“You are my daughter, Arianne. The little girl who used to run to me when she skinned her knee.”
Arianne, age five, goes to her father for comfort. (For Arianne Martell Week: Family.)
Nothing has ever hurt worse than this in the whole world.
Princesses aren’t supposed to cry. But Arianne stares at her knee, the skin giving way to a scary pink with drops of blood welling up, and bursts into tears anyway.
“Arianne!” Daemon is at her side. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - are you all right?”
“You pushed me.”
“I’m sorry -”
“Go away!” Arianne spins around, her feet slapping on the same stone she fell on. Areo Hotah is standing beneath the pillars at the entrance to the palace, just like he always does when she’s playing in the pools. “Look,” she sobs, and cups her knee. “Look...it hurts.”
Areo looks down at her. “You’ve wounded yourself, Princess,” he says. “Do you need to see the maester?
Arianne shakes her head, wishing she could stop crying. “No.” She would go to Mother, but Mother is busy with the new baby, and stupid Quentyn is having a hard time feeding. Everyone keeps saying something about his tongue, how it might be tied. “I want Papa,” she says.
“Then you’ll have him,” Areo replies, and picks her up.
She wraps her arms around his neck as he carries her through the palace. Her knee hurts worse and worse, and the cool indoor air makes her shiver. She watches drops of water dripping off the ends of her hair the whole way to her father’s study. “My prince,” Areo says. He raps on the door. “Are you within? Your daughter is hurt.”
Arianne hears a chair scrape from inside, followed by a muffled ow and footsteps coming to the door. Papa’s eyes are wide when he pulls it open. “Hurt?” he says. “How?”
“Here,” Arianne says, wiping her eyes, and bends her knee up to show him.
Right away, Papa’s face softens. “Oh, sweetling,” he says. “Don’t worry, Areo. I have her.” He holds out his arms, and Arianne gladly lets him take her. “You know where you should be now, I trust.”
Areo nods, turning away as Papa closes the door and sets Arianne on his chair. She holds her breath a moment - she’s never been allowed to sit there. “I got hurt,” she says, the tears coming out in another rush. “Daemon pushed me.”
“I’m sorry he pushed you.” Papa kisses her forehead. “Sometimes people are unkind, but if he’s a good boy, he’ll apologize. Does it hurt you badly?”
Arianne bites her lip. “It hurts so bad.”
Moving slowly, Papa kneels down in front of her and kisses her knee. She hisses as it burns, but then, suddenly, it doesn’t. “There,” Papa says. “That’s magic.”
“Oh!” Arianne gasps. “It is? Like a maester?”
Papa’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “Like a maester! Why, haven’t you heard? This is special magic that only mothers and fathers know. The maesters never earn links for this kind of magic.”
Arianne rubs her face. “Will I have it, too?”
“Certainly,” says Papa. “Someday when you’re a grown woman with your own children, you’ll learn this magic as easily as you breathe.” He taps the center of her chest. “It lives here, Arianne. So does our love for you, mine and your mother’s, and it always will.”
Now her knee hardly hurts at all, and Arianne smiles. “I love you, too.”
Papa squeezes her hand and gets to his feet with a groan. “I think it’s time I walked a bit,” he says. “Come with me, sweetheart. Young knees will heal, but these old ones need more than a kiss.”
