A Feast for Dragons

bowed. “Ser Gerris Drinkwater, Your
Grace. My sword is yours.”
    Greenguts crossed his arms against his chest. “And my
warhammer. I’m Ser Archibald Yronwood.”
    “And you, ser?” the queen asked the boy called Frog.
    “If it please Your Grace, may I first present my gift?”
    “If you wish,” Daenerys said, curious, but as Frog started
forward Daario Naharis stepped in front of him and held out a gloved hand.
“Give this gift to me.”
    Stone-faced, the stocky lad bent, unlaced his boot, and drew
a yellowed parchment from a hidden flap within.
    “This is your gift? A scrap of writing?” Daario snatched the
parchment out of the Dornishman’s hands and unrolled it, squinting at the seals
and signatures. “Very pretty, all the gold and ribbons, but I do not read your
Westerosi scratchings.”
    “Bring it to the queen,” Ser Barristan commanded. “Now.”
    Dany could feel the anger in the hall. “I am only a young
girl, and young girls must have their gifts,” she said lightly. “Daario,
please, you must not tease me. Give it here.”
    The parchment was written in the Common Tongue. The queen
unrolled it slowly, studying the seals and signatures. When she saw the name
Ser Willem Darry, her heart beat a little faster. She read it over once, and
then again.
    “May we know what it says, Your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan.
    “It is a secret pact,” Dany said, “made in Braavos when I
was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my
brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper’s men could take
us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as
witness.” She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for
himself. “The alliance is to be sealed by a marriage, it says. In return for
Dorne’s help overthrowing the Usurper, my brother Viserys is to take Prince
Doran’s daughter Arianne for his queen.”
    The old knight read the pact slowly. “If Robert had known of
this, he would have smashed Sunspear as he once smashed Pyke, and claimed the
heads of Prince Doran and the Red Viper … and like as not, the head
of this Dornish princess too.”
    “No doubt that was why Prince Doran chose to keep the pact a
secret,” suggested Daenerys. “If my brother Viserys had known that he had a
Dornish princess waiting for him, he would have crossed to Sunspear as soon as
he was old enough to wed.”
    “And thereby brought Robert’s warhammer down upon himself,
and Dorne as well,” said Frog. “My father was content to wait for the day that
Prince Viserys found his army.”
    “Your father?”
    “Prince Doran.” He sank back onto one knee. “Your Grace, I
have the honor to be Quentyn Martell, a prince of Dorne and your most leal
subject.”
    Dany laughed.
    The Dornish prince flushed red, whilst her own court and counselors
gave her puzzled looks. “Radiance?” said Skahaz Shavepate, in the Ghiscari
tongue. “Why do you laugh?”
    “They call him
frog,”
she said, “and we have
just learned why. In the Seven Kingdoms there are children’s tales of frogs who
turn into enchanted princes when kissed by their true love.” Smiling at the
Dornish knights, she switched back to the Common Tongue. “Tell me, Prince
Quentyn, are you enchanted?”
    “No, Your Grace.”
    “I feared as much.”
Neither enchanted nor enchanting,
alas. A pity he’s the prince, and not the one with the wide shoulders and the
sandy hair
. “You have come for a kiss, however. You mean to marry me.
Is that the way of it? The gift you bring me is your own sweet self. Instead of
Viserys and your sister, you and I must seal this pact if I want Dorne.”
    “My father hoped that you might find me acceptable.”
    Daario Naharis gave a scornful laugh. “I say you are a pup.
The queen needs a man beside her, not a mewling boy. You are no fit husband for
a woman such as her. When you lick your lips, do you still taste your mother’s
milk?”
    Ser Gerris Drinkwater darkened at his words. “Mind your
tongue, sellsword. You are speaking to a prince of Dorne.”
    “And to his wet nurse, I am thinking.” Daario brushed his
thumbs across his sword hilts and smiled dangerously.
    Skahaz scowled, as only he could scowl. “This boy might
serve for Dorne, but Meereen needs a king of Ghiscari blood.”
    “I know of this Dorne,” said Reznak mo Reznak. “Dorne is
sand and scorpions, and bleak red mountains baking in the sun.”
    Prince Quentyn