[11] Princess Arianne Martell
Chapter 11: Princess Arianne Martell
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The late afternoon sun filtered through the lattice windows of the Old Palace, casting a warm, golden hue over the chamber.
Fruits sat heaped in bowls—figs, pomegranates, and grapes glistening like jewels—while Oberyn leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs in a posture as relaxed as his gaze. He plucked a grape and popped it into his mouth, his eyes twinkling with barely concealed mischief as he watched his brother. Across from him, Doran sat upright, fingers folded, his gaze distant and wary.
“So, brother,” Oberyn started, his tone almost playful, “what do you think of my gift?”
Doran sighed, rubbing a hand over his temple. “Perhaps it’s wiser to take a bath before we discuss this. You've been riding through the sands, and surely even you need rest.”
Oberyn laughed. “Rest? I've waited too long to bring this up. Besides, I’ve already sent word for Arianne. She’ll be here any moment.” He leaned back, his smile fading only slightly. “I can’t contain myself. Dorne has slept long enough… Perhaps it's time.”
Doran's expression tightened. He didn’t seem to like the implications behind those words. “This will bring Dorne into open war, Oberyn,” he said. “Are you prepared for that? Do you really want that? For innocent Dornishmen to die for a meaningless war?”
Oberyn's gaze sharpened, and he leaned forward, his fingers pressing against the table. “Brother, it wouldn’t be a meaningless war. Do you truly not want revenge? Against those sick Lannisters? A Lannister bastard sits on the throne right now, it’s the best of any time to seek revenge. The man I brought to Sunspear doesn’t only have dragon blood in name… he has a real dragon. ”
Doran raised an eyebrow, an expression of pure skepticism coloring his features. “The last dragon that lived was the size of a kitten when it died. I don’t distrust you if you say he has a dragon, but if he does, and I haven’t seen him when he met it, it must have been hiding in his robes. The size of a kitten, this one too. Such a small creature is hardly the weapon we need. Oberyn.”
Oberyn fell silent, and Doran continued, his voice soft but firm, “I remember Rhaegar. I remember his cause and the ruin it brought.” His jaw tightened, words carrying the weight of old grudges. “But Viserys… from all I’ve heard, he’s no Rhaegar Targaryen. He’s a broken man—a boy who sold his sister to savages and ran when he lost control. What kind of king abandons his blood for a crown? We at Dorne don’t sell off little girls, do we, little brother?”
“...” Oberyn’s face grew stony, a rare hardness settling in his eyes. “I thought the same, brother. But you’re wrong. This Viserys is no coward, not anymore. Perhaps the rumors painted him weak deliberately, or perhaps he’s just changed. But he’s far from the man in those rumors. I’ve seen him fight, and I, Oberyn Martell, was impressed with the way he held a spear,” He held Doran’s gaze unblinking. “He carries the fire of our old allies, their blood and their fire, and if you give him a chance, I’ll have him show you. His Dragon too.”
Doran shook his head, a faint smile barely tugging at the corner of his mouth as if humoring Oberyn despite his better judgment. He’d always done that. Oberyn knew his older brother adored him a lot. That was why he humored his potentially bad decisions many times. And if he allowed that this time too… Doran wouldn’t regret it.
“For you, I’ll entertain this, Oberyn. But his presence here must be kept a secret. I’ve no desire to invite trouble from King’s Landing.” He paused, his voice dropping to a murmur. “If he’s worth the trouble you believe him to be, we’ll see it soon enough.”
Oberyn nodded. His brother was a cautious man, but contrary to what some people believed, he was not a spineless coward. Oberyn loved him for that.
Just then, steady and fast footsteps echoed down the corridor. Both men looked to the door as Princess Arianne strode in, a gorgeous lady, her presence a burst of color and confidence that lit the chamber. She wore deep green silks failing to cover her white blouse, adorned with gold jewelry, her skin bronzed by the Dornish sun.
The dark-haired girl’s gaze was as sharp and knowing as her uncle’s.
“Uncle!” she called out, breaking into a wide grin as she crossed the room. She threw her arms around Oberyn in a swift embrace, her laugh light and genuine. “Back from another adventure, I see?”
Oberyn chuckled, returning the embrace and giving her a fond pat on the shoulder. “More or less,” he said, his voice softening. “And how is my brilliant niece?”
Arianne pulled back, flashing a mischievous smile. “Bored, mostly. You know how it is here in Sunspear. Endless courtiers and games of cyvasse—no adventures to speak of. When will you take me on an adventure again?” She threw a teasing glance at Doran.
Oberyn laughed, but Doran’s face grew somber as he watched them, his eyes shifting back to Oberyn with an unspoken question.
Sensing the shift, Arianne glanced between them, her smile fading slightly. “Alright, what is this about?” she asked, her gaze narrowing. “Why the sudden summons?”
Doran remained silent, his fingers interlocked as he leaned forward, watching her with the careful, calculated look he reserved for moments of significance. But it was Oberyn who spoke. The man’s voice turned serious, his gaze fixed on her face.
“Arianne, my dearest niece…” he began slowly, his words deliberate, “Do you remember the engagement you had as a little girl? The one that was broken…?”
Arianne’s brows drew together, confusion flashing across her face as she searched her memory. She looked at Oberyn and then back at her father. A glint of recognition passed by her gaze, and her expression hardened as understanding settled over her.
Arianne’s eyes trembled.
****
Arianne Martell was mad.
The free skies and scorching sands of Dorne, the warmth of Sunspear where she ruled as a free woman—these were her inheritance. And yet here she was, feeling those freedoms squeezed tight as her guardians toyed with the idea of her marriage to a Targaryen.
Why the hell are they doing this?
Her ex-fiance was a man who might not even live long enough to wear a crown, a coward with a reputation as ragged as his family’s ruins.
The idea of being tied to a man she was sure would perish in this War of Five Kings was maddening. But her uncle, the ever-reckless Red Viper of Dorne, wanted her to consider it. He believed Viserys might be worth a second look.
"Perhaps he’s not the same as the rumors. At least meet him for yourself and see?" her uncle had said before she left the meeting chambers. But as much as Arianne loved her uncle, she knew better than to trust Oberyn’s whims when it came to other people’s lives.
But… She sighed, shaking her head. It’d be a lie to say I don’t feel a little greedy. Indeed, the whispers of ambition tugged at her thoughts. She could feel the allure of what such a marriage might bring.
Queen.
Not just the Princess Ruler of Dorne that she was destined to become, but the Queen of the Seven Realms. It was intoxicating to imagine a throne beyond Sunspear, to feel the weight of the Iron Throne beneath her, her voice ruling over more than just the sands.
The allure of power and the weight of her uncle’s request—both had her trapped. That was why she hadn’t screamed or lashed out yet. She would meet him first and see for herself. This supposed Beggar King.
And so, now, she followed Ser Andrey Dalt down Old Palace’s shadowed corridors, the setting sun casting a molten gold light through narrow windows. Her steps felt heavier, the moment drawing close as she prepared herself. At least I hope he’s not ugly, even if he’s a coward.
Soon, they stopped in front of a door, and Ser Andrey knocked, his gaze averted in the respectful way he knew she preferred.
A voice called from inside, low and unhurried, “Come in.”
She sighed, then pushed the door open, eyes scanning the dim room. She blinked, and then her breath hitched as she caught sight of the shirtless figure by the window. The silver-haired man’s back was broad and muscled, slightly wet from the bath he must have taken, catching the waning light lit by the setting sun.
He didn’t turn right away; he lingered there, facing the sun, his profile cast in shadow. When he finally turned, her gaze traced the lines of his chiseled jaw, strong and angled, sharp against the soft light.
The fury that had simmered in her chest shifted and softened. Just a little.
Princess Arianne allowed a small smile. “Ser Andrey,” she murmured, a dismissive nod toward the knight, “you can leave.”
Her eyes remained locked on Viserys as she stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. In a matter of seconds, her anger was replaced with a glimmer of curiosity.
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