William stood atop the outer gatehouse, next to the single fortified tower making up the barbicane where the guards were enjoying a night’s rest. Two of them, however, were standing nearby, clad in orange dyed cloaks to keep the nightly chill at bay. The prince himself also wore a cloak to this purpose, but had also donned the rough-spun garment to move about the Shadow City unseen. 

Richard had a vibrant golden areola of hair, which caught the light of the moon and torch alike, making the Prince of Dorne easy to follow throughout the winding streets. It had also helped his brother had had too much wine already before he had left Sunspear via a discreet sally port.

As he trudged through the alleys William made sure to curse his mother’s ability to ignite his feeling of responsibility –if not to his elder brother, then to Dorne. While sneaking from shadow to shadow, corner to corner, Will had been careful to avoid the puddles in the roads. It had not rained for days on end, and so those puddles were piss and waste from a variety of sources. Nonetheless he had stepped into a concealed pile of dog-shit and ended up almost giving himself away. Richard had looked back and then laughed as he realised it was someone scraping off shite from his boots on a cornerstone. William was thankful he hadn’t worn sandals.

The trail had taken him to two taverns, the second one clearly being a gambling den. He had had to stare down an extremely big fellow with a mean scar on his bald skull, and then bribe the scum. Richard had entered the backroom, where the racing horses were held. William had met up with one of his agents and told him to form a posse to aid him in shadowing the Prince.

Now a dozen men were spread out amongst the crowd filing into the streets. The gates were closed, which had dictated that the illegal races were being held within the Shadow City’s walls, adding an additional element of danger to it.

He condemned the idea as stupid and irresponsible. He was aware of the risks this form of racing and betting brought with it. He knew. His mother had asked him to keep an eye out for his elder brother and so William found himself overlooking a part of the track the horses followed. He felt the excitement of the illicit crowd, heard the clinging of coins being betted. And then he saw the horses curve around the corner to the right, neck on neck, shoulders bumping one another, their maws open, hooves pounding and lathered sides rippling. William saw the horse trip, whinny and crash. He saw his brother, Prince Richard Martell flung from the saddle, and smack head first against a corner. The white chalk of the wall was splattered with crimson. A cracking sound was heard all the way up to the barbicane.

Consternation rippled through the audience. Panic erupted not long after, many of the mob vanishing into the streets. The guard was called for and William’s agents emerged from the throng of people. Chaos was throttled quickly as people were spurred into action by William’s commands.

The racer that Richard had been competing with, was arrested. The wounded and broken body was gingerly laid on a makeshift stretcher and brought to Sunspear. Richard was unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. While the Maester and his assistants tended to the wounded Prince, William just watched cathartically. 

He felt surprisingly empty following the crash, but as he saw the Maester reposition the broken arm, William had to leave the room and calm himself down. A huge weight was pushing down, and something was tugging from within his chest. He screamed into his fist.