Game of Thrones: StormBorn

292AC

Arianne looked out the windows in the morning, hoping to spot the great sails of the ships of Dragonstone on the horizon. They would come, the scarred prince's men, and spirit her away to his castle, just like in the stories.

She knew that they were only stories of course, but the ships she had seen many times now, the Galleons and Cutters making their way to the Reach and the Westerlands stopped in Sunspear often enough, bringing with them goods from as far away as Skagos in the North and Bravos in the East.

They smelled of the sea, of bold men, and of adventure. Their captains were sometimes hosted in the castle, where they spoke of great cliffs and Storms and pirates and many other things.

She has always loved boats, dreaming of Nymeria her ancestor and the ten-thousand which the great queen commanded, and the boats of Dragonstone were beautiful too, like castles upon the sea.

She had thought of stowing away aboard one, sneaking out and leaving her dull life in Sunspear behind, but then, that would mean giving up her title, her chance to rule Dorne, and that was unacceptable.

So she had resolved herself to find another way.

And then her father had told her of his plot, the plot to marry her to Viserys that had fallen through, to make her queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She wasn't sure which was worse, that he had never trusted her with it in the first place, or that it had failed so spectacularly. It stung, either way, betrayal, and failure both.

She had been paraded in front of old men like some doll, had been prompted to throw her own virginity away out of spite, simply for a plan that failed because a Dragon would rather fuck his own sister than marry her? And her father was behind it as well?

She had been treated like a bird in a cage to be toyed with as her father pleased, and when she thought of that cage she also thought too of the ships.

Those great, beautiful ships, and their rugged captains, who spoke of their prince with a sort of reverence that she had certainly lost for her father.

Oh, see knew he was supposedly scarred by greyscale, but what was a scar on a man's skin anyhow? She had seen greyscale before, and it did not frighten her.

So she had conspired, had written a letter of betrothal to the boy and her cousins had managed to steal her father's seal from beneath his nose, and they had gotten the letter sent without him ever knowing.

Then he had caught them, and things had gotten worse. She had been locked up in her room, no longer allowed to walk the shadow-city, or even the castle proper unsupervised, and her cousins had gotten themselves locked in Water-Gardens for their attempts to break her out.

How she wished that they had succeeded if only for a little while, to escape the doldrums of her room.

But no, for now, that was only in her dreams, a maiden in a castle (though she was no maiden, she had thrown that away to spite her father,) trapped there by her cruel father's hand, waiting for her gallant young prince to spirit her away.

Albeit her prince was a bit too young, and not handsome by many accounts, but to escape her gilded cell that could all be acceptable. There was even some mystery to him, he was spoken of by his captains as a great genius true, but he had only ever appeared in public once when he had sparred jibes with the queen and met with the lady of Tarth on a darkened balcony.

She wondered what words had passed between the two then? Was it a romance? Spite? The finding of a kindred soul? Perhaps she would ask him.

She could imagine him now, dark, tormented and stormy, treated poorly by his Aunt just as she was by her father. He would understand her struggle, and he would take her away from here in his arms. Then she would return with a fleet at her back just as Nymeria had come, and she would rule Dorne, not Quentin.

Some small part of her mind reminded her that she was thinking of a twelve-year-old and the image in her head shrunk a bit. From a dark and brooding prince to a scarred and mistreated child, struggling with a mind beyond his years. Perhaps he yearned for love as she did? He had decided to sail out and meet his betrothed, after all, an unusual thing for a Prince of Westeros. She would have expected to be called to Dragonstone instead.

Maybe he was simply naive? That could be good in its own way, she might mold him to accept her rule more easily, and with his Baratheon blood, he would no doubt grow quite tall with time, perhaps someday his greyscale might be cured, or covered somehow, and he might be a handsome prince after all.

As with everything, however, her father stood in the way, demanding that she make herself unappealing, and try to get the boy to reject her outright. He cared not for her love, only to use her for his own plots.

Well, she would see to that. She would sneak to where Prince Arthur slept and take the boy in the night. She would become pregnant with his child, which would force the issue. He would be unable to refuse the betrothal then, and she would be free at last.

She reclined on her bed, going over the plans she had formed in her head for the umpteenth time, touching her belly which she hoped might soon enough be full with a child.

She turned towards the window and leaped to her feet. Her mind already giddy and racing with fantasy.

There were white sails in the distance.