Jon XIII

Ned was overseeing this gathering, Robert having excused himself to meet with Lord Bolton. Since his temper probably wouldn't help with some of the conversations, it was probably the right decision, Jon thought. Not to mention that the increasing difficulties keeping the Dornish and the Westerlanders from starting a bloodbath really needed the attention.

It wasn't as if Tywin Lannister had been much beloved, but under his lead the Westerlands had risen in prominence and the lords were uncertain if his heir would manage to maintain that.

Not to mention that a Lord Paramount being murdered in King's Landing had appalling precedents and made Robert look weak for being unable to protect someone who was technically his guest.

"So glass bottles and jars are going to be increasingly important," Ned summarised Colemon's somewhat lengthy explanation of possible storage methods and ways to extend the storage of food. "Not to mention that glass gardens will require a considerable amount of glass as well."

"Perhaps the King should abolish all taxes on glassmakers then," suggested Oberyn snidely.

"No one wants your suggestions, Martell," snarled Lord Marbrand.

"This is a Great Council. All lords have a voice here," the Red Viper replied coolly.

Jon looked around and saw men ready to rise and take sides. "Prince Oberyn isn't the only one to have considered the idea. I know that I receive a fair amount of coin from customs duties on importing glass from Myr. While we have our own glassmakers, I can't expect my own lords to pay for extensive glass gardens at the current prices."

Ned nodded. "I doubt Myr would be willing to export as much glass as we may need, so we'll need more glassmakers."

"Abolishing import duties and internal tolls on glass -" Jon could see Walder Frey's face purpling. "as well as rendering glassmakers tax free, at least until spring, would be a start. We may need to invest coin and other inducements for glassmakers to take on more apprentices but in my view that would be a matter for individual lords to decide."

Jon thought he could distantly remember when he'd thought being a great lord or king meant dealing with grand affairs of states. Now he was arguing before a great council over a matter of whether or not glassmakers should be taxed. That, added to the availability of King's Landing was probably why so few of the younger lords had attended meetings that weren't going to be discussing the Wall.

Tywin Lannister's death had changed that - no, that wasn't true. The accusation that the Dornish had poisoned him had changed that. With the possibility of words being crossed - of swords being crossed - few if any lords would excuse themselves from attendance. A handful of younger sons for the Reach had been sent home though. If Dorne and the Westerlands came to blows, their lands and families would be caught between the two kingdoms.

Frey frowned and then smirked. "Glass is made of sand, why shouldn't the Dornish pay their due for all the wealth we shall have to pay for the sands of their kingdom?"

"There's no shortage of sand anywhere in the kingdoms," Stannis Baratheon corrected him from where he sat among the Easterland lords, his younger brother sat sulkily next to him. "Anywhere that has a shoreline has enough sand to supply our needs. Put some of your hoarded silver to attracting glassmakers and you're perfectly placed to ship the results east down the Green Fork or west out of Seagard."

The old lord sneered back. "I'll take that under advisement, Prince of Byrnbridge. Assuming it's agreed that I don't pay taxes to Riverrun on my efforts, that is?"

"Would anyone else wish to speak on the matter of abolishing taxes, tolls and other duties on glass until the end of winter?" asked Ned.

Jon looked around at the men standing and claiming they wished to speak. None of them were major lords, so it was unlikely that the following debate would be anything but bannermen seeking to score points with their Princes and Lords Paramounts. Robert would have said it was time wasted, but it kept the lords happy and that was what mattered. Just as long as none of them brought up the alleged poisioning again...

"I must question the impact on this on the realm's treasury." Lord Swann pointedly glanced over at where Lord Kevan and his nephew Tyrion were representing Jaime Lannister. The Prince of the Rock was 'in mourning', which he appeared to handle by training vigorously with his newly acquired sword. Then again, there were less sensible ways to vent grief than upon training polls and sparring partners, in Jon's opinion. "Now that Lord Lannister is no longer with us, will the King be retaining the current Master of Coin?"

In other words, would the Lannisters remain a significant voice at court?

"Neither I nor King Robert have any qualms about the current Master of Coins," replied Ned evenly.

Viserys VIII

Viserys leant against the wall inside the Stag Tower for support. He'd drunk less than some of the others tonight but he still felt a touch unsteady. Well away from the windows, in a shady nook, was a keg of clean boiled water and a bowl of fruit. Moving carefully, he half-filled a goblet with water, then took an orange, cut it in two and squeezed the juice from one half into the goblet.

There was a shuffle from behind him. Viserys lifted the other half, held it over the goblet and then whipped his head around. A small boy in a night-shirt failed to duck back around the doorway in time to avoid being seen.

Slumping back into his chair, Viserys addressed the now empty doorway. "What are you doing out of bed, Eddard?"

Unruly black hair and sparkling blue eyes peeked around the corner. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"I asked first."

The boy entered the room and took an orange of his own, digging his fingers into it and peeling back the skin. "I want to see the ponies. Papa said I might have one if I was good."

"I don't think sneaking around the tower at this hour, much less going to the stables, would count as being good."

Eddard shrugged evasively as Viserys used a spoon to mix the fruit juice and water. "What about you, why are you up early?"

"I'm not up early, I'm up late."

"But it's morning."

Viserys yawned. "I noticed." He drank from the goblet. It was Robert's recommendation to cure a hangover: watered juice before you slept. It wasn't entirely effective, but from experience of not trying it, Viserys would grudgingly admit it was a step in the right direction.

"You jingled."

"What?"

"When you leant back, you jingled."

"Ah." He dug into his clothes and pulled out a pair of coins. Then some more. To the giggling of his cousin he even tipped out his boots – into his hand rather than onto the table or the floor – stacking coin after coin before him. Some was silver but most was gold. Gold dragons and titans, nearly a hundred of them.

"Why didn't you have them all in your belt pouch?" asked Eddard, resting his chin on the table, what was left of his orange forgotten.

"Ser Brynden's advice for playing at dice." He smirked. "If your mother asks, say Renly told you this – not me."

"What did Ser Blackfish tell you?"

Viserys put down his goblet, took one coin and tossed it idly in his hand. "Never wager every coin on you, much less anything you don't have on hand. Set a coin aside in a boot or pocket every now and then if you win a round – no one blames a man with an empty belt pouch for leaving the table but no one likes you if you walk away with a fat purse."

"Isn't that cheating?"

"I don't see how. It's not like I'm fiddling the dice." He eyed the stack. "I don't think I've won this much before."

"What are you going to get with it?"

"I'm... not sure."

A new sword? But his own, which had been Rhaegar's, was perfectly serviceable.

After Mace Tyrell's offer of a wedding match for Daenerys, Viserys had looked at everything in his room. Despite what he'd thought, very little was from the Usurper originally. The Red Keep was hardly short of clothes in Targaryen colours, so most of his clothes were – if a little worn – garments that had been stored away once his father or brother didn't need them. Various items he'd bought with coin from the stipend Robert had granted him after he was knighted – the same allowance given to a swornsword. But he'd more than earned that, he reckoned, in the Ironborn Rebellion and as part of Robert's escort on rides down the King's Road to Storm's End or up the Roseroad to Byrnbridge.

"How about a horse! A big grey, to match your hair!" Eddard reached up to tug on Viserys silvery locks.

He let the boy play a while and then swatted his hand away firmly. "A horse, eh? And where would I ride that horse?"

The idea wasn't unappealing – a horse was something he didn't have of his own. Always his steeds were from the royal stables – but they were Baratheon stables now and there had never been any suggestion that they were more than a loan. Still, he'd need to stable it and feed it...

"To Winterfell or Casterly Rock," the boy told him, "And Sunspear or Braavos or Oldtown with the Citadel and the Hightower."

Viserys chuckled and ruffled Eddard's hair. For all of who his father was, it was impossible to dislike Eddard for himself. "I don't think I could ride a horse to Braavos."

"If I had a pony I could ride anywhere."

Anywhere? "Well for now, how about you ride back to bed. Your mother won't be pleased if you're out of the tower until the sun's a bit higher in the sky."

Eddard sighed, clearly heavily put upon and stomped out of the room. Viserys picked up the discarded orange and squeezed what was left into his goblet, waiting until the loud footsteps were replaced by softer ones going in the other direction. "I said go back to bed, Eddard!"

There was a squeak and then running feet.

Anywhere.

Viserys scraped every bit of coin on the table into his belt pouch. Hmm. Too obvious, he'd need a money belt or similar. And to pack some of his plainer clothes – red-trimmed black wasn't that uncommon but wearing three-headed dragons everywhere would be obvious.

And then?

Well, anywhere was as good a destination as any right now. Anywhere that wasn't here, watching the Usurper and playing the role of hostage-become-trophy. Daenerys could play that role if she chose it – Robert wasn't inclined to cause her any injury, that was clear. The man was as sweet with her as he was with his own daughters.

Anywhere, away and... who knew. Maybe he'd find Blackfyre, which ought to be somewhere in Essos. Or a Dragon Egg. Or just go to Volantis and make his name there where a proven claim of Valyrian blood counted for something.

Viserys drained what was left of his cup.

It was time for the dragon to spread its wings.

Olenna VIII

"The queen isn't wearing her newest jewels," Lord Bolton noted.

"It would be remarkably careless of her," Olenna reminded him sharply. "Valyrian jewels gifted to her by Lannisters would make it appear she was in their camp."

"Ah yes, that would be unfortunate."

"As unfortunate as letting young Viserys leave the city?" The City Watch on the streets were reinforced with the King's Men, not with their colleagues from the docks. The only remaining male Targaryen could hardly have boarded a ship without being noticed - he wasn't exactly a subtle young man.

"The timing is suspicious," the man admitted. "However, the King's orders were very firm. As long as he didn't take his sister with him, the City Watch weren't to stop Ser Viserys from leaving the city just to report where he went to."

"Which was?"

"Tyrosh. My men suggest it was less by intent than a matter of that being the destination of the next ship to leave the port."

"Tyrosh." She shook her head. "I really don't understand the King's thinking. Viserys has been kept secure under crown protection for ten years. And now, when he's of age to be a credible threat, he's allowed to leave?"

"One has to wonder," Bolton said in a non-committal tone.

Their conversation was cut short as Robert strode to the throne and seated himself. Ser Mandon Moore pounded twice upon the floor with the butt of a halberd. "Call silence," the man bellowed.

The lords and ladies' remaining murmurs died away. Olenna looked at the king's face. She didn't think he really enjoyed being on display but he almost always wore a smile anyway. He wasn't smiling now, and Olenna realised that there were threads of grey in his black hair.

"My lords and ladies, we are gathered because allegations have been made. One of our great lords is dead and Maester Pycelle has made the accusation that it is poison. And he has named House Martell as the responsible party."

That was no surprise to anyone. But he had to start with the obvious.

"As is his solemn obligation, and with the permission of Lord Tywin's brothers and children, Grand Maester Colemon has examined the body. Your report, Grand Maester?"

The thin-faced Maester rose and bowed to the king before speaking. "Lord Tywin's sickness was not uncommon of in King's Landing ten years ago. The improved drainage has made it almost unheard of. And he had lived here before for years with no such illness. On examination I found traces in his kidneys of certain medicines that in limited quantities can ease digestive difficulties. In much larger quantities, on someone who isn't experiencing sudh difficulties and on someone who is of an advanced age... It would be a dangerous prescription for a Maester to make. Life endangering, in fact."

He sighed. "As I have reported to your grace, and to Prince Stannis and to..." He searched for a suitable title and failed to find one. "To Sander Clegane, Master Pycelle's conclusion as the cause of death is... incorrect only in the most specific of senses."

The aged maester standing near to the Lannisters stroked his beard. "I believe the words you're looking for, Colemon, are 'Maester Pycelle was correct'."

"You were close enough for a layman," replied Colemon tartly. "And without conducting more than the most cursory of examinations."

"That will suffice. This isn't a debating chamber in the citadel." Robert made a dismissive gesture. "Stannis, I believe Clegane stands ready to report on his own investigation."

"He is. Clegane," the Master of Laws ordered.

The investigator, wearing the three black dogs of his house on a tunic over a leather brigandine, stepped up onto the dais. It gave Olenna a good look at the horrid burns that made a ruin of his face. She didn't think he was a kind man beneath those scars. But she had met men as hard who hid their nature behind pretty faces - Tywin Lannister had been very handsome in his youth, to name one.

The man they called the Hound turned to face the lords. "According to the Grand Maester, these medicines would be introduced as a liquid, most commonly in strong wine to hide the taste. I've interviewed Ser Kevan Lannister and the servants in attendance on Lord Tywin from the time of death back to two days before he first fell ill. Everything he ate or drank after he fell ill was tasted by at least one servant to ensure it was suitably prepared to Maester Pycelle's advance. None of them have showed any signs of dysentry or similar conditions."

"Prior falling ill, Lord Tywin attended the Royal Tourney and three feasts. No guest or servant at the feasts fell ill and he had no dishes or wines that weren't served to others. Poison is not, I am assured, easy to deliver discriminately. At the tourney, however, wine was provided by pages in goblets on request. This is the most opportune method that Lord Tywin could have been poisoned."

"Drugged," Coleman corrected pedantically.

The Hound shot him a glare. "There were twenty pages in service to Westerland and Reach houses assigned to the arena boxes that Lord Tywin was present in. By descriptions taken from the guests there were twenty-one individual pages actually present. The twenty-first was almost certainly the poisoner."

"An anonymous assassin?"

"Not very anonymous. We had an artist draw pictures, over and over, correcting them according to instructions of everyone who saw the indentified page." Clegane produced a sheet of parchment. "The hair is long but if the boy cut his hair short afterwards we'd only have the face to identify him."

Robert looked at the parchment and sighed. "Prince Doran, please have your son Quentyn step forwards."

There were exclaimations from the crowd.

"This is a farce!" Oberyn Martell stepped between his nephew and the king. "This westerland dog makes an accusation and you condemn my nephew. What of your cousin who fled the city after the Lannister died?"

Robert glanced down at the parchment again. "I really don't think this looks like Viserys. The nose is larger and the jaw too square. See for yourself if it looks like your nephew."

The Red Viper leapt up onto the dais, causing Moore to bring his halberd to the ready. The man took the parchment from Clegane.

"This is -"

Clegane's fist caught Martell below the ribs and threw him down from the dais. The Dornish prince barely kept his feet. "I may be a dog, viper, but I'm the King's first."

"That'll do. Both of you."

Oberyn looked at the parchment and then flung it to the floor. "If you're accusing Quentyn then he has a right to trial by combat."

"If you take that picture as an accusation," Robert looked past Oberyn to where Quentyn Martell stood frozen, brown curly hair cropped close around his skull, "Then I would say that you are agreeing there's a resemblence here."

Prince Doran rested one hand on the boy's shoulder. "Quentyn, did you disguise yourself as a page and give Tywin Lannister poisoned or drugged wine?"

"No father."

"Why would he do such a thing!?" snapped Quentyn's sister. Arianne Martell had cut a devastating swathe through the young men at the Grand Council, leaving a string of broken hearts behind her. Everyone from Renly Baratheon to Walder Frey was said to have approached Prince Doran regarding the girl's hand.

An exageration, Olenna thought, but the girl was pretty enough that the count might reflect those who had thought of doing so. "You hadn't met Lord Lannister, had you?" she asked sharply.

"The man who had my aunt mur... dered?" Arianne trailed off as she realised she'd just explained a very plausible motivation.

"I regret to say," King Robert said firmly, "That I believe the accusation is made, Prince Doran. Since Quentyn is quite young, do you wish to call for trial by combat on his behalf."

Doran locked eyes with the king and then dipped his head. "Your grace, I do. My brother stands as his champion."

Obara I

Obara could see that Quentyn was pale as he stood in a box overlooking the arena floor. Two of the City Watch were there with him and six of the King's Men surrounded the box. She knew from having visited him that he hadn't been harmed or treated harshly... but he was never left alone and all the guards reported to Sandor Clegane.

That man worried her. He seemed to care nothing that his investigation would leave a twelve year old prince facing execution. That this could lead to a war. He only cared that he believed he had found the guilty and viewed the trial as an inconvenience that might waste all his work.

"That worries you?" her uncle had asked with a cool disdain when she said as much. "You surprise me, Obara."

Trumpets sounded as Obara's father walked out on the sand. He wore his usual leathers and carried a spear with an ironwood shaft. He'd bought it on arrival in King's Landing from a Northern House, spending a fortune, but as he had told her, better for his weapon to cost coin than his life.

Then the other champion walked out to face him and Obara took a deep breath. Jaime Lannister.

There weren't many men in Westeros who might pose a challenge to Oberyn Martell. But the Prince of the Rock was one of them. If there was one mercy, the sword he carried wasn't Fire. A Valyrian sword might have been sufficient to shear through the spear.

A Septon, one of the High Septon's particular coterie, stepped between the two men. "In the sight of the Seven-Who-Are-One and before the eyes of all men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of Quentyn Martell, who stands accused of murder by poison. May the Father grant justice as is deserved."

The king, his own box distant, rose to his feet. The golden crown on his head shone bright in the sun. "Bring me their weapons," he ordered.

"What's he doing?"

"Whatever it is, your father isn't happy." Arianne was gripping the rail of Dorne's box in the arena. She was right - the darkly handsome face was snarling as two King's Men claimed the spear and a long dagger before carrying them to the royal box where they joined those carrying Jaime Lannister's sword.

Queen Alysanne took out a white cloth and wiped down the sword, the spear's blade, both the daggers.

"She's checking for poisons," Doran instructed them quietly. "Oberyn's reputation at work. Watch the cloth."

Alysanne shook out the cloth and handed it to her husband before taking a bowl and washing her hands. Robert raised the cloth and showed the white to the arena. "The weapons are unstained," he announced, "like the honour of the men before me."

Tyene frowned as the weapons were carried back to the champions. Obara gave her a suspicious look. Even with her father's reputation, the implication was insulting.

"Did you see?"

Arianne's voice was low as she answered her father. "They switched the cloth as Alysanne gave it to her husband."

"Yes. It was well played."

"He protects the Lannister," muttered Tyene.

"This isn't an assassination, you foolish girl." Doran leant forwards. "The King is protecting our honour as best he can. Didn't it occur to you that no one asked where Quentyn got the poison?"

Both Arianne and Tyene stiffened. So did Obara. "What have you done?"

Neither girl met her eyes. Her uncle did. "You're either a better actress than these two or you weren't involved. I'm sure you can guess the rest."

Trumpets drew their attention back to the floor of the arena. They were barely in time to catch the first clash of steel as Oberyn whirled his spear to strike at Jaime Lannister, who caught the blow on his shield, slipped it aside and thrust with his sword. Obara's father side-stepped and the dance began.

In his lighter armour the spearman had more speed and agility, as well as the reach advantage. In exchange, although the swordsman was solidly on the defensive, his shield and sword moved smoothly and the plate armour beneath shed glancing hits. There was no sign of panic on his part.

"He's as good as they said."

"At Harrenhal he was good, despite his youth. Twelve years ago, when he was younger than you are, Arianne. Now... it's like watching Barristan the Bold at his best." Doran shaded his eyes and focused on the pair.

"Will father beat him?"

"I don't know."

If not, Obara would lose a cousin and her father. Doran would lose son and brother. "Father, beat him," she prayed.

"Kill him," concurred Tyene bloodthirstily. "Kill him."

Doran glanced aside briefly, not at Tyene but at Obara. Their eyes met and Obara flinched away. Why would Arianne have put her own brother at risk, if she was the one who arranged for him to carry out the poisoning? She was the first born, the unquestioned heir. And Quentyn was far too open and honest to challenge that.

Down on the sand the Lannister was no longer entirely on the defensive. Now his sword thrust more often and Oberyn was having to parry more often where he'd have dodged before. A lesser spear than the ironwood haft might have failed him by now. It was fortunate that he wasn't facing Fire - a valyrian blade would have...

"Damn!"

"What?" asked Arianne.

"I just realised why Lannister isn't using that Valyrian greatsword his brother brought back from the east."

"Why?"

"He's not used to the balance yet. He's a longsword user by preference and he'd have to give up his shield too."

"Is that a bad thing? At least without the blade..."

"Father's new spear is heavier than he's used to. That's why he was pressing so hard early on, he wanted to win quickly."

"But he didn't."

Obara shook her head - and then inhaled sharply as the first blood of the duel spilled onto the sands. There was a cry of excitement from the public benches.

Oberyn was limping now. That said nothing for his prospects. He took second blood, managing to slam the butt of his spear against the other prince's helmet and break the skin beneath. The Lannister backed up a step, his head no doubt ringing and blood dripping down his face and into one eyee but neither his sword nor his shield wavered and when her father tried to use that as an opening.

She grimaced as a stab caught Oberyn's arm. His sleeve was parted almost from wrist to elbow. If that had caught a vein... and it was bleeding.

Oberyn's next two thrusts were blocked by the shield and then Jaime rushed in close, smashing the edge of his shield against the Dornishman's inner arm. The sword came up and half of Oberyn's helmet fell away.

So did one ear.

There was a lot more blood now, but the Lannister didn't stop. One armoured boot almost caught Oberyn's pushing him to skip back and then there was another wound, high on the chest. More blood on the tip of the Lannister's golden sword.

Oberyn's spear flickered at the face of his opponent, a feint that forced him to raise his shield and then descending, stabbing down into the Lannister's boot.

With a cry, Jaime brought his sword around in a short arc and the Red Viper was left sprawled and twitching on the sand.

Dropping the sword, the westerland prince took the spear with both hands and yanked it out of his boot. Blood trailed behind that foot as he limped over to Oberyn and drove the weapon down again... into the sand beside the fallen man's chest.

The trumpets sounded again. Quentyn Martell leant over the rail of his box and threw up.

Quentyn's father stared bleakly as the Grand Maester and his assistants rushed out onto the sand. "Obara."

"Yes, uncle."

"I would prefer not to have a kinslayer ruling in Sunspear, even if it is kinslaying through incompetence. Until I decide how to my handle my daughter, you and your half-sisters are no longer welcome in Dorne. Your father's paramour and her children may remain with him but not at Sunspear or the Water Gardens."

Obara glanced at her cousin and then at her Prince. "I understand."

"The Wall is the traditional refuge of those politically disadvantaged. And as matters stand it need not be a life sentence." Doran rose. "I should speak to my son before..." He shook his head heavily and left the box.