A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin Page B

hesitated. “Is that wise?”
    â€œNot wise, but necessary. Best send a rider to Ricasso, and have him open my apartments in the Tower of the Sun. Inform my daughter Arianne that I will be there on the morrow.”
    My little princess.
The captain had missed her sorely.
    â€œYou will be seen,” the maester warned.
    The captain understood. Two years ago, when they had left Sunspear for the peace and isolation of the Water Gardens, Prince Doran’s gout had not been half so bad. In those days he had still walked, albeit slowly, leaning on a stick and grimacing with every step. The prince did not wish his enemies to know how feeble he had grown, and the Old Palace and its shadow city were full of eyes.
Eyes,
the captain thought,
and steps he cannot climb. He would need to fly to sit atop the Tower of the Sun.
    â€œI
must
be seen. Someone must pour oil on the waters. Dorne must be reminded that it still has a prince.” He smiled wanly. “Old and gouty though he is.”
    â€œIf you return to Sunspear, you will need to give audience to Princess Myrcella,” Caleotte said. “Her white knight will be with her . . . and you
know
he sends letters to his queen.”
    â€œI suppose he does.”
    The white knight.
The captain frowned. Ser Arys had come to Dorne to attend his own princess, as Areo Hotah had once come with his. Even their names sounded oddly alike: Areo and Arys. Yet there the likeness ended. The captain had left Norvos and its bearded priests, but Ser Arys Oakheart still served the Iron Throne. Hotah had felt a certain sadness whenever he saw the man in the long snowy cloak, the times the prince had sent him down to Sunspear. One day, he sensed, the two of them would fight; on that day Oakheart would die, with the captain’s longaxe crashing through his skull. He slid his hand along the smooth ashen shaft of his axe and wondered if that day was drawing nigh.
    â€œThe afternoon is almost done,” the prince was saying. “We will wait for morn. See that my litter is ready by first light.”
    â€œAs you command.” Caleotte bobbed a bow. The captain stood aside to let him pass, and listened to his footsteps dwindle.
    â€œCaptain?” The prince’s voice was soft.
    Hotah strode forward, one hand wrapped about his longaxe. The ash felt as smooth as a woman’s skin against his palm. When he reached the rolling chair he thumped its butt down hard to announce his presence, but the prince had eyes only for the children. “Did you have brothers, captain?” he asked. “Back in Norvos, when you were young? Sisters?”
    â€œBoth,” Hotah said. “Two brothers, three sisters. I was the youngest.”
The youngest, and unwanted. Another mouth to feed, a big boy who ate too much and soon outgrew his clothes.
Small wonder they had sold him to the bearded priests.
    â€œI was the oldest,” the prince said, “and yet I am the last. After Mors and Olyvar died in their cradles, I gave up hope of brothers. I was nine when Elia came, a squire in service at Salt Shore. When the raven arrived with word that my mother had been brought to bed a month too soon, I was old enough to understand that meant the child would not live. Even when Lord Gargalen told me that I had a sister, I assured him that she must shortly die. Yet she lived, by the Mother’s mercy. And a year later Oberyn arrived, squalling and kicking. I was a man grown when they were playing in these pools. Yet here I sit, and they are gone.”
    Areo Hotah did not know what to say to that. He was only a captain of guards, and still a stranger to this land and its seven-faced god, even after all these years.
Serve. Obey. Protect.
He had sworn those vows at six-and-ten, the day he wed his axe.
Simple vows for simple men,
the bearded priests had said. He had not been trained to counsel grieving princes.
    He was still groping for some words to say when another orange fell with