CHAPTER FOUR.
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If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you are not living,
I shall go on living.
I do not dare to write it, if you die,
I shall go on living.

PABLO NERUDA, THE DEAD WOMAN
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MOTHERS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO have favourites but Mariah was always hers. When the Lady Loreza had died, Mariah had been merely nearing her fifteenth nameday. A child-woman, nothing more and nothing less.

It is when the ruler of Dorne becomes sick that Mariah knows it can be a secret no longer. She knows that now is the moment she must be brave though this one time it doesn't come naturally to her at all. She rushes to her ladymother, desperate, to beg, please, please you cannot leave me now!

The tiny bump is still unnoticeable under the soft fabric of her gowns, but the life is growing inside her.

Lady Loreza strikes her across the face, when Mariah whispers of a lost maidenhood.

Mariah holds her cheek and stares, and she isn't sure if she or her mother is more surprised; the Lady of Sunspear has never hit her before—and she cannot even cry, she will not cry, she is a Martell, and she will be strong even though she wants to run and hide.

Her mother's jaw trembles, and she does not know whether from rage or regret. "Oh, sweetling," She says, and her voice is raw as she rubs her face wearily. "Do you know what you've done?"

Mariah Martell understands her duty. She cannot shame her family with a baseborn child. The Dornish may be free with their bodies, yet a Princess of Sunspear is not. So she drinks the moontea the measter prepares with long gulps.

Gods save me, she would think years later in her prayers, forgive me.

Her belly cramps as she bleeds out the only thing in the world that had been hers alone, and she pleads sickness and keeps to her chamber for the week. Her sister comes to sit with her, and Elia's hand is gentle on her hair as she brushes it off her fevered brow with a soothing touch.

"Mother said you were unwell," Elia says, her voice so sweet, and Mariah is struck with an almost painful desire to press her face to her sister's skirts and weep herself dry.

"An ache in my belly only," She responds dully. It is not the first secret she keeps from her sister because she knows that Elia would never understand, could never understand. Her blood flows red for the love Mariah bears her siblings but Elia is a stranger to recklessness, her delicate health had forbidden any risks. But she curls her fingers in her sister's skirts regardless, lifting her head to rest it upon Elia's knee, the way she did when she was a mere child and Elia would braid her hair. "Don't leave," She pleads quietly, and she lets Elia's fingers against her forehead lull her to sleep.

It is a fond memory of days long past and the way Mariah wants to remember her sister — her only sister, her sister no more. Loving.

ELIA IS DEAD. HER SISTER, who plaited her hair with soft fingers and wove flowers through it, who smelt of the sand and the sun out their window, who let Mariah curl up in bed with her to chase the nightmares away, who laughed and talked and danced and lived.

Hours trickle by, slow like a lifetime. Hours turn into days, and Mariah is convinced dozens must have passed, but no. It's the milk of the poppy, toying with her, making her forget what happened, making her catch glimpses of a woman, from the corner of her eye. Sometimes she wears orange; sometimes she wears yellow, and the blood is flowing out her broken throat and mangled chest.

     Most days her rage is black and red and smoke, smoldering and sparking at turns, the destruction of her house, the extermination of the dragons, her sister cut down by a mountain, her nephew and niece, heads bashed in. Mariah thinks of silver hair and violet eyes and white skin, she thinks of betrayal and honour and purity, she thinks of those things lost that belonged to her.

     And then some days the rage is blue and softer and something inside her curls like a dying leaf, trembling and withered, and Mariah thinks of dark hair atop of olive skin, of small hands gripping the lace of her skirts.

Rhaenys, it echoes in her head, Aegon.

     Days slip into weeks before she rises from her bed. In that time, her brothers come to see her daily, half-heartedly trying to comfort her while grief swallows them whole, as well.

Their sad, sad faces set her anger ablaze; her own sadness is hard enough to take, but to see their suffering is more than she can bear. It is what finally compels her to rise, to call for her handmaidens so that they may wash her before leaving her chambers. Mariah knows not what she will do—she longs to scream and rail, but fears she may instead cry, and while she ponders her words, she calls for bucket after bucket of hot water. The servants pour it over her and it scalds, turning her skin hot and blistered, and she watches as they turn away to gasp for air, their faces red as they struggle to breathe in the smothering heat.

It is the sweetest pain, and Mariah rises from the waters reborn, no longer the maiden of Sunspear who had dreamed of a gallant knight nor the girl floating on her privilege. The heat melts away her softness, the tenderness at the corners of her heart, and leaves her lean and cold. The girl suffocates in the steam and the viper bursts forth, ruthless and cruel with an appetite for blood. She steps from the bath and leaves her old self behind, and with lowered eyes, her maids rush forward to wrap her in soft linens.

Mariah decends the sandstones, down to the Water Gardens, where lily pads sway on the water's surface and blood orange trees hunch over marvel walkways. Pale pink granite paves the paths and courtyard. Mariah finds it hard to believe that just a few years ago Elia had roamed those halls. She remembers her youthful face, happy and joyous, rich brown hair rippling like waves as she walked the corridors. The sound of her laughter warms Mariah as she finally reaches her destination. She stares at the ironwood door, daunted.

     Mariah expells a bated breath, twisting the door handle and letting herself into Doran's private chambers.

     He stands from behind his desk. "Mariah," He greets, smile somber.

     She kisses Doran's cheeks, says, "I know your heart yearns for the same things as mine," and thinks—

They will burn for this.

     Mariah closes her eyes, and breathes deep. She does not cry. She is quite wrung dry of tears.

     When she opens her eyes again, she is still whole. She is still living. She is still here.

     "A craven can be as brave as any man, when there is nothing to fear," He begins quietly. Today Doran is her brother, not the ruler of Dorne. "And we all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honour. Yet soon or late in every life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when one must choose."

     Mariah nods. She understands. "What is it that you ask of me?"

     "We must treat carefully," Doran says, eyes firm. "But they stained the halls red with Elia's blood. The next time a daughter of Dorne leaves its borders will be to make them pay."

    "Pay?" Mariah echoes, unsure.

     Doran sighs heavily. "There is no point in starting war anew," He insists. "We lost near a thousand men at the Trident. Our land has bled enough."

     Of course, her brother is right, but for Mariah, it feels like her wounds would never stop bleeding. "Oberyn must've raged when you informed him of this."

     "Oberyn is a fool. But he will come to his senses far from here."

     She had already heard the whispers passed from servant to servant that Doran had come to the decision that exile was the only option for their reckless brother. "A man who loves his family," Mariah nods, "But a fool nonetheless."

     Doran moves to stand in front of Mariah, catching his sister's gaze with his own. "Men know nothing," He tells her. "It is not their fault, but it is true. Begrudge Oberyn nothing, for he will learn to do his duty. But you, my girl, you know, don't you?"

She gazes to her left, where, beyond the windows of Doran's chambers, the sun is setting. The sky has turned a soft lilac colour and it reminds Mariah of children's eyes, now closed forever. "I will do whatever you ask of me," She answers.

     Mariah watches him come closer, makes herself as silent and still as possible. Doran places one hand on her cheek, runs his thumb just across the cheekbone, and sighs. "My sister. My dear, dear girl. You are so loved."

Mariah struggles to hold her brother's gaze, struggles not to start shaking. Doran smiles, eyes shining with tears that would never be shed.

     "How many Martells does it take to start a war?" He asks her quietly. His jaw is set.

     Mariah wonders whether anyone would ever understand which of her brothers is actually the most dangerous.

     "Only one," She whispers.

SHE SNEAKS INTO OBERYN'S CHAMBERS as though they are children still and crawls into bed next to her brother, cheek pressing to his dark hair. Martell hair, though from tomorrow forth he will be no part of them for some time.

     "Exile it must be, so that Dorne can have its peace," Doran had exclaimed and Oberyn had nodded, eyes narrowed. What he had not said outside of his chambers: it is all a farce for the other houses.

Their feet tangle together beneath the sheets, and Mariah remembers so many similar nights full of whispered, breathless secrets, as though saying the words quietly would keep them safe. Her heart is full of secrets, now, heavier and darker than those past shared, and they weigh so heavily Mariah thinks they will consume her heart and leave her bare. She imagines Oberyn far away in Essos, far from the familiar gardens that are his home, far from her.

"I don't want to leave for King's Landing," She whispers, her voice thick with grief, into Oberyn's hair. Her bones ache with the loss of Elia, and she clings.

"You don't have to," Oberyn says softly, his voice uncertain. "I will defy Doran, sweet sister, and go myself. What could he possibly do?"

Mariah shakes her head. They have already lost a sister, they mustn't drift further apart.

"The thought of you in the pit of lions makes me want to strangle Doran," He continues quietly. "Speak plainly; what do you want? Should you truly not wish to leave Dorne—"

Leave Dorne, or you, dear brother?

     Even as he nears one-and-twenty, Oberyn still has his moments of petulance. If he had his way, Mariah would not marry beyond the borders of Dorne. And yet, this is an improvement from years past. Before—after Elia had left for the capitol—he could not abide the thought of her marrying beyond the streets of Sunspear, her marrying at all.

     She understands his concern. For all her bravado, anything north of the Dornish Mountains seems daunting. The Seven Kingdoms are vast and diverse, but Dorne stands much further apart. It is unique, her country, but not all others appreciate its uniqueness. Mariah is not sure how she would fare so far from her home—she does not know if she can be anything other than Dornish.

She shudders with another sob, tucking her knees into Oberyn's. "Justice." She breaks off when her brother gives a half-choked sob at that, and it only makes Mariah weep harder, for Oberyn never cries, he is the strong one, but he is hurting, too. Oberyn has lost as much as her, and at that moment Mariah feels closer to her brother than she ever has.

Oberyn rolls over so that he can embrace her as well, his cheek pressing to the top of Mariah's head, and they cry together, quietly, for tomorrow there can be no more tears.

Tomorrow they will do their duty.