…

VII.

Dornish Stubbornness

"I spent a whole half a year in Maidenpool four years or so ago. Varys sent me to stay and be instructed by a friend of his there—an absurdly eccentric man. I found a whole collection of lacy women's clothing in his wardrobe when I went snooping." Alyce smirked, playing with a lock of Tyrion's hair as he lay across the bed with her, his head on her stomach.

She continued, "But he was brilliant. He and I mostly played games and walked around the city. He had all these odd games he'd made up—games with dice, lying games card games, logical games, games using bits of buttons. We followed people and deceived people and pretended to be other people. He quizzed me about the insides of buildings we had just left. Nonsense like that. And then I went back to King's Landing and I realized how much more I noticed. How much easier lying was. How much easier I could sense someone's intentions. How the answers to riddles came more quickly."

She and Tyrion had been swapping stories since they had woken in the morning, loathe to leave the bed. He had told her the details of the Battle of the Blackwater and his part in it, as well as stories from his experiences in the years of summer peace under her sire, the King Robert, when Tyrion had been a younger man. She told him stories of her training and life under Lord Varys' command and her travels to different parts of Westeros.

"I wonder how many of you there are," Tyrion mused. "I mean, just how many fatherless children he's trained to do his bidding."

"I do what he asks because he took care of me," Alyce replied, a little stiffly.

"I don't mean to give offense. But it's likely you're not the only child to feel obligated to his care. He might have sent another student to this Maidenpool man directly after you left him. He likely has his own little army at the ready."

"I wouldn't put it past him, I suppose, but I knew a great many of the others in his employ. His little birds usually grow into his educated spies and message carriers. He places them around in different professions all over so he always has friends in every city. He usually has them groomed for specific things: message carrying, field work, City Watch, blacksmith, sailor, merchant's apprentice, that sort of thing. It seemed like I got a little bit of every sort of education—and more history and literature studies and certainly more weapons training than most. I could always be mistaken," she admitted, "but I tend to think I was rather a special student of his."

"I well believe it," he agreed. "Your highborn looks could get you in any court or castle in the Kingdoms. That and your gender are the perfect cover."

She ran her hand through his thick, dirty-blond hair. "Apparently he thinks I'm better suited to guarding than to the life of an assassin."

"And I know what you're suited for even better than guarding," he said with a crooked smirk, turning over to kiss her stomach. She let him kiss his way up to her mouth, but then after a moment, she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Remember the queen."

"She can join us, too," was his pert response.

Alyce laughed heartily, scooting away and tossing her legs out of bed to Tyrion's sighing groan.

"We need to wash," she told him, investigating the washroom. "The whole room smells like your cum." She came out in a robe. "I'm going to call for oils and more soap to be brought, as well as two baths worth of water."

Tyrion nodded and worked on finding and belting on some pants while Alyce was calling for a servant. She returned and browsed through her wardrobe while Tyrion opened the balcony doors for a bite of fresh air.

The water was brought quickly in a short parade of carriers, and the servants left the extra steaming hot water beside the basin. Their basin was a bit small, and Alyce looked rather comical trying to scrub herself while curled with her knees almost to her chin. She stuck out her tongue at him.

She drained the water, then used another pail to rinse off the last of the soap, especially from her hair. When she stepped out to towel herself off, Tyrion stoppered the bath again and Alyce helped him dump all but one of the remaining pails into it for his own bathing.

He grunted and scrubbed while Alyce combed through her hair, dried off more thoroughly, and then began to dress. Topless and in only her pants, she helped pour the last pail of water over him when the water had drained.

He watched has she applied some of the scented oils and crushed herbs the servants had brought. She rubbed a bit of oil onto his neck and he squirmed.

"What are you putting on me?"

"Sandalwood oil. It'd be a good scent for you." She rubbed a bit on his hand and he sniffed it experimentally. It did smell good.

"You're turning me into some sort of perfumed tosspot. Soon they'll be calling me the Knight of the Flowers."

"Not unless you're far handier with a sword than I've seen evidence of."

It was his turn to stick out his tongue.

She sniggered at him and continued dressing. Today she put on a startlingly white silk wrap that hugged her body, and her usual airy, light beige half-pants and sandals. She ran her hands through her thick black hair to style it before she strapped and belted on all her weaponry.

"Are you going to grow your hair back out?" he asked as they left the room.

"I think so."

"I suppose I prefer it long, although you look surprisingly attractive with it cut like a man's."

"I do rather."

"Pigheaded thing."

The queen was breakfasting and bathing with Daario Naharis according to her guards when they arrived at her suites, so they took their breakfast elsewhere, on the same balcony where Alyce had left him sitting on this very first morning in the pyramid. They were both fairly ravenous, so their banter and conversation stalled while they ate.

They waited outside of Daenerys' suites amongst Unsullied guardsmen until finally the door opened.

Daario Naharis stepped out and the door was closed behind him. He was flushed and bright-eyed from his morning's liaison, and he looked Alyce up and down brazenly. Alyce's hands traveled like a breeze to the hilts of her dirk and sword; Tyrion touched her leg with a hand as if to say Don't.

Naharis wedged his thumbs into his belt. "Ah, half a Westerosi lord and his pet snake," he greeted them coolly. "All coated with knives, looking more a hedgehog, really. Half a lord and his prickly cunt. A fearsome pair." He barked a short laugh.

The insults directed at Tyrion made her furious, but the pressure of his hand on the side of her leg communicated clearly his wish for her to remain still and calm.

"Yes, together we almost make one man," Tyrion quipped with him easily, as if entirely unconcerned by his insults, "but not quite. How went your sortie, captain?"

"Very well, dwarf. I still might have some bits of some Yunkai'i's neck in my teeth."

"Yes, it's hard to scrub out," Tyrion agreed amicably. "All the tendons and gristle and whatnot—it took me a week to pull the last bits out of my molars the last time I got some stuck."

Naharis' golden tooth glinted as he smirked at Tyrion's quips. "G'morrow, little lord." He turned and strutted away.

"Good morrow, captain."

Alyce fumed silently and Tyrion had the good sense not to say anything to her until the blue-bearded Tyroshi was well out of sight.

"I've half a mind to stab him in the throat, favored toy of the queen's or not," Alyce spit.

"You most certainly will do no such thing," Tyrion replied mildly. "Your enmity with him is counterproductive, Alyce. There will always be foulmouthed whoresons like him running about. If I let myself get angry each time one wagged his tongue, I would not have lived as long as I have. It doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"You should at least attempt to play nicely. We're stuck on the same council and in the same pyramid with him, and curdling his hostility will only invite the queen's disfavor."

And put you in danger. Alyce shoved a hand in her armpit as she crossed her arms. "You're right to say so." Though that doesn't make it easy.

They waited on the young queen to dress and emerge from her rooms. She appeared with Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui, though the three girls went elsewhere on other errands. Only Rakharo and Aggo continued with her and her four Unsullied guardsmen as she walked with Tyrion and Alyce down the halls down to another level.

"Lord Tyrion," she greeted.

"How are you this morning, Your Grace?"

He mouth pursed. "After spending so much time with the Dothraki and the Ghiscari and Meereenese peoples," she said by way of reply, "I've realized that only Westerosi ask such a question as a greeting. If you think about it, it is both nosy and pointless at the same time. No one is actually honest about how they are. The Ghiscari exchange 'It's good to see you.' The Dothraki ask, 'Have you eaten?' Meereenese ask 'Are you here?' even though the answer is obvious."

"Just like with the Dothraki greeting, no one usually says they're doing poorly or haven't eaten," he replied. "It's just a custom. Wind instead of words."

"Here is your wind, then: I'm well. And how are you?"

He gave her a little smile. "Doing well, also."

Daenerys turned to Alyce. "Alyce, will you be spending some time with us today?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I'll listen to the lesson until Lord Tyrion and I must see to council matters, and then I will spar with Ser Barristan."

"Good. Perhaps I will come watch your bout. I haven't watched you train at all yet."

"Your audience would be welcome, Your Grace."

She nodded. Tyrion cleared his throat. "Shall we begin, Your Grace?"

"Alright."

Tyrion drew from his jerkin their topics and scanned them briefly. "You remember what we talked of yesterday about the habits of wild dragons?"

"The last thing I remember is how territorial they are—and how deadly the fights could get. You spoke of solitary adults presiding over spans of hunting land, and usually if more than one was sharing a territory, they were mated pairs."

"Yes. But the Valyrians bred out much of the territorial instincts in order to create strains of loyal, obedient dragons who would work relatively well in concert with one another."

"When we were talking of their intelligence, you also said Viserys had been wrong in telling me they could only learn to understand High Valyrian."

He was nodding. "Training a dragon to understand commands only in High Valyrian is tradition, but not necessary. They could also learn the Common Tongue if exposed enough to it. Rhaegal and Viserion likely know a few words in Meereenese after being fed by Meereenese guards for months. But what I emphasized was that dragons are far more attuned to body language, tone, and intention than to human words. Like horses are said to be able to smell fear, so too can dragons sense intent and emotions. They can sense whether you are afraid, whether you care about them, whether you are friend or foe. They can be tricked, but not easily lied to.

"Some scholars and trainers of old consider their intuition to be even deeper. Dragons seem to have an uncanny ability to detect future danger approaching, as dogs can sense storms. They seem to be able to tell a person might be deceitful in the future, or that they are close to death. As you've seen, they can tell if a person even has a drop of Valyrian blood. Why does the blood matter? Why are they drawn to it? Or is the causal link backwards? Perhaps someone with Targaryen blood believes dragons will like them, trusts that they will, and the dragons can sense that and not the blood itself?"

Daenerys seemed to find this fascinating. "I don't think the causality runs that way, Lord Tyrion, but it is interesting to consider."

"Have you ever seen a snake tasting the air?"

"Yes."

"Some trainers believed that dragons could taste the air in the same way—they could taste heat and breath and the chemicals swirling around us and off of us. They believed dragons could taste and interpret those chemicals in the air in the same way that you or I sense and interpret smells."

"So, if for instance we gave off different scents when we're lying or in love, that is perhaps how they can tell."

"Exactly." He looked pleased.

"But how much of language do you think they can comprehend? Full conversations?"

"Well, their minds work differently than ours. Language—other than being stimulus for action or result—has little purpose for them. They learn select words through causation, and the rest of communication they take from body language. But that combined with what they can taste—for lack of a better word—of your wishes and intentions could potentially have a result somewhere near that if they had actually understood most of a conversation. But there is much debate on a dragon's level of intelligence. Many believe they are only as clever as horses or dogs."

"Drogon has always been able to sense how I'm feeling," said Dany. "When we were in the House of the Undying, and I was given visions by the warlocks of Qarth, it seemed to me he was responding to what I was seeing. Then he seemed to know exactly what to do to save us in the chamber." She reached a hand up to feel for where Jhiqui had fastened a little bell on a braid in her hair, symbolizing her victory over the Undying. It was no longer there; she had since won so many victories since then that she had let go of the Dothraki custom. But she still remembered the tinkling of that first bell.

Alyce walked behind them, her fingers interlaced behind her back. Dragons interested her, but she was not drawn to them. Her blood was that of warriors—of stone and of sea—not fire, Valyria, or magic.

"And Drogon was still young then," Tyrion was saying. "His mind has likely developed since. He will be even more intuitive now—even more responsive to you. …If he has not reverted too much to his wild nature."

Tyrion led them meanderingly to the pyramid library. His stunted legs were not made for long, drawn-out walking, and he was more comfortable sitting while teaching than walking. Alyce had only been in the library for a cursory glance around, and it appeared that Daenerys had never been inside before. They all took up seats around a table, though the chairs were old and stiff, and the queen called for some servants to fetch them pillows.

Tyrion was lecturing on learning that could be gleaned from tales of the Lord Freeholder's ancient and famous dragons when an Unsullied guardsman entered the library and gave a cursory bow.

"Lady Alyce," he greeted in Meereenese. "Commander Grey Worm wishes to speak with you at your leisure."

"If you can assign six Unsullied to guard Lord Tyrion," she replied in the same language, "I can see him as soon as may be."

The guard bowed and left to find guards for her.

"What was that about?" Tyrion asked.

"I'm needed elsewhere in the pyramid."

When the six Unsullied entered and placed themselves as Tyrion's guardsmen, Alyce left them and went down to the barracks to find Grey Worm.

Alyce had grown very fond of the Unsullied commander, and even found herself a touch attracted to him, despite his smooth cheeks and lack of those parts that define a man. He was clever and righteous, but so quiet and solemn most of the time—like a statue. Being around him made her want to make him smile. Private and fascinating minds always held fascination for her.

She found him with Skahaz mo Kandaq of the Brazen Beasts and Ser Barristan, and the four of them discussed her and Tyrion's seating and placement at both the wedding and the pit fight, as well as alternate plans if an attack should ignite while the queen was out in the open at both events.

Grey Worm particularly needed Alyce and Ser Barristan's advice when it came to their Dornish guests. The Dornishmen bothered the Unsullied daily about having another audience with the queen, and the Unsullied had gotten wind of them sniffing around Hizdahr's court for any potentiality to discredit him as a suitable husband to Daenerys.

"We should speak with them," Alyce told Ser Barristan, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward at the table. "Daenerys' cause could be hurt if they leave angry and bitter. She needs Dorne on her side, even if a marriage alliance is impossible."

Barristan agreed. "Let's go to their rooms."

The Dornishmen had been given spacious and luxurious guest suites within the endless pyramid. The handsome Ser Gerris Drinkwater was absent from the suites when Alyce and Ser Barristan called upon the men, but Prince Quentyn and Ser Archibald Yronwood were in Quentyn's suite. Yronwood was huge and bald as a stone, with arms thick as Strong Belwas'. Prince Quentyn was solemn, stocky, and plain as ever, even in his Dornish finery. The room smelled faintly Dornish—the scent of spicy food and the unique sharpness of Dornish sweat. Both men stood to receive them, and Alyce and Ser Barristan made respectful bows.

"Prince Quentyn, you look well," Ser Barristan said as they sat. He indicated Alyce. "This is Lady Alyce."

He nodded curtly. "My lady."

Alyce forced herself not to let one of her eyebrows quirk upwards. Lady of what house, pray? If she had been in his position, she would have liked to find out what lady of Westeros she was addressing, and she had been surprised Ser Barristan would introduce her in such a way. But she realized he had meant for the title to raise her in the prince's estimations and had counted on his shyness with women to keep him from asking questions. Rather clever for the old man.

"I hope all your needs and wants are being seen to as Her Grace commanded," Barristan said politely. Yronwood stood at Quentyn's shoulder without taking a seat.

The prince's mouth thinned at this. "We do not lack for comforts," he answered, "but Queen Daenerys is ignoring us. We crossed the world to propose an alliance with Her Grace, and we might be able to convince her of the wisdom of it given the opportunity."

Ser Barristan sat back against the divan. "Prince," he replied slowly and thoughtfully, "if I may say, you look out at world through your eyes. You have a mission and priorities unique to you. It must be understood that so too does Queen Daenerys. You arrived after the pact was formed, so you did not see this city under the violent revolts of the Sons of the Harpy. Many people were dying in the black of night—every night. The queen has her people, her Unsullied, her freedmen, and her dragons to think of. If she had dropped this pact for you, all she has would have been thrown into terrible danger. You have no ships or soldiers to bear her from this place in safety or to protect her while she is here. She must act in a way that will guarantee the safety of her people and herself before she can begin to consider Westeros. Surely this can be understood."

Quentyn's eyes looked less accusatory, but still he was unhappy. "If she wishes to conquer the Kingdoms as Aegon did, it makes little sense to root herself here. She wastes her time and soldiers."

Ser Barristan sighed. "That may be, to some extent, but consider practicalities. How would you suggest she gets out of this city with all her people and her army?"

Quentyn had no response. He struck Alyce as a stubborn child, unable to see other avenues to an answer than the one he had envisioned. She sighed internally but leaned forward, her face placid.

"Prince Quentyn," she said gently, "You and yours come at a difficult time, it's true, and your specific proposal is not in Her Grace's power to accept. But this does not mean Her Grace does not look to Dorne as her closest ally in the Seven Kingdoms. For the last few hundred years, Dorne and the Targaryen throne have been mutual friends, bonded through marriage and partnership. Her Grace respects your father and your family, and it is her intent to help Dorne seize vengeance for the losses it has suffered at the hands of the Lannisters if Dorne too will assist her in her vengeance against that same family and her campaign for the Iron Throne." She gazed at him. "This is only a change in the form and stipulations of an alliance, not the lack of an alliance itself. Her Grace and Dorne need trust and the sharing of strength and forces between them if they are both to achieve their desires."

Quentyn had not refuted her words, but she could see he was not placated by them, either. The idea of a kingship over all the Seven Kingdoms at the side of a dragon queen—a kingship, not a lordship—is not an easy dream to set aside. Perhaps, for one so young…impossible.

"We have looked into this Hizdahr," Yronwood put in. "His supporters see the queen as an illegitimate ruler—an enemy. This isn't a city she can safely rule, even if she marries this nobleman."

"This is for the queen to decide," Ser Barristan replied without heat.

Yronwood's frown deepened, though he did not appear angry, only frustrated.

"Much and more may happen before the queen has the means and the sea power to make the crossing to Westeros," Alyce told them. "But when that time comes, she would like to be able to look to you as a friend, Prince Quentyn. She can give Dorne justice and power with alliances other than through marriage. You could do more for this alliance in Westeros than you can here."

"Here you are in as much danger as Her Grace or more," Ser Barristan added. "And if you were to be hurt or attacked under Daenerys' keeping, it could ruin the hopes of friendship for both sides."

"Selmy speaks truly, my Prince," Yronwood agreed. Quentyn shifted in his chair, unsatisfied.

"Return to Dorne with nothing?" He was looking at Yronwood.

"Let us discus with Ser Gerris when he returns," said his knight.

Ser Barristan stood and gave a bow and Alyce followed suit. "Thank you for hearing the council of this old man," he said humbly.

Alyce too gave a handsome bow. "Prince Quentyn, I was once introduced to your father Prince Doran in Sunspear many years ago. I was younger then, but I remember very strongly the respect for him I took from that brief meeting. Alliances among leaders of true merit like you and your father and Her Grace will heal the Seven Kingdoms. That is Her Grace's dream."

Quentyn seemed somewhat pleased by the words. He had little of the easy gallantry of nobility, but he nodded in acknowledgement of her.

"Thank you, my lady."

She and Ser Barristan took their leave.