[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 41: ARIANNE (Public) (Patreon)

The Dornish sun beat down upon the pale pink marble of the Water Gardens with the crushing, unrelenting weight of a blacksmith’s hammer.

Arianne Martell waded through the shallow, tepid waters of the terrace pool, her bare feet gliding smoothly over the submerged mosaics. The water offered little reprieve from the sweltering heat of the afternoon. A thin, diaphanous shift of pale yellow silk clung wetly to her skin, outlining the heavy curves of her hips and breasts. She had stripped away her jewels and girdles hours ago, leaving them in a tangled pile upon a shaded stone bench. Dozens of children splashed in the pools around her. Highborn heirs and naked, brown-skinned orphans from the shadow city swam together in the haze, their shrieks and laughter echoing sharply off the carved sandstone arches.

Arianne waded to the sun-baked stone rim of the pool and hoisted herself up, water cascading from her sheer silk shift to puddle upon the hot marble. She reached for a silver platter resting in the shade of a potted lemon tree and picked up a heavy blood orange. She dug her thumbnail deep into the thick, dimpled rind. The skin yielded with a soft tear. Sweet, heavy juice dripped over her knuckles, pooling in the creases of her palm. In the glaring sunlight, it looked terribly like fresh blood.

She stared across the terrace, her dark eyes finding the man beneath the ancient, trailing branches of the weeping willows.

Prince Doran Martell sat in his wheeled chair, completely isolated within the deep, cooling shade. He wore loose, unbelted robes of sun-yellow linen, the fabric hanging heavily over his sloped shoulders. His legs were elevated on a cushioned velvet stool, his swollen, gout-ridden joints wrapped securely in thick white bandages. Areo Hotah stood a single pace behind the chair, the towering Norvoshi captain leaning upon the long haft of his deadly ash-and-iron axe. A servant had set up a polished wooden cyvasse board upon a low table beside the Prince. Doran stared down at the carved ivory and onyx pieces, moving nothing. He watched the children play in the water. He always watched the children play, day after day, while the years slipped away like dry sand through an hourglass.

Arianne tossed the ruined fruit back onto the silver platter. Her stomach churned with a dark, acidic fury.

The ravens flying south across the Red Mountains carried maddening, impossible tales from the Crownlands. The realm was hailing a new hero. Prince Joffrey. The Golden Stag. The boy had unseated the Kingslayer in the tourney lists. He had cast the Mountain That Rides into the dirt. He had hanged the Master of Coin by a velvet cloak in the black cells and seized the royal treasury. He had bound the staggering wealth of Highgarden and the Faith to a newly minted Royal Bank. He had stolen the Vale by publicly betrothing his sister to Harrold Hardyng, securing the eastern knights without unsheathing a single blade.

Joffrey possessed the name of the Usurper. He carried the blood of Tywin Lannister.

He was the living, breathing heir to the monsters who had sacked King's Landing. Arianne knew the histories. The atrocities of the rebellion were burned into her mind since childhood, whispered by her uncles and sworn shields. She knew exactly how Tywin Lannister’s mad dogs had broken into the Red Keep. Ser Amory Lorch had dragged little Princess Rhaenys from beneath her father’s bed, ignoring her terrified screams as he stabbed the child half a hundred times. Ser Gregor Clegane had snatched baby Aegon from Princess Elia’s breast and dashed his small head against a stone wall. The Mountain had then raped Elia with her son’s blood and brains still coating his massive hands, before crushing her skull utterly. Tywin Lannister had wrapped their ruined bodies in crimson cloaks and presented them to Robert Baratheon. The Usurper had looked upon the butchered children and smiled.

Joffrey Baratheon was the product of that foul alliance. While Doran sat nursing his gout beneath the willows, the spawn of Elia's murderers was forging an empire of iron. The Lannister whelp was locking Dorne out of the affairs of the realm. Highgarden was leashed by paper bonds. The Vale was bought with a marriage. The North was crawling south down the Kingsroad to answer the King's summons.

Dorne was completely, humiliatingly isolated. Doran’s fifteen years of cautious waiting had allowed a monster to reach maturity.

The sharp clatter of booted feet against the mosaic tiles broke her dark reverie.

Prince Oberyn strode onto the terrace. The Red Viper wore a tunic of pale red silk and a light riding cloak of sun-faded leather, his viper's eyes burning with a cold, concentrated violence. Beside him walked Tyene Sand. Her cousin wore a gown of pale blue and white, the sleeves fashioned from delicate Myrish lace. Tyene kept her fine, soft golden hair loose around her shoulders. She looked the very picture of a devout, innocent maiden. Arianne knew the lethal truth beneath those sweet blue eyes. Tyene’s gentle hands were intimately familiar with the deadly extracts of basilisk venom, nightshade, and widow's blood.

Oberyn bypassed the glaring sun of the terrace entirely. He marched directly into the deep shade of the willows. Arianne rose from the edge of the pool, the damp silk of her shift clinging tightly to her calves. She followed them into the gloom, her bare feet silent against the marble.

The air beneath the willows smelled of sour wine, milk of the poppy, and bitter herbal poultices. Doran did not look up from the cyvasse board.

"A Lyseni trading galley dropped anchor at the Planky Town at dawn," Oberyn announced. His voice possessed the dangerous hiss of drawn steel. He planted his hands flat on the cyvasse table, his knuckles turning stark white. "The captain brought whispers from Pentos. Illyrio Mopatis is dead."

Doran slowly raised his eyes. The pain of his afflicted joints was etched deeply into the lines around his mouth, yet his face remained a blank, unreadable mask.

"The Cheesemaker traveled to King's Landing," Oberyn continued, his jaw locking tight. "He was crushed beneath falling masonry in the deep cellars of the Red Keep. The Crown claims it was a tragic accident. A collapse of ancient stone."

Arianne felt a sudden chill sweep through the sweltering heat of the gardens. She knew the name Illyrio Mopatis. The immensely wealthy magister had long harbored a deep sympathy for the Targaryen exiles, keeping them safe behind his high walls. Oberyn had maintained quiet, secure channels with the Pentoshi man for years.

"Following the news of his death, the magisters of Pentos moved to strip his manse," Oberyn said. "They broke open his vaults to divide his silver and his spices. They found the guest chambers completely empty. Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen have vanished. Furthermore, the eunuch Varys has disappeared from the Red Keep without a trace."

Tyene stepped forward. Her blue eyes were wide, stripped of their usual mock innocence. "The Golden Stag has cleansed the board. He murdered the Cheesemaker in his own castle. He sent men across the Narrow Sea to erase the dragonspawn. He is extinguishing the ghosts of the rebellion."

Arianne looked at her father. Doran’s silence was maddening. The sheer cowardice of his inaction infuriated her. Joffrey Baratheon was waging a shadow war across the world. The boy was neutralizing threats before they could even manifest, striking across the water to cut the throats of the last Targaryens in the dark.

"The boy is a predator," Oberyn snarled, pacing the length of the shaded marble. "He is building a fleet on the Blackwater. He is militarizing the City Watch under Jacelyn Bywater. He has decapitated the Targaryen line. We have waited in the sand for fifteen years, Brother. We have allowed the lions to breed a warlord."

Doran shifted his swollen legs with a quiet wince. He reached out and picked up the heavy onyx dragon from the cyvasse board, turning the carved piece slowly in his thick, swollen fingers.

"We do not know the fate of the children," Doran said. His voice was a soft, dry rasp. "Vanished does not mean dead. The sea is vast. The Free Cities are full of hiding places."

"Do not play the fool, Doran," Oberyn snapped. "Varys is gone. The Pentoshi contacts are dead. The gold is seized. We cannot see past the Red Mountains. We are blind, and a blind man who waits for the sword to strike his neck dies."

"We do nothing," Doran replied, setting the onyx dragon down softly among the ivory pieces. "The boy has chained the Reach and the Westerlands to the Iron Throne with his Royal Bank. He holds the Tyrells by their purse strings. If we ride out now, we face the combined wealth and steel of the entire continent. I will not bleed Dorne dry for a war we cannot win."

Arianne bit the inside of her cheek. She tasted copper. He will sit in his chair and let the Usurper's cub dictate the laws of the sun. He will let the blood of Elia's murderers rule the world.

"We need eyes inside the Red Keep," Oberyn argued, his dark eyes narrowing. "We must measure this Golden Stag. We must find the truth of these Pentoshi deaths."

"The City Watch is locked down," Doran pointed out, resting his hands upon his lap. "Jacelyn Bywater inspects every merchant cog. Anguy the Archer commands the walls. An uninvited Dornish presence will be stopped at the Mud Gate. You cannot simply walk into the Red Keep, Oberyn. The boy is suspicious. He expects knives in the dark."

Oberyn offered a sharp, lethal smile. The Viper bared his fangs.

"Eddard Stark travels south," Oberyn said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Robert Baratheon is a glutton who craves the roar of the crowd and the clash of tourney swords. He cannot name a new Hand of the King without holding a massive melee. It is his nature. The moment the Wolf's boots hit the pale stone of the throne room, Robert will command the heralds to cry for a Hand's Tourney."

Oberyn walked back to the cyvasse table, leaning close to his brother. "A royal tourney is an open invitation to every knight in the realm. The Crown cannot bar the gates to men seeking glory in the lists. It is an unassailable right of the nobility."

Doran considered the logic. The heavy silence stretched beneath the willows, broken only by the distant, joyful shrieks of the splashing children.

"I will not wait for the ravens to bring the parchment," Oberyn declared, standing tall. "I will ride north tomorrow. I will take half a hundred knights. We will be at the gates of King's Landing before the lists are even built. I will enter the city to honor the King and the new Hand."

Doran sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "Who will you take?"

"Lord Harmen Uller," Oberyn answered without hesitation. "Ryon Allyrion. Daxos. True spears of Dorne. And I will take my daughters."

Oberyn turned to Tyene. "You will accompany me. The court is full of soft, perfumed ladies. You will find a place among them."

Tyene lowered her head, her hands folding piously over the pale blue silk of her gown. "I shall pray for the King's health in the Great Sept, Father. I shall be the very soul of devotion."

Arianne knew her cousin would pack glass vials of basilisk venom alongside her prayer books. Oberyn was bringing a concealed blade into the heart of the Lannister court.

"Nymeria as well," Oberyn added. "She knows the ways of the highborn. She has the grace to walk among the stags and the lions."

"Go then," Doran conceded, his voice weary. "Watch the Prince. Test the strength of his new Gold Cloaks. But heed me, Oberyn. Do not draw your spear unless you are forced. The boy has shown he knows how to kill in the dark. Do not give him an excuse to turn his new fleet toward the Planky Town."

"I only seek the truth, Brother," Oberyn said softly. The promise of violence lingered heavily in the sweltering air.

Doran signaled with a slight wave of his hand. Areo Hotah stepped forward, grasping the wooden handles of the wheeled chair. The Norvoshi captain pushed the Prince of Dorne away from the cyvasse table, rolling him slowly down the shaded colonnade toward the cool interior of the palace. Oberyn and Tyene followed, their voices dropping to hushed, conspiratorial murmurs as they planned the long ride north.

Arianne stood alone beneath the trailing green branches of the willow. She looked out at the bright, blinding glare of the sun on the pink marble.

Oberyn was riding to the center of the Great Game. Tyene and Nymeria were stepping into the viper's nest. Arianne was left behind in the dust.

She gripped the rough bark of the willow trunk. Her father kept Quentyn fostered far away at Yronwood with the Bloodroyal, undoubtedly preparing her plain, dull brother to inherit the sun. Doran hoarded his secrets and his caution, letting the years pass while the enemies of Dorne grew fat and strong. He intended to bypass her entirely, handing Sunspear to a boy who knew nothing of the world.

Joffrey Baratheon was a fifteen-year-old boy. He was a youth, younger than Arianne by seven years, yet he had rewritten the laws of the realm. He had terrorized the high lords, enriched the crown, and silenced his enemies across the narrow sea. He did not ask for permission to rule. He took the power and dared anyone to stop him.

Arianne felt the heavy heat of the Dornish sun warming her damp skin. The old rules of succession meant nothing in a world where power was seized by force. She was the Princess of Dorne. She was the rightful heir to Sunspear. If Doran would not bring fire and blood to the House of Baratheon to avenge Elia, she would have to forge her own alliances. If her father refused to move his pieces upon the board, she would upend the table herself. She would find a way to tear down the Golden Stag, even if she had to burn the Water Gardens to the ground to do it.

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