Since her wedding, Lady Joleta has been forced to distance herself from the hostages. Mertyns men now dog her every step, especially with the self-styled Lord of Salt Shore away at war. Anything she does or says is potientially reported to Ethos and, not wanting to give Mertyns any more ammunition, Joleta has kept away from the Dornish Tower.
But today, that changed. A few hours ago, a letter was delivered to her, a personal missive from Dorne, bearing the seal of the Royal Huntsman. Immediately after reading the letter, Joleta hurried to the Prisoner’s Tower, where she spent some time with her brother, Corrent, still imprisoned for his attack on his good-brother. Then, despite her habit of avoiding it, Lady Joleta and her Mertyns escorts, arrived at the Dornish Tower. The first noble they encountered was the Princess Ariana and news most serious was exchanged. Then, other Dornish hostages were called to gather. Joleta has chosen to tell them first, before they hear the news from the jeering crowd:
Ethos writes that Dorne will surrender to them.
Ariana was upset, but has since recovered from her initial shock and stands off to the side. The young princess is withdrawn, more than willing to let Joleta break the news from her husband to the others. Another surrender. That can only mean that the hostages will never be able to return home.
Once word was spread, it took very little time for Prince Cadan to appear, offering comforting, uplifting words where they were needed, and a silent, strong, supportive hand on a shoulder or understanding look where they weren’t. Finally, however, the Prince finds himself before Joletta, and he pauses, sharing with her a silent look.
Ser Aidan Dayne’s expression is grim at the news, as he stands about with others who mutter, curse, groan, look crestfallen, resist the urge to rage—almost as many responses as there are people. He himself is silent for a time, and then he says, “I had an ... inkling of this. What hope could our brethren have had? Too many battles lost, too many good men dead.”
The news have, at least for the time being, quieted even Tanyth. She has been volatile this last week, never far from a dark, brooding fury that is unlike her usual, tempestous anger. Now she stands with her brothers and her cousin, something almost subdued about her manners. Save for in her eyes, that is.
Joleta struggles to keep the hopelessness from overtaking her, but it shows very clearly in the silent look exchanged with Cadan. She keeps her young cousins of Dalt, Selara and Blaise, close to her as she has from the beginning of this ordeal. Gargalen and Dalt have intermarried so much they are almost a single family and Joleta has taken great care to look after the children. She absently reaches over to smooth a lock of Selara’s hair, touching her shoulder in a comforting manner. “We must be strong now, more than ever. Our folk have suffered greatly.”
“Indeed. We Dornish are a strong, proud people. We have endured much in our past, and we will have much to endure in our future. A future we will have, no matter what. Whatever happens now, know that.” Cadan speaks calmly, quietly, but is easily heard as he speaks to his fellow hostages. Meanwhile, the look he gives Joleta is one that attempts to pour his own strength into hers, giving her a single nod of encouragement
“Mayhaps the king will be merciful,” Ser Aidan says into the uneasy mood of the crowd of Dornish hostages. “So as not to punish Dorne over much, when there has been such losst. If he demands tributes…” He looks across the room to where the likes of Aryard Manwoody and Jossart Vaith are, men who should be called lords, but the king has never confirmed them to his title. Will their seats be given away to men from north of the mountains?
Ariana is still quiet, offering little in the way of guidance, strength, or encouragement to her people around her. Ser Aidan’s words catch her attention, the young princess has always been mildly obsessed with the gallant knight. “He will take what he wants.” She says in a small voice.
Tanyth looks to Cadan for a moment, and to his sister, but it is to Aidan that she finally turns. “I suppose we are left hoping that the king will want as shining a reputation as possible. But no doubt we will find ourselves joined by other kin soon enough. Such as still live, that is.”
The fact that Ser Aidan doesn’t object to what Ariana says—the Knight of the Twilight, chivalrous to a fault, always expecting chivalry in return—says much of his broken hopes. Others are more vocal. One of the Dornish knights suddenly explodes, seizing a chair, and he flings it against a wall in an outburst of outrage. He says nothing, though, merely scowls blackly, daring, daring anyone, to say anything about the shattered, splintered chair.
Joleta takes Selara’s hand and squeezes it gently, then pushes herself to her feet. She is a proud woman, groomed to rule a powerful House, and she draws that about her like a cloak. “Our people will need us,” she repeats, in a strong voice. “Now more than ever. Our homeland will need to be rebuilt. If it is our lot that the Dragon rules us, then we must be strong for them.”
Glancing to the outraged Dornish knight, Cadan does not, in fact, say anything about the splintered chair. Rather, he shakes his head, looking about the room at the dejected faces, the fearful faces, the angry faces. And he nods, moving to stand beside Joleta. “We will go on, as we always have, as we must.”
Ariana flinches when the chair is smashed against the wall, but the girl says nothing. Her gaze falls to the floor and she twists her hands. “Maybe it is for the best. Now the fighting will stop.” She murmurs to no one in particular.
Aidan hesitantly nods after the princess, and is quick to say, “What point spilling more blood? Dorne now bends the knee as all the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Mayhaps peace will be better for us, than rebellion has been.” But it’s half-hearted, at best, and he cannot hold a gaze. A pause of silence, and then he starts to speak. But he stops, and cocks his head.
Bells are tolling. The bells of the royal sept. He moves towards a narrow arrow loop, to look out, to hear it. Then the Dornish knight in his robes turns back and says, sadly, “And so it’s done. Dorne has surrendered, and the king’s victory rings through the castle, and soon the city.”
“We are stronger than despair and better than hopelessness. We have no control over the fierce war that our brothers and sisters waged in Dorne. But their victory cost the Westerosi and we can hold our heads high. We have control over how we respond to this. This war brought together many of us, silenced our internal conflicts in light of a greater enemy. We cannot lose that now. We can still be strong together and repair our land, heal our people.” Joleta Gargalen is a gifted public speaker. She knows how to use cadence, tone and volume to deliver a speech and in this case, she hopes to pull the other hostages out of their dejection and get them focused on preparing for what happens next.
Cadan glances to the sound of bells, shaking his head slowly. “Victory bells… all I hear is the death toll of a nation.” These words are spoken whisper soft, spoken only for Joleta to hear. But, outwardly, he nods to Joleta’s words, giving silent strength to them with his presence beside her.
Ariana hears the bells along with the others, watches her brother and Joleta for a long time, then approaches the door to look outside and see the reaction of any that might be out there. “Maybe it will not be so bad as before.” Though she hardly sounds as if she believes that.
“Or maybe it will be worse.” That Tanyth has not broken anything by now, or flown into a cursing rage, is a wonder. Though there’s been enough of those heard from her quarters these last days. Perhaps she has spent what she had left of her anger, leaving her with a gloomy despondency.
Finally breaking his own brief silence, Cadan says, “Enough. All this worrying accomplishes nothing. We will deal with this, because we have no choice. Now, back about your business, my good people, but please stay inside today. I will let you all know when I hear further news. In the meantime, let us pray to the Seven to watch over our homeland.”
“I feel… I feel like praying,” says Aidan Dayne then, pulling at his robes to bring them closer about him, to try and fend off the chill on his soul. He glances out through the arrow loop, to glimpse the sept in the distance across the yard, expecting ... what? Celebration? Probably. But then, he frowns.
“Wait!” he says. “Quiet!” Ane he hops upon a seat beneath the loop, to more easily be able to press his face to the cold stone, to turn his ear…
Joleta exhales slowly, her hand touching Cadan’s briefly. “We cannot know what the Westerosi will do.” Neither can she know what her husband will do, now that he is Lord of Salt Shore by virtue of conquest. “We must keep our purpose in mind.” Another slow breath as she considers, “Perhaps I should return to the Mertyns apartments….” In case the Dornish plan something that she doesn’t want to get back to Ethos. But the lady comes up short as Aiden speaks, brows drawing together as she listens.
“Servants running, guards, and… and they’re weeping, some of them,” Aidan says, bemused, voice strange. He listens intently, pressed against the narrow loop, alternating a look with a turn of his head to try and listen…
“Oh, gods,” he breathes, when he catches the first wail, or the first bells outside the walls of the Red Keep. “Oh, gods. I think… I think the king is dead.”
Ariana has her hand at the door to pull it open, but her brother’s command to stay inside stalls her. She’s so tired of staying inside where it is gloomy and dark. Then Aidan is climbing up to listen at the slit and the princess watches him. Confusion is on his face. “What do you mean, Ser Aidan?”
Cadan’s fingers briefly brush against Joleta’s, his eyes discreetly seeker hers before his head turns towards the Knight of Twilight’s direction. Raising an eyebrow, Cadan Martell moves across the room in a swish of orange and yellow sandsilk, stepping beside Aidan. At his words, the Prince freezes, speechless, and his eyes seek Joleta’s once more, hope and dismay warring with eachother in his gaze.
“Dead?! What is this?” Joleta’s teeth worry her lower lip as she moves to an arrow slit to try to see for herself. She meets the Prince’s eyes again, thinking fast. “Cadan…” She murmurs, then takes a quick scan of the room.
Thinking fast, Cadan nods to Joleta’s single word, his name, and turns to Aidan. Speaking softly to the Dayne knight beside him, so that only he may hear, “Ser Aidan, we must act fast. Time is our enemy now, and soon, all of King’s Landing will be.”
“Dead?” There’s disbelief in Tanyth’s voice. “Are you certain, Aidan?” And then, a choked-off laugh, a hint of something maudlin and unsteady in the sound. “Just like your northwoman said, cousin. Is that it? Just like that?”
“I…” Aidan shuts his mouth, and shoots Tanyth an uneasy look. And then, with a quick shake of his head, he turns to the prince as others gathered here grow ... uncertain, in some cases, disbeliving in others, but most of all, frightened. “What would you, my lord prince?” He’s not the only knight coming forward.
Joleta beckons to Ariana and to her young cousins now. “Where is Farien Yronwood?” she asks after the heir to the Bloodroyals and the youngest of the hostages. “We will have to move quickly.”
Still speaking quietly, Cadan shouts a glance to the two Mertyn’s knights that are the only non Dornish currently in the tower, and speaks quietly so they will not overhear. “I will have more directions for you when I can confer with the Lady Joleta. But for now, we must rid ourselves of outsiders so that I can do so. Preferably without violence.”
Ariana still stands by the door, confusion on her face. “Are you certain? Does this mean the war is not over?” The girl asks, glancing at Tanyth. “How can he be dead if we ... ” She trails off as the voices of others fill the room. The Mertyns thugs are not so far away and now she eases away, moving towards where Joleta beckons and her brother confers with the knights.
This sort of business… is not Ser Aidan’s strength, it seems, and he frowns. He casts an obvious glance towards the Mertyns men-at-arms, and then mutters, “My prince, I…”
One of the others interrupts. “Simplest would be to have some lady swoon, beg the men to fetch a maester,” he says, “or if not that, well…” He cracks his knuckles, to make his meaning plain.
Joleta murmurs swiftly, “We will need their uniforms.” She speaks to Cadan, dark eyes calculating quickly.
Ariana approaches those that are plotting, catching the tail-end of those soft words that are exchanged. Her brown eyes widen, fear growing. She shakes her head, “No.. you cannot.” She whispers harshly. “We will be in trouble, they will kill us all.”
Cadan nods, listening to those around him, his eyes showing the calculation going on behind his own eyes. “Then do it, bloodlessly, and noiselessly as possible. Allia, fetch my swords, and the packs we set aside for this instance. The rest of you… once the guards are down, we’ll need two to dress in their uniforms. The rest, gather only what you will absolutely need, and only what you can carry.”
Cadan’s blonde, Lyseni concubine, who was standing in the shadows against the wall, nods silently, her pale eyes holding the Prince’s for a moment. And then she dissapears, heading for the stairs with a nimble graceness.
Now bells toll throughout the city, and in the yards of the castle curses and wails and cries can be heard, as the news takes hold and sweeps over the Red Keep and King’s Landing.
“We are in trouble, and they may yet kill us all.” Tanyth is one for cheerful pronuncations today. She seems taken by a certain madness, the pent-up, restless tension of the last weeks and months suddenly without direction, without focus. Normally not without a certain bloodthirst, she seems at a loss for the best course of action.
Joleta beckons again to the younger hostages, including Farien Yronwood, who has joined them. She includes Ariana as well. “We must be brave now.” She speaks softly and swiftly. “The Westerosi will demand our blood. The Hand is away and the new King is very young. We have to move quickly, while all is in chaos. If we stay, they will mount our heads on the walls. A way has been prepared. Remember what I said, our people need us. Blaise,” she speaks to her young cousin, “Tell my mother…” Her lips tighten and she doesn’t continue. The Gargalen lady is not leaving without her brother and in prison, he is not accessible.
“My prince,” Ser Aidan says, voice urgent with tension and unusual fear, “My prince, what are we doing? Listen to your sister! If the Young Dragon is dead, _Baelor_ rules, and he is a godly prince, godly enough as to believe in mercy!” Yet all this is done in a whisper, as he grabs at Cadan’s arm to pull his ear closer.
“Cadan! You can’t be serious!” Ariana hisses when her words heed no response. She looks at Joleta next, stunned. Then finally a look of appeal is thrown towards the Knight of Twilight. “Aidan. Tell them they are mad!” The princess pleads. She follows his lead, approaching her brother, “They will kill us for sure if you do this.”
“It will be some time before Baelor has things in hand, godly or no, Ser Aidan. Trust in me, and the Lady Joleta. We have not been idle. I will not trust in things uncertain when the fate of my sister hangs in the balance.” He glances to Ariana, but continues to speak in a rushed whisper to Aidan. “The young people are our first priority. My sister and the others will, for a surety, make it out of King’s Landing this day. With luck, we all will, but I will not rest until I know Ariana is on her way to Marence and safety. I need you, Knight of Twilight. Now is your time. Are you with me?”
Leaving the Prince to address the Knight of Twilight, Joleta nods to some of the others to take her own guards in hand. “There is a way through another part of the castle. Hidden passages. I have plain cloaks and Westerosi clothes hidden there as well. But the mob is growing by the second. The longer we tarry, the more difficult it will be.”
“The King may be dead, but what else do we know of the situation in Dorne? The news preceeding his death were dire,” Tanyth says, turning to Cadan, “and his death may not greatly have changed that. For all we know, his horse stumbled and he fell, breaking his neck. That leaves plenty of men to avenge him and retain control over Dorne.”
“If you believe anyone was holding that army together besides the Young Dragon, then you never met the boy. But Joleta’s right, we don’t have time for speculation. We have thought this through, and though not made ideally for this instance, our plan will suit well enough. Now, we need to cooperate. That is not a suggestion, it is an order from your prince. I may not be my brother, but here, I am his voice. And he will want you all safe.” Cadan looks around at each person gathered around him, attempting to flow his strength into each of them. “For the Father’s sake, listen! We. Must. Act. Now.” Turning back towards the Knight of Twilight, and the other knight who suggested violence. “Do it.”
Aidan is the most uncertain of the Dornish knights, and the others are ready to move without him ... but a look to Ariana, and a touch of his hand at his chest to grip the sword pendant, and he gives a nod. “I am your man, my prince,” he says to Cadan ... and then to Ariana, “and yours, my princess.” He turns then, and confers with the others ... and then says to Joleta, “If you make some demands of your husband’s men, my lady, simply to distract them… we will do what is needed.”
Joleta nods. She takes a step away from the gathering of the Dornishmen and speaks to her guard. Drawing herself up imperiously, her voice is a whiplash, “There is a mob gathered outside. Find out what is going on.” She points to the door. “I want safe passage to my husband’s apartments and I will not tolerate being in the middle of another riot.”
Her Guards startle at the order. One of them bows and through the sandsilked figures toward the door. The other, not Joleta’s favorite person, leers at her and his bow is mocking before he follows his fellow.
Ariana is still shaking her head, fear in her words. “Nooo, Cadan. You cannot do this. The Goldcloaks will keep the peace. They will…” But her voice is losing strength when her brother makes his commands clear. She looks rapidly between Cadan and the Knight of Twilight, then rather obviously at the guards they’re about to kill.
It is at the time that Allia of Lys, Cadan’s concubine returns. Swathed in nondescript leathers that fit her body alluringly, and wrapped in a plain brown wool cloak, she glides silently across the room from the stairs bearing a few bundles - and, most importantly, Cadan’s braavosi blade, which she hands off to her lover discreetly.
The men depart through the door, intent on finding out all this business—they’re as nervous and concerned as anyone, despite the bravado of the one—and so they do not notice the four Dornish knights who follow closely—
There’s a short, sharp cry, the sound of struggle—that lasts only a moment, before they’re overwhelmed. One of the knights comes back and says grimly, “It’s done. We’re fetching their clothes. But Ser Aidan asks, what of the guards outside?”
Joleta nods firmly. “Send to them. Tell them that the Mertyns men have started a fight with the Dornish knights here. It’s just a fistfight, but they need to come in here and escort the Owl-men outside and restore the peace.” Her dark eyes have a dangerous glitter to them. “And be ready for them when they come inside.”
At the knight’s question, Cadan shares another look with Joleta before answering. “My lady, do you think you can ask the guards ever so nicely to attend upon us?” And when she does, his smile has not an ounce of mirth to it, as he strips down unselfconsciously to his wiry bare chest and underclothes, the better to move in, and straps his sword to his waist.
At the knight’s question, Cadan shares another look with Joleta before answering. “My lady, do you think you can ask the guards ever so nicely to attend upon us?” After she speaks, he gives a steely chuckle, and his smile has not an ounce of mirth to it. “Or we can do that,” he says, as he strips down unselfconsciously to his wiry bare chest and underclothes, the better to move in, and straps his sword to his waist. “Good thinking, my lady,” he offers, as he passes through the group, moving to stand with the knights by the doorway, his hand on the hilt of his blade.
This is happening whether Ariana wants it to or not. She’s backed away, trembling with terror of all the imagined things that will surely go wrong. The girl watches as Allia returns in leathers and now the princess finally starts moving. She gathers some of the other young women and hurries up the stairs so they can change into more practical clothing and collect whatever prized possessions are able to be brought.
Joleta looks to some of the others, the unconfirmed lords of Vaith and Manwoody. “My lords, your lands and folk will need you.” She moves to the door, opening it. “Guards! My husband’s men quarrel with Ser Jossart and Ser Aryard! Come, you must remove my guards and I will return to the Mertyns apartments with them. They will not heed to me.” Her foot moves against the remains of the broken chair, using it for a prop. See! Chairs are broken!
The knights work out how to go about it, as a pair of them dress in ill-gotten garments, stony Dornishmen who can pass for men from outside of Dorne. One calls for help, masking his Dornish accent, avoiding close scrutiny by quickly running back as Joleta cries out… but it leads to uncertainty. Three men enter the tower, but one runs off to find the gold cloaks and help. And then those three, those three find themselves overwhelmed, the “Mertyns” men turning against them, the other Dornish throwing them down, hitting them until they stay down.
Ser Aidan hesitates, and then picks up a fallen sword, before moving back. His face is bloodless, and he simply nods his head to indicate that it’s done.
Though Cadan moves like he might rush out the door, some inner wisdom seems to tell him that he should probably not chase down a guard with a sword half naked with lots of witnesses. Despite that it would be legendary. So instead, he turns to the others, gesturing to Allia, who hands him a cloak much like the one she wears herself. Nondescript, plain brown wool. “Quickly, we’ve little time. That guard will be back with others, and we must be gone. There is no turning back now. Allia, fetch my sister and the others. You knights, quickly wear the uniforms if you will. The rest of you, we should have enough cloaks to hide your forms until we get to the stash of clothes.” Throwing the cloak around his shoulders, he begins to hand out the cloaks that were part of the pile that Allia carried down with her, while the concubine herself moves to fetch Ariana and the others.
“And no one will wonder at the sudden mass of people leaving the tower?” Tanyth shakes her head, but it is a command and she listens, grabbing one of the cloaks for herself and handing another to her youngest brother, Danyll. “Ought we not barricade ourselves in here instead? With Baelor as king, does that not make the most sense?”
And what is Ariana doing? Oh, she’s writing a note addressed to a certain Crakehall knight as fast as she possibly can, and leaving it on her nightstand along with a length of silk. When fetched, she hurries to finish the hasty letter and moves back down to join the rest, clutching a small pouch of a few small items that are precious to her. She has changed into silk riding clothes, and has a gray cloak wrapped around her to hide the colors.
Joleta is moving also, throwing non-descript cloaks or even tablecloths to hide the sandsilk. “Take their talbards and weapons. We don’t have much time. We have to move quickly between buildings and get to the passageways.” She is remarkably calm, finally putting a plan in action that she has formed nearly a year before. “Once we get to the passages, we can get out of the Keep.” To Tanyth, “We will move in smaller groups. Quickly now.” She can hear the chaos growing and is calculating the passage of time. It’s already taking too long, by her estimation.
The knights do what seems best to them, stripping guards of their surcoats and jackets, stripping off layers of brightly-colored robes that would be to obvious and covering up in the guardsmen’s equipment. It takes time, however, and all of it at a fumbling hurry, the enormity of what they’re doing weighing heavily. And Aidan? Hesitating, he takes what his cousin says, and he says, “I… I have done what I could, my prince. I’ll hold here, with those who must stay. Gods be with you.”
“Ser Aidan, you and Joleta will lead the first group. Take Allia, Ariana, the youngsters and the lords, and an extra sword or two if you need it. The others will go in a second wave, and me and a select few will form the rearguard. Make sure your charges make the ship, and do not stop for anything, is that understood?” Cadan, too, seems utterly calm as he gives the Knight of Twilight his orders. “That is my order to you, Aidan. Survive to guard your princess, and the Lords and Lady of Dorne. Is that understood?”
“Ser Aidan… I need you to do another task. This is my order to you. Survive to guard your princess, and the Lords and Lady of Dorne you and Joleta will lead the first group. Take Allia, Ariana, the youngsters and the lords, and an extra sword or two if you need it. The others will go in a second wave, and me and a select few will form the rearguard. Make sure your charges make the ship, and do not stop for anything, is that understood?” Cadan, too, seems utterly calm as he gives the Knight of Twilight his orders.
Cadan pauses, then adds with a look to Joleta that brooks no argument, “And make sure my Lady of Salt Shore gets on that boat, no matter her protests.”
A long silence, a look to his cousin, and then Aidan gives a bleak nod. “As you command, my prince,” he says, his voice dead. And with that, he prepares to exit the tower with the others, with no looks back. “Come, princess,” he tells the girl, leading her forward.
Joleta gathers the children to her, moving with the lords and other knights who will escort them. The Prince’s last words bring her up short and there is a mute denial on her lips. She doesn’t want to leave her brother. But she also won’t waste precious seconds arguing. “Now, let’s go. Quickly.” She tries to get a quick scan of the courtyard and the quickest way to move between outbuildings.
Ariana still appears terrified, but makes no further protests. Cadan is in charge. She clutches the cloak around her, following the others into the cool wind of the autumn afternoon, staying close to Aidan.
Back in the tower, Cadan watches the first group leave, his form still and silent as he watches his sister, his concubine, his ex lover, and all those truly important to Dorne flee out of the tower. Then he turns, gazing at those remaining. “Once they’re clear, the rest go next. I’ll need a handful of men to form the rearguard. Volunteers only - who will stand with me?”
The company moves out from the tower, and Ser Aidan leads the way, trying to hide his sword under cloak as best he can. There’s grief, grief everywhere, and many eyes are turned away. So they start, they start the worst of the crossing, in the utter open space of the yard. Many are occupied with their problems, scurrying, weeping, cursing, they don’t notice, no, they don’t, they’ll make it—
“Death to the traitors!” sounds in the near distance, and turning the corner past the sept, a party—a large, large party—of men, men with swords, and a prince before them all.
“I will.” The Toland twins are among those who have remained inside of the tower. Ser Tamlyn, Lady Tanyth’s twin, has barely spoken so far, but now he steps to the prince’s side. And with him, his sister.
“Mother have mercy,” Aidan breathes, and hesitates—run? try to walk normally, and hope they’re unnoticed? So close… so close ... but it feels like a grand chasm lies there, yawning wider, between danger and safety.
The bloodthirsty mob spills towards the Dornish Tower, and soon enough the shouts for vengeance reach beyond the doors into the tower…
Joleta moves with Ser Aidan, the Princess Ariana, the youngest of the hostages, Blaise Dalt, Selara Dalt and Farien Yronwood… still children… and the two unconfirmed lords: Manwoody and Vaith, along with the Lysene concubine. She is wrapped in a non-descript brown cloak, hood drawn. Keeping hold of Selara’s hand, she moves. The men are garbed in Gold Cloaks and the Mertyns livery. “Don’t panic. Fast walk, but don’t run.” She hisses to Aidan. “Out of the open as quickly as possible.” She points to a nearby outbuilding. “Behind there, then keep moving.”
Though he seems about ready to argue when he sees Tanyth step forward… Cadan does not. Instead, he rushes to the window as he hears the crowd approach in the distance. “Stranger’s cock,” he blasphemes under his breath. “Men, swords at the ready. If they are seen, we go out to distract them. If not… everyone else, gather things to barricade the door. Just in case.”
Ariana is shaking, she’s so nervous, following after Aidan with Allia a shadow behind her. The girl tries to shut out everything around them, following the knight she trusts so entirely. Then there’s the call and cold terror runs through her. She turns to look, face paling under the hood that shadows her features. Joleta’s words steady the princess and she keeps moving.
“Get the Dornish out of their tower!” Prince Aegon cries, waving a sword forward to the tower, and one of the men grabs at his sleeve, pointing. “Where’s the guards?” The drunken prince squints, his eyes piggish, and he starts to speak—movement, movement to one side, and something doesn’t fit.
“They’re fucking escaping!” he blurts out, outraged, a fresh new tantrum. And there’s confusion, then cries, and people are running, to the tower, after the retreating figures.
To her credit, Joleta doesn’t panic. Nor does she berate herself for too much time spent trying to put this in motion. “Run now,” she breathes. “Quickly. Stay together. I know the way.” She gathers up her skirts, not to get tangled in her flight. Her direction is hardly random. She knows exactly where she is going. And there’s no turning back now. “Not far! Hurry.” And she takes the lead, weaving between buildings to confound some of the pursuers.
It’s only because Ariana has no idea where she’s being led that the girl does not bolt in sheer panic. Her face goes white when that angry call points them out, the group that is trying to escape. When her brother runs out with his battle cry, the princess gasps, “No! Cadan!” Her eyes are locked on the impending clash while the Lysene woman pulls her stumbling along.
Despite the brave, bold display, the pursuit of the first group does not halt. The men dispatched by Aegon hurry after the little company, as it tries to escape.
“What in the seven hells?” Aegon blurts, at the half-naked prince dashing out, smallclothes and cloak and slender sword. It gives the mob, the very sizable mob, pause. Ser Halbert of the Kingsguard steps forward, between the prince and the mad Martell.
A man cannot climb so high out of such humble origins and make no enemies. The Lords of Baratheon and Lannister are especially defensive against the man, thus making Wayn all the more determined to infiltrate all their dealings. But there are likewise friends for the asking; Kaeron Bar Emmon and Quenton Rosby in particular are known to be friendly with Wayn, though a master of whisperers can never truly be friend to anyone.
Preston Wayn is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He can best be described as ever watchful, sly of necessity to his profession, and often suspicious. He can be pleasant, even ingratiating when he chooses to be, to achieve the desire result of his efforts. But when he is displeased, he simply shuts out the source of his pique, and ignores it entirely.
The remaining Dornish spill out of the Tower behind Prince Cadan, though less…madly, perhaps. The Toland twins are among them, Ser Tamlyn with a sword and Lady Tanyth with a knife, though the pair and those with them do not seem about to throw themselves at the mob quite so heedlessly.
Ariana is sobbing, quite convinced her brother just charged to his death. He didn’t even have any armor on! Luckily, that sobbing fits quite well all the people in the keep weeping over the death of the king. She’s blindly led along by the Allia, constantly looking back, trying to know what Cadan’s fate might have been.
Cadan does not hesitate. He can not, must not, for the sake of those fleeing. No, he advances, drawing upon every last ounce of his waterdancing training, Cadan moves through the mob. Slipperly like an eel, quick like a cobra. Slash and strike, dodge and dance. He moves, not yet to strike for blood, but only to dazzle, to entice, to frighten. Come to me, his movements say, and you will die, even if you might eventually take me with you. Anyone who gets close will be struck, without consideration.
And the show, the show is very brave. But the armed hostages are outnumbered five, ten to one, and the drunken, red-faced Aegon shoulders aside Ser Halbert to put an end to the farce. “Seize them!” he calls, as he plunges forward—and is pricked, and pricked, and pricked again, at shoulder, hand, thigh. He cries out, nearly falls as he back peddles, and there’s outcries and outrage. And then it’s Ser Halbert, and he’s a very different beast, armored head-to-toe, a famous knight, and one who holds nothing back. Others wade in after him, and the prince is being pulled back to safety as he’s cursing, cursing, “Fucking Dornish! Get them! Get them!” And the mob surges, dozens, scores of men, an overwhelming and unstoppable tide.
“Cadan! Fall back, there’s no sense in this!” Tanyth shouts at the prince, even as she grabs her twin’s arm with one hand. “Its a fucking mob, we won’t survive long if we keep poking at the hornet’s nest,” she tells those closer to them, but fear and anger are spreading rapidly, with clear thinking the first victim.
But then the owner of the voice comes forward, and with him half-a-dozen men in the livery of Prince Viserys, swords drawn. His step is heavy, dragging, and his cane clicks on the flagstones. Preston the Lame. He looks ... sad. “I am quite sorry,” Preston Wayn says, the king’s master of spies. “But I can’t let you escape.” And then he turns those sad eyes on Joleta. “You were very clever. But did you truly think your prying about odd corners of the castle went unnoticed? You have been watched. Watched more than anyone, besides the prince.”
Ariana is close behind Aidan, her initial grief suddenly stolen away by that forboding voice in the darkness. She sucks in a sharp breath, a new wave of terror washing through her, the princess frozen in place. She stares at Preston with horror on her face.
Unstoppable it may be, but Cadan fights back anyways, useless as it may be. He fights not like a man trying to survive, but just one trying to survive just long enough - to sell himself costly and dearly, enough to allow his kinsmen, beloveds, and countrymen to escape. “Get me then, and gladly so!” he says, a bitter laugh ripped from his lips as he is slashed and beaten time and again, smallclothes and cloak and thin blade doing little enough in ways of protection. But they do offer freedom of movement, and when he hears Tanyth’s voice, some semblance of clear though penetrates the clamber of the moment. Despite being wounded, his honed reflexes and little-to-no clothing allows him to duck and weave back through the mob, trying to make his way back to the Tower.
“I’ll have a word with the prince,” Preston says, “about this so-called ‘justice’.”
Ariana stands, stricken. She looks at Aidan, her eyes begging the brave man to -do- something, anything! Lines of tears that were shed run down her cheeks, her hood as fallen back. “They’re going to kill us..” She breathes in fear.
It’s a running retreat now, and some of the Dornish fall, captured, beaten with spearhafts and fists, and others are battered but keep their feet and pull back to the tower, the prince’s swift blade darting, drawing blood, sending men falling away. They win to the door—and then it’s a matter of trying to shut it!
“Quick… bar the doors. Block them, don’t let them in,” Cadan gasps out as he rushes his way inside, moving to throw his bleeding weight against the doors to shut them against the rushing mob.
The mob surges after the Dornish, as the hostages desparately push at the door—and manage to force it shut, as bodies suddenly pile against it! Aegon, holding his bleeding shoulder, curses. “Axes! And where are—” And then he sees Preston the Lame and his own men, bringing back the hostages who tried to escape. “Preston,” he says, slurring the name drunkenly. “Good man. We’ll have their heads off—is that the princess? Eh?” He leers at the child, and his men are closing about, ready to drag them off to Traitor’s Walk
“Prince Aegon, I _protest_!” Preston says. “Your father will—”
“My father is not here,” Aegon says, “and he’ll have a pretty row of heads on spikes to welcome him when he is. Out of my way, old man.” And he dares to put hands on the old, lame man, to push him aside, to be barely caught by one of his father’s own men. Yet none dare to stop him. “MARTELL!” he roars, reaching, grabbing Ariana’s arm. “MARTELL! I HAVE YOUR SISTER!”
Joleta sneers at Preston. “This is on /your/ head, old man. The blood of these children is on /your/ hands.” She is jostled by the crowd.
“NO!” That single, anguished cry comes from Cadan Martell’s lips as he hears Aegon’s taunt, and sees the look of a Dornishwoman who peers through the window - that is all the confirmation he needs. “Out of my way, unbar the door, quickly,” he says, his expression utterly pained, and having nothing to do with his bruises and bleeding wounds.
Ariana is drug back with the others, tears in her eyes mingled with the terror of a looming death. When Aegon takes her arm and hauls her over she shrieks in panic, trying to jerk away.
“No,” Cadan says again, weaker this time, as he hears Ariana’s voice, now litterally clawing at the door and anyone in his way in his attempt to get out of the tower.
“He is mad, completely mad. Where the FUCK is the king and the hand?” Tanyth slams a fist against the door, even as she and her brother try to grab a hold of the prince. “Don’t do anything rash, don’t give him any reason to overreact.”
Others scramble, trying to hold back the prince. “Prince Cadan! Prince Cadan! We’re all dead if you go out there!”
And it’s that last comment that brings Cadan up short. His expression is one of a man whose very heart is breaking inside his chest, but he stills, suddenly and completely, within the grasp of his countrymen. “Ariana,” he whispers, a prayer, a plea.
“Coward,” Prince Aegon sneers ... and then he turns to the others, dragging at Ariana. “To Traitor’s Walk! Keep men here to bash down that door, but we’ll start now with the ones we have!” And that means Joleta, and Aidan… and the children too, who weep, who scream as the mob takes hold and marches them to the executioner’s ground, where the grim figure of Crispin Donniger waits with his greatsword. Preston Wayn can be seen grabbing at Ser Halbert Cordwayner, pleading with the Kingsguard—but the Anvil shakes him off.
Allia of Lys, the silent shadow who was ever at Ariana’s side, now moves with the prince, beating at him uselessly. “Let her go, you son of a goat,” she says, breaking off into more inventive cursewords in her own tongue as she is dragged off Prince Aegon, kicking, biting, and scratching.
Ariana is pulled along, sobbing again uncontrollably, legs leaden beneath her as the prince drags the Dornish princess after him. “Don’t do this!” She begging now, “Please! We haven’t done anything wrong!” The words are broken by sobs, the girl’s small amount of resolve long-since crumbled to sheer panic.
And as the mob moves, leaving a few dozen behind, others join them, screeching, jeering ... and dragging screaming, yelling hostages with them: Ser Corrent Gargalen and the mad Damarya Allyrion from their cells, and Valeria Blackmont from her apartment in the kitchen keep… And one other, the weeping Cassella Vaith. “Aegon! My prince! What—what—”
“Shut up, whore!” the drunken prince yells, in a rage, faced scratched by Allia before some of his men could drag the concubine off him, shaking Ariana in his outrage. “You fucking whore! You killed my cousin, you and yours!” He’s had too much to drink, he sees only red, red rage
“Aegon! Aegon! Our childre—”
“Thank the gods they’re my blood,” the Targaryen prince says, cold, cold now, and then his men grab Cassella, and pull her kicking and screaming along with them, and she screams loudest of all, for the Mother, for the Warrior, for anyone, anyone.
It’s as well that Lord Blackmont’s sons are—for now—safe in the Dornish Tower, for his daughter is here among the forsaken. But of them all she does not scream or cry out to the Seven. She does not come easily, but her weeping is silent as she looks around at the blood-lusty crowd. Whatever face she seeks, she does not find; it is not among the hostages bound for the Traitors Walk and not in the throng around her.
This makes her strangely calm. She ceases to struggle, and though she weeps copiously, she is somehow serene, even in the face of such raw hatred.
Back inside the tower, tears stream down another face. Cadan Martell’s face, as beyond that door, that door that he closed and barred, all those he loves most dearly are now condemmed to die. Half naked, covered only in his smallclothes and a scratchy wool cloak - the Dornish Prince sinks to his knees in half prayer, half dispair, clutching his bloody sword to his bare chest, heedless of any additional cuts he suffers from it. “Father, save them, Mother, guard them, Stranger take Aegon Targaryen,” he pleads with the gods.
Ariana gives up pleading, her voice not loud enough to carry over the noise of the crowd. She stumbles as Aegon shakes her, tears blurring her vision. The princess finds her feet again as he pulls at her, the girl no match for the strength of the Targaryen prince.
Halberds and polaxes hammer away at the tower’s door, and they make short work of it, as the hostages barricaded within give themselves up to despair for the most part. The blades crash through, men kick at the splinters, and they’re at the ready, and behind them are men with crossbows. One of them calls, “Out, and you can die like noble men and women. Stay, and die like dogs!” And those bows, and halberds, and polaxes…
Men and women, crushed, give themselves up, trying to hold their heads up, to die nobly, rather than to curse and scrabble and cower. And the nobility of the Dornishmen at the last perhaps has an effect, as the men escorting them to the killing grounds grow quieter and less cruel.
And, in this last thing, Cadan seems to find a last shred of strength in himself to lead his people this last time. Covered in blood, his own and other’s, half naked save for the pants of his smallclothes and a stained wool cloak, and clutching his bleeding sword still to his naked breast - the Dornish Prince walks forward from the tower. Giving up his sword without comment if demanded, Cadan stares blindly ahead as he his led by the guards, his posture erect and upright despite his exhaustion, grief, and wounds.
Valeria walks forward with that same nobility, her head high, the daughter of Lord Blackmont to the end. Tears pour down her beautiful face, making polished onyx of her dark eyes. Her lips move, but not in prayer. It almost seems she says a name over and over again—and it is not that of her husband.
The frantic sound of iron-shod hooves upon the ground can barely be heard over the loudness of the mob that presses onwards towards Traitor’s Walk with the two groups of hostages; some still dragged along, but most now walking, seemingly resigned to their fate. But then a black horse lathered with sweat and panting heavily nearly barrels into the crowd, and from his back Lady Aisling Ryswell shouts, “Stop! In the name of King Baelor, stop!” She looks quite the madwoman, wild-eyed and with wind-whipped hair, sitting astride in a gown not made for such.
Defeated, and numb with it, Ser Aidan is jostled and dragged along, as are the other hostages. Some curse and weep and rage, some even struggle, but they’re beaten, beaten with spear-butts and with fists until they’re silenced and dragged on ... and then, the northwoman shows up.
“Since when has Baelor had teats?” Prince Aegon asks. “Out of the way, woman. The king’s justice is going to be done. The king’s going to be avenged!”
Men and women, crushed, give themselves up, trying to hold their heads up, to die nobly, rather than to curse and scrabble and cower. And the nobility of the Dornishmen at the last perhaps has an effect, as the men escorting them to the killing grounds grow quieter and less cruel.
And, in this last thing, Cadan seems to find a last shred of strength in himself to lead his people this last time. Covered in blood, his own and other’s, half naked save for the pants of his smallclothes and a stained wool cloak, and clutching his bleeding sword still to his naked breast - the Dornish Prince walks forward from the tower. Giving up his sword without comment if demanded, Cadan stares blindly ahead as he his led by the guards, his posture erect and upright despite his exhaustion, grief, and wounds.
Ariana is still a weeping mess of emotions, giving up her attempts to twist free of Aegon’s grasp. There’s nothing more to be done and despair has claimed her entirely. Even if she broke free, the crowd would tear her to pieces.
Joleta is pulled and dragged along, the orchestator of a failed plot to get the children out of King’s Landing before the mob tore them apart. She maintains her composure, chin held high and her shoulders back proudly. She may meet her end here, but by the gods, she will show them how a Gargalen dies.
“King Baelor is on his way here, Prince Aegon. This is not what he desires!” Aisling does not quite shout at the prince, but there’s desperation in her raised voice. “Ser Jaesin is bringing him here as we speak, and he will not have this done!” But she’s a woman, not the King or his Kingsguard, and some of the mob is now pressing towards her, taking her for a sympathiser with the hostages. Then there’s a stone thrown, hitting the black horse on the chest. He rears up for a moment, and without a saddle his rider has to cling onto his mane. “Stop! Listen to me!” she shouts again.
Cadan continues to move forward as if in a daze, all his effort going in to holding himself upright like the Prince of Dorne that he is, and moving one foot in front of the other. He does not seem to notice when he is jostled into place besides Joleta, nor does he seem to notice when Aisling tries to free them. He just stares ahead, unseeing.
Valeria is among those in the first group with Cassella Vaith and Ariana Martell and Corrent Gargalen. Problems, all of them, in their time of captivity, save the Princess. And while she is clearly resigned—perhaps even eager—to dying, Valeria Blackmont is not of the temperament to remain so quiescent. After all, when you’ve nothing left to lose…
“I am glad he is dead!” she says suddenly, not shouting but not quiet, either. “Hail, Prince Rhodry!”
In a swirl of scarlet, black, and white, Lady Obany Darklyn rushes into the area, moving as quickly as she can while keeping the hem of her gown from under her feet. “Joleta?! What… what…” She utters in a limp sort of way, her eyes wide and her pale skin even more white as she looks around at the mass of people, “What is… what is this?” For once, she seems completely at a loss for something to say, the ever-present parchment slipping from under her arm to the ground in a flutter.
“Listen to her!” says Preston Wayn, moving up to try and reach Aegon, but the prince shakes him off. Unphased, Wayn shouts, “If you do this thing, the king will never forgive you! Never!”
Aegon looks thoughtful at that, as thoughtful as he can with all the drink in him. And then he laughs. “Baelor? Baelor is so _godly_. I’ll pray very hard.” And with that he turns to shout at Aisling, “Out of the way, you mad bitch! Listen to them! Listen! They cheer the death of your king, my cousin!”
And with a renewed sense of outrage and purpose, he drags Ariana on, and at one point he turns and cuffs her across the face, once, twice, sharp slaps. The mob howls for blood.
Joleta meets Cadan’s gaze when they happen to be moved near to one another. She doesn’t say anything to him. She doesn’t have to. Instead, she raises her voice to speak to the young ones with her, that she tried to save from this fate. “Be strong. Always be strong. Don’t let these beasts have the satisfaction. We will all be in Dorne again, soon.” For it is a belief among some of the Dornish that those who die away from home, will return to Dorne in spirit, after death.
Ariana hasn’t been giving much more resistance, her eyes red from tears. When the prince turns on her, she shrieks from the strikes he inflicts on her, the Martell girl falling to her knees.
Ariana’s renewed cries seem to wake Cadan up a bit, his eyes suddenly gaining a semblance of focus. “Enough, you bastard! You son of the sands! Take me! Take me, and leave her, you vile snake!” He begins to move forward, trying to reach his sister, and her captor.
Valeria is dealt with at once for her opinions, but when she can stand straight again, she is unrepentant. There is blood on her lip and trickling from one nostril, but she is serene as she wheezes. “You will die of the pox one day, Aegon Targaryen, and I will be there to watch it, a ghost who never lets you rest from this day to that. I swear it!”
There’s nothing Aisling can do to bar the way of the mob, unless she wants to be overrun herself. Cursing she backs her horse up, out of the way of the crowd, but she continues alongside of it best she can. Her mount is half-wild beneath her, and only the fact that much of his energy is already spent seems to allow her to keep him under some semblance of control. “Is there no one who can stop him? King Baelor will be here soon!” she tries again, shouting for anyone who might hear. And all the while, she’s searching for someone among the hostages, trying to catch his eye.
Quickly regaining her composure, the Darklyn lady looks quite visibly enfuriated now that she sees what’s going on, though she holds her tongue at the moment. She snatches up the parchment from the ground and edges her way into the crowd as carefully as she can to get closer to the prisoners.
Joleta catches sight of Aegon’s strike upon the Princess and her face goes pale with fury. “Others take you, Aegon! Others drag you off screaming to hell!” A flash of color catches her eyes then and she finds Obany. Perhaps one friendly face among the crowd. Over the din, her shouts don’t carry far and she hasn’t a chance of some exchange with the Darklyn lady. But she does meet Obany’s gaze for a moment, before she is pushed and dragged along.
Valeria’s defiant proclamations reach the Toland twins as they are pushed along with the rest of the hostages taken from the tower. Tanyth, with a cut on her neck and a slight limp from the struggle at the door, smiles grimly at her brother. “Rhodry, alive? I suppose I should have worried more about us.” There’s a bit of the same madness as before in her; there’s nowhere for all that anger and frustration to be directed.
The Knight of the Twilight, passive since their escape was foiled, dragged along, suddenly surges against those who seize their arms, surges when Aisling Ryswell is trying to stop this madness, a fruitless endeavor. For his trouble, he’s clubbed down, beaten, and dragged up in a daze, blood in his hair and on his face.
Aegon looks out to the cursing Dornish, and turning to one his jeering, wild companions can be heard to remark, “Wish I had time enough to share that pox with the bitch,” before looking about. Crispin Donniger on a wooden platform, an aged block of wood—stained black—upon it. A greatsword has its point grounded between his feet. Yet the knight, the King’s Justice, looks uncomfortable. Especially when Aegon calls, “Open the gates! Let the smallfolk in, to see justice done!” Gold-cloaked guards rush to do as he commands, to flood the yard with the commons screaming for blood.
“Joleta!” Obany cries, for lack of anything better to yell. She looks desperately around for someone or something to berate on this particular subject, and finds that her gaze falls upon Aegon. Setting her jaw, she goes to say something just before being jostled about a bit by the mob, knocking her off her balance and into the dirt. Her inkwell shatters against the ground, staining the parchment that falls upon it, “This is not justice! This is mindless massacre, Prince Aegon! There is no right! You have no right!” The lady howls as she picks herself back up, her gown soiled with ink and quickly-dampening dirt.
Ariana doesn’t try to stand again. Broken emotionally, she curls up as much as she can while the prince calls for more of a crowd. Her tears have run dry, but the Martell princess still trembles uncontrollably. Her brown eyes search wildly for any of her countrymen, any face she knows that she can lock her gaze on. She sees her brother now and speaks his name, but it can hardly be heard.
With the block in sight and a black eye blossoming, Valeria tries at last to break free. “Let me go! Let me go! Conrad!” she screams to someone who isn’t even here. Then she is hit and hit again until she is all but senseless between the two guards dragging her along, her dark hair hanging over her face where her head hangs limp between her shoulders. She is crying again and stumbling inexorably along toward the King’s Justice and the blood-stained block.
Seeing Aidan struck down, Aisling tries again to force herself into the crowd. Some back away from flailing hooves, but too many don’t, and this time the black sand steed nearly goes down after rearing up and being jostled. Another stone flies in her direction, and now it strikes her, squarely in the shoulder. The crowd is mad, out for blood, and anyone getting in the way might become a victim now.
His eyes locking with those of his sister, Cadan redoubles his efforts to get to her, pushing through anyone in his way. Cries of “Ariana!” mingle with those of “You bastard, I’ll castrate you and make you eat it!”
“For that,” Aegon says—the crowd flooding into the yard is too loud, as is the rest of the mob, to have this hard very far—“we’ll have Martell’s head off first.” And he says that with Ariana right there, held firmly in his grasp. “By the gods, if I could have him drawn-and-quartered…” He can’t? Perhaps he’s concerned about Baelor, after all.
The crowd surges in, a wild, carnival atmosphere coming with them, yet at the gates there’s some sort of commotion. Easy to miss, as Aegon calls, “Take the prince up to the platform!” And men respond, doing just as he says.
Joleta twists her body to try to meet Cadan’s eyes once more. She says something to him, lost in the roar of the crowd. It could be words of encouragement or a farewell. Held fast, bruised from the journey thus far, there is little else she can do.
In no time, the crowd sweeps Cadan away from his intended path towards Ariana’s side. His eyes hold Joleta’s for one last, brief moment, a look of sorrow, regret, pain and remorse held in his gaze - and something else, something unspoken between the two. And then he is dragged off, practically being ripped apart by the crowd as they carry him to the platform, bleeding and bruised so that he is only half conscious by the time a blood thirsty cheer goes up. And there, for all the world to see, sags Prince Cadan Nymeros Martell, half standing, half supported by faceless smallfolk and brutal guardsmen - standing before the King’s Justice, and his swift mercy.
Ariana reaches her free hand out to her brother at that announcement, a thin wail escaping the girl. Her long brown curls are a tangled mess by now, wildly arrayed around her face, the cloak has fallen away to puddle around her. “No! No no!” She protests over and over again at Prince Aegon’s feet.
Obany elbows and claws her way through the crowd now, crying out harshly worded protests and ephitets as she makes her way towards the prisoners, clawing any poor sod across the face with her nails should they get in her way. Her words are lost upon the roar of the crowd even as she screams at the top of her lungs, angrily shoving her way forth.
Even as Prince Cadan is dragged to the platform, to be the first to face what the enraged Targaryen prince deems justice and appropriate payment for his cousin’s murder, there is a commotion at the main gate. Shouts of “Make way, make way!” can be heard, and somewhere down there is a figure in white armour.
It is the end of all things for the Dornish, or so it would seem. Valeria raises her head to look dully over her shoulder and find her brothers. And she does, though the crowd strives to keep them from seeing one another. What passes between them is silent, but when she looks past them for another, she is smiling. She meets and holds another pair of eyes, Kay Yronwood’s, that she has not seen for months; holds them until the guards cuff her to make her look away.
At this point, Allia of Lys seems beside herself with rage and grief. A howling, almost inhuman sound comes tearing out of the pretty, leather-clad concubine’s throat, her pale, almost inhuman eyes looking more so as she stares in Cadan’s direction. Her fingers like claws, she tries to tear at her captors, trying vainly to get to the platform that the Prince of Dorne stands upon.
“This man—this man’s brother murdered our beloved king, Daeron!” Aegon roars, and he has a voice that carries, for all his faults. “Under the holy truce banner, he murdered him, the villain! For his sins, his kin suffer! Blood must pay for BLOOD!”
And the crowd howls, monsterous ... well, it howls nearer the platform. Further back, it’s growing quieter, and the sound ripples through the crowd. And further back, a way is parting, a white knight upon a destrier, guardsmen now moving people out of the way. And they’re kneeling, those who part their way, they’re kneeling…
... to the boy, the young man, the king: Baelor, the First of His Name. He rides behind Ser Jaesin Lannister of the Kingsguard, whose brother has no love lost with the Dornish, but he does as his king bids. And even Crispin Donniger kneels, and even the men who have seized Prince Cadan and taken him to the block stop what they’re doing, unsure, looking to the now-pale Aegon.
Joleta takes her eyes off the Prince only when her brother comes into view. They spoke earlier this day, in fact, when she visited him in prison with word from Dorne. The Gargalen siblings are as different as the sun and the moon, but despite this, they are very close. But then, the new King is arriving and the men holding her push her to her knees, none too gently.
Valeria is knocked sprawling to make her kneel, just before her guards go down themselves. She lies in the dust and only pushes herself out of the way when the sound of Jaesin Lannister’s horse grows near. Even then she seems reluctant to move at all, eyes dull, bleeding and broken, something in her long since dead and gone.
The Darklyn lady, her hair tousled and her gown stained and tattered, lets loose a cheer praising the king’s name before kneeling as well as he arrives.
Ariana is still watching her brother, still reaching hopelessly. The distraught princess doesn’t catch on immediately to what is taking place. “Cadan.. Run.” She pleas, as if somehow that makes sense to her.
“Curse the bastard, curse the royal fucking asshole to the seven hells. Murdered would be too good for him!” Herded along like cattle, the last of the Dornish are gathered up around the platform where Prince Aegon now stands ready to have the Martell prince executed. And now, seeing her pale and frightened younger brother, and her half-conscious cousin, Tanyth’s temper resurfaces. She struggles against her captors, she spits in the Targaryen’s direction, and she’s slapped hard enough for her head to snap back for her troubles. Only her twin grabbing a hold of her keeps her from continuing even so, and he succeeds only because he hisses in her hear. “Someone comes, Tanyth! Hold, just a moment!”
And Cadan Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, drops to his knees on a suddenly bare platform. Not because he is forced to, not out of respect. But because those supporting him have stepped back, and he simply lacks the strength to stand any longer. His cloak having been ripped off in the struggle, he remains prostrated before the oncoming King, bloody and near naked, his lanky hair half covering his bruised and battered face. He only looks up after a long moment, when the quiet finally nears him, and when his concubine Allia has stopped her shrieking. His grief-striken eyes search the crowd - finding first Ariana, then Allia, and then Joleta. But they stay on none of them - they are drawn, like all others, to Baelor Targaryan, the King.
Hands that were grabbing at Aisling just a moment ago, tearing off part of her dress in an attempt to pull her off the horse, suddenly let go as the news of the king’s arrival ripple through the crowd, dampening the wild blood-lust awakened by Prince Aegon’s proclamations. Atop her sand steed, the Ryswell lady grasps a hold of her horse’s man, suddenly looking faint. But she stays mounted, and she stays in place, waiting for the king and Ser Jaesin to reach the centre of the mob.
The crowd grows progressively quieter, and their heads dip, as they kneel, one and all. Even lame Preston Wayn, with help, gets down to a knee. And Aegon, even he at the end, looking ill—is it the wine coming back up? Who knows. The destrier comes up to the platform, and turns. Baelor awkwardly steps off, pale and wan and lean, a weedy youth.
A long silence, in which he surveys the scene. And then the king says, “My gracious brother, once our lord and king, is dead, taken unto the bosom of the gods. Surely, he shall have seven thrones, and seven and seven crowns, sitting at the right hand of the Warrior.” The youth’s voice is as reedy as he is, and does not care well… oh, but the gleam in his eyes! The surety, the faith, pours off him. “This is a time for mourning, a time for prayer.” Well, and that’s to be expected.
“And a time for forgiveness,” he says, and there’s a murmur, a rustle—thwarted desire, and yet this is the king, and he speaks of forgiving his brother’s killers. He clasps his hands before him, about the crytal that hangs from a simple thong around his neck, in emulation of a septon. “The peace of the gods cannot be denied. Their holy light must fill our hearts. We must love all men, in the name of the Seven, even the sinner.” Most can’t even hear him. But when he turns, and he looks over Aegon—who looks very ill indeed now, having heard all that—and then he passes by him.
To do what? To drop down to a knee, and put his hand upon Cadan’s shoulder. “Come, brother,” he says, “let me help you. The gods will it.” And the certainty rings golden in his voice, and the slender boy moves to try and help the Dornish prince to his feet, before the crowd that moments before was ready to see his head roll.
With effort, the young boy-king sees Cadan to his feet, though it is clear that the Blessed Baelar is all that keeps Cadan from crumbling once more. Tears now run tracks over his bruised and blood-spattered face as he gazes into the King’s eyes, so that it almost looks like he is weeping blood - blood that is sure to stain the King’s own garments.
Looking up at the king that has become the savior to her for the day, Obany beams through the mud and dirt that now smear her face, a trickle of blood slowly making it’s way from her scalp from when she was tossed to the ground. She wipes her hands on the person that might be next to her, preferably one that was screaming for blood before.
“Thank…” Cadan manages, his voice barely audible at this point, caught up with raw emotion, pain, and exhaustion. “My…. my people….” he begins, his eyes leaving Baelar’s, trying once more to find sight of his sister, his lover, his friend, and all his other countrymen, to assure himself they too are safe.
Some distance away, Lady Aisling slides off her sweaty, shivering mount to land on shaking legs. Taking the reins in one hand, she half-leans against the horse for support, and the pair stand there for a little, only now getting a chance to catch their breath.
Ariana is released by Aegon finally in the distraction. Her skin shows his finger-marks whitely until blood returns to her flesh and they turn a darker red. She’s on her knees, crying softly. The princess is finally sorting out that the new king has come to stop the horror that was occurring and she crawls towards Cadan, where Baelor is helping her brother up.
Joleta is still on her knees, hands of the soldiers still holding her there. But she closes her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of relief and thankfulness at this reprieve. She looks to find her brother, her young cousins, Prince Cadan and his sister. Presently, she is released enough to get back to her feet. Like everyone else caught in this, she will bear bruises and bloody cuts from this day.
As the Dornish begin to comprehend their salvation, only Valeria looks… disappointed. As if she were looking forward to the release promised by the blood-stained block.
“They will be taken care of. The gods will it,” Baelor repeats, even as he reaches up to the prince’s face, the loose sleeve of his long tunic grasped in his hand, so that he can wipe—_wipe_—some of the blood from the prince’s face. And he whispers to him, “I forgive your brother, as well. He knew not what he did. War brings madness.” So says the holy fool, the Targaryen king. And with that, he says to the King’s Justice, “Help the prince.” Donniger, put out by being called upon, awkwardly moves to take Cadan’s arm and help prop him up.
Then he turns, and raises his hands to the crowd. “Go, go and pray. For our king, my brother. For all those who have died in this unholy war. For ourselves. The Seven’s blessing be on you!” And with that, the guards, after an uncertain look, move to usher the commoners out of the castle. Baelor turns his gaze to Aegon, for a moment, and says, “Up, cousin. Go to Naerys. She will be at the sept, praying for my brother and yours.” And Aegon ... surly, drunken, hateful, cruel Aegon? He does as he’s told, skulking away.
As the hands holding them captive disappear, and the press of bodies around them lightens a bit, Tanyth—with a split lip and a good-sized bruise blossoming on her cheek—turns towards her twin and pulls him in for a fierce hug. Then, as she pulls away again, she says, “Come, we have to find Danyll and Aidan.”
By this point, Cadan seems more then half dazed, and very likely going into shock, with all that has happened. It truly does take the support of Donniger to keep him on his feet. Still, he has enough clarity of mind to reach for Ariana when she comes to him, dragging her against his body in a weak, yet somehow fierce hug. And, he begins to weep into her hair, his body shaking as he holds his sister.
Valeria remains on her knees almost until Baelor is past her. Then she looks up at him with desperation in her eyes, blood running still from nose and lip and a cut in her hairline. “Your Grace!” she cries in the anguish of the truly despairing. “Please, Your Grace. May I not go back to my brothers? To my h-husband?” The words tumble forth in a rush, and she waits with those blood tears on her cheeks.
Letting out a sigh of relief, the lady from Duskendale finally takes stock of her condition. She dabs at the blood trickling down her face with a finger, wincing slightly, and she notes the mess of a gown she’s wearing now. She flicks the blood from under her nails, and possibly skin, depending on if she clawed any unfortunate bastards in the process of pushing her way through. Standing and smoothing out her gown self-conciously now that her composure is regained, she steps between the people in a manner completely opposite as to before… daintily and carefully, towards the prisoners.
“Go with my blessings,” says King Baelor to Lady Valeria. And he glances to a guard, after a moment’s thought, to see him nod, to make sure he understands. Such is this new king, calm and utterly sure in himself. The crowd has thinned in a daze, at the loss of the king and the gain of a new, of the promise of blood followed by the promise of forgiveness. A strange day, unlike any other the Seven Kingdoms have seen. An auspicious start, some might say, to the rein of King Baelor.
Ariana is shaking as fiercely as Cadan, but welcomes his embrace with another choked sob. She winds her arms around him, refusing to let go now in case things turn ugly again.
And among the hostages who have been pummelled and beaten is Ser Aidan Dayne, unsteady on his feet as blood mars his face and cakes dark hair to his scalp. When Tanyth and Tamlyn come, he tries to smile, but even that act hurts. “Take Danyll home. The boy has had a fright.” And so had they all, in truth. A terrible day, this.
Valeria just stares after Baelor and in the end, it is the brothers Blackmont and Kay Yronwood who come to collect her, to raise the sobbing girl to her feet and fold her into their arms. All of them are the worse for wear, but what is blood and dirt to a family reuninted?
Not quite making it to the chopping block because of the guards still in the way, Obany waves to get the attention of Joleta to offer a cheerful smile through the mess on her face. “Knew that it would be alright! ... Eventually…” She calls, glancing around afterwards.
Tamlyn takes care of his younger brother, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders, while Tanyth offers an arm to Aidan for support. “Come, cousin. I would rather not let you ought of our sight again.”
Joleta draws her frightened cousins close to her, the young Dalt children. And for good measure, the boy-heir of Yronwood, whom she has taken under her wing as well. Kissing all three of them on the tops of their heads, she murmurs words of comfort and encouragement. Then she embraces her brother, now apparently freed from prison. Their reunion is brief, however, for the Gold Cloaks are ready to escort her away. Not to the Dornish Tower, but to the Mertyns apartments. Despite everything else, she is still wed. A glance and a rueful smile is given to Obany, in spite of her bruises and cuts. Another smile, for the Martell siblings, before she is led away.
Looking over herself after Joleta departs, Lady Obany glances to the king and curtseys as she calls, “Gods preserve you, my king. The Darklyns, as always, will stand by your side, I am sure of it.” She becomes concious of her appearance again and edges away quickly through the dissipating crowd.