"Принцесата и Кралицата" и "Принцът-Ренегат"

All along the south coast of Cape Wrath was crumbling stone watchtowers raised in ancient days to give warning of Dornish raiders stealing in across the Sea. Villages had grown up about the towers. A few had flowered into towns. The Peregrin made port at one such, the Weeping Town where the corpse of the Young Dragon had once lingered for three days on its journey home from Dorne. The banners flapping from the town’s stout wooden walls still displayed King Tommen’s stag and lion suggesting that here at least the writ of the Iron Throne might still hold sway.



“Guard your tongues,” Arianne warned her company as they disembarked. “It would be best if King’s Landing never knew we passed this way.” Should Lord Connington’s rebellion be put down, it would go ill for them if it was known that Doran had sent her to treat with him and his pretender. That was another lesson father had taken pains to teach her. Choose your side with care and only if they have a chance to win. The weeping town was large enough so they had no trouble buying horses though the cost was five times what it would have been last year. “They’re old but sound,” claimed the hosler. “And you’re not like to find better this side of Storm’s End.



The Griffin’s Men seize every horse and mule they come upon. Oxen too. Some will make a mark on a paper if you ask for payment. But there’s others who would just as soon cut your belly open and pay you with a handful of your own guts. If you come on any such, mind your tongue, give the horses up.” The town was large enough to support three inns and all their common rooms were rife with rumors. Arianne sent her men into each of them to hear what they might hear. In the Broken Shield, Daemon Sand was told that the Great Septry on the Hauff of Men had been burned and looted by raiders from the sea and a hundred young novices from the Mother House on Maiden Isle carried off into slavery.



In The Loom, Joss Hood learned that half a hundred men and boys from the Weeping Town had set off north to join Jon Connington at Griffin’s Roose, including young Ser Addam, old Lord Whitehead’s son and heir. But in the aptlynamed Drunken Dornishmen, Feathers heard men muttering that the Griffin had put Red Ronnet’s brother to death and raped his maiden sister. Ronnet himself was said to be rushing south to avenge his brother’s death and his sister’s dishonor. That night, Arianne dispatched the first of her ravens back to Dorne, reporting to her father all they had seen and heard. The next morning, the company set out for Mistwood as the first rays of the rising son were slanting through the peaked roofs and crooked alleys of the Weeping Town. By midmorning, a light rain began to fall as they were making their way north through a land of green fields and little villages. As yet they had seen no signs of fighting, but all the other travelers along the rutted road seemed to be going in the other direction. And the women in the villages gazed at them with wooden eyes and kept their children close.



Further north, the fields gave way to rolling hills and thick groves of old forests. The road dwindled to a track and villages became less common. Dusk found them on the fringes of the Rainwood, a wet green world where brooks and rivers ran through dark forest and the ground was made of mud and rotting leaves. Huge willows grew along the water courses, larger than any that Arianne had ever seen, their great trunks as gnarled and twisted as an old man’s face and festooned with beards of silvery moss. Trees pressed close on every side shutting out the sun. Hemlock and red cedars, white oaks, soldier pines that stood as tall and straight as towers, colossal sentinels, bigleaf maples, redwood, wormtrees, even here and there, a wild weirwood. Underneath their tangled branches, ferns and flowers grew in profusion: sword ferns, lady ferns, bell flowers, piper’s lace, evening stars and poisoned kisses, liverwort, lungwort, hornwort. Mushrooms sprouted down among the tree roots and from their trunks as well. Palespotted hands that caught the rain. Other trees were furred with moss, green or gray or redtailed and once a vivid purple. Lichen covered every rock and stone, toadstools festered besides rotted logs. The very air seemed green.



Arianne had once heard her father and Maester Kelion arguing with a Septon about why the north and south sides of the Sea of Dorne were so different. The septon thought it was because of Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King, who had stolen the daughter of the Sea God and the Goddess of the Wind and earned their eternal enmity. Prince Doran and the maester inclined more toward wind and water and spoke of how the big storms that formed down at the Summer Sea would pick up moisture moving north until they slammed into Cape Wrath. “For some reason, the storms never seemed to strike at Dorne,” she recalled her father saying. “I know your reason,” The septon had responded. “No Dornishmen ever stole away the daughter of two gods.”



The going was much slower here than it had been in Dorne. Instead of proper roads, they rode down crookback slashes that snaked this way and that, through clefts in huge mosscovered rocks and down deep ravines choked with blackberry brambles. Sometimes the track petered out entirely sinking into bogs or vanishing amongst the ferns leaving Arianne and her company to find their own way among the silent trees. The rains still fell, staunch and steady. The sound of moisture dripping off the leaves was all around them and every mile or so, the music of another little waterfall would call to them. The wood was full of caves as well. That first night, they took shelter in one of them to get out of the wet. In Dorne, they had often traveled after dark when the moonlight turned the blowing sands to silver. But the Rainwood was too full of bogs, ravines and sinkholes and blackest pitch beneath the trees where the moon was just a memory.





Feathers made a fire and cooked a brace of hares that Ser Garibald had taken with some wild onions and mushrooms he had found along the road. After they ate, Elia Sand turned a stick and some dry moss into a torch and went off exploring deeper in the cave. “See that you do not go too far,” Arianne told them. “Some of these caves go very deep; it’s easy to get lost.” The Princess lost another game of cyvasse to Daemon Sand, won one from Joss Hood, then retired as the two of them began to teach Jayne Ladybright the rules. She was tired of such games. Nym and Tyene may have reached King’s Landing by now, she mused as she settled down crosslegged by the mouth of the cave to watch the falling rains. If not, they ought to be there soon. Threehundred seasoned spears had gone with them over the Boneway, past the ruins of Summerhall and up the King’s Road. If the Lannisters had tried to spring their little trap in the kingswood, Lady Nym would have seen that it ended in disaster. No wood murderers would have found their prey. Prince Trystane had remained safely back in Sunspear after a tearful parting from Princess Myrcella.



That accounts for one brother, thought Arianne. But where is Quentyn? Not with the Griffin. Had he wed his dragon queen? King Quentyn? It still sounded silly. This new Daenerys Targaryen was younger than Arianne by half a dozen years. What would a maid that age want with her dull, bookish brother? Young girls dreamed of dashing knights with wicked smiles, not solemn boys who always did their duty. She will want Dorne though. If she hopes to sit the Iron Throne, she must have Sunspear. If Quentyn was the price for that, this dragon queen would pay it. What if she wasn’t with Quentyn at Griffin’s End with Connington and all this about another Targaryen was just another subtle ruse. Her brother could well be with him. King Quentyn, do I need to kneel to him? Ah, no good would come of wondering about it. Quentyn would be king or he would not. I pray that Daenerys treats him more gently than she did her brother.



It was time to sleep. They had long leagues to ride upon tomorrow. It was only as she settled down that Arianne realized that Elia Sand had not returned from her explorations. Her sisters will kill me seven different ways if anything had happened to her. Lady Jayne Ladybright swore that the girl had never left the cave which mean that she was still back there somewhere wandering through the dark. When the shouts did not bring her forth, there was nothing to do but make torches and go in search of her.



The cave proved much deeper than any of them had suspected. Beyond the stony mouth where her company had made their camp and hobbled their horses, a series of twisty passageways led down and down with black holes snaking off to either side. Farther in, the walls opened up again and the searchers found themselves in a vast limestone cavern, larger than the great hall of a castle. Their shouts disturbed a nest of bats which who flapped about them noisily, but only distant echoes shouted them back. A slow circuit of the hall revealed three further passages one so small that it would have required them to proceed on hands and knees. “We’ll try the others first,” the Princess said. “Daemon, come with me. Garibald, Joss, you try the other one.” The passageway Arianne had chosen for herself turned steep and wet within a hundred feet. The footing grew uncertain. Once, she slipped and had to catch herself to keep from sliding. More than once, she considered turning back. But she could see Ser Daemon’s torch ahead and hear him calling for Elia, so she pressed on.



And all at once she found herself in another cavern, five times as big as the last one, surrounded by a forest of stone columns. Daemon Sand moved to her side and raised his torch. “Look at how that stone’s been shaped,” he said. “Those columns in the wall there. See them?” “Faces,” said Arianne. So many sad eyes, staring. “This place belonged to the Children of the Forest.” “A thousand years ago.” Arianne turned her head. “Listen, is that Joss?” It was. The other searchers had found Elia, as she and Daemon learned after they made their way back up the slippery slope to the last hole. Their passageway led down to a still, black pool where they discovered the girl up to her waist in water catching blind, white fish with her bare hands, her torch burning red and smoky in the sand where she had planted it. “You could have died!” Arianne told her, when she heard the tale. She grabbed Elia by the arm and shook her. ‘If that torch had gone out you would’ve been alone in the dark, as good as blind.



'What did you think you were doing?” “I caught two fish,” said Elia Sand. “You could have died!” said Arianne again. The words echoed off the cavern wall, Died… died… died… Later, when they had made their way back to the surface and her anger had cooled, the Princess took the girl aside and sat her down. “Elia, this must end,” she told her. “We’re not in Dorne now, we’re not with your sisters. This is not a game. I want your word that you will play the maidservant until we are safely back in Sunspear. I want you meek, mild, and obedient. You need to hold your tongue. I’ll hear no more talk of Lady Lance or jousting. No mention of your father, or your sisters. The men that I must treat with are sellswords. Today they serve this man who calls himself Jon Connington, but come the morrow they could just as easily serve the Lannisters.



All it takes to win a sellsword’s heart is gold, and Casterly Rock does not lack for that. If the wrong man should learn who you are, you could be seized and held for ransom.” “No,”Elia broke in, “you’re the one they want to ransom, you’re the heir to Dorne. I’m just a bastard girl. Your father would give a chest of gold for you, my father’s dead.” “Dead, but not forgotten,” said Arianne, who had spent half her life wishing Prince Oberyn had been her father. “You are a Sand Snake, and Prince Doran will pay any price to keep you and your sisters safe from harm.” That made the child smile, at least. “Do I have your sworn word, or must I send you back?” “I swear.” Elia did not sound happy. “On your father’s bones.” “On my father’s bones.” That vow she will keep, Arianne decided. She kissed her cousin on the cheek, and sent her off to sleep. Perhaps some good will come of this misadventure.



“I never knew how wild she was ‘til now,” Arianne complained to Daemon Sand afterwards. “Why would my father inflict her on me?” “Vengeance?” The knight suggested. They reached Mistwood late on the third day. Ser Daemon sent Joss Hood ahead to scout for them and learn who held the castle presently. “Twenty men walking the walls, maybe more,” he reported on his return. “Lots of carts and weapons. Heavy laden going in, empty going out. Guards at every gate.” “Banners?” said Arianne. “Gold. On the gatehouse and the keep.” “What device did they bear?” “None that I could see. There was no wind. The banners hung limp from the staffs.” That was vexing. The Golden Company’s banners were cloth of gold, devoid of arms and ornament, but the banners of house Baratheon were also gold, though theirs displayed the crowned stag of Storm’s End. Limp golden banners could be either. “Were there other banners? Silvergrey?” “Only ones I saw were gold, princess.” She nodded. Mistwood was the seat of House Mertyns, whose arms showed a great horned owl, white and grey. If their banners were not flying, likely the talk was true and the castle had fallen into the hands of Jon Connington and his sellswords.





“We must take the risk,” she told her party. Her father’s caution had served Dorne well, she had come to accept that, but this was a time for her uncle’s boldness. Onto the castle. “Shall we unfurl your banner?” asked Joss Hood. “Not as yet,” said Arianne. In most places, it served her well to play the princess, but there were some where it did not. Half a mile from the castle gates, three men in studded leather jerkins and steel halfhelms stepped out of the trees to block their path. Two of them carried crossbows, wound and notched. The third was armed only with a nasty grin. “Where are you lot bound, my pretties?” he asked. “To Mistfall, to see your master,” answered Daemon Sand. “Good answer,” said the grinner, “You come wit’ us.”

Mistfall’s new sellsword masters called themselves Young John Mudd, and Chains. Both knights, to hear them tell it. Neither behaved like any knight Arianne had ever met. Mudd wore brown from head to heel, the same shade as his skin, but a pair of golden coins dangled from his ears. The Mudds had been kings up by the Trident a thousand years ago she knew, but there was nothing royal about this one. Nor was he particularly young. It seemed his father had also served in the Golden Company, but he had been known as “Old John Mudd”. Chains was half again Mudd’s height, his broad chest crossed by a pair of rusted chains that ran from waist to shoulder.

 

Where Mudd wore sword and dagger, Chains bore no weapon but 5 feet of iron links, twice as thick and heavy as the ones that crossed his chest. He wielded them like a whip. They were hard men, brusque and brutal, not well spoken, with scars and weathered faces that spoke of long service in the Free Companies. “Sergeants,” Ser Daemon whispered when he saw them, “I’ve known their sort before.” Once Arianne had made her name and purpose known to them, the two sergeants proved hospitable enough. “You’ll stay the night,” said Mudd. “There’s beds for all of you. In the morning you’ll have fresh horses and whatever provisions you might need. M’lady’s maester can send a bird to Griffin’s Roost to let them know you’re coming.” “And who would ‘them’ be?” said Arianne, “Lord Connington?” The sellswords exchanged a look. “The Halfmaester,” said John Mudd, “it’s him you’ll be finding in the Roost.” “Griffin’s marching, “ said the Chains. “To where?” Daemon asked. “Not for us to say,” said Mudd, “Chains, you hold your tongue.” Chains gave a snort, “She’s Dorne, why shouldn’t she know? Come down to join us, ain’t you?”

 

It has yet to be determined, thought Arianne Martell. But she felt it best not to… press, the matter. At Evenfall a fine supper was served to them in the solar, high in the Tower of Owls, where they were joined by the dowager Lady Mertyns and her maester. Though captive in her own castle, the old woman seemed spry and cheerful. “My sons and grandsons went off when Lord Renly called his banners,” she told the princess and her party. “I have not seen them since, but from time to time they send a raven. One of my grandsons took a wound at the Blackwater, but he soon recovered. I expect they will return here soon with enough to hang this lot of thieves.” She waved a duck leg at Mudd and Chains across the table. “We’re no thieves,” said Mudd, “we’re foragers.” “Did you buy all that food down in the yard?” “We foraged it,” said Mudd, “your folk can grow more. We serve your rightful king, old crone.” He seemed to be enjoying this. “You should learn to speak more courteously to knights.” “If you two are knights, I’m still a maiden,”said Lady Mertyns, “and I’ll speak as I please. What will you do, kill me? I’ve lived too long already.”

 

Princess Arianne said, “have you been treated well my Lady?” “I’ve not been raped, if that’s what you’re asking,” the old woman said. “Some of the serving girls have been less fortunate. Married or unmarried, the men make no distinctions.” “No one’s been doing any rapings,” said Young John Mudd, “Connington won’t have that. We follow orders.” Chains nodded, “Some girls was persuaded, might be.” “Ahh, the same way our smallfolk were persuaded to give you all their crops. Melons or maidenheads, it’s all the same to your sort. If you want it, you take it.” Lady Mertyns turned to Arianne, “if you should see this Lord Connington, you tell him that I knew his mother, and she would be ashamed.” Perhaps I shall, the princess thought. That night, she dispatched a second raven to her father.

 

Arianne was her way back to her own chamber when she heard muffled laughter coming from the adjoining room. She paused and listened for a moment, then pushed the door open to find Elia Sand curled up in a window seat, kissing Feathers. When Feathers saw the princess standing there he jumped to his feet and began to stammer. Both of them still had their clothes on. Arianne took some small comfort in that as she sent Feathers on his way with a sharp look and a “Go.” Then she turned to Elia, “he’s twice your age. A serving man. He cleans up bird shit for the maester. Elia, what were you thinking?” “We were only kissing. I’m not going to marry him.” Elia crossed her arms defiantly beneath her breasts. “You think I never kissed a boy before?” “Feathers is a man. A serving man, but still a man.”

 

It did not escape the Princess that Elia was the same age she had been when she gave her maidenhead to Daemon Sand. “I’m not your mother, kiss all the boys you want when you return to Dorne. Here and now though? This is no place for kisses, Elia. Meek and mild and obedient, you said. Must I add ‘chaste’ to that as well? You swore upon your father’s bones.” “I remember,” said Elia, sounding chastened. “Meek and mild and obedient. I won’t kiss him again.” The shortest way from Mistwood to Griffin’s Roost was through the green, wet part of the Rainwood. It was slow going at the best of times. It took Arianne and her company the better part of eight days. They traveled to the music of steady lashing rains beating into treetops above. Though under the green, great canopy of leaves she and her riders stayed surprisingly dry.

 

Chains accompanied them for the first four days of their journey north with a long line of wagons and ten men of his own. Away from Mudd he proved more forthcoming, and Arianne was able to charm his life story out of him. His proudest boast was of a great­grandsire who had fought with the Black Dragon on the Redgrass Field and crossed the Narrow Sea with Bittersteel. Chains himself had been born into the company, fathered on a camp follower by his sellsword father. Though he’d been raised to speak the Common Tongue and think of himself as Westerosi, he had never set foot in any part of the Seven Kingdoms, until now. A sad tale, and a familiar one, Arianne thought. His life was all of a piece, a long list of places where he’d fought, foes he’d faced and slain, wounds he’d taken.

 

The Princess let him talk, from time to time prompting him with a laugh, a touch, or a question, pretending to be fascinated. She learned more than she would ever need to know about Mudd’s skill with dice, Two Swords and his fondness for red­haired women, the time someone made off with Harry Strickland’s favorite elephant, Little Pussy and his lucky cat, and the other feats and foibles of the men and officers of the Golden Company. On the fourth day, in an unguarded moment, Chains let slip up, “Once we have Storm’s End.” The Princess let that go without comment, though it gave her considerable pause. Storm’s End? This Griffin is a bold one, it would seem. Or else a fool. The seat of House Baratheon for three centuries, and the ancient Storm Kings for thousands of years before that, Storm’s End was said by some to be impregnable. Arianne had heard men argue about which was the strongest castle in the realm. Some said Casterly Rock, some the Eyrie of the Arryns, some Winterfell in the frozen North. Storm’s End was always mentioned too. Legend says it was raised by Brandon the Builder to withstand the fury of a wronged god.

 

It’s curtain walls were the highest and strongest in all the Seven Kingdoms, 40­80 feet in thickness. It’s mighty windowless Drum Tower stood less than half as tall as the Hightower of Oldtown, but rose straight up in place of being stepped, with walls thrice as thick as those to be found in Oldtown. No siege tower was tall enough to reach Storm’s End’s battlements, neither mangonel or trebuchet could hope to breach its massive walls. Does Connington think to mount a siege? she wondered. How many men can he have? Long before the castle fell the Lannisters would dispatch an army to break any such siege, ahh that way is hopeless too.

 

That night, when she told Ser Daemon what Chains had said, the Bastard of Godsgrace seemed as perplexed as she was. “Storm’s End was still held by men loyal to Lord Stannis when I last heard. You would think Connington might do better to make common cause with another rebel, rather than making war upon him, too.” “Stannis is too far away to be of any help to him,” Arianne mused. “Capturing a few minor castles while their lords and garrisons were off at distant wars… that’s one thing. If Lord Connington and his pet dragon can somehow take one of the great strongholds of the realm…” “...the realm would have to take them seriously, “ Ser Daemon finished, “and some of those who do not love the Lannisters might well come flocking to their banners.”

That night, when she told Ser Daemon what Chains had said, the Bastard of Godsgrace seemed as perplexed as she was. “Storm’s End was still held by men loyal to Lord Stannis when I last heard. You would think Connington might do better to make common cause with another rebel, rather than making war upon him, too.” “Stannis is too far away to be of any help to him,” Arianne mused. “Capturing a few minor castles while their lords and garrisons were off at distant wars… that’s one thing. If Lord Connington and his pet dragon can somehow take one of the great strongholds of the realm…” “...the realm would have to take them seriously, “ Ser Daemon finished, “and some of those who do not love the Lannisters might well come flocking to their banners.”

 

That night, Arianne penned another short note to her father and had Feathers send it on its way with her third raven. Young John Mudd had been sending out birds as well, it seemed. Near dusk on the fourth day, not long after Chains and his wagons had taken their leave of them, Arianne’s company was met by a column of sellswords down from Griffin’s Roost led by the most exotic creature the princess had ever laid eyes on, with painted fingernails and gemstones sparkling in his ears. Lysono Maar spoke the Common Tongue very well.

 

“I have the honor to be the eyes and ears of the Golden Company, Princess.” “You look….” She hesitated. “Like a woman?” He laughed. “That I am not.” “Like a Targaryen,” Arianne insisted. His eyes were a pale lilac, his hair a waterfall of white and gold. All the same, something about him made her skin crawl. Was this what Viserys looked like, she found herself wondering. If so, perhaps it is a good thing he is dead. “I’m flattered. The women of house Targaryen are said to be without peer in all the world.” “And the men of house Targaryen?” “Oh, even prettier. Though truth be told, I’ve only seen the one.” Maar took her hand in his own, and kissed her lightly on the wrist. “Mistwood sent word of your coming, sweet princess. We will be honored to escort you to the Roost, but I fear you have missed Lord Connington and our young prince.” “Off at war? Off to Storm’s End?” “Mm, just so.”

 

The Lyseni was a very different sort of man than Chains. This one would let nothing slip, she realized after a scant few hours in his company. Maar was glib enough, but he had perfected the art of talking a great deal while saying nothing. As for all the riders who had come with him, they had well been mutes for all that her own men were able to get out of them. So Arianne decided to confront him openly. On the evening of their fifth day out of Mistwood, as they made camp beside the tumbled ruins of an old tower overgrown by plants and moss, she settled down beside him and said, “Is it true you have elephants with you?” “A few,” said Lysono Maar with a smile and a shrug. “And dragons? How many dragons do you have?” “One.” “By which you mean the boy?” “Prince Aegon is a man grown, Princess.” “Can he fly? Breathe fire?”

The Lyseni laughed, but his lilac eyes stayed cold. “Do you play cyvasse, my lord?” asked Arianne. “My father has been teaching me. I’m not very skilled, I must confess, but I do know that the dragon is stronger than the elephant.” “The Golden Company was founded by a dragon.” “Bittersteel was half­dragon, and all bastard. I’m no maester but I know some history, you’re still sellswords.” “If it please you princess, “ Maar said, all silken courtesy, “we prefer to call ourselves a free brotherhood of exiles.” “As you will. As free brothers go your company stands well above the rest, I grant you. Yet the Golden Company has been defeated every time it has crossed into Westeros. They lost when Bittersteel commanded them, they failed the Blackfyre pretenders, they faltered when Maelys the Monstrous led them.”

 

That seemed to amuse him. “We are at least persistent, you must admit. Yet some of those defeats were near things.” “Or not. And those who die in near things are no less dead than those who die in routs. Prince Doran, my father, is a wise man and fights only wars that he can win. If the tide of war turns against your dragon the Golden Company will no doubt flee back across the Narrow Sea, as it has done before. As Lord Connington himself did after Robert defeated him at the Battle of the Bells. Dorne is no such refuge. Why should we lend our swords and spears to your… uncertain cause?” “Prince Aegon is of your own blood, Princess. Son of Prince Rhaegar and Elia of Dorne, your father’s sister.” “Daenerys Targaryen is our blood as well. Daughter of King Aerys, Rhaegar’s sister. And she has dragons.” Or so the tales would have us believe. Fire and Blood. “Where is she? Half a world away in Slaver’s Bay,” said Lysono Maar. “As for these purported dragons I have not seen them. In cyvasse it is true, the dragon is mightier than the elephant. On the battlefield? Give me elephants I can see, and touch, and send against my foes. Not dragons made of words and whispers.”

 

The Princess lapsed into a thoughtful silence, and that night she dispatched her fourth raven to her father. And finally, Griffin’s Roost emerged from the sea mist, on a grey wet day as the rain fell thin and cold. Lysono Maar raised a hand, a trumpet blast echoed off the crags, and the castle’s gates yawned open before them. The rain­soaked flag that hung above the gatehouse had white and red, the Princess saw. The colors of House Connington, but the golden banners of the Company were in evidence as well. They rode in double column across the ridge known as the Griffin’s Throat, with the waters of Shipbreaker Bay growling off the rocks to either side. Within the castle proper a dozen officers of the Golden Company had assembled to welcome the Dornish Princess. One by one they took a knee before her and pressed their lips against the back of her hand, as Lysono Maar offered introductions. Most of the names fled her head almost as soon as she had heard them. Chief amongst them was an older man with a lean, lined, clean­shaved face, who wore his long hair pulled back into a knot. This one is no fighter, Arianne sensed.

 

The Lyseni confirmed her judgement when he introduced the man as Haldon Halfmaester. “We have rooms prepared for you and yours, Princess,” Haldon said when the introductions finally ran their course. “I trust that they will suit. I know you seek Lord Connington and he desires words with you as well, most urgently. If it please you, on the morrow there will be a ship to take you to him.” “Where?” demanded Arianne. “Has no one told you?” Haldon Halfmaester favored her with a smile, thin and hard as a dagger. “Storm’s End is ours, the Hand awaits you there.” Daemon Sand stepped up beside her. “Shipbreaker Bay can be perilous even on a fair summer's day. The safer way to Storm’s End is overland.” “Those rains have turned the routes to mud. The journey would take two days, perhaps three,” said Haldon Halfmaester. “A ship will have the Princess there in half a day or less. There is an army descending on Storm’s End from King’s Landing. You’ll want to be safe inside the walls before the battle.”

 

Will we, wondered Arianne. “The battle or the siege?” She did not intend to let herself be trapped inside Storm’s End. “Oh, battles,” Haldon said firmly. “Prince Aegon means to smash his enemies in the field.” Arianne exchanged a look with Daemon Sand. “Would you be so good as to show us to our rooms? I should like to refresh myself and change into dry clothes.” Haldon bowed. “At once.” Her company had been housed in the east tower, where the lancet windows overlooked Shipbreaker Bay. “Your brother is not at Storm’s End, we know that now,” Ser Daemon said as soon as they were behind closed doors. “If Daenerys Targaryen has dragons, they’re half a world away and of no use to Dorne. There’s nothing for us at Storm’s End, princess. If Prince Doran meant to send you into the middle of the battle, he would have given you three hundred knights, not three.”

 

I would not be so certain of that, Ser, she thought. He sent my brother off to Slaver’s Bay with five knights, and a maester. “I need to speak with Connington.” Arianne undid the interlocked sun and spear that clasped her throat, and let the rain­soaked garment slip from her shoulders to puddle on the floor. “And I want to see this dragon prince of his. If he truly is Elia’s son…” “...whoever’s son he is, if Connington challenges Mace Tyrell in open battle, he may soon be captive, or a corpse.” “No, Tyrell is not a man to fear. My uncle Oberyn…” “...is dead, Princess. And 10,000 men equals the strength of the Golden Company.” “Lord Connington knows his own strength, surely. If he means to risk battle he must believe he can win it. “How many men have died in battles they believed they could win?” Ser Daemon asked her. “Refuse them, princess. I mistrust these sellswords. Do not go to Storm’s End.”

 

“What makes us believe they will allow me that choice?” She had the uneasy feeling that Haldon Halfmaester and Lysono Maar were going to be put her on that ship some morning whether she willed it or not. Best not to test them. “Ser Daemon, you squired for my uncle Oberyn,” she told him. “If you were with him now, would you be counseling him to refuse as well?” She did not wait for him to respond. “I know the answer….and if you were about to remind me that I am no Red Viper, I know that too. Prince Oberyn is dead. Prince Doran is old and ill. And I am the heir to Dorne.” “And that is why you should not put yourself at risk,” Daemon said. Then the knight went to one knee. “Send me to Storm’s End in your stead.

 

Then if the griffin’s plan should go awry and Mace Tyrell takes the castle back, I will be just another landless knight who swore his sword to this pretender in hopes of gain and glory.” “Whereas if I am taken, the Iron Throne will take that for proof that Dorne conspired with their sellswords and lent aid to the invaders. It is brave of you to seek to shield me, ser. I thank you for that.” She took his hands and drew him back onto his feet.

 

“But my father entrusted this task to me, not you. Come tomorrow, I sail to beard the dragon in its den.”