In the southernmost reaches of Westeros, the air of Sunspear was dry and scorching, thick with the scent of spices and a hint of desire.
Deep within the Old Palace, an exotically decorated chamber was shielded from the meridian sun by heavy, painted wooden lattice windows, casting only mottled shadows upon the carpet. The air lingered with the ambiguous scent of musk mingled with sweat. Crimson gauze curtains draped from the four pillars of an immense ebony bed, fluttering softly in the breeze.
Arianne Martell reclined lazily against a pile of silk pillows. Her honey-colored skin glowed with healthy radiance in the dim light, sweat tracing fine, shimmering lines across her graceful collarbone and full bosom. She wore only a sheer orange sari draped casually around her waist and hips, her long, toned legs exposed.
Her current lover, Daemon Sand, lay on his side beside her, his strong arm possessively wrapped around her waist. His bronze chest rose and fell with steady breaths. Yet Arianne's gaze was unfocused, not resting on her lover's handsome face but drifting through the swaying gauze curtains to the sun-bleached courtyard beyond the window. A shadow of gloom crept across her beautiful brow.
"Daemon, Father intends to dispose of me like a discarded pottery shard—marrying me off to men old enough to be my grandfather! The eldest princess of Sunspear has become nothing more than a pawn on his chessboard, used to curry favor with decrepit elders!"
Arianne couldn't help but vent her grievances to her lover.
Daemon's fingers idly traced circles on her smooth waist, responding only with a lazy "Hmm," as if this were nothing new.
Seeing Daemon's acquiescence, Arianne's resentment surged forth. "He hates me, Daemon. When I was fourteen, in his study, I saw the letter he wrote to Quentyn. Sunspear would be his inheritance. He would be the ruler of Dorne."
She sat up abruptly, not caring that her sari slipped down, her eyes burning with fury. "Dorne's traditions? The eldest daughter's right to inherit? In his eyes, it's all bullshit! Just because I'm a woman and Quentyn is a man!"
She grabbed a cold silver goblet nearby and gulped down sour wine, the liquid trickling down her chin like blood tears.
Daemon sat up too, his strong arm resting on Arianne's shoulders, which trembled slightly with rage, trying to soothe her. "Arianne, calm down. They—"
Arianne cut him off sharply, her voice rising. "At least Uncle Oberyn still had the venom of vengeance in him! But my father? What did Aunt Elia become after being mutilated by the Mountain, that Lannister mad dog?! All of Dorne awaits the horn of vengeance, but what has Father done? He sits in the Water Gardens, licking the bones the Lannisters toss him, with nothing but silence and smiles!"
Daemon gazed at her face, made even more strikingly beautiful by her fury. He sighed, pulling her closer, his chin resting against her fragrant hair.
"My dear, don't let rage blind you. Their blood runs as warm as yours. The snakes that don't hiss are the deadliest."
Arianne broke free from his embrace, her bare feet striking the cool mosaic tiles as she strode to the window and flung open a wooden lattice pane. Scorching wind and blinding sunlight flooded the room, making her honey-colored skin glow.
She squinted northward, as if to pierce mountains and seas to see the Red Keep in King's Landing.
"A letter arrived from King's Landing. Robert is dead. The entire realm knows Tywin killed the king and framed Eddard Stark. Renly was crowned at Highgarden. Stannis is sharpening his teeth on Dragonstone. The Seven Kingdoms are in utter chaos!"
Her voice trembled slightly with excitement as she whipped around. "Daemon, this is our chance—the chance Dorne has waited over a decade for. The Lannister lions' good days are numbered. Dorne's vengeance must be ignited by our own hands!"
Her chest heaved violently, the thirst for revenge surging beneath her honey-colored skin, burning hotter than the blazing sun outside.
...
Days later, moments after Daemon Sand had left Princess Arianne's bedchamber, Gerold Dayne—the knight of High Hermitage known as the "Darkstar," one of Arianne's many lovers—slipped into the Old Palace of Sunspear.
When he appeared in Arianne's private audience chamber, no words were needed. Arianne immediately dismissed her maidservants.
The door barely closed before Gerold pinned her against the carved wall inlaid with mother-of-pearl. His kiss was storm-like in its aggression. For a brief moment, Arianne surrendered to it, her honey-colored arms wrapping around his slender neck.
When the long kiss finally ended and both were breathless, Arianne pushed him away slightly, meeting his mesmerizing violet eyes.
"Gerold, have you brought honey or poison?"
Gerold chuckled softly. "For you, my dear princess, it is always honey. With the Seven Kingdoms in turmoil, Dorne's opportunity is at hand. I know what you're thinking. We need a claim—a claim that will make the spearmen of Dorne willingly march north."
Arianne's eyes lit up. She leaned against his shoulder, twirling a lock of his hair. "Go on."
"Jon Snow. He is the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark—the true heir to the Iron Throne. We could bring him back to Dorne and crown him king upon the banks of the Greenblood. That would force Dorne to march north."
Gerold spoke slowly.
Arianne's body tensed instantly. She jerked her head up.
Jon Snow? The rumored son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.
She had read that report—the one that claimed Prince Rhaegar had persuaded the High Septon to sanctify his marriage with Lyanna. That meant Jon was born within wedlock, a legitimate heir to the Iron Throne.
But...
Arianne couldn't help but think of Princess Elia, her aunt. Rhaegar's second marriage had shamed Elia—and all of Dorne. Jon Snow's very existence was a lingering wound, a reminder of that betrayal.
Her heart wavered. If only Uncle Oberyn were here. He would know what to do, what counsel to give. But she'd overheard Tyene and the others whispering—her uncle had gone east, to the Free Cities. Doing what, none of them knew.
Gerold Dayne saw the hesitation in her eyes and immediately leaned forward, capturing her lips again. This kiss was deeper, fiercer, as if he meant to dissolve her doubts with it.
"Opportunities are fleeting, my princess. Now is not the time for hesitation."
Under his burning kiss and his tempting words, the last barrier of Arianne's reason shattered. She closed her eyes and kissed him back fiercely, as if she could swallow the danger of his plan—along with Gerold himself.
When she finally pulled away, gasping for breath, her eyes blazed with reckless resolve.
"Fine. We'll find this Jon Snow—and crown him king."
...
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