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The afternoon sun poured down from a clear sky, turning every inch of the Water Gardens into a wash of gold.
This was Dorne at its most beautiful.
The last heat of summer had burned off, and autumn's cool edge had finally reached this land of endless sun. Waves slapped the rocks south of the gardens in a steady hush, gentle as a mother's lullaby.
Water was everywhere—that was the whole point of the name.
Narrow channels wound through the courtyards, spring water bubbling from marble spouts into pools and sending up fine sprays. Water lilies floated on the surface, heavy and lazy in the light. The stone paths were warm under bare feet, with thin moss in the cracks.
On any other day Arianne Martell would have been stretched out on a soft couch here, letting a servant fan her while she ate figs one by one and listened to a Dornish harp somewhere in the distance. Or she would have been tucked away in some quiet corner with a handsome knight, the sun and the sea breeze on her skin and nothing between them but heat and breath.
Today wasn't any other day. The gardens could have been on fire and she wouldn't have noticed.
She was the most striking thing in them anyway.
She came down the coastal road from Sunspear fast, skirts snapping around her legs, bare feet striking the warm pink stone. Her wine-red gown clung where it was damp with sweat. Her hair—thick, black, and wild—whipped across her face and stuck to her temples. Her dark eyes were burning.
Behind her, Ser Arys Oakheart kept pace, white cloak bright against the sun. His eyes stayed on the back of her neck like he was still tasting her skin from the night before.
"Princess!" a servant girl called, hurrying out from behind a pillar with a silver tray of figs. She saw Arianne's face and dropped into a quick bow. One of the figs rolled off the tray and bounced across the path, stopping right against Arianne's toes.
Arianne didn't slow down. She kicked it into the nearest pool without looking. The splash sent the fish scattering.
The servant girl stayed on her knees, head down, until Arianne was long past.
"Princess!"
"Princess!"
Everyone stepped aside—guards, gardeners, maids. No one tried to stop her. She walked like she meant to set the whole damn place on fire.
The main hall rose ahead, three stories of pale stone facing the sea. The doors were shut. Four guards stood in front of them.
A big man with a white-streaked beard and a scar running from his forehead to his jaw stepped into her path. He wore a simple robe and carried a long axe that looked too heavy for most men to lift. Areo Hotah. Her mother's old guard. The man who had watched her grow up.
"Stop, Princess Arianne."
"Move, Hotah."
He didn't. "The Prince gave orders. No one enters while he speaks with his guest."
"Anyone?" Her voice rose. "I'm his daughter. His heir. Princess of Dorne."
Hotah's gray eyes were flat. "I take orders from Prince Doran. No one else."
Arianne's chest heaved. She felt the anger like a live coal behind her ribs.
Ser Arys stepped in front of her, white cloak flaring. He faced Hotah with the easy arrogance of a man who had grown up knowing his blood mattered.
"Listen carefully, big man," Arys said. "The Princess wants to see her father. When did servants start deciding who speaks to princes in Dorne?"
Hotah didn't blink. "You're in Dorne now, Ser. Everything here answers to Prince Doran."
Arys's hand went to his sword hilt. "Stand aside. Or I'll take that axe away and teach you how a real knight speaks to his betters."
Hotah raised the axe until the blade hovered a hand's width from Arys's face. "Try it, white cloak."
"Both of you, enough."
The voice came from inside the hall—quiet, tired, unmistakable.
The heavy doors opened. Doran Martell rolled out in his wheeled chair. Half his body was in sunlight, half in shadow. His face was pale and drawn, legs swollen and useless beneath the blanket. His black eyes were steady and unreadable.
He looked at the two men ready to kill each other on his doorstep, then at his daughter.
"Arianne," he said. "Go back to your rooms."
She stared at him like he'd slapped her. "Father, Oberyn was attacked in King's Landing. The Yronwoods—"
"Go back to your rooms," Doran repeated. His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "Now."
Arianne's mouth worked. For a second she looked ready to scream. Then she turned on her heel and walked away, bare feet striking the stone hard enough to echo.
Ser Arys hesitated, then bowed stiffly to Doran and followed her.
When their footsteps faded, Doran sat alone in the sunlight, looking at the path his daughter had taken.
"You were harsh with her, my Prince," a voice said from the shadows behind his chair.
Doran didn't turn. "Some things she doesn't need to know."
A pause. Then the voice came again, softer. "You still mean to name Quentyn your heir."
"I gave my word," Doran said. "That hasn't changed."
He rolled the chair forward a few inches, the wheels whispering over stone.
"Anders Yronwood will be dealt with. One way or another."