Water Gardens.
This place was a world apart from the grime and chaos of Planky Town.
Clear fountains sang in finely carved stone basins, droplets scattering in the sunlight and refracting into a prism of colors before falling back with soft, musical splashes. Ancient palms and lemon trees spread their lush branches, casting cool shade over the courtyard, their fragrance fresh and soothing.
The moist air was filled with the sweetness of water, flowers, and fruit—so still that even the faint flutter of a hummingbird's wings could be heard.
Yet the serenity of the Water Gardens did nothing to calm the storm inside Arianne Martell's heart.
She wore a plain linen gown, her damp hair clinging in messy strands to her temples and neck—evidence of a hasty cleansing after being brought here. But the fury and humiliation blazing in her amber eyes burned brighter than any stain could.
She stood beside the largest fountain, her body taut as a drawn bow, staring fixedly at the man in the wheelchair—her father, Prince Doran Martell.
Prince Doran was dressed in a loose robe of pale beige silk. His hands, mottled with age spots and swollen from illness, rested upon his blanketed knees. He looked even older and more fatigued than when she had last seen him, though beneath his heavy eyelids, his eyes still carried that deep, unreadable calm.
He watched his daughter in silence, though her every breath radiated defiance and anger.
"Father?" Arianne's voice finally broke the stillness. "Is this how you welcome your daughter home? By staging a fight at the docks?"
Doran slowly lifted a hand, motioning her to stop.
"Welcome? Arianne, you plotted to drag Dorne into a foolish war. You conspired to abduct Jon Snow and set all of Westeros aflame. Do you expect applause for that?" His tone remained even, but every word landed like a blade. "Do you understand that if Dorne recognizes Jon Snow's legitimacy, Elia's sacrifice becomes a joke? Do you mean to make the Dornish mock House Martell behind our backs?"
Arianne's face went pale, but her shock quickly hardened into fury.
"Foolish? And what do you call wise, then? Hiding here in the Water Gardens while the Lannisters flaunt their power in King's Landing? Watching Aunt Elia's murder go unavenged forever? Is your idea of 'waiting for the right moment' to wait until we all die of old age in Dorne's sands?!"
A fleeting shadow of pain passed through Doran's eyes, but it was soon smothered beneath the weight of exhaustion.
He did not answer her accusations. Instead, his tone shifted, quiet but cutting. "What concerns me more, my daughter, is that when your plan failed and you were captured, you were not alone in your bed. Cletus Yronwood—impressive choice. It seems Lord Anders sent more than friendship; he also sent a most unexpected gift."
Arianne's cheeks flamed crimson, her humiliation erupting into anger. "That's none of your business!"
"None of my business?" Doran's voice rose sharply, the restrained fury beneath it breaking through. "While he was crawling into your bed, he was sending every step of your plan—every detail—back to Yronwood!"
He snatched up a roll of parchment from his lap, his fingers trembling with rage, and flung it at her feet.
Arianne recoiled as though struck by lightning. She stumbled back a step, staring down at the parchment, eyes wide with disbelief.
Cletus—the man who had whispered tender words in her ear, who had made her lose herself in the heat of his touch—had been a spy. Anders's spy.
A wave of nausea and betrayal swept over her so fiercely she nearly lost her balance. The fire of her anger was extinguished in an instant, leaving only the bitter smoke of shame.
Doran's voice continued, cold and relentless, leaving her no space to breathe. "And did you think Gerold Dayne was a loyal knight? He's an ambitious man from High Hermitage who sought to use you. Had he succeeded, Dorne would already be entangled in this game of thrones. My clever daughter—used, deceived, blinded by their flattery and their skill in bed—dragging our house into disgrace!"
Arianne trembled violently. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.
The soft murmur of the fountains now rang harsh in her ears.
Doran gazed at his daughter's pale face and trembling form. The sternness in his eyes faded, replaced by a sorrowful weariness—a quiet grief too heavy for words.
"You think I've been sitting idle all this time?"
His voice was low, roughened by restrained anger. "Thirteen years… Do you think thirteen years of blood feud can be forgotten so easily?"
His gaze drifted toward the dancing droplets of the fountain, as if within them he saw the broken shadow of his sister, Elia.
"Oberyn did not go east for personal reasons."
He turned his head, his eyes locking on Arianne once more, each word deliberate and heavy. "He went to reclaim Viserys Targaryen, imprisoned in Tyrosh—to find the true dragon's blood."
Arianne's head snapped up, her amber eyes wide with shock. "Viserys?"
Doran drew a deep breath. "What I had prepared for you was never some decrepit old man. It was a betrothal—to Viserys. Arianne Martell, you were meant to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys's queen. The woman seated beside the Iron Throne when House Targaryen rose again."
The words struck her like a hammer to the chest.
Queen?
The Iron Throne?
She stood frozen, her mind reeling, her thoughts blank beneath the weight of revelation. Her father had planned such a future for her? So carefully, so secretly—and she, like a foolish child, had nearly destroyed it all?
"Unfortunately," Doran continued, his tone cooling again, "you are too impatient. Too easily clouded by desire and hate. Too willing to trust the men who whisper in your ear."
He waved a tired hand, as though brushing away the heavy air around them. "Return to Sunspear. Reflect on your mistakes in the Spear Tower for three months. Without my command, you will not take a single step beyond it."
Arianne swayed, her pride the only thing keeping her upright. She lifted her head, her voice trembling with anger and shame. "Reflect? Father, you might as well call it imprisonment."
Prince Doran held her gaze for a long moment. "Call it what you will, Arianne. These three months are for you to remember today's lesson. Remember—no Princess of Dorne can be led by the nose by anyone, least of all by the men who climb into her bed."
He slowly closed his eyes, exhaustion etched deep into his face. The steady murmur of the fountain filled the space between them, the sound cold and distant in the heavy silence.
Arianne straightened her back, then turned and left under the silent "escort" of the guards.
Her figure disappeared beyond the vine-covered archway, leaving Prince Doran alone beside the fountain, his clouded eyes fixed on his distorted reflection in the rippling water, unmoving for a long, long time.
...
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