“Look at that one,” Tyene Sand gestured daintily at some nearby hedge knight who was grappling in the mud with some poor fellow from a minor house. “He looks good and strong, like he could pick you up and throw you around your bed without any real effort in it.”
Arianne knew what she was doing, but it wasn’t going to work. Normally, she adored watching big, strong men fighting at tourneys like this, imagining which one of them would be worthy of bedding her, but nothing could soothe her sorrows. The one man she’d fancied above all others had rejected her in favour of Margaery Tyrell.
What man could ever compare with Harry Baratheon? Ever since the first moment she laid her eyes on him, she’d felt some unspeakable connection to him. And that Red Priestess had only reinforced that idea within her mind. She’d said that Arianne was destined to stand by his side… but now that was all ruined. When he’d come to her to ensure that she knew damn well that he was not going to abandon his wife-to-be for her, he’d tried to offer to still teach her to control her magical powers, and she’d rejected him.
What was to be done now? The tourney was nearly at an end. She’d schemed and plotted against her father to bring their entire family here so that she could find a suitable husband, and the only one she’d found refused her. There were plenty of other men, many who would make for fine husbands in any other circumstance than the one she found herself in, but she only wanted Harry.
Everything had gone wrong. Without him, how was she to challenge for her rightful position as the heir to Sunspear? She needed to secure herself with a competent ally to ensure that she could end her father’s machinations to place her younger brother, Quentyn, as the next ruler.
But now, she was left aimless. This wasn’t like her, giving up when all paths forward seemed closed. But she had no will to drive on. She spent every day acting lifeless, just watching the sun rise and fall, knowing that soon she would be returning back home as a failure.
“Come on,”’ Tyene gently shook her arm. “Try to not look so glum. Think, we could—”
A few curious whispers arose in the crowd as King Robert and Queen Cersei returned to their seats overlooking the events. They sat above most in a private box with two members of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime and Ser Meryn, standing watch near the entrance. Robert waddled unsteadily as he walked, but he took so much more care to not spill a single drop from the cup of wine in his hands. Cersei had her own wine and a foul expression on her lips.
“Looks like they’ve been fighting again,” Nymeria commented from the row behind them. “Such a shame that the pretty queen mars her face like that.”
“And they go on ignoring the little princes,” Elia smirked. “And the princess too. Look.”
The young blond princess had come in with her parents, clutching a doll to her chest. She tried to show her mother, who turned a doting eye over for just a moment before she returned back to the festivities. It clearly hurt the princess, but her younger brother was there to try to comfort her with a toothy smile.
“These Lannisters should all burn for what they did to our aunt,” Obara muttered bitterly.
Arianne glanced out of the corner of her eye to see if her father, Prince Doran, overheard Obara’s comment. He was sitting on his wheeled chair between her brothers, Trystane and Quentyn. As was common ever since Quentyn arrived at the capital, their mother, Lady Mellario, was fawning over him. Areo Hotah, the captain of her father’s household guards loomed over them, his eyes always scanning for dangers.
“Be careful with your words, my dear sister,” Nymeria chastised her sister lightly. “We’re guests here and should the wrong person overhear your words…”
“Let them. I’d be glad to see anyone attempting to defend their pathetic honour,” Obara retorted.
“You would not be half so bold if our father was here,” Elia pointed out. “You know that he said we’re to do nothing untoward whilst we’re here.”
Any further words were drowned out by the cheers as another set of combatants entered the arena. There were twenty fighters this time; evidently, they were looking to speed things along. With the warm midday sun overhead, many spectators had retired to their pavilions and tents for refreshments or off to the various vendors who’d set up stalls nearby to capitalise on all of the visitors to the capital. The stands where the highborn and wealthy smallfolk sat were a bit more than halfway full, but the fenced areas where the smallfolk stood were still crammed full.
Arianne automatically clapped along with the others as the first blow was struck. As more and more blows began to ring out, everyone’s attention returned to the fighting, but it barely kept her attention for more than a few seconds before her eyes started wandering aimlessly again.
There were certainly quite a few horses making some noise. In the distance, Arianne spotted dozens of mounted knights returning to the city. A grey-haired man was selling fish pasties and griddle cakes with slices of roast duck atop them. With the crowds swirling around him, he didn’t notice the careful fingers pinching things from the cart he wheeled behind him. Ah, there was a reason he wasn’t paying attention to such things. A large brute in the crowd stepped forward and clobbered a boy no older than Quentyn for snatching a handful of duck from the cart. Several people took a healthy step back, but the grey-haired man kept selling things with a bright smile.
Bells sounded from the city. Blood splattered across the arena floor as a man’s helmet came loose from a forceful blow from a mace. Thousands roared, their bloodlust satiated for a moment. A man in the crowd stood and thrust into the air mockingly above a man who was laying in the mud. A woman screamed as her neck was opened.
Arianne blinked and looked back at where she’d been looking just a moment ago. In the midst of the crowd of smallfolk, she was certain that she’d seen a woman clutching her neck as blood seeped out between her fingers—it was too visceral for it to not have been real—but she couldn’t find any sign of the chaos.
Another scream broke out over the din of the cheers. Arianne’s head whipped around to see a woman in the stands where the highborn sat slumping over. A man in dark leathers was standing over her with a club in his hands.
Arianne was on her feet as quickly as Areo drew his longaxe, but by then, it was already too late.
One of the combatants in the arena turned swiftly away from his opponent and hurled his spear into the stands right towards her family. Her mother’s terrified screams told her that Quentyn was impaled.
“Get down!” Tyene shouted at Arianne as she drew a dagger hidden within her long sleeves. She shoved Arianne down below the seats and placed her own body as a shield for her.
All of the noise and chaos that erupted felt so far away to Arianne. She crawled beneath the chairs in a haze, even as she knew it was no time to be in such a state. Only fools allowed themselves to be lovesick that they were willing to ignore the world around them and their own needs.
Slithering through several chairs, her father fell out of his wheeled chair and landed on the floor beside her, but he didn’t look stunned or surprised. His eyes were narrowed in thought, reflecting a cunningness that had long seemed lost to him. His linen robes were stained a dark red. She hoped that it was merely the strongwine he’d been drinking rather than his own blood.
“Father,” Arianne called out as she grabbed his wrist.
He yanked it back sharply, as though reeling back to strike her, but then he saw her face and softened. “Your brother—”
“I know,” Arianne replied, bitterness coming from two places. The first was that even now, her father’s thoughts were still on Quentyn. The boy whom he’d chosen to replace her as the heir to Sunspear. The second came from her own feelings of regret. As angry as she was against her father and the fact that she knew she had to plot against her own brother in order to secure her position as heir, she hadn’t wished death upon him.
And then the third bitterness came upon her. She felt a small amount of joy knowing that her father had no choice but to finally give her the focus and training that she needed in order to rule Sunspear. Trystane was far too young and sweet to rule right now, and it would take years of training before he could be made fit to rule.
Prince Doran’s eyes searched hers, as if understanding her every thought and feeling as it passed through her. There was no judgement in them, only that blank, even stare that masked his own thoughts.
“They’re retreating!” Areo’s deep voice boomed. “Form a circle! Defend your prince!”
Arianne poked her head out and sat up carefully. The Sand Snakes and Areo had split themselves onto three fronts: two defended them from any attackers coming from the seats nearby on either side of them, and the last had formed a blockade near the back stairs that led up to their stands. Servants, highborn ladies and children, and more than a few highborn men were cowering in their places, trusting in the protection of the Sand Snakes and Areo. A few other highborn men had actually grabbed their weapons and prepared for battle themselves, but the fighting was practically over. Only a few had dared attack her family, and the only casualty appeared to be Quentyn.
Lady Mellario was weeping over Quentyn. The poor boy was still alive, impaled through the right side of his chest by the spear that’d caught him. It was pinning him to the cushioned chair he was still sitting upon as he breathed his final few breaths. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a pained wheeze. Those pretty brown eyes of his were turning cloudy. Still, he turned to give Arianne one last half smile before he died.
Her brother had nothing but love for her, and a big part of her was grateful that he was dead.
Tears stung her eyes, yet they refused to fall.
“They’re not retreating!” Tyene called out. “They’re converging on the king and queen!”
Sure enough, the two Kingsguard were fighting viciously to defend the king and his family. Ser Meryn was suffering from a dented pauldron, which limited the mobility of his right arm, but Ser Jaime looked unharmed beyond the blood staining his white armour. They too were busy focusing on the narrow entryway from behind the king’s seats. Ser Jaime’s sword swept through the air smoothly, cutting through any that came his way. He was so focused on it that he didn’t notice the three men in the arena scaling the walls up to the royal box.
“We must deal with them before they get to—” Areo began, only for Nymeria to put her hand on his chest to get him to stop.
“Must we?” She replied evenly as she watched the outlaws continue to climb. “You know what their family has done to ours. Our dear Aunt Elia and her babes… slaughtered… wrapped in Lannister cloaks. Lord Tywin Lannister may have given the order to his men for their deaths, but we’ve heard many stories since we arrived that the new King was pleased when he saw the bodies. ‘A good dragon is a dead dragon’ some have heard him say when he drinks his fill at feasts. That is no man I mean to save.”
“So you would condemn him to death?” Areo asked, but rather than argue further, he came over and helped Prince Doran back up into his wheeled chair. “My Prince, what say you?”
For the first time in her life, Arianne finally saw the man she’d always heard about. Those closest to her father always spoke about how wise and patient and clever he was, yet all of that had only seemed like weakness to Arianne. Anything he did felt like it came too late, an overcorrection on something already mostly resolved. The few times that he spoke up in a moment of immense turmoil always felt like the words of a man trying to stop sand from slipping between his fingers before it was all gone. And yet right now, he spoke with that same quietness that he always did.
“There are still dangers lurking about,” Prince Doran replied. “We must keep our family and these good people safe first. The Kingsguard appear to have things well in hand.”
So, they all watched as the outlaws neared the top of the wall.
Others cried out and tried to warn the king and queen, but they and their children were all focused on the attackers that the Kingsguard were dealing with. With a mighty roar, King Robert smashed a chair against the floor and picked up one of the broken legs, intent on using it as a club as he went to join the Kingsguard. He didn’t make it a step before a dagger sunk into his heels.
The first outlaw threw himself into the box with a scream as one of the few remaining hedge knights in the arena ran forward and grabbed the leg of one of the outlaws still climbing. Though he dealt with one of the three attackers, the second climbed into the box just as a second dagger sank into King Robert’s thick back.
“Jaime!” Queen Cersei shrieked so loud that her voice reverberated around the arena.
Ser Jaime turned, his eyes wide in fear as he watched his twin sister clawing at the outlaw who pounced on her. She was knocked flat on her back as her children cowered in the corner, watching a knife stab into the queen’s belly.
“For Elia,” Prince Doran murmured so quietly that only Arianne heard him.
King Robert swung his chair leg wildly and clubbed the outlaw who’d stabbed him across his head. There was a sickening crack as the wood shattered, and the outlaw fell backwards into the arena. Ser Jaime came in next, spearing the outlaw atop his sister with a piercing thrust that went straight down his neck and into his torso. He hurled the outlaw off of his blade and sister and dropped to her side, pressing down firmly on her stomach where she’d been cut.
“They’re breaking through!” Ser Meryn shouted.
Ser Jaime didn’t move, but Robert did.
Like an inflamed beast, he charged into the men who were slipping past Ser Meryn. He battered them with the strength of ten men, but all of that strength did little to aid his unarmoured body as steel bit into it.
“No! My king!” Ser Meryn yelled, trying to put himself between the outlaws and Robert, but he was taking blows too. Flail strikes dented his armour. Every time he gutted a man, there was another to replace him before Ser Meryn could pull back. Blood was pooling on the ground making everything far too slippery, and all it took was one outlaw to send them both crashing to the floor. Robert tried to help, but he took a painful blow to his ribs for the effort.
The floodgates were opened, and outlaws came spilling wildly into the box. Ser Meryn was caught in a swarm of them as Ser Jaime finally leapt back into action, standing as a bulwark in between the outlaws and Cersei.
Arianne could honestly say that she’d never seen anything like it. The way that Ser Jaime fought was like a man possessed by the Warrior himself. Every slash, every thrust, every tiny adjustment in his footing was absolutely perfect. He held his ground as the outlaws fell to his blade one after another until there was a large enough pile of bodies that it was impossible for them to approach him directly. That was when they had to run around either side of the chairs to get to him.
Had the king’s children not screamed as the outlaws got close, they might’ve gone unnoticed in the dark corner of the box. All three were hiding beside a cabinet in a tiny nook with nowhere to run. Even as Ser Jaime tried to save them, it was too late. The little princes and princess were left bleeding on the floor from a dozen cuts each.
Ser Jaime’s grief was echoed in his screams as he tore through the remaining outlaws like a whirlwind. His sword even got caught inside of one of the corpses he’d just made, but he simply picked up a battle axe from the floor and continued on as if nothing had happened.
It was only in the midst of this bloody violence that other knights began to arrive. Westerosi knights from across the Seven Kingdoms finally killed whatever outlaws were still waiting outside of the king’s box and burst in to deal with the remainder, but Ser Jaime cut down the final man. And as that last man fell, he too fell at his sister’s side.
The queen’s hand tried to reach up for his, but it went limp and fell to the floor before he could grab it.
“The king and queen are—” a knight bearing a green apple on his shield began to declare, only for a large figure to stand.
King Robert arose from the corpses looking much like one himself. “I’m not dead yet,” he said slowly, sounding like he was drunk.
“My king,” the knight dropped to one knee before quickly turning to the side. “Call for a Maester! The king is wounded!”
All sorts of pandemonium broke out then as men and women rushed to aid the king and his family. Friends and families began to grieve over those who’d died in the ambush attack, bodies were removed from the arena and the stands, and all of House Martell watched as Areo removed the spear from Quentyn’s chest. His body was wrapped in a Martell banner and loaded onto the back of a waggon.
Arianne stood by everyone else with the solemnity that was expected of her, but something odd began happening within her. At first, she believed it to be true grief for the loss of her brother bubbling up inside of her, but that wasn’t it; it would take time, perhaps days or weeks, before she could truly process her feelings towards the brother she’d resented for so long because of her father’s machinations. No, something else felt odd within her.
A strange tingle grew along her fingertips, and then terror gripped her heart.
She closed her eyes and found herself staring at Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Petyr Baelish, her Uncle Oberyn, a dark-haired man she didn’t recognise, and Margaery Tyrell.
Then, it felt like something struck the back of her head. She collapsed forward, and the moment her head struck the ground, the world went black.