Part 2 (1/2)

Only Ser Gerold Dayne had escaped unscathed. Darkstar. If Myrcella's horse had not s.h.i.+ed at the last instant, his longsword would have opened her from chest to waist instead just taking off her ear. Dayne was her most grievous sin, the one that Arianne most regretted. With one stroke of his sword, he had changed her botched plot into something foul and b.l.o.o.d.y. If the G.o.ds were good, by now Obara Sand had treed him in his mountain fastness and put an end to him.

She said as much to Daemon Sand that first night, as they made camp. ”Be careful what you pray for, princess,” he replied. ”Darkstar could put an end to Lady Obara just as easily.”

”She has Areo Hotah with her.” Prince Doran's captain of guards had dispatched Ser Arys Oakheart with a single blow, though the Kingsguard were supposed to be the finest knights in all the realm. ”No man can stand against Hotah.”

”Is that what Darkstar is? A man?” Ser Daemon grimaced. ”A man would not have done what he did to Princess Myrcella. Ser Gerold is more a viper than your uncle ever was. Prince Oberyn could see that he was poison, he said so more than once. It's just a pity that he never got around to killing him.”

Poison, thought Arianne. Yes. Pretty poison, though. That was how he'd fooled her. Gerold Dayne was hard and cruel, but so fair to look upon that the princess had not believed half the tales she'd heard of him. Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the ones who were dark and dangerous as well. That was before, when I was just a girl, she told herself. I am a woman now, my father's daughter. I have learned that lesson.

Come break of day, they were off again. Elia Sand led the way, her black braid flying behind her as she raced across the dry, cracked plains and up into the hills. The girl was mad for horses, which might be why she often smelled like one, to the despair of her mother. Sometimes Arianne felt sorry for Ellaria. Four girls, and every one of them her father's daughter.

The rest of the party kept a more sedate pace. The princess found herself riding beside Ser Daemon, remembering other rides when they were younger, rides that often ended in embraces. When she found herself stealing glances at him, tall and gallant in the saddle, Arianne reminded herself that she was heir to Dorne, and him no more than her s.h.i.+eld. ”Tell me what you know of this Jon Connington,” she commanded.

”He's dead,” said Daemon Sand. ”He died in the Disputed Lands. Of drink, I've heard it said.”

”So a dead drunk leads this army?”

”Perhaps this Jon Connington is a son of that one. Or just some clever sellsword who has taken on a dead man's name.”

”Or he never died at all.” Could Connington have been pretending to be dead for all these years? That would require patience worthy of her father. The thought made Arianne uneasy. Treating with a man that subtle could be perilous. ”What was he like before he... before he died?”

”I was a boy at G.o.dsgrace when he was sent into exile. I never knew the man.”

”Then tell me what you've heard of him from others.”

”As my princess commands. Connington was Lord of Griffin's Roost when Griffin's Roost was still a lords.h.i.+p worth the having. Prince Rhaegar's squire, or one of them. Later Prince Rhaegar's friend and companion. The Mad King named him Hand during Robert's Rebellion, but he was defeated at Stoney Sept in the Battle of the Bells, and Robert slipped away. King Aerys was wroth, and sent Connington into exile. There he died.”

”Or not.” Prince Doran had told her all of that. There must be more. ”Those are just the things he did. I know all that. What sort of man was he? Honest and honorable, venal and grasping, proud?”

”Proud, for a certainty. Even arrogant. A faithful friend to Rhaegar, but p.r.i.c.kly with others. Robert was his liege, but I've heard it said that Connington chafed at serving such a lord. Even then, Robert was known to be fond of wine and wh.o.r.es.”

”No wh.o.r.es for Lord Jon, then?”

”I could not say. Some men keep their whoring secret.”

”Did he have a wife? A paramour?”

Ser Daemon shrugged. ”Not that I have ever heard.”'

That was troubling too. Ser Arys Oakheart had broken his vows for her, but it did not sound as if Jon Connington could be similarly swayed. Can I match such a man with words alone?

The princess lapsed into silence, all the while pondering what she would find at journey's end. That night when they made camp, she crept into the tent she shared with Jayne Ladybright and Elia Sand and slipped the bit of parchment out of her sleeve to read the words again.

To Prince Doran of House Martell,

You will remember me, I pray. I knew your sister well,

and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve

for them as you do. I did not die, no more than did

your sister's son. To save his life we kept him hidden,

but the time for hiding is done. A dragon has returned

to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance

for his father, and for the princess Elia, his mother.

In her name I turn to Dorne. Do not forsake us.

Jon Connington

Lord of Griffin's Roost

Hand of the True King

Arianne read the letter thrice, then rolled it up and tucked it back into her sleeve. A dragon has returned to Westeros, but not the dragon my father was expecting. Nowhere in the words was there a mention of Daenerys Stormborn... nor of Prince Quentyn, her brother, who had been sent to seek the dragon queen. The princess remembered how her father had pressed the onyx cyva.s.se piece into her palm, his voice hoa.r.s.e and low as he confessed his plan. A long and perilous voyage, with an uncertain welcome at its end, he had said. He has gone to bring us back our heart's desire. Vengeance. Justice. Fire and blood.

Fire and blood was what Jon Connington (if indeed it was him) was offering as well. Or was it? ”He comes with sellswords, but no dragons,” Prince Doran had told her, the night the raven came. ”The Golden Company is the best and largest of the free companies, but ten thousand mercenaries cannot hope to win the Seven Kingdoms. Elia's son... I would weep for joy if some part of my sister had survived, but what proof do we have that this is Aegon?” His voice broke when he said that. ”Where are the dragons?” he asked. ”Where is Daenerys?” and Arianne knew that he was really saying, ”Where is my son?”

In the Boneway and the Prince's Pa.s.s, two Dornish hosts had ma.s.sed, and there they sat, sharpening their spears, polis.h.i.+ng their armor, dicing, drinking, quarreling, their numbers dwindling by the day, waiting, waiting, waiting for the Prince of Dorne to loose them on the enemies of House Martell. Waiting for the dragons. For fire and blood. For me. One word from Arianne and those armies would march... so long as that word was dragon. If instead the word she sent was war, Lord Yronwood and Lord Fowler and their armies would remain in place. The Prince of Dorne was nothing if not subtle; here war meant wait.

At mid-morning on the third day Ghost Hill loomed up before them, its chalk-white walls s.h.i.+ning against the deep blue of the Sea of Dorne. From the square towers at the castle's corners flew the banners of House Toland; a green dragon biting its own tail, upon a golden field. The sun-and-spear of House Martell streamed atop the great central keep, gold and red and orange, defiant.

Ravens had flown ahead to warn Lady Toland of their coming, so the castle gates were open, and Nymella's eldest daughter rode forth with her steward to meet them near the bottom of the hill. Tall and fierce, with a blaze of bright red hair tumbling about her shoulders, Valena Toland greeted Arianne with a shout of, ”Come at last, have you? How slow are those horses?”