“do i have to go, mother?”
“but they’re babies.” he knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth that he has said the wrong thing, and he flinches, waiting for his mother’s reprobation.
but loreza martell does not hiss at him, or shout. she looks at him evenly.
“exactly,” she says. “they are so very young, and so are you. enjoy it if you can, doran. one day, you’ll be old, and you’ll wonder that they could ever be so small.”
the mountain’s head is the size that oberyn had been when his mother had first presented his youngest brother to him, wide-eyed with a thick thatch of dark hair on the top of his head. it is huge–larger than any man has a right to be, and doran cannot stop staring at it.
“i’ll make tywin lannister squirm, you’ll see. he’ll pay for what he did to elia.”
“careful, oberyn. you must be careful. if everything we’ve planned–”
“i didn’t mean to imply you were, just that mother always said–”
“mother is long dead, as is elia. that lion’s den is not the same as the one mother knew. i’ll be careful, but i won’t let the chance for justice pass me by.”
he’d been just a baby, with eyes full of wonder. oberyn always had eyes full of wonder, and he’d been smaller than mors and olyvar, just the size of a mountain’s head.
“will you come play with us, doran?”
“no. i’m reading. go away.”
“but the water’s so nice!”
“come on!” and he splashes water from the gardens at doran.
“you got it all wet!” doran shouts.
“you shouldn’t bring things to the water gardens that shouldn’t get wet,” elia laughs, wrapping her arms around oberyn. she always does that, always hugs people. she hugs mother, and oberyn, and doran too sometimes. her arms are thin, and her embrace isn’t strong, but it’s always there, quick and supportive, and her thin little smile that shone so genuinely on her face. “come play with us. please?”
“will you play, father? i’ve been practicing with myrcella.”
trystane has her lips, her thin smile that manages to light up his face. arianne has her eyes, shining deep and clever in a face that looks more and more like mother every day. quentyn her caution, and he hopes it serves him better on his journey than it served elia in king’s landing.
trystane is holding a cyvasse set, and doran inclines his head and his youngest sits across from him and sets up the game on the table. doran watches him.
oberyn was the youngest too, and clever like trystane…but he sees little of oberyn in his son. perhaps it’s for the best. trystane had been small when he’d been born too.
“you must come and visit.”
“as soon as you are able.”
“i couldn’t be far from you for long, elia. besides–i would meet your husband. i should have met him before mother agreed to this match. i am her heir.”
“do you worry for me, brother?”
she’s thin–too thin, in his view. she doesn’t eat enough, and is frequently ill, taking compresses with her into her room, drawing curtains against the sun. perhaps the north will do her well. the sun will be less hot there, and perhaps she’ll blossom like the red flowers she used to weave through her hair when she wasn’t splashing around in fountains as a girl. “i always worry for you, elia,” he says dutifully, taking her hand in his.
“you mustn’t. i have the sun’s fire in my veins. nothing will bring me down.”
she beams at him, and how can he not believe her.
“i’ll be sorry to see you go.”
“but you’ll see me again soon, you promise?”
“promise me you’ll look after them–elia and oberyn.”
“they’re old enough to look after themselves, mother.”
“are you denying your dying mother her last wish?”
“no, of course not.” doran presses a kiss to her forehead.
“prince of dorne,” she sighs, cupping his cheek with a trembling hand. “a fine one, you’ll make. keep them safe. they shine so brightly.”
“what is our heart’s desire?” she asks him with narrowed eyes, narrowed like elia’s.
he swallows. she looks like them all–like mother, and elia, with oberyn’s determination shining through every pore of her skin.
i want none of them to have died, he thinks, but that is a foolish thought, a boy’s dream, and he is old now. i failed you, mother.
“prince of dorne. a fine one, you’ll make.”
“i’ll be careful, but i won’t let the chance for justice pass me by.”
“i have the sun’s fire in my veins.”
he presses the signet into his daughter’s palm. “fire and blood.”
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