A Feast for Dragons

she can never catch, the prince had told his daughter once, in
the captain’s hearing.
    When she appeared beneath the triple arch, Areo Hotah swung
his longaxe sideways to block the way. The head was on a shaft of mountain ash
six feet long, so she could not go around. “My lady, no farther.” His voice was
a bass grumble thick with the accents of Norvos. “The prince does not wish to
be disturbed.”
    Her face had been stone before he spoke; then it hardened.
“You are in my way, Hotah.” Obara was the eldest Sand Snake, a big-boned woman
near to thirty, with the close-set eyes and rat-brown hair of the Oldtown whore
who’d birthed her. Beneath a mottled sandsilk cloak of dun and gold, her riding
clothes were old brown leather, worn and supple. They were the softest things
about her. On one hip she wore a coiled whip, across her back a round shield of
steel and copper. She had left her spear outside. For that, Areo Hotah gave
thanks. Quick and strong as she was, the woman was no match for him, he knew .
. . but she did not, and he had no wish to see her blood upon the pale
pink marble.
    Maester Caleotte shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Lady
Obara, I tried to tell you . . .”
    “Does he know that my father is dead?” Obara asked the
captain, paying the maester no more mind than she would a fly, if any fly had
been foolish enough to buzz about her head.
    “He does,” the captain said. “He had a bird.”
    Death had come to Dorne on raven wings, writ small and
sealed with a blob of hard red wax. Caleotte must have sensed what was in that
letter, for he’d given it Hotah to deliver. The prince thanked him, but for the
longest time he would not break the seal. All afternoon he’d sat with the
parchment in his lap, watching the children at their play. He watched until the
sun went down and the evening air grew cool enough to drive them inside; then
he watched the starlight on the water. It was moonrise before he sent Hotah to
fetch a candle, so he might read his letter beneath the orange trees in the
dark of night.
    Obara touched her whip. “Thousands are crossing the sands
afoot to climb the Boneway, so they may help Ellaria bring my father home. The
septs are packed to bursting, and the red priests have lit their temple fires.
In the pillow houses women are coupling with every man who comes to them, and
refusing any coin. In Sunspear, on the Broken Arm, along the Greenblood, in the
mountains, out in the deep sand, everywhere, everywhere, women tear
their hair and men cry out in rage. The same question is heard on every
tongue—what will Doran do? What will his brother do to avenge our murdered
prince? ” She moved closer to the captain. “And you say, he does not wish
to be disturbed! ”
    “He does not wish to be disturbed,” Areo Hotah said again.
    The captain of guards knew the prince he guarded. Once, long
ago, a callow youth had come from Norvos, a big broad-shouldered boy with a mop
of dark hair. That hair was white now, and his body bore the scars of many
battles . . . but his strength remained, and he kept his longaxe sharp, as the
bearded priests had taught him. She shall not pass, he told himself, and
said, “The prince is watching the children at their play. He is never to
be disturbed when he is watching the children at their play.”
    “Hotah,” said Obara Sand, “you will remove yourself from my
path, else I shall take that longaxe and—”
    “Captain,” came the command, from behind. “Let her pass. I
will speak with her.” The prince’s voice was hoarse.
    Areo Hotah jerked his longaxe upright and stepped to one
side. Obara gave him a lingering last look and strode past, the maester
hurrying at her heels. Caleotte was no more than five feet tall and bald as an
egg. His face was so smooth and fat that it was hard to tell his age, but he
had been here before the captain, had even served the prince’s mother. Despite
his age and girth, he was still nimble enough, and clever as they came, but
meek. He is no match for any Sand Snake, the captain thought.
    In the shade of the orange trees, the prince sat in his
chair with his gouty legs propped up before him, and heavy bags beneath his eyes
. . . though whether it was grief or gout that kept him sleepless, Hotah could
not say. Below, in the fountains and the pools, the children were still at
their play. The youngest were no more than five, the oldest nine and ten. Half
were girls and half were boys. Hotah could hear them