When The Throne Bleeds

28. The Dornish Prince

Yutara Martell grinned ear to ear as he reached the massive gates of King's Landing.

A thick strong wall bordered the large perimeter of the city, emerging from the earth in a well constructed foundation and reaching high enough to drive the idea of breaching the walls out of any enemy's mind. The wall rose up to a narrow platform along it's length which was lined up with royal guards.

Yutara's keen eye noticed their armor.
Thick silver breastplate with the moulded symbol of a crowned stag, an armet with gold coloured strips painted on the welding, the pointed pauldron on the shoulder a bit excessively shaped and a long gold cloak tied to the collar, flaring out in gaunty fashion. Flashy and flaunting. The blacksmith who had designed the armor had intended that whoever comes to the capital first sees the pride and strength of the Crown's gatewatch, before anything else.

Yutara had never understood how those foolish people meant to convey strength through colours and movement-inhibiting plates covering the body. All he could see were the tiny gaps in their armor where he could sink the blade of his spear, blood spurting out and dripping down the pompous sigils on their chests. Nevertheless, he turned his attention to the expanse of the wall, deducing the presence of several weapon-filled shacks on the other side.

The Targaryens had built a mighty wall for their city, strong enough to withstand the rage of a dragon. He respected that. What he despised was the posting of young knights to patrol the perimeter, their youth clear from their polished breastplates on display. The King had just gone into the Long Sleep, the realm had started to rebel and eighteen year olds were the first line of defense of the largest and most important city on the continent. Did the Crown no longer care for it's own security?

Yutara ceased his assessment of the first defense when he felt his mouth twist into a disapproving frown. No, he had to play his part. A guard, probably the commander of the gatewatch, walked forward on the narrow platform and eyed the newcomers cautiously. He saw the commander's eyes scan the large entourage behind him, recognizing each raised banner fluttering with the wind. The first and the biggest banner showed a blood red sun pierced with a golden spear.

The sigil of House Martell.

The commander said something inaudible to no one in particular, but the guards immediately jumped into action. The heavy gates opened with an echo and Yutara rode inside, his bannermen following closely behind him.

"What happened? You don't like it?" Yutara crooned to his white stallion as it trotted ahead. It neighed in response, shaking it's head away from the path leading to the heart of the city. Yutara gently grazed his hand against the horse's toned neck, soothing it. "They really weren't lying about the stench of King's Landing." He abruptly took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. "Ah, smells like gold, shit and liars."

Yutara suddenly grinned satisfactorily, raising his arms and stretching out his muscled torso as he faced the sun above. He soon neared the crowded central square, the men of his vassal houses obediently behind him and his assigned troop of soldiers guarding him from the wide-eyed commonfolk. They made way in a daze, gazing in wonder at the procession, and more so at the prince leading it.

Yutara Martell was a handsome man, an odd man too, one would think. He wore an orange tunic and trousers, embroidered by the best tailors in Dorne. His dark skin, unnerving eyes and a maddeningly wide smile gave him the appearance of a decorated maniac. He had inherited the hot Dornish blood of his ancestors, and that coupled with his own sharp wits and excellent combat skills had earned him the name The Bronze Cobra, something similar to the name his uncle Oberyn had garnered.

He was not even halfway to his destination when he heard startled gasps and drawn breaths from the crowd. He smiled knowingly. He knew what they had seen. For in the exact centre of the procession, a beautiful white palanquin was gliding on the shoulders of eight soldiers. It had golden gauzy curtains lined with tiny gleaming beads barring full sight of the inside. But the crowd could briefly make out the figure of a woman resting her slender back on the outline of several cushions, the faint shadow of her hair falling on her lowered face. Her form was elegant, even behind a veil, and the people of the capital had not seen a beauty like her in years.