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It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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 a bird in my eyes, a flight risk, ariannnneeeee
DORAN MARTELL
 Posted: Dec 8 2017, 04:38 AM
Quote
nica is Offline
55 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Martell
Sunspear
Prince


In many ways, Doran ran his household like he ran all of Dorne, like he had run the courts as Master of Laws. Deliberate, slow, infuriatingly slow. He'd learned long before that it was a far more effective tactic to make others wait upon him. To give them time alone with their thoughts, their anxieties, to allow them the berth to conjure scenarios and demons.

He'd found that it led to much more pliable subjects.

But there was an art to it. Too short a wait, and they were simply annoyed at his tardiness, assuming it due to laziness, or, north of the Red Mountains, 'Dornish time'. Too long a wait, and they simply lost interest. No, there was a sweet spot there, a deliberate point at which they were most vulnerable, somewhere between annoyance and disinterest, a point where their anxieties were strongest. When called out regarding this habit of making others wait, Doran had ready excuses; his ill health, his busy schedule. But it was a deliberate thing, like every action Doran took (or failed to take), it was a planned to the minute detail. Beyond softening his subjects, rendering the most stubborn of men pliable, the waiting gave Doran time to gather his own thoughts upon the matter at hand. To organize his thinking into thin rows of spidery handwriting; painstakingly noted down in a graceful hand that, somehow, few others were capable of reading. It wasn't that his handwriting was illegible; it was merely written in such a manner as to render the overall form more pleasing than intelligible.

This too was deliberate.

All of these habits converged to throw a wrench into his way of thinking, way of life, when Mellario of Norvos marched through his doors, silks swishing, her chin held high. Lips a careful line. Had Doran's spies done their jobs, had his children been honest, had he known she was to cross his threshold, she'd have waited for her audience. He would have set her in a suite on the other side of Sunspear, and allowed her time to stew in her thoughts. Stew in all the reasons she deemed it necessary to return, why, now. But Arianne and Quentyn had deliberately kept it from him. More importantly, they had somehow kept it from his many informants scattered across Dorne and across Essos. Doran's knuckles whitened as he considered the words he had carefully constructed for his own Master of Whispers, an unofficial title, here, away from King's Landing. But now was not that time. That man was still waiting, mulling over his own fate. A deep breath. Inhale, exhale. He'd declined to call upon his daughter the evening of Mellario's return; in fact, he had declined to call upon anyone, instead remaining within his chambers, surrounded by his books, hiding his thoughts behind a mountain of accounting. As Prince of Dorne, he was, of course, free to place such responsibilities upon his underlings. However, he had found long before that burying himself in work; dry, dull, tedious work, allowed him to organize his thoughts far more effectively than any meditation exercise.

Another day passed; pale morning light intensifying to a golden haze, burning the tile and gilded roofs of Sunspear, and faded into a copper pool upon the Western dunes. Another day, and still, Doran declined to call upon his children. He'd instructed his personal guard and staff to allow none through; claiming ill health. In truth, he was biding his time. Day two dawned cold and bright; the sky a pale blue rarely seen this far south, and frost rimed the windows as dawn's tendrils brushed the night from the horizon. It was then that Doran sent for Quentyn. The young Martell arrived mid-morning, to find his father picking at a spread of Dornish fruits; blood oranges, pomegranate, figs. It was a long while before he spoke, breaking the silence that stretched between the two quiet Martells. "Why did you lie to me?" Doran asked, voice deceptively calm, demeanor more curious than interrogating. He declined to make eye contact, instead remaining focused upon freeing the pips of the pomegranate from the white pulp. 'Lie, father?' Quentyn hedged, avoiding the question directly. 'You never asked if I was in contact with my mother.' Doran eyed him now, dark eyes unreadable. Doran too avoided the implicit question in Quentyn's words. "You are more than aware that I do not appreciate surprises." It was a statement, the words calm, dropping into the air like stones upon a still pool. "Tell me this; whose idea was it? Yours? Or Arianne's?" Quentyn shifted in his seat; now he was the one failing to make eye contact. "Arianne," he replied at last. Doran nodded. "You are dismissed. We will continue this conversation later." The middle boy nodded, bowed, and turned upon a heel to leave Doran's solar. Day two grew progressively hotter; the frost on the windows long gone before Quentyn had even arrived. With dusk returned the cold; a wind blew from the water just as the sun dipped over the horizon.

Day three brought an unusual mist climbing up from the sea, trying to smother Sunspear and the Shadow City below. By midmorning, the sun burned it away, leaving but a few wisps of clouds in the sky. Midday passed by, the time languid, the air warm and wet, each mote of dust appearing gilded as they floated by. As the sun crawled towards the western dunes, Doran called for Arianne. They would sup together in his private dining room; perhaps among the most lavish rooms in Sunspear, if only for the sheer amount of glass that encased it; allowing views from every direction, collecting what remained of the day's light. The spread was a simple one; spiced fowl, grape leaves stuffed with rice and steamed with lemons and spices, chickpea paste served with soft, warm flatbread, and a bowl of pickled vegetables; olives, carrots, dragon peppers. Sipping delicately at a chalice of sour Dornish red, Doran awaited his daughter's arrival, expression pensive.

@ARIANNE MARTELL
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ARIANNE MARTELL
 Posted: Dec 8 2017, 10:46 AM
Quote
Stormie is Offline
27 years old
DORNE
Martell
Martell
Dorne
Princess of Dorne



Arianne felt as if she was back to being a five year old, and had stolen food from the kitchen. She had been dismissed from the hall, and where Uncle Oberyn had always been such help--even he failed her at this time. She knew the game that her father was playing. She had watched him play it on courtiers that had displeased him or criminals that were caught. Let them stew, let them imagine the worst and then when the sentence was handed down, judgement passed--did he look like the gracious leader? Didn't he appear fair and just. She hated the head games. Arianne was not like Doran in this way, her youth, the fire in her belly and her temper did not wait days for retribution. Still, Doran was Prince of Dorne, and Arianne still respected him. Perhaps even a small part of her wanted to please him as she did as a child.

When Oberyn fell useless in staving off her fears of judgement, Arianne had gone for a ride to clear her head. With the sun glistening on her back, she rode just far enough that she could see the entirety of Sunspear. She watched as servants ran about doing their duties, gardeners taking their time pruning and tending their plants. Guards watching her watching them. She intended to sup with her mother that night. If Doran would not throw her a feast, then Arianne would. A small feast, but a feast none-the-less. There was a heavily spiced suckling pig, peppers with cheese, and pears poached with strongwine and honey. A small spread fit for the intimate dinner between her brothers, herself and their long absent Mother. If Doran's spiders were listening--they would hear nothing but the joy of a family mostly reunited. The joy on Trystane's face at seeing their mother was nothing short of heartwarming and Arianne did not regret for one moment her little plot to get Mellario here.

Her own little birds, as she called them, told her that Father had stayed in his quarters that night, working on the accounts of Dorne in the morning during her breakfast. She knew him well enough that he was plotting his own reckoning. No one willing did the account work themselves. Well, at least Oberyn and Arianne didn't. She rewarded the servant who had dared to steal themselves away, and turned to her own breakfast again. Gone was the panic that she initially felt. It wasn't until Quentyn knocked on her chambers that she felt her heart climb into her throat once more. She had invited him in and sat on the balcony of her chambers enjoying the hot winds while they spoke quietly. She did not begrudge her brother for pinning the blame on her, and a hand on his was all he needed to be forgiven. Arianne had enough fire within her to take on whatever quiet rage her father would throw at her--though it did break the calm that she had cultivated for herself. She expected to be called in on the second day, just as her brother was, but she misjudged Doran and supped alone instead.

On the third day, she almost had it in her head to breach the doors to her father's rooms and demand confrontation. Dorne seemed to mimic her feelings with the mist covering, concealing its true nature from her and hiding answers to the questions that she didn't truly understand. She walked with her Mother in the morning. By noon, with the sun blazing and burning away the self doubt, the sun revitalizing her vigor. She and Trystane sparred, clashing away in the courtyards with few onlookers. They admired her speed, and his strength. Quentyn seemed to be avoiding her but Arianne held no ill will towards her quiet brother. When it was all said and done, Trystane had bested her with a sword, but Arianne knew that her close combat skills were not the exceptional ones that her brothers had cultivated. The Princess of Dorne was better at riding and throwing knives from distances. She felt only slightly jaded at the good-natured jabbing they threw at each other. Yet her father's judgement was still at the back of her mind and perhaps only distracted her from besting her brother.

As she was bathing, a servant entered--standing off and not looking at her nude body. She laughed at his prudeness and wrapped a blue robe around her as she emerged from the bath. Her ladies quickly patted her hair, wringing the perfumed water from it. "What is it boy? Have you never seen a woman bathe?" The servant glanced up--seeing that the Princess was barely covered only to drop his eyes to the ground again and bow. "Your Highness, Prince Doran commands your presence for supper in his private dining room." Her easy going demeanor stiffened only for a moment before she smiled at the boy. "Tell his Royal Highness that I would be delighted to sup with him tonight." A smile given to him, and he scurried away. She turned to her ladies, and directed them to pull out a pale yellow dress. She would not wear white yet, but perhaps she would invoke the vision of innocence. To be honest, the gown covered her breasts more than most that she wore, and she secured it on the shoulder with a large emblem of their nation. Gone was most of her jewelry. She selected a small circlet with her hair loose around her shoulders in gentle waves and her favorite ruby ring. Around her waist was a small golden belt to remind her father that she was not a child anymore.

It was with this muted appearance that she made her way to his quarters, to play the lamb to slaughter. As she entered the room she found herself alone with the one person that plagued her thoughts for the last three days. She swallowed hard, and straightened her back and smiled at her father. "Father! I am so please to see you." She moved towards him, noticing the pensive look but choosing to ignore it and instead, kiss him on the cheek in greeting. As she stood up, her eyes watched the sun-kissed dust rising up, painting a beautiful picture. "I've always loved this room, and missed the meals we shared together when I was a child." Fond memories came to mind of laughter and stories told against the fading light. She tore her glance away and sat down, watching her father for any signs of emotion. If he thought that she would quake in his presence, he was very wrong. Only in the pit of her stomach did she feel nervous, and she was practiced enough to not let that show through--at least not yet.


@DORAN MARTELL
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DORAN MARTELL
 Posted: Dec 12 2017, 09:53 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
55 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Martell
Sunspear
Prince


Eyes of deep amber rose to the door as a light rap sounded upon it, a servant warning him of the impending approach of his daughter. No surprises. The door swung open, and she entered, looking so much like her mother in the golden light that spilled through the windows that Doran had to blink, slowly; and the image of his wife as a young woman slipped from his mind's eye, to be replaced by his daughter. None of this was betrayed upon the lines of his face, however; the frown he wore appeared as if carved from stone, and the stony look in his dark eyes was unyielding. He steepled his fingers, resting his chin upon them as he watched his daughter enter the room, looking wary. Little did she know, she had nothing to fear from him.

That was another reason why he waited.

Doran cultivated his reputation as a slow, calm man, manipulating the world around him like a cyvasse board. But beneath that calm facade was blood that ran through his veins like fire. He had been angry initially, when Mellario had crossed his threshold unexpectedly, had felt the blood grow hot behind his eyes, had felt a single flush of heat pass through his body. But Doran had made one rash decision in his life, and had spent the greater part of his years regretting it. Mellario. He'd been a young man then, the blood still hot in his veins, the years hadn't yet gotten the opportunity to carve lines upon his face, to paint the black of his hair silver. He'd fallen for a foreign femme, forgetting the stipulations of his station. He'd reveled in the glow for a time; young love, youth, the invincible feeling all young men know. Slowly, however, his love turned to resentment; a cross word, slight fissures, and surely a void grew between them, as wide as the Narrow Sea that separated Dorne from Norvos. It was understandable then that Doran was less than pleased to see she'd crossed the Sea once more to land upon his shores.

But he'd learned his lesson regarding rash behavior. And so; he took his time. "Arianne, good evening." Doran greeted. He very much doubted that his daughter was pleased to see him; if anything, she might have felt relief that the wait was at last over. Still, he chose to ignore the statement, to see it as a simple pleasantry. "Please, sit." he directed, untangling his hands from each other, and sweeping gnarled fingers at the chair opposite him. Doran straightened in his chair, leaning back, uncurling his hunched spine and rolling his shoulders back. "This is perhaps my favorite place in Sunspear," the Sunshadow admitted, voice quiet, contemplative. "There isn't anywhere comparable in the Red Keep, and had there been, the view was not nearly so pleasant." Doran lifted the carafe of sour Dornish wine, pouring it for Arianne, lifting the carafe up high to allow the red stream to resemble a narrow waterfall. Following this, he plucked a few rolled grape leaves from the serving platter and replaced them upon his own plate, and did the same with the spiced quail, following with the remainder of the spread. "I imagine you are hungry. Please, help yourself."

As ever, Doran was in no hurry, as he chewed contemplatively upon a grape leaf, and rolled an olive across his plate. This was supper, and he rarely discussed difficult subjects on an empty stomach. It wasn't good for the bile. Thus, he cut his quail upon his plate, savoring each bite as the fiery spices burned upon his lips, and cooled his palate with sips of wine, the tannic bite stealing all moisture from his tongue. At long last, Doran set his knife and fork across the top of his plate, and slid it away, even as he drew his wine closer towards him. He met his daughter's eyes with a gaze of dark amber as he folded his hands before him. "Let me preface with a warning: do not surprise me again. You will enjoy the consequences far less." His voice did not waver from a quiet, conversational tone, but there was a dark edge to his words. "I think I understand why you did what you did," he continued. "But I would like confirmation. So let me ask you: why?"

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ARIANNE MARTELL
 Posted: Dec 17 2017, 10:39 PM
Quote
Stormie is Offline
27 years old
DORNE
Martell
Martell
Dorne
Princess of Dorne



There was part of her that was truly happy to see Doran but he also upset the balance of her daily life, her duties in Sunspear and her sense of worth. With him gone, she was the heir. She was the one on the throne helping her people. With him here, she felt lost again. Drifting in a land where she would rather have purpose and having to design her own purpose again. She was no longer a girl waiting for a boy to love her. Nor was she the child trying to impress her father by learning how to fight, or studying poisons with the Sand Snakes. Arianne craved purpose, she craved a daily routine with knowledge that what she did mattered to someone, even if it's the farmer who gets compensated for loss of production because of someone's foolishness. Or a thief being sentenced for his crimes. She wanted to make a difference in Dorne as much as possible. She wanted her people to flourish and Dorne to be taken seriously--not as a vacation destination or a mythical garden.

She watched him as he poured her wine--no trace of his gout, or pain painted on his face. She nods and fills her own plate with quail and pickled vegetables to start. She starts with an olive, the sour taste tickling her tastebuds and calming her churning stomach. Next was the dragon pepper, with the mixture of sour and spice calming her. No where in the Seven Kingdoms was there anywhere that could compare to the spices of Dorne. She had tried food from Kings Landing once, and found it bland and boring. Where was the textures and fire? The thought distracted her from her father's silence for a moment before. She tried the quail, taking a small bite before Doran broke the silence. She watched him, finished chewing and then paused to consider him. A warning. But how serious? The dark edge to his words was not to be ignored but then again, they would have to get to know one another again after all the time apart. Arianne was not the dutiful daughter he had left, and though he was aware of her dalliances, and she was sure that Uncle Oberyn had reported on her--he did not know her mind or her heart.

He claims to understand her mind and yet Arianne doubts it. She sets her fork down and leans back in her chair. Her dark eyes meet her father's gaze head on and she even lifts her chin just slightly in defiance. "I should think that the fact that Tyrosh is being ransacked as we speak would be cause enough to bring Mother home." She paused, glancing at her hands and spinning her favorite ring around her finger before meeting her father's gaze once again. "The King has seen fit to basically demolish Tyrosh under the guise of bringing justice to the Lannisters. Perhaps it reminds him of how he got to his own throne--but regardless, how long till his taste for victory and submission brought him to Norvos?" She could not help the venom in her words though she swallowed back the fire and stopped her soliloquy.

Let her father think she was simply worried for her mother. She did not let own that she had her own plans for Norvos and Dorne. She would hope to foster an alliance with the Magisters, to gain more allies should Targaryen's show their madness again. Then the Dornish people would be ready to strike like vipers. Quick and deadly. Perhaps then Dorne would be free of the shackles of the Seven Kingdoms. She took a deep breath, and returned to the spread ahead of them, spreading the chickpea paste onto a flat bread piece and taking a mouthful. She tried to cool the hot Dornish blood that surged through her, and quell the idealistic ideas of the youth she still very much possessed.
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DORAN MARTELL
 Posted: Feb 21 2018, 11:57 PM
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nica is Offline
55 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Martell
Sunspear
Prince


Were Doran less a master of disciplining his expression, he might have let slip a slight smirk at the fire with which his daughter responded to him. She was far more Martell than he'd ever be; Nymeria's rushing rivers flowed through her veins. He saw her mother in the defiant tilt of her chin, and his mother in the determined glint in her eyes. But the pride he felt was nearly overwhelmed by a momentary rage that washed over him; heat suffusing his body just long enough for sweat to prick at the nape of his neck, just intense enough for him to grip the utensil in his hand tighter. But no visible sign crossed the cyvasse master's gaze; there was no evidence of any emotion whatsoever upon the Dornish Prince's expression. "I fear you think me daft, daughter," Doran replied at last, the words quiet, slow, drawled in the lazy Dornish way. He swirled the wine in his goblet, eyeing the way the deep burgundy liquid left traces along the sides of the glass. "Perhaps, to your dismay, I have not lost the edge on my mind." A shrug lifted thinning shoulders. "My body might be failing me. My mind is not. I am more than aware of what transpires in Tyrosh, and more than aware of what transpired in Volantis before her."

Doran paused for a long while, studying his daughter's face. Had he ever been this passionate? Perhaps, once, long ago, he had; when two strangers met in a Norvoshi alleyway, addled by potent drinks, encouraged by pounding drums, and invigorated by clothes of many colors. "Our King, my dear," Doran reminded gently. "No matter our personal feelings, we owe our fealty." The Prince took another long draught of his wine. "Do you feel that Tyrion Lannister is not a traitor to all of the Seven Kingdoms?" Doran inquired, tilting his head, the expression almost bird-like. "Do you feel that he is not a danger to us all? The murder of a Lord Paramount is perhaps damning enough, but it is believed he is behind the attacks upon Princess Alea, Lady Ashara, and even Lady Elyse Arryn's untimely death. His taste for vengeance has already brushed against Dorne's children." He kept his voice carefully neutral, betraying neither his belief in the Imp's guilt, nor his belief in his innocence. His feelings were neither here nor there. That was not the subject at hand; rather the subject was Arianne's feelings. More specifically, it was a line of questioning designed to lead to a specific point.

"Tell me, what do you know of the geography of Essos?" Doran enquired, voice almost deceptively kind. He was still testing her; he was always testing her. She was more than his daughter, more than a Princess; she was his heir. When Doran lost his grip upon the mortal coil, the reins of his reign would be passed to the young woman seated across from him. He had no desire to find her wanting. "You never had the chance to embark upon a tour of the Free Cities. I regret not sending you across the Narrow Sea whilst we had the chance, alas..." Doran's gaze was faraway; he did not look at Arianne; instead, he was fixated upon a point somewhere in the distance. Perhaps that point was the wall behind her; at the brass doorknob polished to a dim gleam. Or perhaps it was somewhere lost to time and space, a city obscured by smoke. With a blink, Doran brought himself back to the present. "When I was your age, I did travel through Essos; from Tyrosh and Lys to Volantis, and, of course, to Norvos. I sailed from Sunspear to Tyrosh and to Lys, and from Lys to Volantis. That was the simple part of my journey. How long do you think it took me to reach Norvos from Volantis?" It was with purpose that he ignored her last question; leaving the final part of her statement unanswered. He would approach that point slowly.

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ARIANNE MARTELL
 Posted: Feb 27 2018, 08:59 PM
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27 years old
DORNE
Martell
Martell
Dorne
Princess of Dorne



Arianne's passion was met with the expressionless look on her father's face and a platitude of warnings. It was all she could do to not roll her eyes towards him. Instead the own swell of rage washed over her and she took a large swig of her own wine, before sitting back in her chair and her words quite curt. "I do not underestimate you, Father." A growl came at the end of her words, but it was just the smallest bit that she could not call back. It gave away her youth, and her feelings and she hated herself for it. She hated him for such a rise.

She listens to his preaching of fealty and discussing the news of the Kingdoms as if she did not read the notes the ravens brought, the edicts of finding Tyrion and arresting him if she did. She ignores the comment about the King, choosing not to comment on that. She swallowed again down the rage she felt through this all. "I do not need lectures of the news...I have read the letters from the Ravens as much as you have. Certainly the evidence seems to make Tyrion Lannister look guilty however the other accusations seem more like idle tongues and rumors than truths. I am sure a trial will sort the truth from the lies." She pauses, taking a moment to compose herself, to not allow her feelings to so erupt from her that she lost control. She was not as good as Doran at hiding her feelings and so she looks towards the windows of the Solar and watches the way the sands blow on the winds. The Princess of Dorne takes one more deep breath before looking back at her father but not daring to speak further.

She waits, listening to him recount his time in Essos. She recalls her geography from her lessons as a child. She may have not have traveled the world like her father, but it didn't mean that she had ignored her studies. "Tell me more of your pace from Volantis to Norvos, did you ride hard every day? Or camp? Did you bring Dornish horses? Dothraki horses? Did you use established roads or did you follow the Rhonye river north?" There were too many factors to take in account before giving her father an answer. No doubt that it was another of her tests. Never was she good enough. Never was she smart enough. Or at least, that's what she believed Doran thought. Still, she was not about to show any weakness. She was not about to give into his demands without a fight. She had been sheltered in her years, but she hadn't been ignored.

@DORAN MARTELL

Oh God this is rough, I'm sorry!
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DORAN MARTELL
 Posted: Mar 16 2018, 03:33 PM
Quote
nica is Offline
55 years old
DORNE
Targaryen
Martell
Sunspear
Prince


As charming as her rage was, it would be her undoing. If Doran could coax a rise from his daughter with as little effort as this, he shuddered to think of what a determined adversary could conjure. Her words were terse, tension ringing in each brief syllable, something like the sound of a caged animal at their end. "I appreciate it," Doran replied amiably, the slight smile that curled upon his lips languorous, lazy, as slow as his Dornish drawl, but gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by the stillness he coveted. In many ways, his words were yet a lie; Doran had made his life's work upon being underestimated, always in his brother's shadow. Sunshadow. He did not envy Oberyn's brightness, but rather used it. Doran was the grass, pleasant, sweet-smelling, and Oberyn was ever the viper, lurking within it. Oberyn burned brightly, and Doran worked best under cover of darkness. Doran wondered if it would be the opposite for Arianne; if Quentyn was to be her right hand, free to work behind the scenes with her at the helm. Hopefully there would be many years yet for him to find out.

There was tinge of pride in his dark eyes as he observed the way she swallowed her anger once more, like a gilding about their amber depths. She would learn, soon enough, that rage was a weakness. Passion was in the Dornish blood, but that did not stop other Dornishmen from utilizing it as a weapon. Dornishmen, and those outside of their sheltering mountains. "If you do not need to be lectured, then why is it that your words brush treason?" Doran asked, a deceptive patience to his words, like a coiled snake. "You ought to know that our King brooks no rebellion. I do not envy House Greyjoy. Nevertheless, Tyrion's fate is best left to the gods." He let out a heavy sigh, longing to run his hands through his hair, to rub his temples. Instead, he remained still, gazing at the daughter across from him. "Arianne, I will say this only once: it is one thing to think ill of a man, it is another to speak it. Thoughts are not crimes, but words can be." Doran's own opinions on Rhaegar were complex and myriad, complicated by his own years of service in the Red Keep, his years of knowing the man and his children.

Doran followed Arianne's gaze, to the gusts that gathered golden sands from the dunes and dragged them across the desert, before returning his gaze to the present. "The roads can be ridden," Doran began, steepling his hands before him. "But that leaves one open to Dothraki raids. Rather, the most efficient method of travel is by boat, upon the river Rhoyne. Traveling downstream, most use shallow-bottomed rafts. Upstream, barges are most popular, with a team of rowers. It took well over three moons. It can take a moon or less to reach Volantis from Norvos, but there is no efficient method for the opposite path." Doran paused for a long while, studying Arianne before continuing. "You asked what would stop our King from striking Norvos? Simple geography. Lack of motivation. Volantis showed her claws through daring to seize your cousin, the Crown Prince Aegon. Tyrosh dared shelter the man who allegedly slayed a Lord Paramount, and beyond that, she dared meddle with the throne itself through the Archon's daughter." Doran swirled the wine in his goblet before sipping from it. "Norvos does not play the games of politics that other free cities play. Your mother was never in any danger. I do not think you to be so uneducated as to not realize this. I'll ask you again: why? Spare me your self-righteous anger."

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ARIANNE MARTELL
 Posted: Mar 18 2018, 09:23 AM
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Stormie is Offline
27 years old
DORNE
Martell
Martell
Dorne
Princess of Dorne



It was funny. Doran could stoke a rise out of her with so much as a flick of her wrist but the months before, she had sat before her people, listening intently to their complaints and their cases with a studious eye and even disposition. She was passionate--absolutely, but it was only Doran that made her fires rise above the surface and display themselves so openly. Perhaps because in certain ways, they were so similar. Perhaps because she took after Oberyn a bit too much. Arianne could not be sure. Yet here he was accusing her of treasonous words. She watched him evenly, the rage finally falling from her face. "To go against our King would be to going against you and I am a good and loyal daughter." The words were sincere and hid well that she did not care for Rhaegar or his dragons. However, her father? Somewhere inside the woman was still the little girl begging to be climb into her father's lap and listen to his stories about the past great Kings and Queens. Of Nymeria and her hordes. Despite her believing that Doran did not fight for Dorne hard enough. That he accepted the King's slights while turning the other cheek. Arianne's feelings for Doran were as complicated as Doran's for Rhaegar (if only she knew his mind.)

And yet the lecture of geography and political motivations threatened to break her stillness. Her eyes narrowed just slightly but that was the only bit of her rage that slipped through but her lips remained pursed and silent. She let his question hang heavy in the air for several moments. How could she explain that having Mellario anywhere but in Dorne was leaving an easy target to injury herself and Dorne? How could she explain that Winter was coming and Mellario was safer in Dorne...in the far South than she was in the Northern city-state? Instead she decides to turn into the inquisitor. "Father do you believe the rumors that the Northern's spread? Do you believe the reasonings behind House Stark's mantra?" Her voice was earnest, and more even keeled than the words that were previously spoken. It would seem that the initial fire had fallen to smoulder beneath her exterior. She knew her Father was not an idiot and saw through so much of her facades and honey-coated words. He may think of himself as the grass for vipers to hide, but he was far more than that. He was as much of a viper as any other Martell. He just was one that had more patience. He was more practiced in the courtier faces that Arianne struggled with constantly if it did not involve Dorne.

She inhales softly, and tilts her head towards him while raising an eyebrow. "Archon's daughter? Don't you mean our Queen? Our King clearly made that move to bind Tyrosh to us. And why wouldn't he? A wealthy trade-city who could supplement our grain storage? Who could supplement our armies with slaves? It was a smart move. " Was she complementing Rhaegar? The world may be ending here in the solar. "Mother is safer from the Winter winds here. She is safer from any of our King's meddling with the free states regardless of what you think of Norvos' political ambitions. Which Maester was the one to say that all wars are fought for wealth?" She stated it simply, and knew that perhaps it was not the answer that Doran wanted, or needed to hear but it was the simple truth of the matter. The Seven Kingdoms were long overdue for a winter and it would seem that this might be worse than anything previously documented.
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