Chapter 284: Assassination
The Greenblood River was the longest and most vital waterway in Dorne, nourishing the eastern heartlands of the kingdom and serving as the lifeline for its lushest lands.
"It's so beautiful," Princess Myrcella Baratheon remarked in awe.
The river stretched before her like a ribbon of emerald silk, adorned with boats gliding gently over its surface, gleaming like scattered gems.
"Indeed, it is Dorne's mother river," Princess Arianne Martell replied warmly.
She clung to Myrcella's arm affectionately, weaving tales of Dorne's history, its sands, its serpents, and its secrets.
Both princesses were dressed in flowing robes of similar hues, with white scarves shielding their faces from the desert winds. They strolled along the riverbank, accompanied by an entourage of guards.
As they walked, distant noises began to filter through the dry air.
Cresting a sandy ridge, they saw a gathering of hundreds of Dornishmen on a flat riverbank below, dancing and chanting around a raised platform.
"Are they performing a ritual?" Myrcella asked curiously.
"They are," Arianne replied. "They're offering a tribute to the Old Man of the River."
Drawing closer, Myrcella finally noticed the centerpiece of the gathering—a large effigy of a turtle placed atop the altar.
"Is that the Old Man?" she asked, tilting her head in intrigue. "He's a god of the Rhoynar, isn't he?"
"Yes," Arianne explained, smiling. "In Rhoynish belief, the Old Man of the River is a minor deity. He was born from the Mother River and won dominion over its waters after defeating the Crab King."
At that moment, a young man and woman emerged from the crowd.
The man was dark-skinned, with a jade earring glinting in the sun, while the woman's face was dusted with freckles.
"Your Grace," they greeted Myrcella, bowing low.
Their greeting unsettled her.
"Who are they? And why are they calling me 'Your Grace'?" she whispered to Arianne, clutching her arm nervously.
"They're orphans of the Greenblood," Arianne said cheerfully. "And friends of mine. This is Garris the Gallant, who always makes me laugh, and Sylva Santagar, heir to Spottswood."
"Heir? But if you're orphans, doesn't that mean your parents are gone? Shouldn't Spottswood already belong to you?" Myrcella asked Sylva, puzzled.
Sylva laughed. "Your Grace, you misunderstand. We are Rhoynish descendants, bearing the blood of Nymeria the Warrior Queen and her consort, Mors Martell of Sunspear.
"When Queen Nymeria landed in Dorne, she burned her fleet, declaring that there would be no retreat. Dorne was to be the Rhoynar's new home.
"Most Rhoynar embraced this new land, but some mourned the loss of their old homeland and its Mother River. These dissenters lived as boat-dwellers on the Greenblood, clinging to their traditions and refusing to assimilate into Dornish culture. They became known as the Orphans of the Greenblood."
"I see," Myrcella said, beginning to understand. However, another question nagged at her. "Why did you address me as 'Your Grace'?"
"Because you are our queen," Garris answered with a smile.
"Has something happened to Tommen?" Myrcella asked in alarm.
"Yes," Sylva said gravely. "He has been captured by treacherous advisors who've usurped the throne that rightfully belongs to you."
"What usurpation?" Myrcella exclaimed, her voice trembling. "Tommen hasn't stolen anything from me—he's the rightful king!"
"But you're older than Tommen, aren't you?" Garris pressed gently.
"Yes, by a year."
"Then the Iron Throne should belong to you," he declared. "By Dornish law, your claim supersedes his. Tommen has taken what is yours."
"No, that's not true!" Myrcella protested, her voice rising.
"Don't blame your brother, Your Grace. He was manipulated by those around him," Sylva said, trying to placate her. "We only want to help you reclaim what's rightfully yours."
"I don't need your help!" Myrcella snapped, turning to Arianne with tears in her eyes. "I don't like your friends. Make them leave!"
Arianne waved the pair away and reassured Myrcella. "Don't worry about them—they're fools who don't know what they're saying. Come on, let me show you something else. Let's watch a rain-calling ceremony."
Though still unsettled, Myrcella allowed herself to be led away. Soon, her curiosity got the better of her.
"They're calling rain?" she asked. "I've heard some Rhoynar practice water magic. Is that true?"
"It is," Arianne said. "Long ago, this river wasn't as wide or as dependable as it is now. But after Nymeria brought the Rhoynar to Dorne, their water-wizards reshaped it, ensuring it would flow steadily."
"Fascinating," Myrcella said, her gaze fixed on the altar. "I heard from my uncle Tyrion that the Mad King was obsessed with pyromancers. He had them make all sorts of dangerous fire-spells, some so volatile they could destroy King's Landing entirely."
"The Rhoynar's water-magic is much gentler than fire-magic," Arianne assured her.
Myrcella nodded, reassured. Just then, a low rumble echoed through the air, as if distant thunder had rolled across the desert. Moments later, raindrops began to fall.
The parched earth soaked in the moisture as the crowd erupted in cheers.
"They did it!" Myrcella clapped her hands in delight, turning her face upward to feel the cool rain. It was refreshing, washing away the day's heat.
But her joy was short-lived.
The crowd surged forward, jostling in their excitement. Myrcella's guards were quickly separated from her.
"Arianne!" she cried out, panic setting in.
Women's screams pierced the air. Myrcella glimpsed a face in the crowd—a cruel, malevolent face—and then felt a sharp pain in her arm.
She screamed.
At last, the guards pushed through the chaos to reach her.
"Are you hurt, Princess?" Arianne rushed to her side, cradling her protectively.
"My arm…" Myrcella gasped, clutching her wounded limb.
"Disperse the crowd! Get her out of here!" Arianne barked.
Myrcella's vision blurred, her body growing numb. Even her thoughts became sluggish, the pain in her arm spreading like venom.
"Arianne…" she murmured before collapsing into unconsciousness.
Arianne lifted Myrcella into her arms. The guards formed a protective circle around them, escorting her away from the frenzied crowd.
Ahead, a modest carriage waited atop a sand dune. Arianne carried Myrcella to it without hesitation.
Inside sat Prince Doran Martell, calm and composed as ever.
"Father," Arianne greeted him, setting Myrcella down. She offered no explanation for the princess's injury, and Doran asked none.
He simply nodded to the maester seated beside him. "Begin."
The maester stepped forward, pulling back Myrcella's sleeve to reveal the wound. Yet instead of treating it, he placed a vessel beneath her arm to collect the blood trickling from it.
(End of Chapter)