Oberyn swayed and dropped to one knee. His face was whiter than linen. To keep from crying out again, he clenched his teeth and sucked in a harsh, rasping breath.
Slowly—very slowly—he rose to his feet. Pain splashed in his eyes. And triumph. The prince's left shoulder was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Grimacing, he pulled the broken spear from Gregor Clegane's helt, raised his arm, and turned toward our tribune.
"Unbowed! Unbent! Unbroken!"
He shouted his motto, and his standard-bearers and vassals roared in greeting with every word. The crowd, which had witnessed sothing they would tell their children and grandchildren about, shouted back just as enthusiastically.
Looking at the triumphant Oberyn, I realized with horror that by trying to save the Mountain, I had only made things worse.
Fearso as a warrior, dangerous as a commander, deadly as a poisoner, clever as a maester—Oberyn Martell was still alive. The man who hated the Lannisters so fiercely had sohow survived. And now I understood why that had happened: by forcing him to fight without poison, I had provoked Martell to act more cautiously, restraining his fury and his rage.
"Too bad," Tywin said quietly and dispassionately, as the High Septon stepped forward and declared Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, the victor.
***
Myrcella
The green-eyed girl with curly golden hair sat at the edge of the pool, thoughtfully trailing her delicate fingers through the water. Curious red fish nudged at her hand playfully, darting away and returning again.
This place was called the Water Gardens. They lay three leagues from Sunspear. Prince Doran Martell, his relatives, as well as the children and wives of influential vassals, all loved to rest here.
In the Water Gardens there was no such thing as silence. The joyful cries of children echoed day and night among the trees, the ponds, and the marble-lined pools. Despite the constant noise, the place was deeply pleasant: birds sang, countless fountains murmured, and flowers and trees brought from all over the world flourished here.
Lemons and blood oranges grew along the many shaded alleys. Often the servants did not have ti to gather them, and then the overripe fruits fell upon the stone tiles and burst, splashing everything with sticky juice and filling the air with a maddening, intoxicating scent.
Huge butterflies—green, red, blue, and colors beyond imagination—fluttered lazily among the flowers.
Previously, for several months, she lived with all the Martells in the capital of Dorne, Sunspear. Long ago, in the Andals tis, it had been called the Sandship. Over thousands of years, the Martells had built and rebuilt it again and again, adding defensive walls, gates, casemates, arsenals, palaces, cool halls, and graceful towers in the Rhoynar style.
The princess lived in one such tower—the Tower of the Sun.
The Martells' ancestral seat stood upon a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the Sumr Sea. Over ti, the Shadow City had grown along the fourth, creeping farther and farther inland. At first, the people built their houses right up against the castle walls; then, pressed close to one another, until a bewildering labyrinth of narrow streets, sudden dead ends, and impossible passages was ford. Shops, houses, stables, inns, wine cellars, and brothels began almost at the foot of the castle walls. Most of the buildings were made of yellow-brown adobe brick.
On sunny days—which were most of the year—when the scorching heat crept into every crack and doorway, and the rciless sun poured its deadly rays down from the sky, it seed the entire city had taken on that color not by chance. It had simply burned, scorched, and lted beneath the sun….
The Martells often fled the noise and heat of the great city for their retreat at the Water Gardens.
Princess Myrcella was especially fond of one secluded spot, hidden deep within the park, where an intricately carved stone bench stood beside a broad pool. Even on the hottest days, it was always cool and shaded here, thanks to the branches arching over the water. Myrcella liked to co here when she felt sad and wished, just a little, to indulge in self-pity.
Her first days in Dorne had not been easy!
She rembered leaving King's Landing—almost the entire family had gathered at the pier. Joffrey stared at the clouds, at the ships, anywhere but at her. Cersei frowned, struggling to show no emotion at all. Tyrion looked guilty; just the day before, he had co to her and said quietly, "Forgive , my dear."
But what struck her most was her second brother, Tomn. He cried bitterly as he saw her off, and that, of all things, shocked her the most.
Of course, she knew that princesses did not always receive what they wished. Sotis one had to bow to fate and sail away to a foreign land among strangers.
One of the Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, and a pair of maids had been sent with her. The knight, though gallant and endlessly attentive, always ready to give his life for her, was still a man. And there were many things she simply could not speak to him about.
Now, as it happened, he stood behind the trees with his arms folded across his chest, guarding her solitude.
And maids were not friends. One had to behave properly with them, never letting oneself grow too familiar.
Dorne had welcod her warmly. The Martells truly seed pleased to have her as their guest.
Her future husband—tall and slender, with black curls and sly brown eyes—Prince Trystane had chard her from the very first mont. He proved friendly, kind, and impressively well read. He did not shine as a knight, but as a conversationalist and a gentleman he was without equal.
His elder brother, Prince Quentyn, however—a stocky, sturdy young man with short legs—left a strange and unsettling impression. Both at their first eting and afterward, he smiled and appeared glad to see her, yet his piercing gaze reminded her of an archer's eyes in the instant before he loosed an arrow.
Princess Arianne, who by the laws of Dorne would one day inherit Prince Doran's seat, behaved instead like a sister—and a deeply attentive friend. Short and slender, with olive skin, a cascade of jet-black hair, and a fondness for sheer silks, she won Myrcella's sympathy almost at once.
At first, Myrcella had been shocked by her very revealing outfits. As it turned out, Arianne was far from alone in that preference—most Dornish won favored thin fabrics that were transparent in the sun and concealed very little. In truth, the won of Dorne were far more free in their ways than those who dwelt on Casterly Rock.
(End of Chapter)
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