Chapter Text
The boy had a sweet face, though puffy and tear-stained. Had the poor thing cried the entire way to Dorne? He tried his best to hide it, setting his expression into a scowl—which came off as more of a pout—as he lugged his little bag down the gangplank and refused help from any adults. He kept his eyes rooted to the ground, even when Oberyn came forward and knelt down to be on his level.
“Welcome to Dorne,” he said, using the fatherly tone he used with the girls. “You must be Prince Theon Greyjoy. I am Prince Oberyn Martell and this is my paramour, Ellaria Sand.”
The boy did lift his eyes then. They raked over Oberyn first, then moved on to Ellaria. She noted the confusion in his voice as he took in her rounded belly. “A paramour…is a princess?” he asked, dark brows drawn together. “Your wife?”
“My lover,” he corrected, looking not at the boy but straight at her. He had this way of looking at her that made her entire body bloom with heat, and gods, she seemed to be horny every minute of her pregnancy. It had been the same with Elia and Obella. Luckily, no matter how round she got, Oberyn’s interest was never diminished, and he would be more than willing to ravish her tonight, after all this tedious political business was set to rest.
“You mean your…salt wife?” the boy asked.
Oberyn chuckled. “Yes, in a manner.” He held out his hand. “Come, we will take you to meet the rest of my household.”
The boy looked at the proffered hand as if it were a coiled snake, but gradually he reached out and took it. Oberyn stood and began to lead him back towards the carriage.
Ellaria felt terrible for thinking of him as tedious political business. It wasn’t his fault, and she was rather fond of children. It was the circumstances surrounding him. It sickened her that Westeros would try to drag Dorne into their internal quibbling, but it sickened her even more that they would use an innocent boy as a pawn in their games. He was only a little older than Elia. She couldn’t imagine someone ripping her girl from her arms and shipping her off to some far-off land, with the threat that she would be murdered the instant she or Oberyn misbehaved. Then again, these were the same people who had murdered Elia’s namesake, Oberyn’s sister, and her three children. Truly, there were no depths the northerners would not sink to.
Oberyn helped him into the carriage first, then Ellaria. The boy set his sack on the seat next to him, as if trying to ward them from sitting near him. Ellaria nodded politely to show she understood and sat down across the way, even if it would mean traveling backwards the entire trip to Sun Spear, which was sure to upset her pregnancy sickness. It wasn’t too far to the fortress, made long only by the winding roads up the cliff sides. Oberyn sat next to her and curled a hand over her shoulder.
The footman closed the door, and soon they were moving onwards. The boy—Theon, she supposed she should call him—kept his gaze out the window. Ellaria knew little of the Iron Islands, but it had to have been vastly different from Dorne. She could already tell that his skin was burning, unused to the sun and heat.
“I am sorry that my brother could not come to meet you himself,” Oberyn said.
“The captain said he’s a—said that he can’t walk,” Theon said, quickly catching himself before he said something rude. “But he’s the one who can have my head taken…if my father rebels again, right?”
Oberyn waved his hand. “I do not want you to fear for your life while you are here, Theon. We do not hurt little boys in Dorne.”
“I’m not a little boy.”
“No, of course not,” Oberyn agreed. “But we will not hurt you, nonetheless. You are our guest.”
“What if my father rebels?”
“Then if King Robert wants such a terrible thing done, he must come down here himself to do it. And if he does, we will not hand you over to him.”
Theon turned away from the window. “Really?”
“Really,” Ellaria said. It might be better if she joined in as well, to show the boy that he would be protected. “Dorne harbors no love of the throne.”
Theon studied her again. He rocked back and forth in his seat. “You’re a bastard?” he asked at last.
“I am.” She knew Dorne had a more tolerant view of bastards than most of the seven kingdoms, and Oberyn had warned her that he might have some preconceived notions of her and their children. She vowed that she would never show an ounce of shame in front of him; she would not apologize for being born.
“The Boltons, the family that had me before,” he began, “they had a bastard too.” There was something in his tone, something hollow.
Ellaria looked to Oberyn. He had not told her all the details, merely that the boy had been shuffled around a bit before arriving in Dorne. King Robert had first foisted him onto the Starks, but Lady Stark’s House had bad blood with the Ironborn and Lord Stark had refused to hold the boy out of respect for his lady wife. (Apparently tensions were high between the two of them based on an infidelity which has resulted in a Northern bastard, a Snow, another unwanted child.) The Greyjoy boy had then been handed off to a smaller Northern House—the Boltons, according to Theon—where he had…not gotten on with his foster family. Oberyn had not been told more, as the less people who knew, the less chance of word getting back to Balon Greyjoy.
“No one is going to hurt you here,” Oberyn repeated. “I swear to it on my name as Prince of Dorne.”
***
He really was a quiet little boy. He kept to himself. For the first week, Ellaria barely even saw him, let alone spoke to him. She did catch glimpses of him, though, watching them from behind a partition or around a pillar. Whenever he realized he’d been discovered, he would skitter away like a frightened hare.
“He will come out when he is ready,” Oberyn assured her. “He is adjusting. The maester says he is quite uncomfortable from sun sickness but says that he is in good health otherwise. You needn’t worry yourself about him for the time being.”
Ellaria supposed he was right and tried to put him from her mind. At least, until the day she found him in the water gardens. As in, wading in the water gardens. His shoes were off and his breeches rolled up to his knees as he splashed through the fountain, kicking up water as he went. He was so intent that he didn’t notice her approach, and since she didn’t wish to disturb him, she watched from the shade of the portico.
He was marching back and forth in irregular intervals. It took her a while to realize he was following the tiled pattern. He traced the swirling tiles out to the deepest part of the fountain and stood still for several moments, with his head craned up towards the sky and face towards the slight breeze from the ocean. Even rolled up, his pant legs were soaking wet.
From farther off in the gardens, a peacock cried out, which broke him from his moment. He gave a cursory glance around but still did not see her. That was the only explanation for why he started unlacing his doublet.
“If you wanted to swim, you only needed to say so.”
He spun around, clasping his open collar tight. His face was still very red from sun sickness, or perhaps embarrassment. “Lady E-Ellaria,” he stammered. “L-Lady Sand, I mean.”
“Ellaria is fine.” She walked leisurely to the foot of the fountain and watched the ripples he’d stirred break against the stone base. “You realize the fountains weren’t meant for swimming?”
“I was just trying to cool off.” He looked positively stricken and hurried back to dry land. “I didn’t mean to break any rules. I-I didn’t do any damage, did I?”
“No, you are quite fine,” Ellaria said, giving what she hoped was a disarming chuckle. “It’s just that there are places better suited for swimming. Come.” She cocked her head. “I will show you.”
“Oh…I…” He bent down to pick up his boots, which he held against his chest uncertainly. “Thank you.”
She began leading the way, and he remained a pace or two behind her, eyes locked on the ground, boots still tightly grasped, as if they were his only shield.
“Did you swim often, at your home?”
He blinked. “Yes. I swam in the ocean a lot.” He lowered both his head and voice. “It was something I was good at.”
Ellaria lifted her arm, making a show of blocking the sun from her eyes. It was bright out today, but not punishingly so. In fact, she would say it was a rather pleasant day. But judging by the way poor boy was sweating, he was not used to such heat. “It is warm today,” she said. “I do not blame you for wanting to cool off. I am led to believe the sun does not shine so harshly on the Iron Islands.”
“No,” he answered simply.
Perhaps he did not wish to speak of home.
She changed the subject. “Besides the heat, how are you faring? Is your room comfortable?”
“Yes,” he answered. Then a quick, “Thank you.”
“Is the food to your liking? I know foreign dishes can take some getting used to.”
“No, my Lady. I mean, yes, it’s fine. I haven’t been very hungry.”
“Well, then, we’ll see if you can’t work up an appetite while swimming.”
He looked up at her with large, uncomprehending eyes. He was so very young and far away from home. Her heart ached for him.
“How old are you, Theon?”
“Ten.”
“Hmm. Yes, right between Sarella and Dorea. I’m sure you’ll get on well with them.”
“Girls?” he balked.
“Well, there’s Quentyn, but he’s to foster with Lord Yronwood and will be leaving Sun Spear shortly.” She folded her hands in front of her. “Do you spar?”
Theon looked at his own hands, dirty from gripping his boots. “Not really, no.”
“Then perhaps you can convince one of the girls to teach you a weapon. They are always looking for a new sparring partner.”
“Girls…spar?”
“Of course. They also fight, the older ones. They are quite good at it.”
Theon thought about that in silence for a moment.
“My Lady…”
“Please, Ellaria. I am no highborn lady.”
“Yes, Ellaria,” he corrected. “Will it be crowded? At the…swimming place?”
He sounded nervous, and she could guess why. “Of course not. I’m taking you to the princes’ private pool, and if anyone is there, we’ll ask them to leave. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a little privacy.”
“Yes. I mean, no, you don’t have to do that.”
“I suppose not, but I will.”
He lowered his head once again.
They rounded the last corner to the alcove that housed the pool, separated from the rest of the gardens by a high hedge and an iron gate. Ellaria let them both in, with Theon treading closely behind her and looking ready to dart at any moment. All the tension went out of him once he caught sight of the pool; she could hear his breath hitch in his throat.
She’d had a similar reaction the first time Oberyn had showed it to her. She remembered thinking it was bigger than she’d anticipated, a field of perfectly smooth, perfectly clear water running right up to the pillared portico. The tile work was truly magnificent, done out in the shape of the Matrell family crest, but she’d always found the plain while tiling more fascinating; she loved watching the refraction from the water make lines along the pool floor.
Fortunately, nobody was there.
Theon set his boots down and sat down at the pool’s edge to dangle his feet in. He could see how truly deep the water was, probably over his head. “You can get in,” she coaxed.
He looked up at her with his wide, swimming eyes. “Are you staying?”
She knew what he was asking. She’d seen how self-conscious he’d gotten when she’d caught him in the act of stripping. He seemed a bit young to be self-conscious of his body yet, but she supposed the northerners had different mores regarding nudity.
“I’ll look away while you undress,” she said, “but I’d rather be close in case you need help.”
“I won’t need help.”
“I’ll just be on the other side of the hedge.” She turned back towards the gate. “If you find you do need anything, give me a call. I’ll be right outside. I’ll make sure no one comes in.”
He looked unconvinced, or at least confused as to why she would offer such a thing. It seemed he was mistrustful by nature. But given what he’d been through, she couldn’t blame him for that. Trust didn’t happen quickly, especially with the people who’d torn you away from your home and taken you halfway across the known world.
At last, he simply nodded to her. “Thank you, Ellaria.”
***
That night, as she lay with Oberyn after a round of passionate lovemaking that left the sheets stained with sweat, among other things, she laid her head on his bare chest and waited until he was just about to drift off before saying, “I think you should take the Greyjoy boy on your squire.”
He woke up at that. She’d hoped he would sleepily agree. “What?”
She shifted her hips. It was always difficult finding a comfortable position this late into her pregnancy. “It would be a show of goodwill to our new guest. It would get him out of Sun Spear on occasion, so he will feel less like a prisoner. And besides, you’ve been talking about taking on a squire. Since Quentyn is heading off soon, Theon seems a likely choice.”
“The lad doesn’t look like he belongs anywhere near a tourney, let alone a true battle,” Oberyn said.
“He doesn’t have the confidence in himself,” Ellaria granted, “but I think you could teach him. You’ve done a marvelous job teaching the girls. Perhaps you could even double Elia’s training with his. Teach him to use a weapon.”
Oberyn was silent for a moment, and she worried that he would say her plan was dangerous, that teaching a hostage to use a weapon was a sure way of having that hostage turn his blade on his captors. But then, Oberyn did not view the boy as a hostage; she was unsure whether Theon viewed them as captors.
At last, he nodded, running his hand idly through her hair. “Alright, my love,” he conceded. “I will take on Theon Greyjoy as my squire.”