George Martin: Arianne

Once Arianne had made her name and purpose known to them, the two serjeants proved hospitable enough. “You’ll stay the night,” said Mudd. “There’s beds for all of you. In the morning you’ll have fresh horses, and whatever provisions you might need. M’lady’s maester can send a bird to Griffin’s Roost to let them know you’re coming.”

“And who would them be?” asked Arianne. “Lord Connington?”

The sellswords exchanged a look. “The Halfmaester,” said John Mudd. “It’s him you’ll find at the Roost.”

“Griffin’s marching,” said Chain.

“Marching where?” Ser Daemon ask.

“Not for us to say,” said Mudd. “Chain, hold your tongue.”

Chain gave a snort. “She’s Dorne. Why shouldn’t she know? Come down to join us, ain’t she?”

That has yet to be determined , thought Arianne Martell, but she felt it best not to press the matter.

At evenfall a fine supper was served to them in the solar, high in the Tower of Owls, where they were joined by the dowager Lady Mertyns and her maester. Though a captive in her own castle, the old woman seemed spry and cheerful. “My sons and grandsons went off when Lord Renly called his banners,” she told the princess and her party. “I have not seen them since, though from time to time they send a raven. One of my grandsons took a wound at the Blackwater, but he’s since recovered. I expect they will return here soon enough to hang this lot of thieves. ” She waved a duck leg at Mudd and Chain across the table.

“We are no thieves,” said Mudd. “We’re foragers.”

“Did you buy all that food down in the yard?”

“We foraged it,” said Mudd. “The smallfolk can grow more. We serve your rightful king, old crone.” He seemed to be enjoying this. “You should learn to speak more courteous to knights.”

“If you two are knights, I’m still a maiden,” said Lady Mertyns. “And I’ll speak as I please. What will you do, kill me? I have lived too long already.”

Princess Arianne said, “Have you been treated well, my lady?”

“I have not been raped, if that is what you’re asking,” the old woman said. “Some of the serving girls have been less fortunate. Married or unmarried, the men make no distinctions. “

“No one’s been doing any raping,” insisted Young John Mudd. “Connington won’t have that. We follow orders.”

Chain nodded. “Some girls was persuaded , might be.”

“The same way our smallfolk were persuaded to give you all their crops. Melons or maidenheads, it’s all the same to your sort. If you want it, you take it.” Lady Mertyns turned to Arianne. “If you should see this Lord Connington, you tell him that I knew his mother, and she would be ashamed.”

Perhaps I shall , the princess thought.

That night she dispatched her second raven to her father.

Arianne was on her way back to her own chamber when she heard muffled laughter from the adjoining room. She paused and listened for a moment, then pushed the door open to find Elia Sand curled up in a window seat, kissing Feathers. When Feathers saw the princess standing there, he jumped to his feet and began to stammer. Both of them still had their clothes on. Arianne took some small comfort in that as she sent Feathers on his way with a sharp look and a “Go”. Then she turned to Elia. “He is twice your age. A serving man. He cleans up birdshit for the maester. Elia, what were you thinking?”

“We were only kissing. I’m not going to marry him.” Elia crossed her arms defiantly beneath her breasts. “You think I never kissed a boy before?”

“Feathers is a man. A serving man, but still a man. It did not escape the princess that Elia was the same age she had been when she gave her maidenhead to Daemon Sand. “I am not your mother. Kiss all the boys you want when we return to Dorne. Here and now, though. this is no place for kisses, Elia. Meek and mild and obedient, you said. Must I add chaste to that as well? You swore upon your father’s bones.

“I remember,” said Elia, sounding chastened. “Meek and mild and obedient. I won’t kiss him again.”

The shortest way from Mistwood to Griffin’s Roost was through the green, wet heart of the rainwood, slow going at the best of times. It took Arianne and her company the better part of eight days. They travelled to the music of steady, lashing rains beating at the treetops up above, though underneath the green great canopy of leaves and branches she and her riders stayed surprisingly dry. Chain accompanied them for the first four days of their journey north, with a line of wagons and ten men of his own. Away from Mudd he proved more forthcoming, and Arianne was able to charm his life story out of him. His proudest boast was of a great grandsire who had fought with the Black Dragon on the Redgrass Field, and crossed the narrow sea with Bittersteel. Chain himself had been born into the company, fathered on a camp follower by his sellsword father. Though he had been raised to speak the Common Tongue and think of himself as Westerosi, he had never set foot in any part of the Seven Kingdoms till now.

A sad tale, and a familiar one, Arianne thought. His life was all of a piece, a long list of places where he’d fought, foes he’d faced and slain, wounds he’d taken. The princess let him talk, from time to time prompting him with a laugh, a touch, or a question, pretending to be fascinated. She learned more than she would ever need to know about Mudd’s skill with dice, Two Swords and his fondness for red-haired women, the time someone made off with Harry Strickland’s favorite elephant, Little Pussy and his lucky cat, and the other feats and foibles of the men and officers of the Golden Company. But on the fourth day, in an unguarded moment, Chain let slip a ” … once we have Storm’s End.

“The princess let that aside go without comment, though it gave her considerable pause. Storm’s End. This griffin is a bold one, it would seem. Or else a fool. The seat of House Baratheon for three centuries, of the ancient Storm Kings for thousands of years before that, Storm’s End was said by some to be impregnable. Arianne had heard men argue about which was the strongest castle in the realm. Some said Casterly Rock, some the Eyrie of the Arryns, some Winterfell in the frozen north, but Storm’s End was always mentioned too. Legend said it was raised by Brandon the Builder to withstand the fury of a vengeful god. Its curtain walls were the highest and strongest in all the Seven Kingdoms, forty to eighty feet in thickness. Its mighty windowless drum tower stood less than half as tall as the Hightower of Oldtown, but rose straight up in place of being stepped, with walls thrice as thick as those to be found in Oldtown. No siege tower was tall enough to reach Storm’s End battlements; neither mangonel nor trebuchet could hope to breech its massive walls. Does Connington think to mount a siege? She wondered. How many men can he have? Long before the castle fell, the Lannisters would dispatch an army to break any such siege. That way is hopeless too.

That night when she told Ser Daemon what Chain had said, the Bastard of Godsgrace seemed as perplexed as she was. “Storm’s End was still held by men loyal to Lord Stannis when last I heard. You would think Connington might do better to make common cause with another rebel, rather than making war upon him too.”

“Stannis is too far away to be of help to him,” Arianne mused. “Capturing a few minor castles whilst their lords and garrisons are off at distant wars, that’s one thing, but if Lord Connington and his pet dragon can somehow take one of the great strongholds of the realm … “

“…the realm would have to take them seriously,” Ser Daemon finished. “And some of those who do not love the Lannisters might well come flocking to their banners.”