A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin

Greenblood, in the mountains, out in the deep sand, everywhere,
everywhere,
women tear their hair and men cry out in rage. The same question is heard on every tongue—what will Doran do?
What will his brother do to avenge our murdered prince?
” She moved closer to the captain. “And you say,
he does not wish to be disturbed!
”
    â€œHe does not wish to be disturbed,” Areo Hotah said again.
    The captain of guards knew the prince he guarded. Once, long ago, a callow youth had come from Norvos, a big broad-shouldered boy with a mop of dark hair. That hair was white now, and his body bore the scars of many battles . . . but his strength remained, and he kept his longaxe sharp, as the bearded priests had taught him.
She shall not pass,
he told himself, and said, “The prince is watching the children at their play. He is
never
to be disturbed when he is watching the children at their play.”
    â€œHotah,” said Obara Sand, “you will remove yourself from my path, else I shall take that longaxe and—”
    â€œCaptain,” came the command, from behind. “Let her pass. I will speak with her.” The prince’s voice was hoarse.
    Areo Hotah jerked his longaxe upright and stepped to one side. Obara gave him a lingering last look and strode past, the maester hurrying at her heels. Caleotte was no more than five feet tall and bald as an egg. His face was so smooth and fat that it was hard to tell his age, but he had been here before the captain, had even served the prince’s mother. Despite his age and girth, he was still nimble enough, and clever as they came, but meek.
He is no match for any Sand Snake,
the captain thought.
    In the shade of the orange trees, the prince sat in his chair with his gouty legs propped up before him, and heavy bags beneath his eyes . . . though whether it was grief or gout that kept him sleepless, Hotah could not say. Below, in the fountains and the pools, the children were still at their play. The youngest were no more than five, the oldest nine and ten. Half were girls and half were boys. Hotah could hear them splashing and shouting at each other in high, shrill voices. “It was not so long ago that you were one of the children in those pools, Obara,” the prince said, when she took one knee before his rolling chair.
    She snorted. “It has been twenty years, or near enough to make no matter. And I was not here long. I am the whore’s whelp, or had you forgotten?” When he did not answer, she rose again and put her hands upon her hips. “My father has been murdered.”
    â€œHe was slain in single combat during a trial by battle,” Prince Doran said. “By law, that is no murder.”
    â€œHe was your
brother.
”
    â€œHe was.”
    â€œWhat do you mean to do about his death?”
    The prince turned his chair laboriously to face her. Though he was but two-and-fifty, Doran Martell seemed much older. His body was soft and shapeless beneath his linen robes, and his legs were hard to look upon. The gout had swollen and reddened his joints grotesquely; his left knee was an apple, his right a melon, and his toes had turned to dark red grapes, so ripe it seemed as though a touch would burst them. Even the weight of a coverlet could make him shudder, though he bore the pain without complaint.
Silence is a prince’s friend,
the captain had heard him tell his daughter once.
Words are like arrows, Arianne. Once loosed, you cannot call them back.
“I have written to Lord Tywin—”
    â€œ
Written?
If you were half the man my father was—”
    â€œI am not your father.”
    â€œThat I knew.” Obara’s voice was thick with contempt.
    â€œYou would have me go to war.”
    â€œI know better. You need not even leave your chair. Let
me
avenge my father. You have a host in the Prince’s Pass. Lord Yronwood has another in the Boneway. Grant me the one and Nym the other. Let