make it that much harder for Obara to carry out whatever she had in mind. I know what she has in mind. Pushing that thought away, she smiled at the girl, this one unfeigned. "Are you feeling better, sweetling?"
Myrcella simply gazed back at her. Not a hint of relief or warmth or pleasure showed in those cool, guarded green eyes. "Why are you here?"
She is learning how to be a queen after all, Arianne thought sadly. "I'm leaving on the morrow. I wanted to make sure that you were safe."
"Safe?" Myrcella's lip twisted, and for a moment she looked very like her mother. "I hope so. Your lord father gave me these guards. I do not know why they did not stop you."
Always the princess had been so dewy and sweet, so open and trusting, that these words sounded twice as cold in her mouth as they would have in any other. Arianne held up both hands. "My dear, I never – "
"Please be quiet," Myrcella said. Her high cheekbones were beginning to burn white. "You lied to me."
"Who told you all this?"
"Trys. What really happened and why you were imprisoned. I lied for you that Darkstar killed Ser Arys, but he didn't. All along, you told me that you were my friend and that you wanted the best for me, but you only wanted to name me queen so your family could start a war with my brother."
There was nothing for Arianne to say to that; it was, after all, quite true. Still, she tried. "Your Grace – no, that was not all of it. You are in Dorne, and Tommen's elder. By our laws, you have every right. You would be a fine queen, and – "
"No." Not once had Myrcella raised her voice. "It was for you. Or did you expect I would not work it out?"
It was foolish to feel so tongue-tied before a girl who had not yet even flowered, but Arianne was. Myrcella was as smart as a whip, and with Trystane at hand to relay everything he heard from the household and Prince Doran, it was no wonder that she had been fed a steady diet of damaging information. I only do want to keep her safe, but how can I expect her to believe that now? Indeed, it was not Myrcella that she truly wanted to crown, but herself. It was her fault, and Myrcella's accusations were justified.
"Your Grace," Arianne began, helplessly.
"Please go," that polite little voice said. "I'm not angry at you anymore, I don't think. But I don't care to ever look on your face again."
Between this and her father, Arianne had spent a good deal of the evening making ignominious exits. But there was once more no other option, so she nodded and left, passing a glowering Trystane on the landing. They all hate me now. In their shoes, she very well might hate her too. She thought of her friends, imprisoned or exiled or hastily married off, and of picking Balon Swann's head out of the dirt for Obara. Then it all came boiling up, her regret and her grief and her uncertainty and her futility, and Myrcella's rejection and Arys' death and even Quentyn's, and what she'd done, what she'd wrought. She grasped the wall as her knees gave out, and slid down it bonelessly, sobbing.
Arianne did not know how long she wept. She was mortified that someone would come into the corridor and see her, but she couldn't stop. She remained on her knees, hunched over, black curls escaping their bronze bands and tumbling into her face. She gulped for air and kept crying, ugly heaving retching sobs, and when a light hand touched her back, she jumped nearly out of her skin.
She looked up wildly, expecting for that one mad moment to see her mother – even though Lady Mellario hadn't lived in Sunspear in years, had returned to her native Norvos after becoming estranged from her husband. But it wasn't, of course. It was the woman who was as good as her aunt: her uncle Oberyn's beloved paramour Ellaria Sand, dark gaze full of concern.
"Oh, my dear," Ellaria said. "Here, to your feet."
Arianne's legs felt as wobbly as water, but she allowed Ellaria to help her up and offer her a handkerchief. She mopped at her eyes, sniffed, and tried to think of something to explain her tears, but Ellaria asked no questions. She merely stood patiently until Arianne had regained command of herself, then said, "You'll be leaving tomorrow."
It wasn't a question so much as a statement, but Arianne nodded nonetheless. Almost incidentally, she found herself wondering what tale her cousin had told her father regarding the pursuit and purported capture of Gerold Dayne. Prince Doran's intentions to bring him to justice had been fully genuine, and Arianne herself was certainly of no temperament to let him abscond to the Free Cities without a scratch; in fact, she resolved to inform her father personally before the dawn. Yet then she caught sight of a crumpled piece of parchment in Ellaria's hand, scribbled with something that looked very like her cousin Tyene's elegant script, and her curiosity got the better of her. "What is that?"
Ellaria hesitated, clearly weighing up whether she wanted to trust her with the information. It might be about the Westerling plot, as that seemed to be going forth at speed. But then Ellaria sighed and said, "Something which I very dearly pray is not true."
"Why?"
"Because," Ellaria said, measuring out each word as carefully as a miser, "it would make mock of uncounted pledges and promises alike, and the very law of nature. Because if it was so, it would send Obara racing up the Boneway breathing fire. All of Dorne will rise, and all of it will bleed."
Arianne felt her stomach sink into her foot. With Nym and Tyene in King's Landing, one in the council and the other with the Faith, and Sarella occupied with her little charade in Oldtown, that left Obara dangerously renegade – and, as proved, she was desperate to fan the flames of war. The four youngest Sand Snakes, Ellaria's daughters, had a few more years yet before their fangs grew in all the way. "All of Dorne is in the process of rising already," she pointed. "For Aegon."
"Yes, but. . . this is different." Ellaria glanced away, and Arianne thought she had decided the better of telling her after all. She was just about to press when her uncle's lover said, "According to your cousin, Ser Gregor Clegane is not dead after all."
There were a multitude of responses Arianne had expected, but that was not one. "What?" The Sand Snakes had been completely sure of it, knowing the poison their father had applied to his spear, and Ser Balon had come down here in the first place to deliver that skull, a skull of such distinctive size and heft that it would have been extremely difficult to find another of its like. But if not. . . they would have lost the Viper for nothing and Obara's plot to kill Myrcella would find countless enthusiastic volunteers. If it was even possible – but it wasn't –
"She may yet be mistaken, she says," Ellaria said, reading Arianne's face. "But she does not think she is. She has succeeded in earning Cersei's confidence, as you know, and the queen is boasting of the invincibility of the champion who will fight for her in her trial. Supposedly he is called Robert Strong, but an eight-foot-tall giant in full plate and mail, who never raises his visor or speaks or eats. . . Tyene has asked some pointed question of the nature of the false maester Qyburn's experiments, and has learned that Ser Gregor was in Qyburn's personal care, in the black cells, when he died. Also, that Qyburn is known to dabble, and more than dabble, in necromancy and the dark arts."
"Gods be good," Arianne muttered involuntarily. "And that is all you have to say? The monster who killed your Oberyn lives again, and you will not even – "
"When I heard it, I dreamed of riding to King's Landing and shoving a spear through this abomination myself," Ellaria said, a slight quaver in her voice. "And then burning it to ashes to be sure it never rises again. But from what is said of it, what good would that do me? I would only die in the trying, and then my girls for thinking to avenge me. I have said it before, but it is so. I am heartsick and sore of war, and everything that goes with it. If that makes me the only one in this realm that cries out for more blood, so be it. We are a society where to be a patriot and to take pride in one's homeland means to kill as many of the men, women, and children standing across from you as possible. If you refuse, you are vilified as weak and foolish and traitorous, too naïve to understand the cost of glory and sacrifice. Yet what if I do? What if I understand the cost too well? In the Seven-Pointed Star, in the Mother's Book, it is written that the very spirit that holds the world together, that gives the deepest meaning to our souls, is not might but mercy. That we so very often worship our men for being brave enough to hate, but revile our women for being brave enough to love. And I am nothing if not a mother, and a woman. Leave it. It is over."
Arianne opened her mouth, realized that she had nothing to say, and closed it. She handed Ellaria her handkerchief and silently began to walk away. However, she had not gone ten paces when her aunt's voice stopped her in her tracks. "Arianne?"
She glanced back. "Aye?"
Ellaria Sand fixed her with a calm, level stare. "You have done enough damage already," she said. "Please, say naught of this to anyone."
It was all Arianne could do to remain expressionless. She had no armor left now. So she numbly bobbed an acknowledgement, and for the third time that night, took her shamefaced, stinging leave.
She left the next morning, as planned, after a night of much restless thrashing and almost no sleep. Unable to face the prospect of another confrontation with her father, she finally decided that she would instead send him a raven with the truth about Darkstar when she reached Griffin's Roost. Regardless of Prince Aegon's whereabouts, that was her first destination; Lord Jon Connington had returned home after the campaign down Cape Wrath. It was vital to hold it as a first line of defense against potential attacks from the crownlands, and the Martell envoys had reported that his health was rumored to be deteriorating from some unknown malady. It was Arianne's task too, if she could, to find out why and what this was.
The voyage was all a blur. She wondered if Tyene's schemes had come to fruition yet, if the executions had been carried out and the tide turned in Aegon's favor. The weather was certainly changing; it took them far longer to get up the coast than expected. The wind was perversely and constantly contrary, and they were caught in the straits of Estermont by a gale so violent that the mainmast broke in two, so they had to put in at the unpeopled northern spit of the island, cut down one of the bountiful trees, and fashion a new one. Then a Lyseni pirate galley was spotted in the offing, requiring them to remain in hiding an extra day, and the wind yet again would not cooperate when they were ready to set out again. It was a full three weeks since their departure from Sunspear when they finally were hailed by the longships patrolling the sea off Griffin's Roost, flanked to either side, and escorted into shore. Once their errand and identity had been confirmed, they were promised an audience with the prince that very night. Apparently he was here, but only briefly; he would presently continue onto Storm's End, raise the Targaryen banners over the captured castle, and send letters announcing his return to every corner of the land. The executions had taken place just a few days ago, in King's Landing, and he intended to seize the moment.
Arianne was seasick, sore, tired, cold, and hungry, and would have much preferred a hot bath, a good supper, and a featherbed before making such an august royal acquaintance, but all she had time to do was rebraid her hair and change into something that wasn't salt-stained and windblown. With her father's admonitions about seduction in mind, she chose something high-necked and long-sleeved, a plain dark blue; in fact, she looked as demure as a virgin septa. She would resort to breasts later, if necessary. Not that they were liable to sway Connington. He'd never married, and there were all sorts of rumors in Dorne that his ill-concealed jealousy and dislike of her aunt Elia had had a far more personal bent to it. But it was not Connington she was concerned with.
She and her men were bowed into the dim, torchlit hall as ceremoniously as could be managed with the Roost's threadbare household. Lord Jon and friends had had to fight a battle to clear out the previous tenants, and there was still evidence of it everywhere. But they were greeted hospitably enough, given cups of warm wine to take the chill off, and assured that Aegon's decision to forego a Sunspear visit in no way meant that he now held the loyalty of House Martell in cheap esteem. They were just getting the third or fourth encore of this performance when a door opened at the side of the hall, and two long shadows swept in.
Arianne would have known at once who it was, even if she hadn't been expecting them, by the way the servants all sprang to their feet and bent their heads. She did likewise, looking out from under her eyelashes, as Prince Aegon and Jon Connington made their entrance, exchanging a few cursory pleasantries with those of the Golden Company present, before catching sight of the Martell delegation. Clearly they had been informed; there was no overt surprise to be noted on either. Then Aegon moved forward directly to Arianne, clasped her by both arms, and said, "Welcome, cousin."
"Thank you, my lord." Her first sight of him, for all her plans and her father's, left her slightly dizzied; he had the look of a Targaryen, all right. His long hair was blue on the ends, but a silky silver-gold at the roots, the tendrils twisted out of his face in two thin plaits so they did not fall in his dark indigo eyes. He was tall enough to nearly double the slight, short Arianne, and his shoulders were broadening with muscle from the several months spent fighting. The first hint of pale stubble grazed his chin, and he had a ready, unforced smile. But since he would have been instructed to be as welcoming and charming as possible in this initial encounter, she decided to reserve judgment on his character for later.
Jon Connington regarded her more opaquely. He was weathered, clean-shaven, blue likewise still showing in his grey-red hair and a webwork of lines framing his pale blue eyes. But he too offered a short bow and a "My lady," taking her hand in his gloved one and impressing a brief, correct kiss to it.
"Lord Connington." Arianne nodded. She thought something felt strange about his fingers, almost more like stone than flesh, but disregarded it. "May I present you the compliments of my lord father, Prince Doran of House Martell." There. Just as instructed.
"They are returned," Connington said cordially. "The prince begs his uncle's most abject pardons for failing to come to Sunspear. He promises that when he is come into his crown, Dorne will be the first to receive the honor of a royal visit, and other gifts and tax remittances."
From the look Aegon shot his adopted father, one eyebrow raised, that must not have been exactly what he had promised, but he did not gainsay it. Instead he smiled again. "It is doubly cruel of us to make you be the ones to come so far, and then neglect to feed you. Sit. I'll have supper brought at once."
This was an order Arianne was glad to obey, and she moved up to the high table, following Aegon's gesture, to take the place of honor at his right hand. He was attentive and engaged throughout the meal, his manners impeccable and his graciousness unstinting. Whether or not it was an artifice, it was at least plain that he genuinely enjoyed meeting them and hearing their tales. After hearing all their names once, he forgot none of them, and urged them to sing him some songs of his mother's homeland. They started with the traditional but inevitably segued into the ribald, whereupon Aegon stunned them all by repeating back one particularly bawdy chorus note-perfect. At their looks, he shrugged and said, "What? I am eighteen."
Jon Connington harrumphed, which might have been intended to conceal a grin, and said, "If your education is finished for the moment, Your Grace, I suggest you let your guests retire. We will have much and more to speak of on the morrow, and they have been traveling for weeks."
"Of course." Aegon rose to his feet and offered a hand to Arianne. "My lady?"
She took it, unable to stop herself from shooting him a quick, sultry look, and a slight color touched his fair cheeks as he apparently took her meaning without need for words. Well, as he'd said, he was eighteen, and likely a maiden. It would be just one of the things to speak of in the morning.
Arianne, however, had no intention of going straight to bed, even though she was yawning so hard that it felt as if her jaw might detach. Instead she made a conspicuous exit, waited in the shadows of the antechamber until the rest of the Dornishmen had dispersed, then edged quietly forward as she heard Aegon and Connington emerge at last. At a discreet distance, the sound of their boots on the stone muffling her own small slippered feet, she trailed them down the corridor, allowed them into the room beyond, and once she heard the latch click, sidled up to the keyhole.
"Well, my prince," Connington was saying. "I still hold that you should have gone to Sunspear."
"So I gathered," Aegon answered wryly. "At this rate, you'll have Dorne excused from paying taxes to the crown for the first decade of my rule, which is certain to go over well with the other six kingdoms. But for now, no harm done. What did you think of her?"
"Your cousin, my lord? She was most. . . Martell."
"Which coming from you is not precisely a compliment," Aegon retorted, and Arianne could not help but be impressed by his perception. "My lord uncle Doran, did, however, warn us to go wary of her. Why is that, I wonder?"
Arianne had to quickly repress another stab of exasperated anger with her father. He does not even trust me to do this properly. She wished she could say it was a surprise.
"Likely because she and the Sand Snakes nearly pulled Dorne apart at the seams, if the messengers' tales were true," Connington said. "Having heard what your cousin Tyene has now achieved in King's Landing, I do not doubt it."
"Tyene." For an instant, Aegon sounded more like a stripling of twelve than a young man of eighteen. "It was. . . efficient, to be sure. And I am grateful for what it will achieve for me. But ever since the news came. . . I feel soiled, my lord. I can't stop thinking about it. It was wrong, at its deepest dark heart it was wrong, and neither you nor anyone can tell me differently. I wish I'd never agreed to it."
"It was not your crime, Your Grace. It was Cersei Lannister's. Tyene merely. . . gave her the means to carry it out. It was far less bloodshed than it would have been otherwise, as Varys said." Jon Connington sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.
"Mayhaps," said Aegon, "but the greatest danger in the world is apathy, not hatred. Standing aside and letting the unthinkable happen – because we believed it was simply not our place to give a damn, or we assumed it would change nothing if we did. And yet, I cannot confess that it was done with my knowledge and consent, for that will lose me all the support that was bought with it. I pray that the Westerlings and Lady Roslin may somehow rest in peace, and that the Father will one day judge me justly. And the next of Varys' plots, whatsoever it may be, I feel we should refuse."
"Varys – "
"Is a spider. Anyone you ask, including himself, will happily tell you so. Spiders have their uses, to be sure. . . but even that, as in so much else about him, is a lie."
Jon Connington's voice was startled. "What?"
"I've thought it through." Aegon paced close past the keyhole, making Arianne reflexively jerk back. "I asked some of the longer-serving members of the Golden Company – who, you recall, are all descended from banished rebels. I theorized why he shaves his head, and if it may just be similar to why I dyed my hair blue. I weighed up why he would have done this, stolen me away as a babe, remained planted in the Usurper's court for all these years learning absolutely everything, and concluded that the man has no drop of altruism in him. He may not even know the word. And him and Illyrio meeting across the narrow sea, when Illyrio was a handsome fair-haired youth. . . known where to find the eggs they gave my aunt. . . it becomes clear, my lord. So clear, in fact, that I marvel at not seeing it before."
A long pause. Then Connington said, "What is, my prince?"
"You see. He's a dragon too. Him and Illyrio both."
"I – what. No. Yourself, Daenerys, and Viserys were the only remnants of the bloodline, I scoured and scoured in those years of our exile to be sure – "
Aegon's shadow shook its head. "Not a red dragon," he said, almost too softly to be heard. "A black one."