Arys Oakheart I

  The farewell feast was already dying down by the time Ser Arys Oakheart went outside. House Martell’s ancient keep, the Sandship, which lay in the heart of Sunspear proper, overlooked the city that had spawned around the tiered castle from a high hill much like the Red Keep. Several balconies lined the castle’s great hall like private drawing rooms open to the sky.

  To avoid the bustle of the gathered nobility, Arys chose the smallest and farthest balcony from the main doors to seclude himself in. He could still hear their voices floating over from the adjacent balconies, but a double row of tall hedges made him feel safer in his privacy.

  Passing through the arranged sofas and velvet pillows that formed a ring around an unlit pit fire, he leaned over the railing and let out a heavy sigh. Dornish nights were cool if not cold, and Arys had come to appreciate watching the starry sky above Sunspear after a day of steaming inside his armor.

  For the first time in his tenure in Dorne, he had attended the festivities as a guest instead of a kingsguard. The golden doublet he had on had gathered dust at the bottom of his trunk, as even when he was off duty he preferred to wear simple shirts due to Dorne’s heat. But earlier in the day, Princess Myrcella had formally discharged him of his services, giving him leave to return to King’s Land.

  That had been a long time coming, given her marriage to Prince Trystane, but it felt bittersweet leaving the little princess. Being assigned as her kingsguard had been the palate cleanser he needed after so long with King Joffrey. As loath as he was to admit to himself, he was glad Joffrey was dead.

  The things the young king did… the things he made them do. The thought of it alone made his jaw tight with shame.

  Beating Sansa Stark was the great disgrace of his life as a knight. He either had to break his knightly oath of protecting all women and children, or break his oath to the king of obeying his orders. In the end, he’d done as his king commanded and put his hands on that little girl.

  He’d done his best not to hurt her, and to treat her kindly when the king wasn’t looking, but he’d done it all the same.

  Hopefully, with his impending return to King’s Landing in the morning, there would be none of that with the new king. From what he remembered, Tommen Baratheon had been a sweet boy, polite and courteous as much as his sister. A definite improvement from Joffrey, at least.

  The sound of the balcony door creaking open broke through his musings, and Arys grimaced when he turned to see who it was. Nymeria and Tyene Sand were at the door, wide smiles splayed on their pretty faces.

  “Ser knight!” Tyene sing-songed, her voice high and sweet like a child’s. “Oh, I've been looking all over for you. Are you ready for our big journey tomorrow?”

  Nymeria cackled beside her, looking at him smugly with her arms crossed underneath her breasts.

  Arys sighed. He’d fallen for Tyene’s girly act for nearly a month before he realized it was just a game, and now she loved nothing more than to tease him about it.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “I still don’t understand why you two have to go to the capital with me,” Arys said, shaking his head. He was not particularly close to the Sand Snakes, as the bastard daughters of Prince Oberyn called themselves, but after spending so long around them while guarding the Princess, they’d developed a friendly enough relationship.

  “What is there not to understand?” Nymeria asked as she approached him, crossing the balcony with long strides.

  For a moment, Arys had to fight with himself not to glance down at her tanned legs, and he only just managed.

  Her half-sister was a step behind her, the big smile replaced by a wicked little smirk.

  “We will be representing Dorne and its Prince in the capital and at the king’s own council,” Tyene added, circling him like a shark. “Like our father did before he returned home.”

  Arys frowned. “Forgive me, my ladies, but I doubt the king and his council would promptly invite you to join them.”

  Nymeria let out a tinkling laugh, and Tyene simply smiled. “Oh but we can be so very persuasive,” said Tyene. She was near enough to touch him now, near enough he could smell the lemony scent of her perfume. On his other side, Nymeria had put one soft hand over his arm.

  Swallowing a lump on his throat, Arys murmured excuses and quickly fled the balcony, their laughter following him down the halls. Kingsguard or not, he was still a man, and there was only so much he could resist.

  He managed to avoid any more encounters until he was nearing his room. The final preparations for tomorrow’s voyage were clogging his mind when he suddenly bumped into someone, throwing him out of his reverie. He was left unmoved by the collision, but the other person fell to the floor with a dull thump.

  “Oh my apologies,” he blurted, the words coming out almost in reflex. The corridor they were in was dimly lit by a single candle on the far end, but Arys could see it was a woman he’d taken down. He hid a wince and extended a hand for her. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, my lady. Pray forgive me.”

  The girl nodded shyly and smiled back at him, and only then did he notice that she was the whore that Prince Oberyn had brought back from King’s Landing. He’d not seen much of her, as she was staying near the prince’s quarters on the Tower of the Sun, but the purple-red scars around her throat were hard to mistake, even in this light.

  When he grasped her hand to help her up, he felt a slip of coarse parchment being pressed against his palm, and before he could say anything the girl had slipped past him and ducked down the intersecting hall he’d just come through.

  For a moment he stood rooted in that spot, not knowing what to do. He was a knight, not a damn spy, but he’d lived in King’s Landing long enough to understand what a hidden note meant. Looking around him warily one last time, Arys pocketed the note, adopted his best impression of a disinterested mask, and kept going on his way.

  He’d also lived in King’s Landing long enough to know that the walls have eyes and ears.

  When he got into his room, he acted as he did every night, following the routine he’d learned from Ser Barristan. He only pulled the note out when he was in bed, with the covers pulled over his head.

  He’d left a single candle burning on his bedside, providing just enough light so he could read the neat little script under the blankets. He felt silly as a child playing spies for doing all of that, but the thought died a quick death when his eyes scanned the parchment.

  His heart started hammering inside his chest as he processed the words, and he read the note thrice more just to be sure. The Martells were plotting treason, with the Master of Whispers no less. The message spoke further of plans to marry Princess Arianne to a boy named Aegon Targaryen, the supposed son of Rhaegar and Elia, and of Prince Oberyn soon leaving Dorne just a few days after him to meet with this pretender in Essos.

  Under the covers of his bed, Arys realized he wouldn’t be traveling to the capital with dornish representatives; he would be traveling with dornish spies.